Exposed
A Book Bite
H. D. Gordon
Copyright © 2021 H. D. Gordon
Published by H. D. Gordon Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in a book review.
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 17
Try Moon Burned
Also by H. D. Gordon
About the Author
1 12:31 a.m.
The bell over the door dings, but I pay it no mind.
I’ve got an important decision to make.
Cooler Ranch Doritos or Nacho Cheesier?
Balancing the other items I’ve picked out on one arm, I snatch the Nacho Cheesier from the shelf and hug the bag to my chest to free up my hand for other selections. Stalking down the aisle, I spot a peanut butter and chocolate treat and pounce on it like the predator I am.
I can feel the guy behind the counter watching me, his gaze flicking between where I am and the old box television mounted on the wall near him. I look down at the junk food in my hands. Should last me long enough to make it home and bury myself in a pile of wrappers, crumbs, and regret.
I nod at my job well done and carry the stuff up to the counter, where I stand on my tiptoes so that I can hover over its surface and let my precious picks scatter before the cashier.
The man—tall, white, and beer-gutted—eyes my selections before sucking his teeth and beginning to ring them up. Don’t judge my junk food, Larry, and I won’t judge the stench of your body odor currently choking me.
Larry—I have no idea if that’s what his name is, but it fits well enough—takes his time bagging my items, his attention divided between me and the television.
“You believe this shit?” he asks, nodding toward the screen.
I suppress a sigh, taking the bait and looking at the screen.
“Another police shooting of a supernatural has caused protests this evening in the downtown area of Philadelphia,” reads the newscaster.
Video of throngs of people flooding the streets outside local businesses, chanting and thrusting signs into the air, flashes on the screen.
The newscaster continues, “The death of Edmond Jackson, an individual from Northeast Philadelphia of werewolf descent has caused an uproar among the community, making the third death this month involving police and a supernatural in the United States.”
The man behind the counter snorts and shakes his head. “Fucking animals,” he grumbles at the protesters on the screen. “I say good riddance.”
My jaw clenches, but I say nothing.
Just ring up my HoHo’s, Larry, and shut your damn mouth.
“Goddamn beasts,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “They just show up and think they can take our jobs, our women, our land.” He sucks his teeth again and looks at me like he’s waiting for my agreement. His voice lowers a fraction. “I say shoot ‘em all.”
Finally, finally, racist-ass-Larry puts my final item in the bag and presses a button on the register. My jaw is clenched tight enough to ache—the only way to keep in the verbal response that wants to come spilling out.
“Fourteen-o-three,” he says.
I toss a twenty dollar bill on the counter rather than handing it to him, because I can be petty like that.
Larry snatches up the bill and makes my change, still shaking his head at the story on the screen. I pocket the money and scoop up my purchases, not bothering to respond to Larry’s, “Have a good night.”
As I’m exiting, a man in all black brushes by me and into the convenience store. The hair on the back of my neck rises as our shoulders brush.
Then the door closes behind me, leaving the black-clad stranger on the other side, and me standing on the sidewalk.
Just walk away, Harper, I tell myself. This ain’t your circus, and it sure as shit ain’t your monkeys.
I look down at the plastic bag in my hand. Chips and candy, cakes and sandwiches, even some pre-cut fruit, all awaiting me. Just walk away, and in five minutes I could be sitting on my couch, covered in crumbs and wrappers, my most natural state.
I glance over my shoulder and into the fluorescent-lit space of the store, dissected from the scene inside with the shadows of the night wrapped around me.
Sure enough, the black-clad stranger has donned a ski mask, and is standing before the counter with a gun drawn, pointed right at Racist-Larry.
Good riddance.
The thought flies by my mind, the man’s own words playing back in his most inopportune moment.
I say shoot ‘em all.
On the heels of this thought, another:
The right thing will not always be easy, Harper. More than enough, it will be just the opposite, but you should try to do it anyway.
Mother. Fucker.
With a sigh, I turn on my heels and head back into the convenience store.
The bell dings over my head.
The masked gunman and now-terrified-Racist-Larry turn to face me. I take a fraction of a heartbeat to bemoan my choice, then I move.
Fast.
Too fast for the likes of them. They are only humans, after all.
The man with the gun swings the barrel toward me, but I am in front of him before he completes the movement. I take the weapon from him swiftly, easily. It is in his grip one moment, and then, it is in mine. I dismantle the weapon in the next breath, removing the clip and popping out the bullet loaded into the barrel.
Then I crush the rest of the weapon in
