FRAYED
A Madison Lark Novella
-"There was mystery, horror, and fast-paced action. The dialogue was simply brilliant... When someone can actually
make my cold heart ache, then I have to applaud them for a job well done."
-Reading and Writing Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance
-"I admit I am a big fan of novellas... I think it's a true test of an author's skill to communicate all we need to know and
successfully deliver a story that resonates with us. Blakely Chorpenning is one of those skilled authors."
-Smitten By Bad Boy Heroes
-"[Frayed] starts off something that could turn into a long-running and interesting shifter series... I look forward to seeing
more set in this world."
-FanaticSpace.com
-"I was enthralled (I fell asleep at 2 a.m. with my Kindle clutched in my hand). I loved the laugh-out-loud, witty dialogue,
intricate plot, and fully actualized multicultural cast of characters."
-Oh The Things I've Learned Blogspot
Fray loves being a semi-pro fighter and free spirit. However, when a deadly faction begins abducting supernatural teens in the Blue Hills of North Carolina for excruciating experiments, she quickly learns there is more to life than glitzy opponents and late night trysts. Fray and a crew of unlikely allies must rescue the children before they are dissected alive. Being a leopard shapeshifter helps. Confronting personal prejudice and traversing feelings for a tempestuous ex do not mix. But Fray is willing to go all the way to stop her world from changing. That is, until the ultimate sacrifice forces her to realize just how overdue change is.
Her most shocking discovery: Everyone’s human. At least a little…
Her most shocking discovery: Everyone’s human. At least a little…
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REVIEW BY: BONNIE @ SWEET TIDBITS REVIEW BY: KATE @ URBAN FANTASY REVIEWS REVIEW BY: KAT @ SMITTEN WITH BAD BOY HEROES REVIEW BY: AMBER @ FANATIC SPACE REVIEW BY: ANGIE @ OH THE THINGS I'VE LEARNED REVIEW BY: JENNIFER @ READING AND WRITING URBAN FANTASY AND PARANORMAL ROMANCE |
A Taste:
Chapter One
Dome lights toasted the blood streaking from brow to breastbone, turning it to liquid heat on my flesh. The sensation thrilled like the first touch of a lover, and when I realized it wasn’t mine the pleasure spike awoke a fever calling to that part of me that was never human. I wanted to relinquish my human bonds, unleash that feral leopard energy for real, but that was against the rules. This time. Instead, I smiled like the devil and I were sharing a beer in hell and hook-punched Danica, my opponent, in the face. Scarlet splatters filled the air like tiny dancers. I closed my eyes, smiling as the fresh blood caressed my tender eyelids and the hyper sensitive pout of my lips.
This is my moment, the point in every fight when they see what they did wrong.
When they see me winning.
Being a semi-pro mixed martial arts fighter was my world. I especially loved the shifter fights. Underground, of course. To some, it was bloody, simple as that. To me it was an art form. Truthfully, the decision to fight had been made long before graduating high school ten years ago. My family agreed that it quelled the intense hunting urges of my leopard half and maintained enough excitement to dock my human predisposition for trouble.
Danica, known in the fighting ring as Savage, had her chestnut hair braided in tight neutral cornrows against her skull. Years ago, I cut mine within three inches of being able to use a receding hairline as an excuse, both for fighting and because it just looked damn hot. Dyeing it platinum blonde turned out to be one of my better ideas, as well.
Unlike the black spandex covering my thighs and torso, Danica preferred a skimpy gold bikini. It would have been acceptable in a shift fight. In a human only forum, however, I was left crossing my fingers that it didn’t shift. I definitely embraced my feminine mystique—flaunting it more than my brother thought appropriate, actually—but there was a time and place. It had been hard enough the last few years for female opponents in our region to gain respect as true fighters. Danica was screwing with that. This made me want to kick the shit-eating smile off her face. So I did.
My lanky five-nine frame tested her fitness like a cat pawing a fat beetle. Aside from rounded hips, we had nothing physically in common. But I spent more time in the gym than at home.
The blows cost Danica a loose tooth. Well earned, was all I could think. The fight was over soon after, the winning title meaning little since I barely broke a sweat to earn it. If standards continued plummeting, I’d expect to see them given away on windshields next to the pizza coupons.
In the locker room, Danica and I removed our standard issue fingerless gloves silently. Between Danica’s russet hue and the sanguine sheen adorning my body from the fight, the spots of clean flesh seemed positively lackluster in comparison. When left to my natural charms, my skin is usually as unique as my family tree.
My paternal grandmother’s family came from Africa many generations ago, some as ebony as it gets. My paternal grandfather was pure Italian with hair that made me wonder as a child what could be darker than the deepest black, which is the origin of my natural hair color. The rest of my family came from everywhere else, some so achromatic bleach gives them a tan. Born from such diversity, my complexion is a faded hazelnut. My mom has always likened it to a permanent dusk shadow, the kind that tricks your eyes, making them restless to focus in light or darkness, unable to settle on either.
In the middle of this twilight sits my mother’s sorority Barbie face with my grandmother’s wide African American nose and shallow bridge. The lemon-drop, saffron eyes are all mine, though. I’m the only one in four generations to have marbled kitty-cat eyes in human form.
Growing sick of the standoff, Danica wiggled her front tooth and practically yelled, “Jesus H. Christ, Fray. This is the second time you’re sending me to the dentist. If the two of you don’t have a “thang”, I’m gonna be pissed?” Her accent was so southern it made sweet tea taste bland.
“I wish.” I forced a laugh, withdrawing deeper into my locker. “I’ve got two cavities and no insurance.” Though home grown, I somehow escaped the thicker regional North Carolina dialect. However, if I venture West of the Mississippi or North of Virginia, I’m told differently.
Danica leaned against the door frame while I searched for a clean set of clothes. The entire room was barely larger than the smoking cell in an airport and the lighting still managed to suck. Gray everything didn’t inspire much.
“Seriously, if you got a problem, tell me before I need dentures. There’s definitely more to this,” she wiggled the damaged tooth, “than a straightforward fight.”
I stopped digging through the pile and rested my elbows on the edge of the locker, eyes focused on the floor. “It’s not personal, Sav.” I always addressed her by her fighting persona unless we were out socially. “I’m just sick of fighting people who don’t enjoy fighting back. You can’t tell me you love it, that you look forward to the next one before you’ve even left the ring from the last one.”
We had fought on and off for the last four years, so I knew Savage wasn’t as bloodthirsty as she once sought to be. Together, we used to give the audience a mind-blowing fight, a pure possession of the soul that left everyone bewitched. It wasn’t there anymore. I wouldn’t hold it against her, though. It would just leave a bad taste in my mouth the next time we sparred.
“Le’me tell you,” she started her tirade by saying. “Not many people love it the way you do, Fray. Truthfully, not many people can.” More sympathetically, Danica mused, “I know it means more than Christmas everyday to you, but it’s just a job for me. It pays my bills. I get some dates from the press. It’ll be that ‘something’ I brag about to my kids one day…when I have kids. And it keeps me in shape.”
“Not like it used to.”
Her body spiraled to accommodate a front to back glance. “Are you implying there’s too much “T” and “A” on this beanpole?” Her smile sprung to life. “Intimidated?”
I laughed as I glanced at her ass. “Don’t worry, there’s not enough to play bumper cars, yet.” I stressed the last. “But there is a little too much if you want to be a professional fighter.” My comment sobered us back to the moment.
“That’s the thing. Maybe I don’t want pro anymore. Or any of this. I may look fine, but I’m still thirty-two, Fray. What am I supposed to do when I’m thirty-five? Or forty-five? Not this shit. I wanna do something that really matters. If you’re smart, you’ll start making other plans, too.”
Grabbing a wad of clothes blindly, I let my jaw drop. “You’re leaving for good, then?” Her head bobbed slowly. Now she was staring at the floor. “When?”
“No set date. I’ll stick around a little longer, make sure I get a sick farewell. And I guess I’ll be spending more time in the gym. Thanks for the complex.”
I was genuinely stunned. “Wow, I noticed you were getting sloppy, but I didn’t expect this.”
“Keep talking. Maybe it’ll inspire me to stay.” I started to tell her I didn’t mean it like that, but she interrupted with a smile. “I know what you meant. We’ll talk about it later. Not right now. I’ve got a date.”
She glided down the row of lockers and disappeared behind the last one. “Just think about what I said.” The words echoed off the walls.
I was left standing in her wake yelling, “They’ll have to kick my ass out! I won’t ever fucking quit!”
I slammed my locker shut.
It caught me totally by surprise when a man cleared his throat.
Copyright © 2011 Blakely Chorpenning. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.
Dome lights toasted the blood streaking from brow to breastbone, turning it to liquid heat on my flesh. The sensation thrilled like the first touch of a lover, and when I realized it wasn’t mine the pleasure spike awoke a fever calling to that part of me that was never human. I wanted to relinquish my human bonds, unleash that feral leopard energy for real, but that was against the rules. This time. Instead, I smiled like the devil and I were sharing a beer in hell and hook-punched Danica, my opponent, in the face. Scarlet splatters filled the air like tiny dancers. I closed my eyes, smiling as the fresh blood caressed my tender eyelids and the hyper sensitive pout of my lips.
This is my moment, the point in every fight when they see what they did wrong.
When they see me winning.
Being a semi-pro mixed martial arts fighter was my world. I especially loved the shifter fights. Underground, of course. To some, it was bloody, simple as that. To me it was an art form. Truthfully, the decision to fight had been made long before graduating high school ten years ago. My family agreed that it quelled the intense hunting urges of my leopard half and maintained enough excitement to dock my human predisposition for trouble.
Danica, known in the fighting ring as Savage, had her chestnut hair braided in tight neutral cornrows against her skull. Years ago, I cut mine within three inches of being able to use a receding hairline as an excuse, both for fighting and because it just looked damn hot. Dyeing it platinum blonde turned out to be one of my better ideas, as well.
Unlike the black spandex covering my thighs and torso, Danica preferred a skimpy gold bikini. It would have been acceptable in a shift fight. In a human only forum, however, I was left crossing my fingers that it didn’t shift. I definitely embraced my feminine mystique—flaunting it more than my brother thought appropriate, actually—but there was a time and place. It had been hard enough the last few years for female opponents in our region to gain respect as true fighters. Danica was screwing with that. This made me want to kick the shit-eating smile off her face. So I did.
My lanky five-nine frame tested her fitness like a cat pawing a fat beetle. Aside from rounded hips, we had nothing physically in common. But I spent more time in the gym than at home.
The blows cost Danica a loose tooth. Well earned, was all I could think. The fight was over soon after, the winning title meaning little since I barely broke a sweat to earn it. If standards continued plummeting, I’d expect to see them given away on windshields next to the pizza coupons.
In the locker room, Danica and I removed our standard issue fingerless gloves silently. Between Danica’s russet hue and the sanguine sheen adorning my body from the fight, the spots of clean flesh seemed positively lackluster in comparison. When left to my natural charms, my skin is usually as unique as my family tree.
My paternal grandmother’s family came from Africa many generations ago, some as ebony as it gets. My paternal grandfather was pure Italian with hair that made me wonder as a child what could be darker than the deepest black, which is the origin of my natural hair color. The rest of my family came from everywhere else, some so achromatic bleach gives them a tan. Born from such diversity, my complexion is a faded hazelnut. My mom has always likened it to a permanent dusk shadow, the kind that tricks your eyes, making them restless to focus in light or darkness, unable to settle on either.
In the middle of this twilight sits my mother’s sorority Barbie face with my grandmother’s wide African American nose and shallow bridge. The lemon-drop, saffron eyes are all mine, though. I’m the only one in four generations to have marbled kitty-cat eyes in human form.
Growing sick of the standoff, Danica wiggled her front tooth and practically yelled, “Jesus H. Christ, Fray. This is the second time you’re sending me to the dentist. If the two of you don’t have a “thang”, I’m gonna be pissed?” Her accent was so southern it made sweet tea taste bland.
“I wish.” I forced a laugh, withdrawing deeper into my locker. “I’ve got two cavities and no insurance.” Though home grown, I somehow escaped the thicker regional North Carolina dialect. However, if I venture West of the Mississippi or North of Virginia, I’m told differently.
Danica leaned against the door frame while I searched for a clean set of clothes. The entire room was barely larger than the smoking cell in an airport and the lighting still managed to suck. Gray everything didn’t inspire much.
“Seriously, if you got a problem, tell me before I need dentures. There’s definitely more to this,” she wiggled the damaged tooth, “than a straightforward fight.”
I stopped digging through the pile and rested my elbows on the edge of the locker, eyes focused on the floor. “It’s not personal, Sav.” I always addressed her by her fighting persona unless we were out socially. “I’m just sick of fighting people who don’t enjoy fighting back. You can’t tell me you love it, that you look forward to the next one before you’ve even left the ring from the last one.”
We had fought on and off for the last four years, so I knew Savage wasn’t as bloodthirsty as she once sought to be. Together, we used to give the audience a mind-blowing fight, a pure possession of the soul that left everyone bewitched. It wasn’t there anymore. I wouldn’t hold it against her, though. It would just leave a bad taste in my mouth the next time we sparred.
“Le’me tell you,” she started her tirade by saying. “Not many people love it the way you do, Fray. Truthfully, not many people can.” More sympathetically, Danica mused, “I know it means more than Christmas everyday to you, but it’s just a job for me. It pays my bills. I get some dates from the press. It’ll be that ‘something’ I brag about to my kids one day…when I have kids. And it keeps me in shape.”
“Not like it used to.”
Her body spiraled to accommodate a front to back glance. “Are you implying there’s too much “T” and “A” on this beanpole?” Her smile sprung to life. “Intimidated?”
I laughed as I glanced at her ass. “Don’t worry, there’s not enough to play bumper cars, yet.” I stressed the last. “But there is a little too much if you want to be a professional fighter.” My comment sobered us back to the moment.
“That’s the thing. Maybe I don’t want pro anymore. Or any of this. I may look fine, but I’m still thirty-two, Fray. What am I supposed to do when I’m thirty-five? Or forty-five? Not this shit. I wanna do something that really matters. If you’re smart, you’ll start making other plans, too.”
Grabbing a wad of clothes blindly, I let my jaw drop. “You’re leaving for good, then?” Her head bobbed slowly. Now she was staring at the floor. “When?”
“No set date. I’ll stick around a little longer, make sure I get a sick farewell. And I guess I’ll be spending more time in the gym. Thanks for the complex.”
I was genuinely stunned. “Wow, I noticed you were getting sloppy, but I didn’t expect this.”
“Keep talking. Maybe it’ll inspire me to stay.” I started to tell her I didn’t mean it like that, but she interrupted with a smile. “I know what you meant. We’ll talk about it later. Not right now. I’ve got a date.”
She glided down the row of lockers and disappeared behind the last one. “Just think about what I said.” The words echoed off the walls.
I was left standing in her wake yelling, “They’ll have to kick my ass out! I won’t ever fucking quit!”
I slammed my locker shut.
It caught me totally by surprise when a man cleared his throat.
Copyright © 2011 Blakely Chorpenning. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.