The Real Thing Read online

  THE REAL THING

  By Marina Simcoe

  Warning: The Real Thing is a paranormal romance that contains sexual situations, graphic descriptions of intimacy and some violence. For mature readers only.

  Copyright © 2017 Marina Simcoe

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact the author.

  Marina Simcoe

  [email protected]

  Facebook/MarinaSimcoeAuthor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of author’s imagination. Locales and public names are used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Original Art and Design © 2017 Marina Thompson

  Marinathompson.deviantart.com

  Edited by Lindsay York at LY Publishing Services

  To my Captain

  forever my inspiration

  Table of Contents

  1. Marcus the Magnificent.

  2. Times Square.

  3. Back to Reality.

  4. My Obsession.

  5. Bellagio.

  6. Home Sweet Home.

  7. On Top of the World.

  8. Make it Happen.

  9. The Show.

  10. Found Her!

  11. Hurricane of Bad Manners.

  12. Good Morning.

  13. Dating a Magician.

  14. Emily.

  15. The Suite.

  16. Simon.

  17. The Fire.

  18. After the “Night of Debauchery.”

  19. Girl Power.

  20. My Very Own Superman.

  21. Parents.

  22. Evan.

  23. The Amulet.

  24. Ingeborg and The Avenger.

  25. The Ranch House.

  26. Marcus’s Library.

  27. Morning in the Desert.

  28. Earthquake.

  29. Truly Fearless!

  30. Coffee with Ingeborg.

  31. Marcus.

  32. Evil.

  33. My True Avenger.

  34. Your Faults Are My Own.

  35. Family.

  36. The Worries.

  37. The Date.

  EPILOGUE

  More By Marina Simcoe

  About The Author

  1. Marcus the Magnificent.

  Through the slits of his mask, he watched the blonde’s head bobbing in his lap, up and down in a perfect rhythm. Way too perfect, actually. He was mere seconds from coming already.

  Only he couldn’t come, could he? He was in a hotel room in the middle of Manhattan. Too many people, too many buildings, too dangerous…

  No, he couldn’t come. He needed to get a grip and stay in control.

  He focused his attention on the girl’s blonde locks instead. He didn’t remember her name. Most of the time, he didn’t even bother asking their names because he knew he would never remember them anyway. He recalled though that she said she was from Brazil. Her smooth skin, the colour of coffee heavy on the cream, supported her claim. The platinum blonde hair, however, didn’t.

  Yes, that was what he should think about if he wanted to stay in control. Her hair. She must have had a very talented hair stylist, or colourist, or whatever they were called. The colour of her hair looked very natural, with subtle highlights. If she hadn’t told him where she was from, he would have believed that she was a natural blonde. Then again, maybe she was? There must be some blondes in Brazil, too. What was the colour of her eyes? He didn’t remember that, either.

  There was no way he could look into her eyes now, considering the position she was in. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he could feel the slick heat of her mouth moving up and down his shaft. So very good…

  Well, that wasn’t working. His control was rapidly slipping away. It was time to take the matter in his own hands. Or his own mouth, to be precise.

  “Babe.” He called them all babe. It helped to avoid awkward situations with forgotten names.

  “Mmmm?” She lifted her eyes without releasing him from her mouth.

  Fuck, she looked hot at this angle! He needed to stop this — quickly — before it was too late.

  “My turn,” he croaked, his throat suddenly dry.

  He shifted his hips — his erection sprung free from her lips and into the cool air of the room — and flipped her on her back.

  “Marcus… Are you sure? I could have finished…”

  Without saying a word, he pushed her knees apart and dove in, shutting her up instantly. Experience taught him that this was the most effective way to make any woman forget about anything that she might not have finished for him.

  After he gave her a few orgasms, she would leave here deeply satisfied, happily blabbing to everyone that he was truly Marcus the Magnificent in bed and that she had the best sex in her life. She would completely forget the fact that there had been very little of actual fucking involved, and she would never notice that the condom he tossed in the trashcan after a night of passion was empty.

  This was his modus operandi, and he had perfected it over years of extensive practice.

  Except that the girl didn’t want to leave so easily this time, even after he made her come again, or maybe because of it.

  “Oh, Marcus!” She stretched on his bed lazily, letting the streetlights from the window play on her perfect skin. “I don’t think I ever came so many times in my life! You completely wore me out, baby.”

  Well, this couldn’t mean anything good for him at this point. He was still painfully hard and was growing more and more irritated. It was time for Marcus the Jerk to take over.

  “I’m sorry, babe, but you’ll have to leave now.” He didn’t even try to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Still, feeling somewhat guilty for kicking her out when she clearly didn’t want to leave, he offered as an explanation, “I have a show tonight. I need to rest.”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve. We can take a nap together and then have dinner.”

  She was obviously more beautiful than smart. Usually, it was his favourite type of woman. Right now though, he just wanted her to get it — and leave.

  Energy buzzed just beneath his skin. He could feel the fire taking over, making him restless and increasingly anxious. It would only get worse, driving him mad with pain. Thankfully, he had a show tonight. Performing was one of the only two things that helped him to cool off — performing and sex — real sex, whenever he could have it. Not tonight though.

  “I can’t get any sleep with other people in my bed, babe. You do need to go,” he added firmly and got up himself, hoping she’d follow his example.

  “But when can I see you again?” Her cherry-red lips, still swollen after sex, rolled out into a most delicious pout.

  Tempting.

  But not possible, he reminded himself.

  “You can see me tonight.” He threw her clothes on the bed and walked towards the door, wearing nothing but his mask. “Times Square. Make sure you look up if you want to see me,” he smirked. “Way up!”

  2. Times Square.

  “Come on, Angela! Move your ample behind!”

  Oh, little brothers! Our joy and pain! More pain than joy, actually. Especially if we were talking about my brother, Evan. He would never just call my biggest asset your fat ass like normal people would. No, he made sure to use fancier words because he knew, that
for some reason, I found them more offensive. The pest that he was, he quickly found my most vulnerable spot and kept biting where it hurt. No wonder I didn’t like him very much.

  I couldn’t help but still love him, of course. He was my brother, my only brother, and my only sibling. Less than two years younger than me, he was my best friend and my closest playmate growing up. I fought off his bullies on the playground, until he grew big enough to take care of himself, and I used to dress him up in princess outfits to have pretend tea parties until he was about five. After that, he discovered Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers and never looked back at wearing princess dresses again.

  We still remained friends though, my brother and I, close enough friends that when he lost his job and got kicked out from his apartment, he showed up at my door instead of going to live with our parents. I let him stay with me for months, putting up with his “recreational” drug use that got him in this mess in the first place.

  My parents and I finally talked him into trying a rehab program. He went through with it, and even stayed clean for weeks afterwards, but I knew that his willpower was not strong enough for him to stay on the right track for long.

  Thankfully, Evan met Lily — his current girlfriend — just in time. I would never stop being grateful to whatever higher power sent her his way.

  Lily was highly intelligent and had a master’s degree in statistics, or something like that. She had a high-paying job with the provincial government in downtown Toronto, and was apparently highly valued at work.

  On the other hand, Lily lacked severely in social skills. She was curt, blunt, and had zero emotional intelligence. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, she tended to communicate in brisk statements that were mostly offensive, often politically incorrect, and almost always out of place.

  Admittedly not the most friendly person in the world myself, I tried but failed to become real friends with her. Our relationship remained cordial but distant. Despite that, I still believed that Lily was the best thing that ever happened to my brother.

  She was driven and organized, which seemed to be rubbing off on Evan. In the year that they started dating, he finally completed the two credits he needed to earn his college diploma and managed to hold down a job with a theater production company for over eight months now. A new record for Evan!

  Best of all, Lily was firm in her stance against any substance abuse. She couldn’t stand drugs, didn’t smoke, and drank sparkling water exclusively.

  Her habits must have been somewhat responsible for Lily’s far from stellar social life. She met my brother at the only party she had attended in a year and gave him a lecture on the perils of alcohol, after watching him chug his fifth double-bourbon in less than an hour.

  Evan must have found something appealing about her lecture, because he convinced Lily to give him her phone number, and they had been practically inseparable ever since. He moved in with her a few months back, leaving me to enjoy my apartment all on my own once again.

  “Move it, Angela, if you don’t want to get lost! I’m not going to spend New Year’s Eve searching for you in this city!”

  We were in New York, almost in the middle of Times Square now. Evan moved forward like an icebreaker, parting the crowd with his wide shoulders and pulling Lily by her arm in his wake.

  My best friend, Emily, and her fiancé, Mikey were so far ahead of us already that I could no longer see them.

  Evan was right; it was way too easy to get lost here in the crowd. It seemed just as easy to get crushed or trampled to death, especially if you were a girl of average height with average muscle tone like me. The four-inch heels of my fabulous boots weren’t helping my speed either.

  “I’m coming! Just slow down a little!” I yelled out to Evan, ignoring the annoyed look Lily threw me over her shoulder.

  I didn’t want to remind her that I didn’t have a manly wide back parting the crowd in front of me and had to rely on my very own elbow power — which wasn’t much. I didn’t want to admit that I actually missed Matt, my ex, for the first time since we broke up last month, although, I couldn’t say if I missed him specifically, or just the feeling of having someone by my side to share the moment.

  I knew it wouldn’t be easy to go on this trip as the fifth wheel with two couples, but Evan and Emily were my best friends and, lately, my only friends. They, and their significant others, were the only people I ever did anything with whenever I could squeeze any social life between my two jobs.

  I didn’t regret coming along. I just couldn’t help feeling a little lonely surrounded by couples in love. I knew it would only get worse once the ball dropped and everyone started kissing…

  Well, it could have been worse. I could have been celebrating New Years on the couch in my empty apartment with only Lannister, my cat, for company.

  Finally, using my own shoulders and elbows and throwing a good curse here and there, I made my way through the crowd and caught up with Evan and Lily in front of the Olive Garden building at 2 Times Square, right across from the huge, bright billboards. Mikey and Emily were already there, waiting by the metal fence at the edge of the crowd, squeezed between the fence and the skyscrapers.

  All these people, the loud noise, and bright lights overwhelmed even me. I lived, worked and studied in downtown Toronto and was used to living in a big city, dodging traffic, and ignoring construction noise every day. What was happening here right now, though, equaled all my experiences multiplied by a hundred.

  “There he is! Look!” shouted somebody in the crowd, and I looked up, imitating everyone else around me.

  The biggest of the billboards across from us shimmered with dancing lights, and his masked face appeared on the screen.

  Marcus the Magnificent, the up-and-coming magician — or illusionist as I heard they preferred to be called — the newest internet sensation, according to my brother, who was easily influenced and liked everything new and shiny.

  I, on the other hand, believed that I inherited the more pragmatic mind from our father, the retired math teacher. I wasn’t into magic shows, and had only a general knowledge about how magic tricks were performed.

  Marcus the Magnificent was the opening act of this year’s show in Times Square, followed by the concert that I was really excited to hear, and the traditional ball drop.

  Marcus was going to walk between the rooftops of two buildings on Times Square on nothing but air.

  I realized that it had gotten significantly quieter. The noise had subdued, and I squinted my eyes to see a dark figure standing on the edge of the roof, hundreds of feet up above us.

  From down here, I could only see his silhouette backlit by several spotlights. I could barely make out the long mane of his dark hair whipping in the strong wind up there and the outline of his long coat.

  I could see him much more clearly on the giant screen above us, though. He was dressed in black: a long trench coat, leather pants and tall heavy boots. His straight jet-black hair was much longer than I had seen on any man in person. It must have reached his waist at least; the longs strands lashed across his face with the gusts of wind. A black half-mask covered the upper half of his face, from the top of his forehead down past his cheekbones.

  Dark and mysterious, he commanded attention and enticed my imagination without even saying a word.

  He stood on the very edge of the roof, on the outer side of the railings, with the toes of his leather boots extending past the edge.

  There was no introduction, not even a pre-show to create tension and build anticipation. He didn’t say anything and didn’t even care to wait to ensure all attention was on him. He simply placed his foot forward and stepped off the roof into the abyss.

  The crowd gasped as one physical entity. The breath caught in my own throat, as I half expected him to plummet to the ground in a bloody mess. My heart skipped a beat and I jerked forward as if I could catch him before he hit the pavement at my feet.

  He didn’t fall, though. He remained w
here he was, suspended in the air, halfway between the sky and the earth.

  He took another step forward, slowly but without hesitation. Then another step. And another.

  In slow, measured steps, he made his way across the sky between the two buildings, above the thousands of people below. The cold winter wind caught the ends of his trench coat and they flapped violently against his boots. Hair flew across his face, completely obstructing his eyes at times. Nothing seemed to faze him. He kept walking with confidence on nothing but air for support.

  The crowd below seemed to have found its voice again. People shouted encouragements and offered their guesses on how the illusion was accomplished. Most snapped pictures and took bad videos with their cellphones.

  “Isn’t it cool, dude!” I heard the excited voice of my brother shouting in my ear.

  “He should have put his hair into a ponytail,” came the aloof voice of Lily. “It’s a mess. How can he see where he’s going?”

  “He is so hot! Angela, isn’t he hot?” Emily hugged my shoulders.

  “It’s the mask,” boomed Mikey’s deep voice next to me. “Everyone looks hot in a black mask. Even I would look hot and mysterious if I wore one.”

  “Sure you would, honey! But you are already hot, just the way you are,” laughed Emily and got on her tiptoes to place a quick kiss on Mikey’s chin. She couldn’t reach any higher, even when standing on her tiptoes: well over six feet tall, Mikey towered over all of us.

  I couldn't say anything. My eyes were fixed on Marcus as he walked across the sky. It was a perfectly executed illusion. So perfect, in fact, that it didn’t even feel like an illusion at all. It felt real. An elated feeling of wonder and awe rose inside me, as if I stood in the presence of real magic, and I was afraid to breathe lest I scared it away.

  I watched his face carefully, trying to make out his expression behind the mask. What was he thinking at this moment? I wanted to know. What would it feel like to create a miracle in front of thousands of people?