Improbables
Jonathan Charles Bruce
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Booktrope
Date of Publication: February 22, 2016
ISBN: 978-1-5137-0653-5
ASIN: B01BH86AWU
Number of pages: 334
Word Count: 107,360
Cover Artist: Ashley Ruggirello
Book Description:
Abigail Wren’s new life fresh out of college is dull, even with her (almost) dream job at the local newspaper. The only real excitement she can get is found between the pages of an endless stream of paranormal romance novels she can’t help but love.
Then, on a snowy night in December, Abigail catches a glimpse of what could only be described as a werewolf. Enamored with the possibility, her investigation leads her to discover a paranormal population—improbables—
Just outside of the sleepy town of Whitewater, however, a force of rage is building. Born of hate and delusion, a living cataclysm threatens to devour everyone in its path—human or improbable.
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Excerpt from Chapter Three:
The
trip back to the office was short and uneventful. Parking her car was also
characteristically nondescript. On her way to the front doors, Abigail realized
that the entire car ride had been on autopilot. Along with that realization
came the panic associated with losing a chunk of one’s precious life to
monotony. And along with that came a sudden worry that she might have flattened
a child without realizing it.
No.
Surely that would have been memorable—right?
Right
in the middle of a panicked mental recap of the events from picking up her book
to arriving in the parking lot, she slammed face-first into a surprisingly warm
wall of a person. She rebounded, only now taking in the red-and-black flannel
shirt she had plowed into. Her hands shot out in an attempt to keep balance. A
moment later, she felt someone’s hands on her forearms.
“Easy
there,” came a gruff voice. Pulling herself out of her daze, Abigail looked up
at the person she had run into, who was now also, kindly enough, keeping her
upright. He was scruffy, a mop of brown hair bleeding into a full (if short)
beard worried with the occasional silver strands. His eyes were an intense
green, which, coupled with the red in his shirt, gave his appearance an
unintentionally festive look. He was pale, but that was nothing out of the
ordinary, considering Abigail had forgotten what the sun looked like in the
weeks she’d been calling the Pacific Northwest home.
He
was cute. In a ruggedly handsome way. Like a grizzled lumberjack.
Perhaps
cute was not the word for it.
Abigail
giggled, suddenly overtaken with the silliness of what just happened. “Thank
you,” she said, certain she was coming across like an idiot. “You can let go
now.” She smiled. The man obliged, returning a tight-lipped smile that seemed
to err on the side of suffering-the-eccentric.
“Sorry.
Didn’t mean to…” he began before clearing his throat, “exist where you wanted
to exist at the same time.” He looked every bit as awkward as she felt, which
made her own discomfort slightly less overbearing.
She
swallowed sheepishly. “It happens.” She suddenly felt the need to clarify what
she meant, so she gestured back and forth between the two of them. “Existing at
the same time and all.” She realized that the gesture didn’t seem to quite work
in the situation, so she let her hand fall at her side as she averted her gaze.
“Try
as we might!” he said with an exaggerated shrug. They exchanged unconvincing laughs
before silence filled the void, mutated into a pause, then sat long enough to
be uncomfortable. While the quiet was maliciously evolving, Abigail couldn’t
help but trace her eyes up the man’s exposed and muscular forearms. When she
caught what she was doing, she wondered where her unintentional partner’s eyes
were glued—no doubt, here was another person in Whitewater who would take any
opportunity to drink in the sight of the newest and blackest resident.
Instead,
she was a little shocked—and pleased—to see he was staring at the ground. He
was legitimately embarrassed for slamming into her. In the city, if someone ran
into you it was either a pickpocketing or just a nonstandard and jostly hello.
In her hometown, it had been met with an impertinent huff and followed by a
subpar apology. Here… well, if this was the first, being bumped into was hardly
the worst way to get to know someone.
Hey,
mountain man Joe, why don’t we walk into each other in front of a coffee shop
some time? she thought. This Whitewater-only pickup line seemed dopey enough to
be charming enough to work—and she couldn’t help snickering at the thought.
“What’s
so funny?” he asked. She looked up at his eyes which had made a momentary
migration to her face.
The
smile from her laughter remained unbroken, but grew a touch larger. “Nothing,
just, uh…” She gestured to her temple. “I’m hilarious up here, trust me.”
He
tilted his head back, enough to give her a full look at what she assumed was
post-embarrassment face-saving stoniness. He nodded. “Sorry again.” And with
that, he brushed aside her, carrying some intense body heat with him, and
walked away. She looked over her shoulder at the man, watching him for a few
seconds. Something registered as odd, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on
it.
Regardless
of what it was that presently pricked at her brain, she shook it off. She had
spent weeks feeling exasperated when people felt they were privileged enough to
stare at her like a lab specimen; she wasn’t too keen on forcing that behavior
on someone else.
No
matter how green his stupid sexy eyes were.
She
turned around to the glass doors and jolted at the sight of Lacy Renault, the
woman in charge of business coverage. A tiny woman in her fifties with
short-cropped silver hair, she watched Abigail come in with icy blue eyes and a
gotcha-smile. She wore an immaculately tailored red business suit, giving her
the appearance of a circa 2008 female presidential candidate.
Abigail
stepped into the vestibule, grateful for the limited respite it provided from
the elements. “Were you watching that the whole time?” she asked, trying not to
look too confused by Lacy’s grin. The expression was becoming a bit too knowing
for her tastes.
“You
running into Collins?” She asked. She opened her eyes widely, teasingly, and
nodded. “Oh, my, yes!”
Abigail
shrugged. “Something I should know?”
Lacy
gave an embellished frown. “No, no. Just, uh…” She trailed off in the way
people do when overstressing a manufactured difficulty with words. “Glad to see
you’re taking in the sights.”
Well,
this conversation immediately failed the Bechdel Test, Abigail thought icily.
About the Author:
Jonathan Bruce began writing what amounted to terrible Star Trek: The Next Generation fan fiction when he was four… provided that you accept that “forcing other people to write what he said” is the same thing as “writing”. Although the original manuscripts are lost (or perhaps destroyed), we can rest assured that his prose has improved significantly since then. After high school, he began writing and directing plays which gradually improved depending on whom you ask. He discovered his love of a good fight scene after writing a Dracula knock-off which took a 19th century classic and made it less about Victorian yearning and 300% more about stabbing things in the jugular.
He has a Master’s Degree in History, thanks largely to his thesis focusing on MUSIC, a Milwaukee-based school desegregation campaign during the 1960’s. He also enjoys discussing/making fun of pop culture of the 20th century and reading books of a non-historical nature. In his off moments, you can catch him writing for fun or making inane movies about nothing in particular.
www.jonathancharlesbruce.com
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