End Detour [The Mystic Museum 4] (Siren Publishing Allure)
The Mystic Museum 4
End Detour
Visiting Minerva’s Mystic Museum can change lives forever. Magic makes life altering changes possible. Can Shamika and Harold forgive and forget? Can they overcome trust issues and make a life together?
Shamika must give up the life that she has come to accept and trust as normal. Is it time for a change? Does she really want a change? Will her history as a prostitute make that change impossible? Does Harold’s stubbornness prevent it? The unlikely pair are about to find out.
One encounter in a barn catapults these two strangers down a road of self examination and rediscovery. Past events have tainted their visions of what life should be. The powers that be have given them the opportunity to change their lives. Join them as they conquer their fears and the past disappointments that haunt them.
Family ties will be drawn into question. A possible future together will terrify them.
Mystic Museum magic is in the air!
Note: This book contains forced seduction.
Genre: African-American, Contemporary
Length: 32,964 words
END DETOUR
The Mystic Museum 4
Loc Glin
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
END DETOUR
Copyright © 2015 by Loc Glin
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63258-797-8
First E-book Publication: January 2015
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
END DETOUR
The Mystic Museum 4
LOC GLIN
Copyright © 2015
Prelude
Every full moon Minerva stands outside the doors of the Mystic Museum. She is its appointed guardian and caretaker. She watches for the sign indicating the chosen mystic walker. The light of the full moon will swirl around the mystic walker creating a radiant aura that can be seen only by the guardian. It is the guardian’s duty to guide the chosen one to their destined path.
Chapter 1
Minerva nodded as she watched the light settle around the Mystic Walker. It was not her job to judge, she was here to guide. The black woman smoothed the gaudy gold satin miniskirt over her ample and very shapely ass. Her lacy black stockings had more than one ugly snag and a few holes. The gold platform shoes with straps buckled around her ankles had seen better days. The black and white horizontal striped top was very tight around her full bosom. She wore oversized gold hoop earrings and a blond wig which emphasized her creamy milk chocolate coloring. Minerva thought she resembled a giant bumblebee.
Shamika Adams rushed up the steps of the Mystic Museum. She was late. She looked down at her phone and nearly knocked over an elderly man. The man was relying heavily upon his walking cane as he slowly struggled to maneuver the concrete steps.
“Fuck man, watch where you’re going, asshole.” The vile words spewed from her mouth with practiced ease. She turned her head and saw a pretty young woman steadying the man with the cane. “If he can’t walk he shouldn’t be on the street,” she mumbled.
She was rushing to meet Peter. Peter was a white man and one of her regulars. Why he wanted to meet here was beyond her. What the fuck, it was his money, she didn’t care how he wanted to spend their time together. He always wanted to talk culture with her. It pissed her off that he thought she was stupid, even though she did nothing to make him think otherwise. Why should she bother? If thinking he was smarter than her helped him to get his rocks off, so be it.
Shamika snapped her gum as she walked around the museum’s exhibits searching for Peter. She dug her phone out of the huge tote purse she carried with her at all times. It held just about everything she cared about or needed in the world. She looked at her phone again, and her costume jewelry bangles jingled. “Shit, where is the motherfucker,” she whispered.
Ten, almost eleven, years ago, when she arrived in this city, she’d had big plans and even bigger dreams. Her eighteen-year-old naivety and those hopeful dreams were soon beaten down by the reality of life in New York City, The Big Apple, as it was affectionately called by the tourist industry marketing people. She was going to become a famous singer and Broadway actress. The big talent she possessed in her rural hometown turned out to be small potatoes here. After two years and nearly starving to death she realized that being discovered and catapulted into stardom wasn’t going to happen to her. Meaningful auditions were few and far between. Bit parts were an annoyance and barely paid the bills. She’d tried waiting tables and taking any odd job she could find just to make ends
meet. When those measures failed, she should have gone home, but she was too full of pride to do that. She’d sworn she would return a rich and famous star.
Looking back, she regretted how she’d belittled her friends and neighbors by telling them how she hated their small town mentality, and how stupid she thought they were for not wanting more. So, the truth was she just didn’t want to eat crow and apologize. She didn’t want to admit how much she missed them either. She also refused to acknowledge how much she missed that simple wholesome way of life. In recent months thoughts of home had begun to plague her. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d chosen the road she was on, so now she had to live with that choice. Done was done, secret dreams would have to remain secret if she wanted to maintain her sanity. That life was behind her, she’d abandoned it for her adolescent dreams of fame.
Shamika started to look around at the contents of the museum. It didn’t really feel like a museum. There was so much stuff everywhere. Nothing seemed to be categorized, if it was she couldn’t see it. Things in the glass display cases seemed to be loosely clumped together. She looked at the paintings on the walls, trying to figure out their grouping. One painting eerily drew her to it, and she stood staring at it for an inordinately long amount of time. An End Detour sign was in the lower right corner of the painting. The road behind it ran straight as an arrow and appeared to go on forever, disappearing into what appeared to be mountains and clouds in the distance.
When the woman in the black dress spoke, Shamika jumped. “You scared the shit out of me, lady,” she said while scowling.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Minerva. I am the curator of this museum.”
“Fuck, I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I get it, you want me to leave. I’m not good enough to be here. I’ll give the place a bad reputation.” Shamika’s voice began to rise in both pitch and volume.
“I didn’t say that either.” Minerva extended her hand.
Shamika stared at Minerva’s hand, confusion clouding her brain. It was as if some otherworldly power guided her hand into Minerva’s slender palm.
“The painting is called A New Beginning. Do you like it?” The woman’s voice drew Shamika’s attention away from her hand and toward her face. “I believe that everyone deserves a second chance. Don’t you?”
Shamika looked into the dark eyes of the woman with the extremely long, straight black hair and translucent skin. Those eyes seemed to bore into her soul. Her insides felt like they were being shaken, and her heart felt as if it had been turned inside out.
“I suppose,” she said as she yanked her hand away from the woman. “What the fuck are you trying to do to me, lady? What do you want from me?”
“It is not what I want from you. Rather, it is what do you want from yourself. What do you want for yourself. Those are the questions you need to be asking.” The woman‘s expression was sad and hinted of pity, yet it wasn’t judgmental.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, lady? My mother?” Shamika had become defensive over the years. People always thought the worst of her. She never tried to change their opinions anymore. It was far easier to reinforce them.
Minerva clasped her hands in front of her. Her eyelids drifted downward until they covered her eyes. She seemed to be gathering her patience, or maybe she was asking for divine guidance. When she opened those captivating orbs, she smiled, a peaceful smile filled with serenity. “You are being given an opportunity to change your life. Just this one time remember who you really are and where you come from. Let your heart discover what it truly wants.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, lady? Get the hell away from me.” Shamika backed up a step. “I don’t do drugs. You don’t look a dealer. What are you peddling?”
Minerva laughed. “I see you haven’t completely forgotten your upbringing after all. There is hope for you.” A look that could be described as joy added to the ethereal beauty of Minerva’s face. “Pleasant journey,” she said.
Shamika watched the woman move away. She scratched the top of her head, moving the wig. Frowning, she said, “What the hell was that all about?” Dismissing the woman as some sort of weirdo, she turned back to the painting. Her eyes focused on it, and her mind began to mull over Minerva’s words.
The painting blurred. Shamika felt odd and tingly as the masterpiece before her seemed to melt and then disappear. “Whoa! What the hell?”
Shamika held her stomach and staggered as the world shifted. “What the fuck just happened?” She wobbled as she fought to gain her balance. “What did that woman do to me?” As her vision cleared, she said, “Where the hell am I?” She blinked and looked around. “This is ridiculous! That’s the sign in the picture. How did I get here?” She peered down the deserted road. Standing there in shock, she croaked, “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” A deep breath did nothing to calm her frantic heartbeat. “How in fucking hell did I get here? That woman must have been a witch or something. This is so fucking weird.” She pinched herself. She always wondered what would have to happen to provoke that action. Well, now she knew. “Ouch! So it’s not a dream…but it damn well has to be. This is impossible.” She knew she was rambling out loud. She sounded frantic to her own ears. She stood there feeling the heat of the day wrap around her body. In her mind’s eye she tried to erase the landscape before her. After closing her eyes and breathing deeply repeatedly, she was forced to accept the situation as reality. This was definitely happening to her. Her feet began to move her down the road. A half hour later her feet began to hurt. By the time three cars, two bearing Idaho license plates and one from California, had passed by without a second look, she was pissed. “So, New York doesn’t hold a monopoly on having rude and uncaring people.”
She trudged along. Her emotions rioted between self-pity and anger. This was real, all right. People treated her like shit all the time. How could three cars leave someone stranded out here? This was just another day in her crappy life. At this point it didn’t matter how she got here, she was here and had to deal with it, just like she had to deal with the rest of the crap in her shit life. If she ever saw that woman again she was going to kill her. She didn’t care if the bitch was a witch, or some kind of voodoo queen, and had strange powers.
When the old, beat up, faded red pickup truck rattled to a stop two hundred yards past her, she was too pissed off to be thankful. With each step she took to close the gap her annoyance grew.
“Jesus Christ, you’d think the son of a bitch would back up,” she ranted as she stomped forward. “Does he think it’s easy walking in these shoes?” Her fingers curled around the rusty door handle and she yanked the passenger door open. “It’s about Goddamned time someone stopped. I could have fucking died out there.” Without looking at the driver, she pulled herself up into the passenger seat. “That woman Minerva is going to get a fucking piece of my mind when I see her.” Shamika pulled the door closed with a deafening bang. She turned in the seat and her eyes settled on the other occupant. “What the fuck are you looking at?” She barked at the old man whose mouth was agape in apparent shock.
His mouth closed into a disapproving thin line. Gnarled fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Black hair speckled with enough white to make it more salt than pepper dipped into a slight V, breaking up a wide forehead. The creases on his already wrinkled brow deepened with his frown. His clear dark eyes were bright with anger, or something else, she couldn’t tell.
“Look missy, if you’re going to ride with me, you will show the proper respect. We don’t use that kind of language around here. It’s not lady like,” he said in a Midwestern drawl.
Shamika snorted. “Do I look like a lady?”
“Looks can be deceiving. I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover.” His chest rose as he took a breath trying to get his anger under control. “I’m willing to start over if you are.” He removed one hand from the steering wh
eel shoved it toward her and waited for her to take it. “My name is Hugo Turner, and you are?”
Did he mean it? He reminded her of her father. Her father was always willing to give someone a chance, always looked for the good in people. She took his hand.
“Shamika Adams. I apologize for my previous rudeness. Three cars passed me without a second glance. Do you have any idea how long it takes for three cars to travel on this road?”
“No.”
“A da—a very long time. I can assure you of that. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Turner.” She released his hand.
“Likewise, Miss Adams.”
“Call me Shamika or Mika, please.”
“I’d like that, and you may call me Hugo if you’d like.”
“Thank you. I’d like that, Hugo.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you become stranded out here?”
“I don’t mind. I just don’t have an answer that I think you would believe. It’s happening to me and I don’t believe it. Maybe I’m losing my mind.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, one minute I was in the museum, and the next I was on this road.”
“A museum, you say?”
“Yes, Minerva’s Mystic Museum in New York City. Minerva touched me and then, poof, I was here. It’s impossible, but here I am.”
Thinking about her situation made her lips quiver. She folded her hands together, trying to hide her trembling fingers as she fought her fear.
“New York? That explains the way you’re dressed.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” She bristled with insulted indignation, but she knew what was wrong with it.
“It’s not what I would call respectable.”
Her father wouldn’t call it respectable either. But she latched onto the familiar defense reflex burgeoning through her inner turmoil. It helped her to put the absurdity of her situation out of her mind. “So what?”