Free Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance) by London Casey Page B

and she told me that my honey was locked up for drugs. 
    Unsurprisingly, through six degrees of Timmy, Brett was connected to a group of friends he had in common with Timmy.  Layette wasn’t a big city.  Timmy tried to have a mean streak, a rough guy artsy side, but he had nothing to offer.  He strummed a few chords on an old guitar that needed new strings.  The move worked for Bridget and that’s all that mattered.  Turned out that when Brett met with his probation officer, they searched him first to make sure he didn’t have any pee on him.  Seriously.  That’s what they do.  They make sure a person doesn’t bring in foreign pee for a drug test.  The wild world of users, I guess.  When Brett emptied his pockets, he threw a few packets of something and was arrested on the spot.  I didn’t ask about his drug test but something told me he would fail it no matter what.
    So there went Brett, off to jail.  He was twenty-eight, looked in his early thirties, and I had the vibe that he wouldn’t see forty without some real help.
    Because that problem was out of my hair, I told Jerry I would work the morning shift again.  Other than Brett’s attempt at forcing himself on me, it had been a great shift.  I didn’t mind it.  It was very mellow, relaxing, so much different than the nights.  Plus, if I worked the morning shift on a Friday, then I could come back at night to watch some bands and mingle.  I had a lot of friends at Thorns but no real friends.  That was cool with me. 
    I went to bed early to get up early.  I got to Thorns while it was still dark out, just to embrace the ominous vibe, bringing a notebook and pen for ideas.  When I arrived at the café, there was a stack of papers out front.  The morning papers, only they were really early.  I looked up and down the dark street, seeing only a few cars.  The stack was neatly tied and I grabbed the pile to carry it in.  I put the papers on the rack, cut the twine with scissors, and started to make coffee.
    I tried to relax my mind, let it open, and find some inspiration.  Nothing was coming to me, so I turned and froze in place.  The first thing I did was look up, my eyes honing in on the front door.  It was locked.  And it would stay locked until a customer showed up.  I looked back down and found one of the newspapers on the counter.
    Had I done that?
    No, I hadn’t.  I cut the twine and took the twine, but not a paper.  The papers cost money.  I grabbed the paper and walked it back to the holder.  I threw it down on top of the pile and patted it.  As I tried to turn, the corner of the front page pulled back a few inches as if there was a breeze in the café.
    There was no breeze in the café.
    I touched the corner and held it in place.  Then suddenly, more than ever, I felt watched.  I stared down at the newspaper, refusing to look up, or look around.
    My hand slid off the paper.
    The corner moved again, gently rocking in a wind I couldn’t feel.
    I gasped and put my hands to my mouth.  I smelled coffee and paper.  I blinked and then shut my eyes.  When I opened my eyes more pages in the paper were folded.  Each page was holding its own in the air.  They were stuck together.  They were all slowly flapping.
    I touched the paper, trying for the corners and they moved back more.
    A black bold headline started to catch my attention but it meant nothing at first.
    OLD MURDER.
    I forced the paper back down where it belonged, feeling my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my chest, my hands, my feet, my head.  I took a deep breath and lifted my hands with a quick yelp, knowing it was going to happen again.
    It did.
    The pages folded right back, this time a little more.
    I saw more of the headline and finally just succumbed.  I grabbed the entire paper and threw it to the counter.  It slid, the sections breaking away from each other.  Before I could take a second to think, the next paper in line started to move.
    I touched the