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Ocean Breeze Series Book One
Genre: new adult sexy urban fantasy
Number of pages: 344
Word Count: 97,000
Around the world, murderers and rapists pick off the innocent. Killing loved ones, separating families, and ruining lives.
As an eight-year-old girl, Ocean witnessed her family’s massacre and something altered inside her. Twisting her genetic code… unlocking an ability to teleport.
Ocean Breeze was never destined to be normal, especially being named after air- freshener. She’s a shadow, a ghost—a dark savior of the innocent. Armed with a switchblade in her bra, and a box-cutter in her pocket, she hunts the filth of the world.
Callan Bliss is a Sydney Police Officer whose skill set is far above a normal cop. All his fellow officers see is a hard-worker who loves to catch perpetrators and surf, but that’s because they don’t know his past. When Callan arrests a suspicious looking prostitute, coming face to face with a self-confessed vigilante, his secrets aren’t that easy to keep silent anymore.
Ocean hates the police with a passion, and has no intention of being held captive by a cop, even if he is sexy as hell. Teleporting from under his nose, Ocean hunts her next target—a man responsible for the largest sex ring in South Africa—
and he’s about to die. But she doesn’t count on Callan giving chase, nor the body-quaking lust which consumes them. However, Ocean’s dark hobbies take precedence over what her heart wants—her thirst for murdering is killing her too, and not even Callan can save her.
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Chapter One: Ocean
My name is Ocean Breeze. Yep. Ocean freakin‘ Breeze. It was my mom’s attempt at some posh-sounding name. She was inspired by—get this—a bottle of toilet air-freshener. My heart squeezed at the thought of a cookie-scented woman with hugs that held sunshine.
The sound of my Nikes pummelling the pavement chased away my thoughts. The slapping of rubber against asphalt was similar to the slap the last prostitute-abusing john gave me. Stinking bastard. No one raises a hand to Ocean Breeze without losing an appendage. Or more, as the case may be.
I swiped my hands on my vinyl, red miniskirt. It wasn’t exactly an attractive outfit— Nikes with a miniskirt? But I’ve learned the hard way. Running in heels never worked. Ever. The sleazy men who paid for sex didn’t care what was on my feet, only what was between them.
I jumped and jived through the crowd. It was two in the morning, and the streets of Kings Cross, Sydney, were a hive of activity. Drunken students hauled themselves from karaoke clubs. Rich business men back-slapped each other for the lap dance from the uni- student, who pocketed their tips to pay for her law degree. This place was full of clichés and smut.
And I loved it.
I could disappear here. I was a nobody. Even boasting a pair of ruby lips and a figure that could’ve graced the center fold of Playboy, I didn’t stand out. Beauty was coveted in the Cross, and plastic surgery was the salvation if nature didn’t do the work.
So why was I running?
I just killed a guy. That’s why.
I bolted past the three-story sized Coca-Cola advertisement, blazing red and white, and disappeared into an alley full of meth-heads and crack whores. I leaped over comatose figures, sprinting toward the city centre. Keep running. Get far away.
The night was heavy with muggy heat, unusual for this time of year, and sweat made my miniskirt slide against my thighs.
Kings Cross embraced sin and naughtiness. The suburb encouraged unleashed pleasure and endless partying. It also encouraged rapists and murderers who lurked in the shadows. . . waiting.
A flash of blue and red lights.
Fuck! I pirouetted on my heel and charged down another alley, passing a gay club blasting Kylie Minogue. Ugh.
Yeah, no chance of that, Fat Cop. I flipped him the bird, and kept running. He jumped back in his cruiser and gave chase. Lazy bastard. Too many kebabs and doughnuts for that slob. He wouldn’t catch me. No one ever caught me.
I smiled. I loved the chase. I loved the kill. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t enjoy murdering someone, but I did enjoy the knowledge that he’d never hurt another. My cut-throat actions saved other would-be victims. Plus, that john deserved it.
Memories overtook my vision. Heavy breath on my cheek, rancid smell as he slobbered on my neck. Then warm, oozing blood as my weapon of convenience—a long skinny oyster knife—buried deep in the man’s groin. Ridding him of a vital piece of his anatomy and draining his body of crimson. One moment alive, the next—not. Then rushed practicality: Dispose of my surgical gloves. Wipe the corpse with antiseptic wipes. Remove the man’s DNA, fingerprints, and blood from my body.
Adrenaline spiked, dousing my already overloaded system. My heart thudded as fast as the bass at a techno club. The pavement flickered and I stumbled.
No, not now! My vision danced like a mirage. I no longer had control of my body.
Sirens were closer, breathing down my neck. Keep moving, Ocean! For freakin’ sake, move!
No amount of yelling could stop the migraine from consuming me. I screamed and clutched my temples, slamming to the concrete. The sidewalk danced under my phantasm goggles, no longer acting like rock and tar, but candy floss and gossamer. I’m going. I’m going. . .
Cold claws grasped my bare shoulders. “You’re coming with us.”
No! The unrelenting crush of pain ricocheted in my skull. I wanted to die. Cuffs shackled my wrists, and I was dragged, then stuffed into the back of a police car.
The agony danced with nausea, tangoing in a way that tested my stomach’s willingness to evacuate its measly contents.
Precious minutes passed while I grappled with the migraine. When only a gentle pounding remained, I opened my eyes. I didn’t know where I was.
The tense shoulders of policemen kick-started my breathing. I narrowed my eyes. This was quite a predicament: shackled in the back seat of a police vehicle.
I glared at the fat, uniformed man who’d cuffed me. “You have no reason to arrest me.” Please tell me they didn’t find the john. There was no way they could’ve found him already. And I knew there wasn’t a drop of blood on me. There never was. I was clean. Efficient. Ruthless.
While I waited to be graced with an answer, the lull of the car tires slowed my heart, and the rest of my headache seeped back like a tide.
“You’re a working girl. We have every reason to arrest you.”
I sighed, slouching into the cracked vinyl seat. Relief flooded me. If this was just a routine grab-and-administer-friendly-sex-education, that was fine by me. I might even get a free dinner out of it. My stomach rumbled in agreement. Food would be good. Food was hard to get when you had no cash. Too long this time, Ocean. You need to suck up your pride and go back.
The cop mistook my relief for annoyance. He turned in his seat, pointing a finger in my face. “You listen here, girl, we’re only looking out for you. Don’t pull that attitude.”
I slipped into slutty prossie. An act I’d perfected, but never played in real life. It was all an act—my entire existence. I didn’t know the real me anymore. Batting my eyelashes, I pouted. “Attitude? I don’t have an attitude. But if you let me go, I’ll make it worth your while.” I licked my lips suggestively. Ugh, this was gross. As if I would stoop to sleeping with strangers.
Her three favorite things are:
1. Unlimited books on an Ebook Reader
2. Cracking the sugar on a creme brulee
Jade currently resides in Middle-Earth, but has lived in Australia, England, and Hong Kong.
She writes New Adult ‘smexy’ fiction.