No Peace for the Damned

moments of mylife. I threw my black backpack over my shoulder and returned to the kitchen.
    The warmth in Thirteen’s eyes softened the severity of his frown. He didn’t relax his rigid stance. I had to rest one hand on his folded arms and go up on tiptoes to lay a kiss on his scratchy cheek.
    “Don’t worry,” I said as lightly as possible. “At some point, I’ll come back for my curtains.”
    He placed his giant hand over my small one, held it to his arm. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. I gently pulled away and walked out of the house.
    It was a beautiful morning for a drive. The wind blew softly, the sun shone brightly, and I had a world of uncertainty on my shoulders.
    I made it a whole five miles before my stomach tightened. A warmth stirred inside me. The sunlight glowed a little bit brighter as I rounded the next bend.
    I pulled off about ten feet away from where Theo rested against his parked Harley.
God, he was beautiful
. The morning sun lightened his dark, wavy hair and glistened off his tanned skin. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. His white T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, and his low-riding jeans hung perfectly. I remembered that day on the couch—the feel of him under me, his hands kneading my back. The way his lips had trailed from my ear down my throat…
    I wanted to leap from the car and fall into his arms. Instead, I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
    He ambled over to the driver’s side of the car. Stared down at me behind those dark glasses. I didn’t read his mind. I didn’t need to. He turned his head to stare into the sunlight.
    “You aren’t the only one with questions, you know,” he said finally.
    I couldn’t speak. Our connection throbbed, rejoicing at our closeness. He crouched down beside my door. “When will you be back?” he asked. Then he cocked an eyebrow at me. “Because you
will
come back to me, Mag.”
    I smiled a goofy smile. “Soon,” I said. It was all I could manage.
    He nodded, not looking goofy at all. For a long minute he just stared at me. My heart sped up. He leaned over and brushed his lips against mine. A soft touch of our mouths.
    At least that’s how it started. But the pressure grew. My hands reached up to hold his jaw. His fingers tangled in my windblown hair. The connection between us heated and spread until…he pulled back sharply. We were both panting. Gently, he took my hands in his, removed them from his face. He put his forehead to mine and sighed.
    Then he turned away.
    Without another word, he swaggered back to his motorcycle. He swung a long leg over the silver bike and roared the machine to life. Then he drove off, back toward HQ.
    I was still relearning how to breathe when his voice whispered through my mind.
    Soon, Mag. Soon
.

This being a first book, I could easily acknowledge every English teacher and literary professor I’ve ever had, in addition to anyone who has ever given me a book to read that allowed me to disappear for an afternoon. I’ll keep this shorter than that.
    First and foremost, I’d like to thank my incredible agent, Joanna Volpe. Her unwavering patience during the process of getting this book made was truly remarkable and came second only to her constant encouragement. I’d also like to thank Maria Gomez and everyone at 47North. Working with people who really “get” you makes a world of difference. Dianne Drake who first told me I was a writer, my writers’ group who keep me on track, and all of the individuals responsible for the Midwest Writers Workshop—many thanks for setting me on the right path.
    I would not be able to write a single word without the support of an incredible family. J and R—thank you for not complaining about the numerous “cereal for dinner” nights. Babydoll, you already know. Finally, I’d like to thank my sister, Molly, who eagerly reads every version of every story I write and gives the best opinions ever.

Photograph by Molly Champion, 2011
    Megan Powell was born and raised in the Midwest, where she developed a strange affinity for state fairs and basketball humor. When not writing, she can be found feeding her paranormal romance addiction.
No Peace for the Damned
is her first book.