Elvis Gets His Groove Back (Moonchuckle Bay Romantic Comedy #5 Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Happy Ending at 86%

  Half Title

  1 Thirty-Five Years of Off-Key Elvis Songs

  2 Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwiches

  3 An Elvis Sighting in Vegas

  4 “Lo-reeeee-toe!”

  5 An Alpha Is Kind of Like a Spoiled Child

  6 Fool’s Gold Loaf

  7 What. Would. Gene. Say?

  8 The Scent of Lemon and Honeysuckle

  9 One Delicious Elvis Burrito

  10 The Ghost Started To Boogie

  11 What If You Don’t Win First Place?

  12 The Dust Settled

  13 We All Have Flaws

  EPILOGUE - The Siren Song

  Thank you!

  Author's Note

  Book Club Questions

  About the Author

  Books by Heather Horrocks

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Excerpt: #0.5 Jingle Belle ~ free with newsletter sign-up

  Excerpt: #6 The Hacker Bakes Lycanberry "Pi"

  Thanks again

  Dedicated to my beautiful daughter, Elise Hill, who — like my heroine — sings like an angel (but without the harming of humans). It’s so fun watching you raise your family of boys with love, caring, humor — and lots of really cool watches. I admire the woman you’ve become and love you with all my heart.

  And to Mark, who rumbles as he sings bass. I love hearing you both sing solo, but I’m in awe when you sing together. We need to have you do that more often.

  ELVIS GETS HIS GROOVE BACK

  Moonchuckle Bay Romantic Comedy #5

  Heather Horrocks

  THE HAPPY ENDING IS AT ABOUT 86% ~ ENJOY!

  In case you’re like me and want to know how close you are to the end of a book, and because there are pages that come after the end of a book (excerpts, copyright, about the author, and—in some boxed sets—more novellas), I just want to let you know that ‘The End’ of this book is at approximately 86%. Enjoy.

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  DISCOVER HEATHER’S OTHER BOOKS.

  Heather Horrocks has written numerous books. If you’re new to her writing, see her romantic comedies and funny mysteries at www.BooksByHeatherHorrocks.com.

  Elvis Gets His Groove Back

  Copyright © 2017 Heather Horrocks

  Thirty-Five Years of Off-Key Elvis Songs

  AS SHE CAME TO THE crescendo at the end of the last song of her show, Charlie Melodi hit the high note, sticking it, holding it out, second after second.

  It was wonderful to feel the beautiful music welling up from deep within her.

  She heard people gasping, but that wasn’t unusual. Folks were often enticed and awestruck by her Siren Song.

  She held the last few seconds of that high, crystal-clear note and then opened her eyes, expecting the audience members to be staring at her, enthralled by her music, as they usually did.

  And most of them were.

  But others were focused on two men and a woman who were standing and clutching at their chests.

  Dread slammed into her. She’d lost control? She hadn’t done that in decades.

  Ten feet from the stage, one of the men toppled over onto the ground. Two men standing next to him grabbed for him and eased him to the ground before he hit his head.

  A flush of panic slithered up Charlie’s body and into her face.

  She’d lost control! She might have killed this man! And she’d injured others!

  As the two other people stopped clutching at their shirts and sank back into their seats, she hoped they were all right, but her gaze darted back to the fallen man.

  Finally, the guitar player came forward and said into the mic, “Has someone called an ambulance?”

  A woman in the crowd held up a phone and nodded.

  The guitarist turned to Charlie, concern in his eyes. He stepped away from the mic so only she could hear him. “Are you all right, Charlie? Your face is red and you look like you’re about to pass out.”

  She drew in a breath, dragging her eyes from the fallen man. The possibly dying man. “I’m not feeling well.”

  It was the truth. She couldn’t bear hurting people — and this man might die!

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. We were pretty much done. That was your usual finale song. You just won’t come back out for the encore songs. The band and I will cover it for you.”

  “Thank you.” She sighed, relieved.

  He spoke into the mic again. “Can we have a round of applause for the beautiful and talented Charlie Melodi, folks? This is the last night of her four-week engagement here at the Nightshade Casino.”

  As the crowd clapped, EMTs raced up the aisle toward the man on the front row. He was still gasping for breath.

  The guitarist signaled to the band and they struck up a song as he led Charlie off the stage. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Stricken, she managed a nod. “Thank you,” she said again. “I had more control before Hank died.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  Then he went back on stage and she stood, trembling, leaning against a wall for support.

  She couldn’t stay here. Not in this building. Not in this town. Not in this career.

  Her power was growing stronger, but without Hank’s calming influence, she could no longer control it. She had to admit it to herself.

  Where could she possibly find someone as peaceful as Hank to act as her anchor? Someone who calmed her and helped her maintain control? She’d met Hank when she trained at his dojo. He’d been her sensei and then her manager for most of his life, and they’d been friends for all that time. Never romantically inclined, just good friends. As he’d grown old and then infirm, she’d moved in to care for him until he died.

  He’d passed just last week. This was her first show since his funeral.

  She could still hear his voice in her head: Charlie, just keep moving. Baby steps. Take the next baby step.

  She could do that. She fumbled to pull her coat around her shoulders and clutched her purse as she pushed her way outside. The crowd out there didn’t seem to recognize her, for which she was extremely grateful.

  She couldn’t handle even one more thing at this moment or she’d crack — just like that man’s heart had when she’d hit that high note. Just as crystal glasses cracked when gifted, non-magical singers hit high notes.

  Charlie was still sitting in her car in the parking lot thirty minutes later, her heart pounding.

  She couldn’t drive yet.

  She’d watched as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, which then raced off into the night, its siren blaring.

  Siren. She was a siren and her power had been blaring earlier. In exchange for a few moments of power and beauty, she may have cost a man his life. She was heartsick.

  Charlie remained until hers was one of only a few vehicles in that section of the parking lot of the Nightshade, a Vegas casino run by paranormal creatures like herself. She couldn’t hurt any of them — but she could hurt humans. She had hurt humans tonight.

  She decided then and there that she couldn’t sing again. Ever. She was done using her Song.

  She needed a new career. But what else could she do? She didn’t have training for anything else. This was who she was. Singing was her life.

  Panic hit her and she drew in several deep breaths until she pushed it back, though it lurked there, just out of reach.

  She pulled out her phone. She had to call for help. But
who would she ask?

  The phone rang and she looked at the screen. It was one of her sisters.

  She hit the button and manged to choke out, “Hello.”

  “Charlie, it’s so good to hear your voice. You haven’t been answering lately.”

  She hadn’t. They always wanted her to come home, to stop being the black sheep of their Sirenese family. “I ...” She didn’t even know what to say. Her voice was trembling as much as her hands.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” Charlie managed, but her voice shook.

  Her sister immediately picked up the tremor. “Are you all right?”

  “I might have killed a man tonight.”

  “What happened?”

  Charlie struggled to say the words out loud. “I sang, and my power cracked, and ...”

  Her sister sounded delighted. “Oh, how wonderful, Charlie! Your full power is coming in. And you’re using it as it’s meant to be used. I’m so proud of you. Come home. Surely you can come home now.”

  “I don’t want him to die.”

  “I know. The first one is the hardest, but it gets easier after that.”

  “I don’t want it to get easier.”

  Her sister went on, blathering about her destiny, and Charlie blinked back tears. What a destiny, to sing men — and women — literally to their deaths. All for a moment of adulation. She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t that kind of siren.

  “I’ve got to go now. I won’t be coming home. I have a friend who will help me.”

  “Who can you possibly go to outside our family? You know you can’t trust men. Humans are horrible, and you cannot ever trust paranormals. And certainly don’t fall for them.”

  Sirens rarely mated, because they hated men. The few who did decide to mate were incredibly possessive.

  “I love you.” Charlie sighed before she hung up on her still-sputtering sister.

  Before she could lose her nerve, she searched for the contact she hadn’t talked with in years. Thirty-five, to be exact. Not since she’d used her Song to save that new wolfling werewolf for him.

  The alpha of the Moonchuckle Bay area pack, Gene Winston.

  She could trust Gene Winston, and that was rare for her. He was a good man. He’d kept her secret all these years, and she’d kept his.

  She could trust him — she hoped.

  She punched the button and waited for him to answer.

  A moment later, the voice she remembered from all those years ago picked up on the other end. “Gene Winston here.”

  “Gene, this is Charlie Melodi. I don’t know if you remember, but I helped you before with ... you know. Rescuing that new werewolf of yours.”

  “Oh, sure. Charlie! It’s good to hear from you. What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you think something’s wrong?” she asked shakily.

  “Because I can’t imagine another reason for you to call after all these years. Are you calling in your marker? I know I owe you.”

  “Yes, if I can.” She blew out a breath. “My power is growing and Hank — you remember Hank, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He died last week.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. If I’d known, I’d have gone to his service.”

  “Thank you, Gene.”

  “What is it you need me to do?” he asked, his voice growing gentle.

  “I lost control tonight. I broke into Song and injured a few people. One man got taken to the hospital and he might not make it. Can you help me?”

  She wasn’t even sure what she was asking, but he was used to taking charge. “I can send a warlock to see what can be done for his healing, and I’ll let you know his name when I learn it. Are you still in Vegas?”

  “Thank you. And, yes, I’m in Vegas. At the Nightshade.”

  “What about you? What else can I do?”

  “I can’t sing anymore. I can’t risk hurting a human. I need someplace to go and something else to do.”

  “Okay. Stay put. I’ll send a couple of guys to Vegas to pick you up and bring you here to Moonchuckle Bay. One of them can drive your car back. We can help you get back on your feet.”

  She gave a half-sob of relief.

  “I’ll have them pick you up about two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Will you be okay until then?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Go to your place, pull the blinds, and get some sleep. Meet them at two in the parking lot by the main doors of the Nightshade.”

  Even though he wasn’t her alpha, since she wasn’t a werewolf, she still took comfort from his calm, commanding voice. He knew what to do, even if she didn’t, and she did trust him.

  “You won’t tell people what I am.”

  “No, of course not,” he assured her.

  Good. She didn’t want people to know, because then they’d be afraid of her. They’d think she was like her bloodthirsty sisters.

  She ended the call and put her car into gear.

  She could make it until morning, and then a werewolf would drive her to Moonchuckle Bay and another would drive her car. She could just relax and let Gene take care of things for a few days.

  It ripped her heart out to know she would never sing again, but she’d take comfort in the thought that she wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Ever.

  Elvis Smith stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked better now that he’d trimmed his beard, but he wondered if he should go clean-shaven again. He quickly put that idea aside. He wore the beard as part of his attempt to disguise who he’d been — not that it worked that well.

  Suddenly a woman appeared in the mirror next to him, her transparent form flickering. “Are you still here? When are you moving out, again?”

  Elvis sighed, trying not to lose his patience with the bossy ghost. “Look, Evelyn, As I’ve told you many, many times, this is my house now. It belongs to Gene Winston, who’s rented it to me on a thirty-five-year lease. So the better question is when are you moving out? It’s time for you to go toward the light. This can’t be healthy for you.”

  She snorted. “I’m not leaving anytime soon. Not that you’re not delightful to look upon, but looks aren’t everything. Singing is everything. And if you’re really Elvis, why don’t you sing me a song or two? I was always a fan of your music, you know. I bought tickets to go to your concerts. I even threw my panties up on the stage — my pretty, pink panties. So come on — sing me a song. Just one little song.”

  Elvis shook his head. “I don’t do that anymore. You know that.”

  “Do you know how stupid that is?” She demanded, putting her hands on her hips. “I’ll start us out,” she urged. “You can join in when you feel comfortable.” And she started singing off-key about hound dogs. Nothing but.

  Elvis shook his head, disgusted. “You’re murdering my song.”

  “If you think you can sing it better than me, then be my guest. I’ll keep quiet and listen.”

  Oh, that he could, but he wouldn’t. With a sigh, he walked into the kitchen, as she moved onto the veranda, her favorite place to haunt, singing her off-key heart out.

  Thirty-five years of hearing the songs he could no longer sing, sung to him off-key. If there was any question of God having a sense of humor, this proved it.

  He pulled out a skillet and turned on the heat, then pulled out two slices of bread and buttered a side of each. He slathered both sides with peanut butter, then sliced a banana and laid it on. He put the two slices together, and fried it up. His famous peanut butter and banana sandwich — good since the 1950s.

  He moved into the living room, since it was farthest from the veranda, and ate his sandwich.

  When his phone rang, he checked the screen. It was Gene Winston, his alpha. He smiled and drawled, “Good morning, Master and Commander.”

  Gene snorted. “I hate when you do that.”

  “Oh, Captain of my Fate,” he teased again. “I do regret that you don’t enjoy having fun.”

  “Hey, this is a bu
siness call, not a fun call.”

  “Oh,” Elvis replied, turning serious, “in that case, what can I do for you, Alpha?”

  “You’ve been asking me to give you more responsibility in the pack.”

  Elvis nodded, though Gene couldn’t see him. He really did want to contribute more. “I hope you’re going to tell me good news.”

  “Great news.” Gene corrected, “Or at least I believe it is.”

  Elvis smiled. “Please do share it with me, then.”

  “I need you to drive with Walter to Vegas early tomorrow morning and pick up a friend of mine, Charlie Melodi, by two o’clock. Charlie can ride back with you, and Walter will drive Charlie’s car back.”

  “You got it.” Calculating in his mind, he figured he’d have to leave Moonchuckle Bay by nine-thirty to arrive in Vegas by two. He could do that.

  “And then I need you to let Charlie stay with you for a while,” Gene continued. “A few weeks, maybe a month or so.”

  Elvis groaned. He should have known it wasn’t going to be so easy. “You know I’m not good with other people around.”

  “I know. But you wanted more responsibility,” Gene reminded him. “Charlie is now your responsibility.”

  Elvis sighed. First Evelyn and now Charlie, some guy he didn’t even know, staying here. Maybe he could line them up. Maybe they could sing duets together.

  Maybe he’d go insane.

  “So, what do you say?” Gene pressed.

  Be careful what you wish for, he answered to himself. “Sure. I’ll need to clean out the spare room.”

  “Thanks, Elvis. I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “Not that I want you to send more people to live with me, you understand.”

  His alpha chose to ignore that. “Oh, and take one of the pack trucks because Charlie has some belongings to bring.”

  “My Cadillac has a huge trunk.”

  Gene chuckled. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Take a blanket to protect your back seat in case there’s not enough room in the trunk.” And then Gene clicked off.