Wake Up Maggie: The Misadventures of Maggie Mae, Book 1

by Beth Yarnall

  “That’s enough.”

  I struggled, all arms and legs, flailing like a two-year-old at a toy store. “Let me…at…him…”

  “He’s disarmed and handcuffed. How is that a fair fight?”

  “How fair of a fight did Chuck Puckett get?” I countered.

  “I let you get in that second kick for me for tying you up, but I can’t let you beat the hell out of him. That’d be very hard to explain.”

  I shook him off. “Fine.”

  He looked down at the man who’d caused so much heartache, then back up at me. “This is better than the plan we’d come up with.”

  “Hell, yeah. One down, one to go. And I think I know just how to get him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The thing about plans is that they never go according to plan. The FBI finally came through and used their superpowers for good the old-fashioned way…they tracked Quinn, AKA Julius Clemmons, through Thai Dinh’s cell phone. He’d been holed up with Thug from Chuck Puckett’s funeral, AKA Garvis Beets, in a swanky hotel on some unsuspecting person’s credit card. Quinn had been waiting for Dinh to contact him to tell him that he’d completed the job. The wuss.

  Turns out Super Agent and I had overheard Quinn arguing with Beets at Chuck Puckett’s funeral. On the rare occasion I’d actually spoken to Quinn, he didn’t have an accent. The sneaky, fake bastard. If it hadn’t been for that damn on-again off-again Boston accent I might’ve recognized his voice and the whole sordid business of me being shot at, my apartment being burned, and my near abduction, would’ve been avoided.

  I had begged Super Agent for two minutes alone with Quinn. All of this was Quinn’s fault. Super Agent had twisted sideways, instinctually protecting his family jewels and told me in no uncertain terms, “No.”

  We were finally alone in one of those hotel rooms with kitchenettes in downtown Scottsdale that would be my home until I could find other, less-blackened accommodations.

  “You can stay here as long as you need to,” Super Agent told me. “Until you’re back on your feet.”

  “Thanks. I guess. I’m not really sure how long that will be. I have some savings, enough to cover the deposit on a new place but not enough to replace everything I lost.”

  “There was a reward on an old case involving Thai Dinh. About 50K. I can see if I can get it expedited for you. You earned it.”

  “Hot damn. I won’t have to borrow my brother’s DNA-filled futon from college.”

  “I did what I could, but you might have to face the reduced charge of disturbing a crime scene. For, ah, kicking the senator.”

  “I’ll deal with it. Can I ask you a favor?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Can you make sure that the press doesn’t get wind of Chuck Puckett’s…you know…proclivities?”

  “That’s important to you?”

  “Yes. I feel like I owe him. I got so much wrong with him. I want to try and put things right somehow.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  He shifted back and forth, jingling his pockets. He was nervous. That was so not like him. But then I was nervous too. The time had come to say goodbye. There was no reason to spend any more time together…unless we wanted to.

  “I have something for you,” he said, reaching into the satchel he’d brought with him from the car.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but the fat accordion file he plopped down in front of me was not even close.

  “It’s a copy of my FBI personnel file. Everything you’d ever need to know about me is in there. I’m not even supposed to have it. I pulled in a favor from a friend. It’s classified, so you should burn it when you’re done.” He nudged it toward me.

  I touched a finger to it, tracing invisible circles over its blandness. He already knew everything there was to know about me. If I read this file, there’d be nothing left for me to learn about him. We’d be even.

  He laid down his business card on the table next to the file with some extra phone numbers and email addresses scrawled on it. “Here’s my contact info. All of it. My home address is in the file.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Will you go out with me this Friday night?” he asked. “There’s a new restaurant off Main that serves cheeseburgers twenty-three different ways, including a bacon cheeseburger with peanut butter and jelly. I checked.”

  I looked up at him and I knew there was no way I could walk away from what he was offering. Cheeseburger or no.

  “I’ll go out with you on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  I handed the file back. “Burn this yourself.”

  About the Author

  Award-winning author Beth Yarnall writes mysteries, romantic suspense and the occasional hilarious blog post. A storyteller since her playground days, Beth remembers her friends asking her to make up stories of how the person “died” in the slumber-party game Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, so it’s little wonder she prefers writing stories in which people meet unfortunate ends. In middle school, she discovered romance novels, which inspired her to write a spoof of soap operas for the school’s newspaper. She hasn't stopped writing since.

  For a number of years, Beth made her living as a hairstylist and makeup artist and at one time owned a salon. Somehow, hairstylists and salons always seem to find their way into her stories. Beth lives in Southern California with her husband, two sons and their rescue dog where she is hard at work on her next novel. For more information about Beth and her novels please visit her website: www.bethyarnall.com.

  You can also visit with Beth on Facebook—BethYarnallAuthor and Twitter—@BethYarnall

  Look for these titles by Beth Yarnall

  Coming Soon:

  The Misadventures of Maggie Mae

  You’re Mine, Maggie

  Find Me Maggie

  Losing her mind, losing her panties…and maybe losing her lover.

  You’re Mine, Maggie

  © 2014 Beth Yarnall

  The Misadventures of Maggie Mae, Book 2

  Maggie Mae Castro is sure she’s either losing her mind or she’s fallen in love. She’s not sure which would be worse. Lately she can’t find anything, not her lipstick nor her grandma’s pill case. All she wants is an aspirin and the ability to fire Shasta, the most useless beauty consultant to ever breathe air.

  When Shasta winds up dead, crushed by steel shelves full of Shy Kitty cosmetics, Maggie doesn’t believe it’s an accident. Things get even stranger when anonymous gifts arrive, each with the same message: “You’re mine, Maggie.”

  FBI Special Agent Clive Poole doesn’t like strange men sending his girlfriend flowers and presents. He especially doesn’t like the possibility that the creep might also be responsible for Shasta’s death. He’s sticking to Maggie day and night. Maggie is his and only his.

  Maggie isn’t thrilled about this, especially since their last full-frontal encounter ended with her dropping her reservations and her panties. But Clive will stop at nothing to keep Maggie safe from a madman who would do anything to have her.

  Warning: Contains inappropriate make-out sessions, a stalker with a stun gun, a super-protective Super Agent, a deadly gift with purchase, and the possibility that it might just be love and not insanity. We’re talking about Maggie Mae Castro here—you never know what’s going to go down.

  He’s ready and waiting. She’s wanting…but wary.

  Runaway Groom

  © 2014 Virginia Nelson

  Watkin’s Pond, Book 1

  The groom is back in town.

  Abigail lost her best friend years ago when he ditched her at the altar like a loaf of stale bread. Now he’s back and determined to do whatever he has to—even lie, apparently—to get under her skin. Although he makes her hormones rev to life in a way that no one has since he left, she is equally determined not to fall for his boy-next-door charm.

  His bride-to-be is somewhat reluctant.

  Braxton Dean was too
young and stupid to know better when he walked away. Years of trying to fill the Abby-shaped hole in his heart have left him empty, and now he’s going to win back his girl—or get over her. But first he needs answers. Particularly why she never responded to any of his letters.

  It might take a whole town to make this wedding happen.

  With the help of their friends, the two battle it out. The army? An entire town of busybodies. The prize? Happily ever after.

  Warning: Contains indignant old ladies, steamy sex (but not with indignant old ladies), seduction cake, and condom bouquets. Yes, we went there.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Runaway Groom:

  July 7, 2005

  Abby,

  I’m sitting in a diner in the desert. The sun peeking over the mountain lights up everything in these reds so bright they almost hurt the eyes. You’ve never felt a hot like this, all dry, nothing like the days that we went swimming over at Watkin’s pond…

  I don’t really know why I’m writing you. I don’t have answers and right now you probably want them. I just know I couldn’t do it.

  I miss you though.

  Love, B

  Knuckles white, Abigail put her beat-up Ford Focus in Park, and glanced at her best friend. “I can’t do this.”

  “Pussy.” Applying a coat of lipstick to her lush red lips in the mirror, Carnie shot her a glance. “You can do this. It isn’t like you’re about to face a firing squad. It’s just a bonfire.”

  Shoving her hand through her short, pixie-cut brown hair, Abigail blew out a frustrated breath. “I would rather face a firing squad. If you ditch me to go running off with the new boyfriend…”

  Carnie gave her a dirty look, tucking her red hair behind her shoulder. “I would never do that. I know how bent out of shape you get every time we go anywhere that Braxton might be. Really, though, it will be fine. The crap happened a thousand years ago. You’re adults now.”

  Abigail didn’t feel like an adult. She felt like the rejected teenager even thinking of Braxton Dean.

  It didn’t help that he’d become sexier with age. Heartbreakingly handsome, Braxton made her thighs clench with just a glance. She needed to remember the pain and humiliation rather than how it felt to be pushed into a bed by him. Better to remember the chest-constricting, blinding terror when he’d ditched her and vanished rather than remember his face a mask of unleashed passion and his green eyes wild with need. The former would keep her knees together.

  The terror of that time—it wasn’t something she shared with anyone, not even Carnie.

  Remembering gave her the strength she needed to peel her fingers from the wheel. “You’re right, of course. I can do this. No big deal. We’re both more mature now. He probably won’t even say a word to me.” The last came out a bit hopeful, even to her own ears.

  “Yeah, at his birthday bonfire, he isn’t going to say a word to the woman he dated for years and ditched at the altar like a loaf of stale bread. Really, Abs, you need to get pissed off rather than feeling pissed on. You’re totally the injured party here.”

  “He had his reasons. I’m sure he did.” Why was she defending his dumb ass?

  “What reason could be good enough for that grand act of douchebaggery?” Carnie raised one well-plucked brow at her. “Besides, these are our friends. You need to remember why we’re here. He took off. He stayed gone. This is our town. You’re going to walk in there and show him what he is missing. Rub in his face what he can’t have.”

  “I don’t know. He really wasn’t a jerk…not most of the time.”

  “Let’s just go find Mike and the crew, and have a good time. All of our friends from high school are here and it’ll be good to catch up with them.”

  Nodding, stomach still a bit of a knot, Abigail opened her door and stepped out into the muggy Ohio night. Stars hung like tiny lanterns above the recently mowed field and the sound of laughter carried on the breeze. The bonfire, a huge conflagration, was surrounded by what looked like hundreds of folding chairs, coolers and other party miscellany that beckoned Abigail onwards. Who knew? Maybe she would meet someone new and end up being really happy she wasted the extra five minutes to make sure everything was shaved and neat?

  Carnie strode with her usual impulsive bravery into the melee. Abigail stuffed her hands in her jeans and resisted casting her head down to avoid any stares that might be coming her way. Instead she held her head high, but refused to meet anyone’s eyes. In small-town Ohio, everyone knew she hadn’t seen Braxton since that fateful day when he left her standing, flowers in hand, waiting for a runaway groom. Everyone knew that instead of marrying her, Braxton—golden boy and football hero—ran off to parts unknown, and she’d neither heard from him nor caught a glimpse of him when he’d come to town until a few weeks ago. He only returned home now to help his father with his tool store after his father’s stroke made it hard for the old man to get around like he used to.

  Everyone watched to see how she’d handle it.

  She wouldn’t give them a show to chew over for the next decade. She’d act like it was ancient history, like she hadn’t spent years wondering how a man could go from saying he loves her to leaving her to stand alone against a whole swarm of gossips with nothing better to do than tear her to shreds for being moronic enough to think he would stay.

  She concentrated so hard on what she wouldn’t do, she slammed to an abrupt halt against a firm chest. His firm chest. Braxton. He smelled the same, damn him.

  Even over the scent of wood burning, the ripeness of summer and the bitter tang of someone’s spilled beer, she inhaled his soap, familiar cologne and under it all, simply Braxton.

  Her stomach clenched. Part of her wanted to smack him and demand answers. Part of her wanted to run away. Part of her wanted to pull his face down and kiss him because she’d missed him so much.

  Instead she hid behind an armor of polite civility and gave a short, sharp nod. “Braxton.”

  “Abby.” The word came out almost a plea. His eyes held a sad look she quickly identified. He pitied her.

  Double damn him. “Happy birthday.”

  And even though she promised herself she wasn’t going to give everyone a show, promised herself she wouldn’t feed the rumor mills…

  The sound of her slap rang out across the field. Even in the flickering light from the bonfire, her handprint marked his strong jaw and she couldn’t ignore the pleasure it gave her. Silence seemed to spread across the night as he touched his cheek. Her mouth hung open, shock rippling through her as his gaze locked on hers.

  “I deserved that.” The timbre of his voice seemed to stroke across her skin, stirring up a potent cocktail of emotions—lust, love, fury and pain. The worst part was disgust at herself for feeling anything.

  “You deserve worse.”

  Instead of arguing with her, which almost would have made her feel better, like it meant something to him, he simply nodded. “Wanna go somewhere to talk?”

  Wake Up Maggie

  Beth Yarnall

  Making up, making out, and tracking a murderer…

  A Maggie Mae Misadventure

  Rearranging your cheating boyfriend’s family jewels isn’t a crime—unless your boyfriend is an Arizona state senator. And he happens to have a bullet in his chest.

  Caught at the scene of the crime, Maggie Mae Castro is the only suspect, and the only one who saw the senator’s real killer—the skank ho he was cheating on her with.

  FBI Special Agent Clive Poole has been shadowing the senator’s every move for nearly a year. He’s wanted Maggie from afar and knows she didn’t kill the senator, but with temptation close enough to touch, it’s now his job to protect her from danger.

  Maggie finds herself falling for a man who knows everything about her, from her juvie record to her shoe size. But when they learn the senator was not what he seemed, and Maggie becomes the target of not one, but two killers bent on hiding their secrets, keeping Maggie safe is going to be even more difficult for
Clive than sticking to his “hands off” policy.

  Warning: Contains inappropriate make-out sessions, flying bullets, a senator with secrets, designer shoe abuse, and a vegetarian Special Agent who’s incredibly attracted to a woman who slathers her bacon cheeseburgers with PB&J. We’re talking about Maggie Mae Castro here—you never know what's going to go down.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Wake Up Maggie

  Copyright © 2014 by Beth Yarnall

  ISBN: 978-1-61922-132-1

  Edited by Jennifer Miller

  Cover by Angela Waters

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2014