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Dead Serious Case #3 Mr Bruce Reyes (PAPERBACK) Standard Print Edition

Dead Serious Case #3 Mr Bruce Reyes (PAPERBACK) Standard Print Edition

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Dead Serious Case #3 Mr Bruce Reyes

In the business of unfinished business...

Tristan Everett was finally getting used to the strangeness that was his life. Being able to see the dead and helping them solve their unfinished business and cross into the light wasn’t so bad after all, especially when he was accompanied by his best friend, dead drag queen Dusty Le Frey. His boyfriend, sexy Scotland Yard detective Danny Hayes, now knew the truth about Tristan’s “gift,” and they were about to move in together officially.

Life was good.

That is until Death—honest to god,
Death (aka The Grim Reaper)—pitches up in Tristan’s kitchen with an unusual request: stop Dusty’s ghostly hookup Bruce from crossing into the light, which may result in dire consequences. i.e. an accidental apocalypse.

Determined to do the exact opposite, and avoid potentially the end of the world, Tristan and Danny assemble their own ragtag gang of one prickly witch, one snarky psychic private investigator, one living drag queen with an affinity for feathers, and one dead one with an affinity for a deceased rugby player in tiny shorts. Together they must solve a forty-year old cold case, while juggling a dose of the flu, a broken leg, a supernatural storm, and an immortal death deity with the looks and temperament of a sexy but grouchy CEO.

Seriously… what could possibly go wrong?

From Author Vawn Cassidy comes the next instalment of this hilarious and sweet paranormal romance mystery series


Paperback - Standard Print Edition 346 pages
Dimensions 8.5 x 5.5 inches
ISBN: 978-1-8381847-5-9
Publication Date July 21st, 2023
Publisher  WENDY SAUNDERS

 

ALSO AVAILABLE IN DYSLEXIA FRIENDLY & LARGE PRINT EDITIONS

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Ah-ah-ah-choooooo…
“Ow…” I croak. My throat is too painful for me to swallow, and my head gives a sharp throb in response to the violent sneeze. “I’m dying,” I mutter woefully.
There’s a low, familiar chuckle of affection coming from somewhere beside me, but I don’t have the energy to move. Instead, I stay spread-eagled on my stomach with half my face mashed into my pillow.
“You’re not dying,” Danny rumbles. The edge of the bed dips and his warm hand rubs soothing circles on my back. “You’re really hot though.”
“Thank you, but I’m not in the mood right now,” I slur, wondering idly if I’m drooling onto the pillow but too exhausted to do anything about it.
Danny chuckles again and the bed jiggles slightly.
“Sweetheart, you’re burning up. I can feel how hot you are through your pjs.” I crack one eye open and see him frown. “I’ve called Hen at the mortuary and told her you won’t be in for a few days.”
“’Kay,” I mumble.
“Okay?” he replies in amusement. “Just okay? Wow, now I know you’re really sick. You hate missing work.”
“I feel dreadful,” I bemoan. “I wish you could stay home with me. We could watch crappy daytime TV while you lovingly hand-feed me Strepsils.”
“I wish I could, baby,” he says gently as he strokes my sweaty hair back from my face. “But Maddie called. We’ve got a new case and we’re really understaffed because of the storm.”
“Stupid weather,” I mutter.
“I don’t like leaving you while you’re this sick though.” Danny frowns again. “Maybe I should call Chan? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on you until I get home.”
For a moment I almost say yes. The thought of Chan keeping me company if Danny can’t be here is very appealing. God, when did I get so needy? I’ve spent years on my own, having to take care of not only my dad but myself.
A resigned sigh escapes my lips. “Danny, I’m sick, not six. I don’t need a babysitter,” I say reluctantly. “Besides, she’s been rehearsing all week for her new number at The Rainbow Room, and as much as she loves me, I can’t imagine she’ll be happy if she catches the flu from me the day before opening night.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “But you’ll call me if you need anything? I can pop home during my lunch break.”
“No, don’t,” I rasp, listening to the howl of the wind and the constant downpour outside the bedroom window. “It’s probably not a good idea to go out in the storm any more than you have to.”
“I’m going to get you some water and some paracetamol. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go?”
“’Kay.” My eyes close.
The bed jiggles again as Danny stands, his footsteps echoing as he crosses the room. Gathering up what little strength I have, I push myself up and flop unceremoniously onto my back, reaching out with one hand and fumbling on the bedside table for the box of tissues.
There’s a loud clatter, causing me to open my eyes as I knock the lamp over and several items, probably including my glasses, tumble to the floor. Feeling my fingers graze the cardboard box, I grasp hold of it and pull it over.
A quiet whine of misery escapes my mouth as the change of position shifts the pressure in my sinuses. Giving up on trying to actually blow my nose, I settle for jamming a tissue up each nostril to stem the constant drip.
Leaving the tissue box balanced on my chest, my hand flops back onto the bed and I lay diagonally across the mattress like a starfish. My eyes drift closed again, and I feel the flutter of the tissues against my top lip while my mouth hangs open so I can breathe.
Danny re-enters the room. As always, he has impeccable timing. “You have never looked sexier.”
My attempted chuckle comes out as more of a wheeze and triggers a bout of coughing which in turn makes my head throb miserably.
“Come on, baby.” Danny crosses the room and I hear him set a mug down on the bedside table and straighten up everything I knocked over. “You’ll feel better once you get some medicine down you.”
He carefully props the pillows up behind me and helps me shuffle up the bed to a more seated position before tucking the covers around me, then moves the wastepaper bin next to me so I can pull the tissues from my nose and drop them in.
“Thank you,” I mumble as he hands me a couple of pills and a glass of water. It’s a struggle to take them—my throat feels like it’s filled with shards of glass every time I swallow—but I finally manage to choke them down. As he takes back the glass and sets it down on the bedside table, I notice a steaming mug of tea and beside it a thermos flask.
“What’s in there?”
“Soup.” He picks up the TV remote and sets it on the bed next to my box of tissues. “I know your throat hurts, but you need to make sure you have something to eat.”
I stare at him. “I really love you,” I say hoarsely.
“Don’t get too excited, it’s just tomato cup-a-soup.” He smiles.
I reach up and trace his cheeks, aware that my hands must feel hot and dry against his skin but unable to stop myself from touching him. “Danny,” I whisper, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. It’s been so long since I had anyone to look after me.”
As if it wasn’t hard enough to swallow already, my throat now aches with the need to cry. Feeling foolishly sentimental as well as like utter crap, I look away, blinking back the hot tears. Stupid flu. It feels like my eyes are boiling in their sockets. The last thing I need is to end up being an overemotional blubbering mess because my incredibly thoughtful boyfriend made me packet soup and stuck it in a flask so I wouldn’t have to drag myself out of bed.
“Hey.” Danny’s fingertips catch my jaw and turns my face so my eyes meet his. “I love you too, and I spend most of my time wondering what I did to deserve you too, so how about we just agree we got lucky?”
I nod, wishing I could press my lips to his, even in a light, fleeting kiss, but I won’t. The last thing he needs is to catch my germs. Listening to the renewed hammering of the storm, I turn my gaze briefly to watch the torrential rain rattle the glass in the old window frame.
I frown. “Be careful today.” My voice cracks and dips.
“I will.” Danny leans in and drops a kiss to my forehead. “Love you, Tris.”
“Love you too, Danny.”
He fusses over me a little more, handing me my cup of tea as he smooths the bedcovers. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
I give a little wheezing huff of a laugh. “I’ll be fine, go to work. Say hi to Maddie for me.”
Giving me one last look, he turns and heads out of the room. Moments later, I hear the front door of the flat open and then close behind him.
I reach for my glasses and slide them on, the familiar weight of them adding an uncomfortable pressure on the bridge of my stuffy nose. Blowing on my tea to cool it slightly, I pick up the remote from the bed next to me and switch the TV on, settling on the weather forecast.
My brows raise slightly, and I feel sorry for the woman on the screen. She looks no older than an intern, and rather than let her report the weather from the comfort of a studio in front of a green screen, some idiot has sent her out into the howling rain.
She’s trying valiantly to hold on to a huge golfing umbrella with BBC Weather printed on it, but the wind whipping her soaked hair into her mascara-smudged eyes and tugging at her drenched raincoat is working just as hard to turn the umbrella inside out. In fact, the wind is so strong I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to see her take off like Mary Poppins and fly across the London skyline.
Bless her heart, as she hangs onto her brolly for dear life with one hand, she’s got a death grip on her microphone with the other. With the banks of the Thames and London Bridge as a backdrop, she shouts into the microphone to be heard above the howl of the wind.
“Storm Nigel has caused utter chaos to public transport since several lines on the DLR have flooded. The Met Office has issued an amber weather alert for the Greater London area and advises Londoners to stay in and not to travel unless necessary.
Experts are at a loss on how to explain the unusual weather pattern, which seems to be firmly settled over the city with no signs of moving or dissipating. In addition, downed lines have yet to be restored after last night’s unprecedented lightning storm, leaving many homes and businesses still without power.
With heavy rainfall and wind speeds of up to sixty miles per hour forecast over the next twenty-four hours, one thing’s for certain. Storm Nigel is far from done with the city of London.”
“Storm Nigel? Seriously? Who the hell comes up with these names?” A familiar voice interrupts, and I can almost hear her roll her eyes.
I look up and snort as I’m taking a sip of my tea, which causes a small wave to slosh over the edge of the mug. I pull it away and wipe the drips of tea from my chin with my other hand.
Dusty stands at the foot of the bed wearing a very, very short white PVC nurse’s outfit, white stockings, and white patent platform Mary Janes. Her fingernails and lips are fire-engine red, and a little white cap with a red cross on it perches on top of her blonde hair.
“Darling, are you okay?” She coos in concern as I start coughing again.
“That depends,” I wheeze, trying to catch my breath.
“On what?”
“On where you’re planning on sticking that.” I eye the thin thermometer in her hand.

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