“Really?” My eyes filled with tears. “Like yours is to be a mechanic?”
Earl shrugged. “Yeah. For now. But life don’t stay the same forever. You know that, cuz”
I smiled. “I know. Keep the garage afloat for me, will you?”
Earl nodded. “You know I will.”
I thought Earl would turn and go. But he just stood there, staring at me expectantly. Finally, he winked and said, “Come on. Say it.”
“Say what?”
He grinned. “You know what.”
I laughed. “Earl, you’re fired.”
He snorted. “Ahh, now that’s what I been missin’.”
I smiled. “Speaking of missing, I want to give you back Lucky Red.”
Earl frowned. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I grabbed the ball cap from atop the ugly alien lamp. “My hair’s growing in, and ET doesn’t like being affiliated with the tobacco industry.”
Earl shot me a look. “Ok. Whatever that means. You take care now, Bobbie.”
“You, too, Earl.”
As he stepped out the door, Earl turned and waved to the little green lizard in the terrarium. “Bye, Gizzard.” He winked at me, then squeezed his big frame out the door. Right before he closed it, I heard him say, “Bye, Garth!”
A moment later, the door opened again. A beaver with a blond mullet stuck his head in and grinned at me.
“Just came by to say goodbye,” Garth said. “It’s been a pleasure, Pandora. Where’s Mr. Gray?”
I nodded toward the bathroom. “Indisposed.”
Garth smiled and shook his head wistfully. “They say even the great ones do it. Tell him goodbye for me, will you?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll miss you most of all,” Garth said, looking down at my breeding-stock hips.
“Right,” I said, and closed the door.
With Grayson in the shower, I finally had a moment to text Beth-Ann. I picked up my cell phone and looked at the date. I smiled. I’d survived beyond the expiration date she’d predicted. I tapped a message into the phone.
It’s Tuesday and I’m still alive.
A few seconds later, my phone chirped with her reply.
Glad to hear it. Now call me today or I’m going to track you down and kill you myself.
I grinned and gave her a call.
Chapter Fifty Nine
“BREEDER HIPS,” I SAID to Grayson as he came out of the bathroom. “All of this craze about breeder hips. I just don’t understand preppers.”
“You and Arlene have that in common. Embrace your similarities.”
I gave Grayson a dirty look. “I’ve got nothing in common with Arlene Jenkins or any of those other guys.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. From the stories I heard, you and Lester appeared to have shared a certain propensity for getting drunk and—”
I slapped a hand over Grayson’s mouth. “If what you’re about to say has anything to do with that night at the campfire, please don’t tell me.”
Grayson grinned. “Have it your way. What say we have one more cup of coffee and hit the road. You ready?”
“Am I ever.”
THE CHAIN LINK GATE swung open with a high-pitched squeal. “Thank you for your hospitality, Operative Garth,” Grayson said into the intercom. “We’ll be in touch.”
“That would be awesome cool,” Garth’s voice crackled over the speaker.
Grayson hit the gas, and we sputtered down the dirt driveway in reverse. As he maneuvered the RV onto the paved road, I looked over at him and grinned mischievously.
“What?” he asked, shifting into first gear.
I stifled a smirk. “Sorry your theory about a half-goat, half-man didn’t pan out.”
Grayson shook his head and groaned.
I laughed. “Come on, Grayson. You had to have seen that one coming.”
Grayson sighed. “I wasn’t expecting a sneak attack from my own partner.”
Partner. I like the sound of that.
I sat back and watched through the window as the occasional trailer peeked out from amongst the palmettos and pine trees. We rode on in silence until the sign for the interstate loomed ahead.
“So, where to now?” I asked.
Grayson grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, seeing as how we’re both still practically bald, it would be the perfect time to join the Hari Krishnas.”
I laughed. “You’re aware that I now know how to kill you with a Tootsie Pop, right?”
He smirked. “You got any left?”
I fished in my purse and handed him a green sucker. I unwrapped a blue one, stuck it in my mouth, and tossed the wrapper onto the floorboard. Grayson neatly folded his wrapper and tucked it in the ashtray.
OCD freak.
Grayson shifted the Tootsie Pop to his left cheek. “Okay, cadet. At the moment, I’ve got reports about vanishing vets in New Port Richey, or a killer tomato in Ruskin.”
I looked up at the fluffy clouds in the sky for an answer.
Hey. You up there. I need a sign.
In the distant blue horizon loomed a behemoth strawberry—Plant City’s world-famous water tower. I smiled and turned to Grayson.
“Is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable?”
Grayson shot me a curious glance. “A fruit.”
“Okay. I’ve had enough of fruits for the time being. Let’s go find some missing vets.”
“East it is,” Grayson said, and turned right toward I-275.
The End
I HOPE YOU ENJOYED Dr. Prepper. If you did, it would be freaking fantastic if you would post a review on Amazon, Goodreads and/or BookBub. You’ll be helping me keep the series going! Thanks in advance for being so awesome!
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Where do Drex and Grayson go from here?
Find out in Oral Robbers!
Oral Robbers
FREAKY FLORIDA MYSTERY Adventures, Book 2
By Margaret Lashley
Prologue
I MADE IT THROUGH MY first official “investigation” with Nick Grayson without getting fired or taking an extended dirt nap.
In other words, I accomplished two of the three goals I’d set out for myself. The third—not falling for the guy—well, that one’s still a little sketchy.
Traveling with Grayson in his ratty old Winnebago means he’s always close.
Irritatingly close.
And every time we bump into each other, I get this weird, electric feeling.
Is it love? Is it hate? Is it an ungrounded electrical socket?
I really can’t say for sure. But I read somewhere that love and hate sit side-by-side on the emotional scale—and that the true opposite of love is indifference.
Indifference is definitely not what I feel for Grayson.
Maybe the right word is grateful—albeit, begrudgingly so.
Grayson snatched me, kicking and screaming, out of my dead-end life as a second-rate mall cop. Then he shoved me, head-first, into his crazy, disco world of monster a-go-go.
Investigating reports of the unexplained with Grayson can be bizarre.
Dangerous, even.
But boring? No.
I totally give him that much.
Chapter One
“HOLD STILL, DREX. AND take that Tootsie Pop out of your mouth.”
“Why?”
I glared into the eyes of Nick Grayson. He was my boss, private-eye instructor, and current owner of the world’s cheesiest moustache.
We were in a sleazy motel off US 19, just outside New Port Richey. I was in bed, propped up on mysteriously lumpy pillows. Grayson, a physicist turned conspiracy-theory nut, was hovering over me, pasting electrodes onto my scalp.
His eyes gleamed maniacally as he hooked me up to his electroencephalogram machine. His plan was to scare whatever miniscule amount of wits I had left right out of my half-shaved noggin.
Fun times.
The last time Grayson strapped me to hi
s EEG contraption, he’d shocked me to the core with a video of gray-skinned aliens being ambushed by military-style Rambos. After the mysterious militia freed three kids from glass holding tubes, they’d freed the aliens of their oversized heads.
Not pretty. Not pretty at all.
As I lay there, I still had no idea whether that bizarre video was real or not. I wasn’t sure Grayson knew, either. And, for the time being, it didn’t matter. Half an hour ago, I’d experienced something that had scared the bejeebers out of me even more—and it hadn’t come from Grayson’s test program.
I sat up in bed and frowned at Grayson. “Why can’t I keep the Tootsie Pop?”
Grayson glanced up from fiddling with a knob on the EEG monitor. “You might choke on it. Besides, it’s a crutch, Drex.”
I scowled. “A crutch?”
Grayson locked his mesmerizing green eyes on mine. Dressed all in black, the wiry, fortyish man with the washboard abs had a mysterious hold on me. At times, I wanted to kiss him. Other times, I wanted to run from him—screaming. But most times, I felt compelled to follow his lead, glued to his side by my own twisted curiosity.
“An oral fixation,” he said, studying me like I was his favorite new lab rat. “Like smoking. Or chewing gum. Typically brought on by insufficient breastfeeding during infancy.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I have mommy issues?”
He smirked. “If the sucker fits ....”
I shot Grayson some side-eye. “That’s rich coming from a guy with two navels. As far as I know, you came out of a test tube.”
Grayson’s eyebrows wagged below his stubble-covered head, which was usually covered by a black fedora. “An excellent argument for why I don’t have mommy issues, I’d say. Now lose the Tootsie Pop and lay down.”
I plucked the sucker from my mouth and put it in an ashtray on the nightstand. Cringing with disgust, I cautiously laid back onto the mystery-stain pillows. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” Grayson glanced at the used red Tootsie Pop. “But if you were, you wouldn’t need that thing.”
I scowled. “Just fire up your gross-out program before I change my mind.”
Grayson’s right cheek dimpled, a sure sign that a deviant smile lurked beneath his bushy black moustache. He snatched my Tootsie Pop from the ashtray and stuck it in his mouth.
Gross.
His right cheek bulged as he clicked a key on his laptop computer, then handed it to me. The screen blinked to life in my hands. On it, a yellow emoji face grinned above the words, “Welcome to My World!”
The ludicrous cliché was so on target I nearly laughed out loud. Grayson certainly lived in another world, all right. And, like some sort of pseudo-Stockholm Syndrome victim, I was slowly becoming part of it.
I’d just finished the first two weeks of my internship with Grayson. It had been a crazy ride—akin to costarring in a low-budget remake of The X-Files.
In redneck Florida.
In a rundown RV.
Let’s just say, I wasn’t expecting a call from Hollywood anytime soon.
“Okay. Here we go,” Grayson said.
I glanced over at him. Something about his expression triggered my fight-or-flight response.
But it was way too late to make a run for it now.
Besides, it wasn’t exactly like my life was brimming with other possibilities. Who else but Grayson would’ve taken on a reluctant, wet-behind-the-ears private-eye wannabe like me?
I’d been under the influence of vodka when I’d ordered a detective correspondence course from a late-night infomercial. And I’d been so angry I couldn’t see straight when I’d handed over my family’s auto repair business to my cousin Earl.
Suffice it to say, at 37, I was a tad behind schedule on my plan to retire at 45. Broke, angry, and recovering from being shot in the head, I’d been headed for a meltdown.
Instead, a meltdown found me.
Grayson’s arrival at my auto-repair shop in his busted Winnebago had been the catalyst that had spawned the perfect storm—a tornado of emotions powerful enough to blow the remnants of my old life to smithereens. When he’d offered to provide the two years of training I needed to become a real private investigator, I’d jumped at the chance—and into his RV.
And now, here I was, in a sleazy hotel room, my shaved scalp glued by electrodes to a mind-altering machine invented by, quite possibly, a madman.
But, in all honesty, nobody had forced me to drink Grayson’s crazy Kool-Aid. I’d made my very own pitcherful, spiked it with vodka, and willingly downed every last drop.
I blew out a sigh, slapped on a determined face, and gave Grayson a thumb’s up. He nodded, then turned his attention back to the display panel on the EEG machine.
I glanced down at the computer in my lap and braced for impact. My job was to observe the macabre images that would soon be popping up on its screen. Grayson’s task was to monitor my alpha brainwave activity during the test. The more alpha waves I produced, the more relaxed my nervous system was.
The concept behind Grayson’s self-designed program was to help him—and now me—gain control over the physical reactions any sane person instinctively experienced when encountering the weird, the freaky, and the blatantly bizarre.
As Grayson had so artfully enumerated, “Screaming, pissing one’s pants, fainting, and/or running for one’s life aren’t particularly helpful tactics when it comes to investigating unexplained phenomena.”
He was right. Thanks to his tutelage, I’d already gained first-hand experience with all of the above. As a result, I was now eager to up my game.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Let her rip.”
Grayson nodded. “Okay. Here we go.”
The screen on the laptop blinked. The yellow smiley face disappeared. In its place came the image of a cute, golden-haired little girl prancing in a field of daisies.
“Good. The baseline’s set,” Grayson said.
The next image appeared. It was the little girl again. This time, her mouth morphed into an evil grin, complete with a set of blood-dripping Dracula fangs.
My pulse quickened. I glanced up at Grayson.
He was staring at the monitor. His eye ticked like he was experiencing the early stages of Tourette’s.
My alpha waves must’ve taken a hit.
I took a deep breath to calm myself. A moment later, the screen changed to a vintage, black-and-white video clip of Nosferatu, rising straight up from his coffin like the world’s creepiest post-mortem erection.
Geez. Nosferatu doesn’t mean “hideously ugly vampire” for nothing.
My heart skipped a beat. I breathed through it.
“Good,” Grayson said, his eyes glued to the EEG display.
The image on the screen switched back to full color. A green-skinned, yellow-eyed vampire lunged toward me, snapping his bloody fangs at me like a ravenous piranha.
Breathe deep. It isn’t real.
“You’re not telling yourself it isn’t real again, are you?” Grayson asked.
I flinched. “Why would you say that?”
“Because your alpha waves are remaining unusually high. Either you’re mastering this, or you’re still in denial.”
I bit my lip. “What’s so wrong with denial?”
Grayson eyed me. “Well, for one thing, in the case of a real encounter, it could get you killed.”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. “I mean besides that.”
Grayson frowned. “Don’t you value your life?”
Maybe I would if I actually had one.
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Humph,” Grayson grunted, and turned back to the EEG monitor.
In a way, I envied Grayson. The man had a distinct mission in life. He was absolutely certain that unknown creatures were hiding out in the nooks and crannies of rural Florida, and that, one day, we would be the ones to prove it.
In the past two weeks, we’d definitely shared some undeniably odd experiences. But whether wh
at we’d encountered had been real or merely hoaxes, hallucinations, or the residual effects of brain damage, was still up for debate as far as I was concerned.
I’d yet to come across anything I could, with absolute certainty, say was “the real deal.”
But then again, my life to date had presented me with very few “real deals.” Instead, I’d honed my cynical chops on dead-end jobs, cheating boyfriends, and a mother who’d scammed me out of knowing my real father.
And now, here I was, hitching my wagon to a man who got his jollies searching for freaks of nature.
The irony made me nearly laugh out loud.
Was I Grayson’s latest freak, or was he mine?
Chapter Two
LIKE MOST OF MY LIFE to date, things were going more than a tiny bit off-plan. But this time, for once, the misdirection was in my favor.
By now, Grayson and I should’ve been in Ruskin, Florida, investigating a story about killer tomatoes.
But this morning, as we’d watched Plant City’s humongous strawberry water tower disappear in the rearview mirror, my P.I. mentor had given me the choice between the Ruskin tomato gig and checking out some sketchy dealings going on in a nursing home in New Port Richey.
Having been to Ruskin before, choosing the nursing home had been a no-brainer. Grayson, on the other hand, had apparently had his heart set on the homicidal fruit.
In an effort to maintain what he called, “a professional level of democratic decision-making,” Grayson had challenged me to a thumb-wrestling match. Winner take all.
He’d failed to inform me of his secret weapon. The double-jointed jerk won best two out of three in no time flat.
Deadly tomatoes, it seemed, had been about to become an imminent part of my future. I’d been contemplating asking Grayson for a rematch when a call buzzed in on the old ham radio mounted under the Winnebago’s dashboard.
Someone was calling Grayson’s nutter hotline.
Little did we know then that our destiny was about to be changed by a bucktoothed weirdo with a blond mullet hairdo and a giant wimp of a dog named Tooth.
Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set Page 44
