Total D*ck (Bad Bitch #3)

by Christina Saunders

  I giggled. Like an idiot. “I don’t know if I can promise future performance when you act like such a dick all the time.”

  He put a hand over his heart, as if I’d wounded him there. “Me? Acting like a dick. Never.” Then he licked his fingers—the two he’d had inside me.

  A thrill went through me as he kept his gaze on mine. “You are a filthy man, Mr. Granade.”

  “And you are a delicious woman, Ms. Carmichael. So, do you promise future performance or would you prefer to be in breach?”

  “I’ve never broken a contract in my life, so I’m not starting now. But the terms of my future performance are entirely up to me.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “The terms have always been up to you, Scarlett.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “Didn’t you know that?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Kennedy

  “Guy lives on Audubon Place, really?”

  “He comes from money. His wife comes from money. He makes tons of money at the firm. What did you expect?” Scarlett shrugged, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

  “Something nice, but not Audubon Place nice.” I maneuvered through the city streets, crowds of people clogging the street corners and beads crunching under my tires.

  The parades were in full swing the Sunday before Mardi Gras. I avoided the parade route and skirted along the edge of City Park.

  “So, tell me about you. You’re from here, right? The Carmichaels?”

  “Yes,” she answered curtly.

  Of course, that told me it was time to push her. “You have a good relationship with your parents?”

  She huffed out her nose and pinched her lips together. “My father’s dead. My mother and I are on good terms.”

  I narrowly avoided running over a staggering drunk wearing an enormous hat shaped like a MoonPie.

  “Jeez.” Scarlett gripped the dash as I swerved back into our lane. “The tourists get worse every year.”

  “Spoken like a true native.”

  “All my life.” Her tone was resolute.

  “So, you have any hobbies? Stuff you like to do?”

  She tapped her nails on her thigh. “I work. I go home. I work some more. I love my job. That’s it.”

  I tried a different tack. “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “It’s hard to pick one.” Her evasive answers were starting to chafe. Why didn’t she want to tell me anything about herself?

  “Come on, you have to have at least one.”

  “Clue.”

  Good pick. “Oh, that’s perfect. A classic. Which ending do you like best?”

  “You’ve seen it?” She cocked her head at me.

  “Yeah, I always had a thing for Madeline Kahn. She played—”

  “Mrs. White. I know. I imagine her ‘flames on the side of my face’ speech when I get irate at work.”

  I smiled. “God, I love that part. I read that she ad-libbed that whole scene.”

  “Really?” She smiled, too. “She’s even more amazing than I thought.”

  “Good taste in movies, check. Any particular music tastes I should know about?”

  Her laughter stopped, and she bit down on her thumbnail—her nervous tell. “Look, I don’t know if we should keep going down this road.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is the best way to get to Audubon Place . . .” I glanced to her, hoping she’d laugh again.

  “You know what I meant.” She gestured at me and then back to herself. “This thing that we’ve been doing. It’s not . . . I don’t know if it’s a long-term sort of thing.”

  My mind couldn’t parse what she’d just said. I’d never been dumped, never stuck around long enough for any woman to give me the boot. Was that what this was? Was the sinking feeling in my chest evidence of being dumped? Surely not.

  She turned away from me, breaking the connection as I tried to form a coherent sentence. I failed, and we settled into an awkward silence before pulling under the wrought iron arch that marked the entrance to Audubon Place.

  The guard walked up, but before I rolled down my window, I said, “This conversation isn’t over.”

  Her eyes went wide, no doubt from the heat in my words.

  I lowered my window and greeted the guard.

  “Who are you visiting today?” He smiled and leaned over, sweeping his gaze over the inside of my car.

  “Mr. Porter. I should be on the approved list. Scarlett Carmichael.”

  “And, sir, you are?” He flicked his gaze to me.

  “Oh, he’s just my driver. I can’t ride in the backseat. I get carsick.” She smiled and crossed her legs at the knee, her skirt riding up to show the creamy skin of her thigh.

  The guard stared, just like I did. “Yes, ma’am. Let me just check the list.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your driver, huh?” I grumbled under my breath.

  “Shh. You wanted to come with me. This is the way to do it.”

  I stared through the gate at mansion after mansion dotting the lane.

  “Mr. Porter lives there.” Scarlett pointed to one of the houses—a white, three-story affair with too many columns to count along the front. “And Mr. Rhone is his neighbor on the other side.”

  The guard flipped through some pages on a clipboard and then walked to the gate, swinging it open for us. We eased down the street, passing mansions left and right.

  I checked my rear view. Shorty drove past the gate and stopped, keeping a clear view of our car as we turned into Guy Porter’s drive. He’d been following us like a shadow since we left the house.

  “How do you know he’s home?” I peered at the house through the columns. It was an antebellum masterpiece—beautiful, stuffy, and outrageously expensive.

  “He’s Catholic. So he won’t be at church and he will be drinking a mimosa or a bloody mary for brunch.”

  “Good point.” We stepped out of the car, the sun breaking through the scattered clouds at intervals. The walk was surrounded by tall oaks, tangled and covered in Spanish moss.

  Scarlett took the few steps to the front porch, marched to the door, and rang the bell. I checked my clothes, feeling out of place in such a grand entryway. My blue button-down was clean and my jeans seemed neat enough. I’d worn a regular pair of brown oxfords.

  “You look fine. Don’t be a girl.” She didn’t even turn around.

  “How did you—?”

  The door opened and an older man in a white uniform smiled at Scarlett. “Ms. Carmichael. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “Sorry about this. But I need to see Guy as soon as possible. Is he home?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s in the breakfast room but he has company. Come on in and have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Gene.” Scarlett stepped inside and I followed, nodding a greeting to Gene.

  The house was beyond my wildest dreams of opulence, giving even Lynch Lane a run for its money. The floors were a light honey oak, highly polished, and the walls were covered in hand-painted vines and flowers. Gene led us to a sitting room and hurried back out into the hallway.

  I sat on a couch that creaked under my weight. Scarlett sank down into a side chair, though she tapped her impatience with her heel. A large clock graced the wall above the ornate wooden mantel, and its ticktock sound clashed with Scarlett’s rhythm.

  “Relax.” I leaned back into the Victorian couch, which creaked louder.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  Oh. So that was why I was getting the cold shoulder. My history had caught up with me. All those women, all those wasted nights. But Scarlett was different. I just wasn’t sure how to tell her that without turning into a stage-five clinger.

  Footsteps approached and Gene rounded the corner into the sitting room. “He’ll see you now. Right this way. If you haven’t breakfasted yet, please let me know how you’d like your eggs.”

  I stood. “Over easy.”

  “No, we don’t want to i
mpose.” Scarlett narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Please, it would be my pleasure. Just say the word.”

  She strode over to Gene. “If you must, I’ll have over easy, too.”

  He smiled, his dark brown eyes twinkling. “I’ll have the kitchen whip it right up.”

  “Thanks.”

  We followed him past a wide, sweeping staircase, down a hallway filled with paintings and vases on pedestals, and finally into a sunroom. Guy Porter, Frank Rhone, and Rhone’s employee Eric sat a wrought iron and glass table, drinking coffee and chatting.

  “Scarlett.” Frank rose and shook her hand and mine.

  Eric pulled out her chair and gave her a too-friendly smile. My hackles rose, especially when she returned his smile and sat with a thank-you.

  Guy motioned me to an empty chair next to Eric. “Have a seat. What’s going on?”

  I sat, elbowing Eric on “accident” as I got situated. “Frankly, I’m glad you’re here, Frank.” I paused at my awkward choice of phrase. Scarlett pinched the bridge of her nose.

  I continued, “I suspect what we have to tell Guy is somehow linked to the Rhone break-in.”

  Frank sipped his steaming coffee. “You track down Greenwood?”

  “No, but someone tracked Scarlett down.”

  “What do you mean?” Guy leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on its saucer. His thinning hair looked almost white in comparison to his too-tan, almost orange skin. He needed to lay off the Saint-Tropez trips.

  “I mean someone followed her home last night. He had a gun.”

  “What?” Guy’s face went from Oompa-Loompa orange to a lighter shade, and he seemed too stunned to respond.

  “Jesus. Were you hurt? Have you called the police?” Eric reached across the table and grabbed Scarlett’s hand.

  My fingers itched to grip his shirt, yank him up, and toss him through the glass of the sunroom. Maybe I could snap his Clark Kent glasses first, just to get his attention, and then do the rest of the violence. Instead, I did nothing, just steamed in silence.

  Scarlett shook her head and pulled her hand away. Good girl. “No. Kennedy stopped him, but he got away, and he wore a mask the whole time. We couldn’t see his face. We think he was some sort of professional.”

  “Like a hit man? Jesus, Scarlett. I’m glad you weren’t hurt. But we need to call the police.” Frank pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

  “No.” Scarlett covered his hand with hers, stopping him from making the call. “We can’t. It won’t do any good. We think that Discord—”

  She quieted as Gene, followed by two other servants in whites, walked in and placed plates of eggs in front of us. They laid out additional serving dishes of bacon, sausage, biscuits, English muffins, gravy, and grits. The smell alone put me in a happier place than I was only moments before.

  Gene poured two glasses of orange juice as another servant poured coffees. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, this is plenty.” Scarlett nodded her head in thanks.

  I grabbed my napkin and dropped it in my lap. Meals like this were few and far between in my world, so I wasn’t about to pass up home cooking when it landed right on my plate, literally.

  “I’m glad you’re all right. That’s the most important thing. But why do you think this masked criminal has something to do with the case?” Frank asked.

  “And what did you mean by ‘Discord’?” Eric chimed in.

  I forked a biscuit and scooped some grits next to it, digging in as Scarlett continued explaining.

  “We think Discord—the hacker group—was the operator who pulled off the breach. One of their hackers, Fluffy, knew Carey and sent him a drive with all sorts of information on it about the Rhone break-in. Fluffy was in with Discord.”

  Guy held up a hand and spoke slowly. “Now, wait, wait a minute. So Carey knew a Fluffy, who is in with Discord?”

  Scarlett nodded and took a swig of orange juice. “Right. But Fluffy turned up dead a few days ago under suspicious circumstances. Before he died, he sent Carey a drive with information on the Rhone breach. So we suspect whoever killed him had something to do with Discord or the break-in.”

  Frank slammed his hand on the table, the plates and silverware rattling. “Greenwood has gone too damn far this time! Killing people. Threatening Scarlett. I will have their heads for this.”

  “Hang on a sec there.” I swallowed a particularly tasty piece of bacon. “Carey is under the impression, based on the information from Fluffy, that Greenwood isn’t the culprit behind the break-in.”

  Eric shook his head and used his index finger to push the bridge piece of his glasses farther up his nose, straightening them in the most Poindexter way imaginable. “It has to be them. They’re the only ones capable of all this. They’re the ones with the most to gain from stealing our secrets.”

  “Maybe.” Scarlett finally placed her napkin in her lap and began serving herself grits and an English muffin. “But Fluffy’s notes indicated that whoever paid for the breach asked for Discord to make it look like Greenwood was behind it.”

  “It’s Greenwood. They’ve done something to try to cover their tracks. Maybe even planted that bit about someone trying to set them up. They’re just that desperate to get what we have.” Frank sighed and slumped back into his chair. “What a mess this is.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it one way or another.” Scarlett’s confident tone perked me up a bit, and I got my second wind on the breakfast, piling up some pancakes and slathering them with butter and syrup.

  “In the meantime, perhaps you should stay here, Scarlett.” Guy finally jumped into the conversation. “The gate’s always guarded, and we have plenty of room. It might be safer.”

  “She’s with me,” I said around a mouthful of food. I swallowed, the amount of pancake trying to choke me as it went down, but I managed it. “I’ve arranged some security. Don’t worry.”

  “What kind of security?” Guy focused his flint gray eyes on me. “If anything happens to Scarlett—”

  “Nothing will happen to her. I can assure you my guys are far better equipped to handle the situation than your rent-a-cop at the front gate.” I would have made a jack-off motion if I weren’t so invested in stuffing myself.

  “Scarlett, if you don’t feel safe with him, you should stay here.” The concern in Eric’s voice made me want to vomit up every delicious morsel I’d just inhaled.

  “She feels plenty safe, Eric.” I glared at him but he didn’t turn to look at me. Pussy.

  “I’m speaking to Scarlett.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m speaking to you, Eric.”

  “I’m fine. Everyone stop worrying about me. But, Mr. Porter, will you check on Graham for me? I want to make sure he’s safe.”

  “Of course.” Guy sipped his coffee, a thoughtful look on his wrinkled face. “I feel like I should call Ramona—”

  “No!” Scarlett spoke with a vehemence I’d never heard before. “You may not call my mother.”

  “If she finds out from somewhere other than me . . .” Guy shook his head, his eyes widening. “That woman would have my head. You know that.”

  “I don’t care. Don’t you dare call her.” Scarlett waved her butter knife at Guy for emphasis. “Besides, Carey said our phones are probably tapped. If you called her and told her, you might be putting her in harm’s way.”

  “Well, how are we going to solve this?” Guy folded his hands in his lap, defeated.

  “Carey has put out some feelers to discover who hired Discord. Once we have that information, we have the start of our case. We can file, go to the feds, go to the police—everything.”

  “Who does Carey think it is?” Frank asked.

  “He doesn’t know yet,” I replied. “As soon as he does, we’ll let you know.”

  “Is he okay?” Guy waved Gene out of the sunroom, not letting him clear the table just yet. “Hidden somewhere?”

  “Yes.” Scarlett finished her breakfast and pushe
d her plate away. “He said he’s good at lying low, and given his past, I believe him.”

  I stood and patted my stomach. “I think we’re set. You know what you need to know. We’re going to hunker down and ride out the storm. Carey is key, though. He’ll get the information and then we’ll use it to bring them down, whoever they are.”

  “I still just can’t believe it isn’t Greenwood.” Frank shrugged and stood as well.

  “The sooner he finds out, the better. But you leaving here doesn’t sit right with me, Scarlett.” Guy frowned, the creases next to his mouth reminiscent of a bulldog.

  “Me neither.” Eric walked around the table and helped Scarlett up.

  I barely stifled an eye roll. “She’s not sick, Eric. She can stand by herself.”

  “Just because you weren’t raised to be a gentleman, doesn’t mean I wasn’t,” he snapped.

  I tossed my napkin down. “I do believe my mama, God rest her soul, would slap the shit out of you for suggesting she didn’t raise me right.”

  “Boys.” Frank held his hands up, palm out. “This is neither the time nor the place. All I want to make sure of is that we’re all safe.”

  Scarlett grabbed her bag. “Lie low, don’t talk on the phone, and wait to hear from us. We’ll get in touch somehow once we figure out what’s going on. And—” She stabbed a finger toward Guy. “—do not call my mother.”

  Generally, mommy issues weren’t half so hot as daddy issues, but the way Scarlett got all riled up whenever her mother was mentioned would definitely provide me with some ammunition for later.

  “I won’t.” He scratched his neck, as if he could feel the noose tightening. “But she’s going to raise hell when this is all over.”

  “I’ll deal with it then. Kennedy, let’s go.” She all but stomped from the room, tendrils of her hair whipping behind her as she went.

  Eric tried to follow her like a puppy, but I stepped in front of him, getting the choice view of her ass in her tight skirt. The winter months looked good on her.

  “Scarlett? A word?” Eric called.

  “Douche bag,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Wh-what?” Eric’s voice cracked.