Redemption Lane

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Carson chuckled. “I wish you could help with the case. It’s turning into one hell of an adventure. I’m trying my best to help out your relative’s friends, but for the first time I just don’t know. Hell, listen to me rambling like I’m a spoiled bitch. Forget it, man. Go love your baby.”

  “Okay, but stay in touch, Carson. Don’t go MIA so often.”

  “I hear ya.”

  As he disconnected, he thought about Alex’s comment. Going MIA, doing his own thing, was part of who he was.

  His current personal life lined up with his new career perfectly. He had a few women around the country who knew the 411 when it came to him. Lavish times with no commitment; that was how he rolled. Period.

  Now here he was, rushing back to Vegas every weekend. Why? What the hell was the draw? Carson sighed because he knew damn well.

  Sienna Flower, adult entertainer with moves that would ignite a dead man, and eyes like a virgin, making him feel like a young kid all over again.

  Christ, he had a problem.

  The case he was currently working was burning him up and playing with his mind, besides displacing him to the West Coast. Although the job was lining his bank account—even at his lowest rate—it was taking much longer than he expected. He needed it to be over.

  Am I losing my touch already?

  He sighed and turned the car back toward the Strip while something nagged at his gut over this assignment. There was something odd, some piece of the puzzle missing, which was why the case was taking longer than expected.

  What was wrong with him that he couldn’t find it? What was he missing?

  It was a first for him, and he didn’t like it. Not. One. Fucking. Bit. Which was why he found himself running off to Sin City every weekend.

  He needed to let off steam, and where better to do so than Las Vegas? It was an occupational hazard of his . . . letting loose. Going back to his FBI days, Carson always needed a little fun, a tiny walk on the wild side to let go of the stress of the job. Otherwise, he lived and breathed his cases, working late into the night to solve them.

  He needed a good time to release the pressure, which he currently was finding at the Electric Tunnel, but the pressure only mounted more after visiting the club. What originally started out as a method to clear his head and make way for him to solve the case, was clouding his judgment even more.

  Sienna Flower had happened . . . that was what.

  His latest client—or clients, since it was a married couple—was able to pay him. Yeah, they were making good on his rates, but their friends raised the funds, not them. They were willing to keep transferring money to him, yet he didn’t like the eerie feeling that had begun to dog him. They were lying to him. Withholding information, at the very least.

  For the first time ever, Carson was considering giving up the case. The only thing that stopped him was the worry that nagged him over the missing person he was hunting down.

  Shit, I’m going soft.

  He was turning into an emotional cream puff, which was a bigger occupational hazard than having a grand time in Vegas.

  Originally, he’d needed a respite from the bone-deep worry that something was terribly wrong with the case, so he started heading to Sin City for the weekends. Now, his gut was messed up from the case and his head was fucked up from a stripper.

  The family who had hired him was pretty certain their missing relative had fled out west or thereabouts. Why were they so convinced of that theory? Carson had been stuck scouring small towns for the last month and a half. He didn’t like small towns with strange people all up in each other’s business. Almost as little as he liked the case.

  He was starting to need his weekly adventure to Vegas by Tuesday of each week. It was a place where he could disappear and enjoy himself for forty-eight hours. After all, he was still a man with baser needs.

  The problem all began when he went to check out the infamous Sienna Flower the first night he got to Vegas. He hadn’t been able to tear himself away from her image, nor enjoy himself at all since that night. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d had many women over the years—gorgeous, seductive, exotic women when he was traveling—and now he was stuck on some Vegas showgirl. No, not a showgirl. Exotic dancer.

  Carson downshifted the car as the lights of the Vegas Strip came into view, rolling around what little he knew about her in his head. Nothing about her made sense. She’d arrived on the scene a few years back, and before long became the biggest thing Vegas had seen in years. She didn’t do private rooms or parties. Ever. Asher Peterson, king of the adult dance club world, pulled her from lap dancing after only a year of dancing at the Tunnel. Now all she did was grace billboards, shake her ass onstage, and bring millions of dollars into the club.

  He knew all this from Google. Fuck, after the first night seeing her, he couldn’t get her tits, firm ass cheeks, and electrifying eyes out of his mind. He’d Googled her like a horny teenager, and decided she must have been a local Asher had taken a liking to.

  Were they romantically involved? Was Asher tapping that?

  And why was he even thinking about Sienna’s potential bed partners? He was fairly certain that wasn’t a role even he could fill.

  Do I want to?

  Unfortunately, Carson had developed a nasty habit of heading to the Tunnel every Thursday through Saturday nights for the last month. Tonight was no different. He went to see Sienna dance. Then he left to go back to his hotel to either pick up someone in the hotel bar or jack off. Lately, his preference was to stroke himself to recent memories, those of a striking, gorgeous, naturally curvy woman with a heady combination of innocence and salacious moves.

  He might as well have been in high school all over again, lusting after the prom queen, not knowing what to do about it other than rub one out.

  This evening was different, though, because he had felt Sienna lock gazes with him. She looked right out at him as her act ended. She was smiling, but he could see right into her eyes. She was examining him back as though she wanted to know more about him.

  It was disturbing on so many levels. He was a private eye. He should be able to read people. Yet she seemed to be reading him, looking deep within him.

  He couldn’t begin to figure out Sienna Flower, and now she was trying to figure him out? The thought made him harder than he normally was when he exited the club. Tonight he was practically limping as he walked out.

  He needed to get laid, stop coming back to Vegas, and leave his thoughts of Sienna Flower at the door.

  Of course, he knew he’d be back at the same place tomorrow night with his eyes homed in on one stripper, his dick standing at attention. Weeks ago, he’d paid the concierge at his hotel extremely well to keep him on the weekend list for the Tunnel. Open ended. No need to waste that.

  Leaving his rental sports car at the front of his hotel with the valet, Carson bypassed the gaming tables and slot machines and went straight to his favorite bar for a drink. He grabbed a seat at the far end of the bar and nodded at the bartender, Victor, who now viewed him as a regular and brought him a drink without his even needing to order. Top-shelf scotch on the rocks.

  Fuck, he was officially a Vegas groupie. The valets knew him, the bartender knew his drink and had it ready as soon as he stepped foot in the lounge, the front desk gave him the same room each weekend, and he was lusting after a woman who starred in Lord only knew how many other men’s fantasies.

  If his FBI buddies caught wind of this, they’d never let him live it down. Most of them were settling down, either resolving themselves to living double lives, or trading in their FBI badges for white-collar jobs. Not Carson, he was living the dream. Fast cars, motorcycles, big money, booze, high-end escorts—or dancers, depending on how you looked at it—and his current bullshit case.

  He needed to relax and get a handle on all this shit. Carson caught Victor’s eye and then lifted his chin, smiling when Victor made his way over to him.

  “Hey, Vic, how’s it shaking? You
got any cigars back behind the bar, or do I have to move my ass to a special bar to smoke one?”

  Victor chuckled as he wiped his hands on a bar rag. “You’re in luck, buddy, this is Vegas, where anything goes. I just happen to have a few select ones in a humidor under the bar. Let me grab it and you can pick your poison.”

  Moments later Carson inhaled deeply, scotch in one hand, a fresh cigar in the other, his view on the casino floor. Actually, he was relaxing for the first time all week, coming down from his dark mood, and found himself not wanting another woman. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to take care of himself either, which was new.

  Surprised at that revelation, Carson decided he was content to only finish his drink and cigar before heading upstairs to go straight to sleep.

  There was always the promise of tomorrow night, and Sienna locking eyes with him again.

  Read other books by Rachel Blaufeld

  My acknowledgments could be a very, very long novella on their own. I hate leaving anyone out, and there are so many people I need to thank—thoroughly.

  Let’s start with my editor.

  To Pam Berehulke – Love, adore, and need you all day, every day, 24/7 to clean up my über-lyrical purple prose. But I love the color purple, and italics, and ellipsis marks . . . and you.

  On a much more serious note, Pam, you know what your virtual red pen means to me, and I couldn’t do any of this without you. Nothing makes me happier than a little praise from you in tracked comments or our late-night chats about whatever is on our mind. Here’s to many, many more.

  To Sarah Hansen – Best words I ever spoke to you—“DO NOT LISTEN TO ME!” Thank you for taking me on and being way more creative than I am.

  To my betas on this project –

  Robin B. – Your colorful commentary and daily texts make writing a book worth it. I meant it when I said we met through the most uncomfortable circumstances, yet you became irreplaceable.

  Stacey P. – When you don’t like something, I ax it . . . and then you send cupcakes. This equals perfection.

  Debra D. – Your need for perfection rivals mine. Having you as a part of this project was phenomenal. One day we will have our much-needed phone call.

  Jennifer W. – When you read, I hold my breath for hours waiting for a message. But it works and in the end, you’re always right.

  And Queen V. – I cannot do anything without your smiling face, sweet words, and encouragement. You rule my world!

  As for all of you, you outdid yourselves and really pushed me to put my best story forward. For that, I am forever indebted to you in coffee, wine, and pictures of hot men. Thank you so very much.

  To my family – All of you—immediate, extended, not even blood-related—thank you for sticking by me, believing in me, and buying my books. And even reading them.

  To my kids – Can you throw your dirty clothes down the laundry chute? Thanks. And do not read this.

  To my author friends – Debra Doxer, Nicole Jacquelyn, Heidi McLaughlin, Ilsa Madden-Mills, S.L. Scott, Joanne Schwehm, and Madeline Sheehan – Thanks so much for all your author/writing/general bullshit support.

  To Fabiola Francisco and Christy Pastore – Without all the virtual cocktails, late-night chats, and endless ramblings on manly muses, where would I be?

  To Susan Ward – Thanks for talking me down off the mountain and your endless stream of stats and algorithms. Are you sure you’re not my mom?

  To Becca Manuel – You’re like a little angel who came into my life. Thank you for taking the story in my head and making it a movie.

  To Emily Tippetts – You rock. Especially at three a.m. while I’m uploading my book.

  To Stacey Tippetts – for her gentle touch and perfectionist tendencies in formatting my books.

  To the bloggers – There are so many wonderful bloggers who take hours out of every day to share covers, blurbs, and reviews. You make teasers, run contests, and support the independent community for very little in return. Thank you. Special thanks to Heather Maven, Love Affair with Books, Love N. Books, Twin Sisters Rockin’ Book Reviews, Maryse, Gitte and Jenny of Totally Booked, Under the Covers, Fresh Fiction, Michelle Kannan of All Romance Reviews, Lovely Ladies & Naughty Books, Smutty Book Friends, Romance at Random, Jennifer of The Starlets, Southern Belle Book Blog, and Kris and Vik Book Therapy Cafe. XOXOXO

  To Chas of Rockstar Lit – I fucking adore you.

  To Stef, for the donut deliveries and cocktails; to the Hummus Hustler, for Greek Gourmet Buffalo Hummus; and to The Coffee Tree Roasters, for providing me with a quiet corner when I desperately needed it. To Lisa, for reminding me to breathe deeply.

  And to YOU, the readers – Thank you so much for all the messages and kind words. Getting a little e-mail or message from you makes my day. Seriously, you should see how I start jumping around!

  So if you liked this book, feel free to leave a review where you bought it or on Goodreads. Send me e-mail when you do, and I will thank you personally!

  Please connect with me on:

  Website

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  Rachel Blaufeld is a social worker/entrepreneur/blogger turned author. Fearless about sharing her opinion, Rachel captured the ear of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog, BacknGrooveMom, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and inventing a product, often at the same time. She has also blogged for The Huffington Post, Modern Mom, and StartupNation.

  Turning her focus on her sometimes wild-and-crazy creative side, it only took Rachel two decades to do exactly what she wanted to do—write a fiction novel. Now she spends way too many hours in local coffee shops plotting her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end lusciously.

  Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two dogs. Her obsessions include running, coffee, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.

  Redemption Lane

  Copyright © 2015 Rachel Blaufeld

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-0-9915928-4-5

  Edited by

  Pam Berehulke

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover design by

  © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, LLC

  www.okaycreations.com

  Images

  © 4X6, © Vadim Kozlovsky

  Ebook designed and formatted by:

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Kobo Edition

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission: Barbie, Mattel; Buick, General Motors; Burberry; Calvin Klein; Chevrolet, General Motors; Hummer; Jeep, Chrysler Group; Jim Beam; Lagavulin; Legos; Marlboro; News Café; Nike/Air Force Ones; Omni William Penn Hotel and The Tap Room; Prada; Styrofoam; Tiffany’s; the University of Pittsburgh; Vanderbilt University; and Xanax.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Warning:

  Content contains explicit sexual con
tent and crude language, and is intended for mature audiences. Parental/reader discretion advised.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books by Rachel Blaufeld

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight