Bridge Over Stormy Water: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Short (Murky Midlife Waters Book 2)

BRIDGE OVER STORMY WATER A PWF SHORT WITH SNAP MURKY MIDLIFE WATERS BOOK TWO JB LASSALLE CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 CHAPTER 1 I couldn’t believe I was about to cross this damn bridge. Again. Was it possible it had somehow become less sturdy in the past few weeks? Did bridges weather that quickly? There was absolutely nothing to back up that opinion other than my own paranoia. Even the deluge of storms we’d been having wouldn’t make a bridge fall apart. If anything, it had been a quiet month… if you count discovering you’re a mermaid and agreeing to fulfill a magical family legacy “quiet” that is. Which, I kind of do. Particularly since my childhood best friend outed herself as a freaking goddess. And I’d spent the past two weeks talking to my pet alligator … who talked back. So yeah, my definition of normal had shifted. Besides, mermaids shouldn’t worry about bridges. If my car did plunge into the waters below, I should be able to swim out. Of course, the one and only time I’d seen my mermaid tail was when I was super drunk and had no control over it. And every effort I’ve made since to coax it back has failed and resulted in too many wine-induced headaches to count. And maybe I’d spent the past two weeks in total denial that I’m completely broke yet have to figure out how to renovate the supernatural building that is the only place I’d ever felt at home before we’re all thrown out on our asses. And once I finished that, I’d have to figure out what the hell I was going to do next. But if I couldn’t be a freaking mermaid when I need to be, what use was it?! I wasn’t sure what was worse … that I had to cross the bridge again, in the doggone rain, or that I was CHAPTER 2 “Still can’t believe I voted for that asshole.” Clementine, my Pop’s neighbor, had greeted me that way since I’d stumbled to his doorway when Daniel kicked me out. She sat in her faded rocker on the shared porch of their shotgun duplexes, her shock of tight, gray curls pulled into a long braid draped over the back. Beads were weaved into the braid, and they tapped against the rocker as she moved. “I’m sure he appreciated your vote, though. How’s your back?” “Damn good as long as I don’t move it.” Clementine chuckled and inhaled from the foul-smelling cigarette she’d lit. “He’ll be glad to see you again, honey.” Her wrinkled face lit into a generous expression of welcome that tilted her wide brown eyes upward. “I’m glad to be here.” Making it this far had given me a boost of confidence that held while I’d dipped through and around the many potholes on the unmarked, gravel street that led to my father’s house. But now that I was staring at the faded yellow siding, hand hovered to knock on his tattered screen door, I was starting to doubt my life choices. Pop opened the door before I could work up the nerve to bang on it. “Hiya, Clem. Back okay?” With a wave to his neighbor, he beckoned me inside. I shuffled past him, waving at Clementine even as she picked up her phone to dial. News would be out that I was back in town soon enough, and I suddenly longed for the protective bubble of Bridge Island. Pop’s house opened into his living room, displaying his tattered leather couch with a tv tray propped nearby as a welcome. An emerald green plate and silver fork rested on it, along with half a cup