The Multitude, стр. 85

Excerpt from

FAULTY BONES

by J.M. Fraser

One day, running on empty and down to my last few dollars, I run into a friend of a friend who introduces me to another friend, who tells me about Hal, who knows some guy named Philippe. A French guy. Philippe has a scam going. Counterfeit chips.

Enter Philippe. We’re at his joke of an apartment, and I’m sitting across from him at an ancient Formica table with wobbly legs, in a kitchen so old the appliances are colored yellow and green. Not white or stainless steel like the kind I’d buy if I could ever build up a bankroll large enough to cover anything more than a poker buy-in and the next meal. We’re talking hard times all around, and that shouldn’t make any sense to me, given the fact Philippe is supposed to be a successful counterfeiter and all.

But I’m a little too desperate for cash to worry about that. Besides this man’s nationality has captured my entire focus, distracting me from all else, cuz for a poker player, there’s nothing more important than the initial read. Ironic, huh?

Anyway, Philippe isn’t French. He’s an everyday, balding, older guy with tattoos all over the muscled arms bulging out of his dirty T-shirt. He looks like another Joe or Bob or Hank. A former seaman or retired cop who let himself go in his declining years. Until he opens his mouth to speak.

“What can I help choo weef and how much woudchoo pay me?”

Yep, he’s Russian through and through, not only based on his accent, which I won’t try to pathetically imitate anymore, but also the give something to get something attitude, especially the way he emphasizes the word pay, dragging it out slowly, the same way he’d undoubtedly prolong my torture if I fail to return every penny I’ll ever owe him, notwithstanding the fact I’m a woman, and a pretty one at that. Uh-huh, that’s a brag, but I work long and hard at taking good care of myself. We’re talking six miles of roadwork a day, minimum. I eat the right foods, barely any at all, and thanks to the unfailing wisdom of my late mom, I brush my hair to a shine at least once a day. She always said what a man finds the most appealing in a woman at first glance sits north of her forehead. My mom insisted on that, so don’t believe anyone who claims they’re a tits man or a legs man. That all comes after the initial impression.

I know all about reads, believe me.

I gaze into Philippe’s eyes, cool as can be, and I silently count to twelve before answering, just to convey how unintimidating I find his subtle menace and the overall dire situation I may be getting sucked into. Who in their right mind goes to a man who isn’t only Russian but undoubtedly mobbed up, to get involved as a mule for his dastardly counterfeiting enterprise? Yes, my right knee is beginning to tremble in its hiding place under the table and out of view, but I command it to hold steady. Not one inch of my body can even hint at the absolute terror causing my heart to pump a thousand miles per hour.

Otherwise, I’m sunk with a guy like this. He’ll have me for breakfast if that half-empty bottle of vodka at his elbow hasn’t satisfied his appetite already.

“I don’t like the feel of you,” I say in a steady voice, “so let’s just say I came for a visit, and I choked down a nice glass of vodka with you, but now I’ll be on my way.”

That’s what’s known as a bluff, folks.

I start to rise from my chair, but quick as an eyeblink, he has me by the wrist with a powerful hand. Anyone…anyone would scream at this point, but I’ve commanded all body parts, including my throat, to behave, so I merely whimper, and then I bust out crying.

Faulty Bones is available now on Amazon

Excerpt from

THE WITCH OF THE HILLS

by J.M. Fraser

A tiny shape emerged at the shimmery point in the distance where highway squiggled into heat mirage. Brian squinted but couldn’t make it out. Fence post?

Eastern Wyoming had so much to offer.

The distance closed fast, and the figure turned into a girl with her thumb out. A stiff breeze scattered dark hair across her face and ruffled her long country dress. She held her ground where the shoulder met the pavement, as if daring the next semi to take her down. Spunky, unconventional, interesting, the hitchhiker represented everything Brian had been hoping to find on his first-ever road trip alone.

As foot on the gas became foot off the gas became foot on the brake, the possibilities raced through his mind.

Together in the car, the two of them could crack jokes about the boring scenery. Bluffs, scrub brush, coal trains. Let’s stop and take a picture of those wicked telephone poles.

They could swap life stories. Matching sets, most likely—parents, school, part-time jobs, rules, rules, rules, but also a vision of a promising future, a light at the end of the tunnel, the day when they might be old enough to start making the rules themselves or at least wouldn’t have to follow every stinking one of them.

Maybe they’d stop for gas and have a moment, looking at each other but pretending not to look, and then catching each other’s eye, holding that gaze, and, and, and—

And with all the wishful thinking, he almost blew past this glistening can of soda in the desert, this cheeseburger in a sushi bar. Brian braked harder and cut over from the fast lane.

The girl allowed