Skin and Blond

by V. J. Chambers

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Copyright

  Title Page

  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

  More from V. J. Chambers

  Skin and Blond

  Blond Noir Mysteries, Book One

  by V. J. Chambers

  Gritty. Provocative. Bloody. Blond.

  from USA Today bestselling author V. J. Chambers

  Ever since blond detective Ivy Stern got herself kicked off the police force, she’s been slumming it as a private detective, mostly chasing cheating husbands. In some ways, it’s better this way. She’s free to do as she pleases, and there’s no one throwing around phrases like “sex addiction” or “conduct unbecoming an officer.” Ivy never figured her sex life was anyone’s business anyway.

  When a distraught brother shows up in her office, claiming his sister has been murdered, Ivy’s all over the case. The only thing Ivy’s better at than sex is solving murder cases. And this one is intriguing.

  There’s no evidence that the victim has been killed, but she’s gone, leaving everything behind from her cell phone to her credit cards. Everything except her bed sheets.

  And that’s not even mentioning the victim’s cheating ex-boyfriend, her drug habit, and her ties to the Irish mob.

  SKIN AND BLOND

  © copyright 2014 by V. J. Chambers

  http://vjchambers.com

  Punk Rawk Books

  Please do not copy or post this book in its entirety or in parts anywhere. You may, however, share the entire book with a friend by forwarding the entire file to them. (And I won’t get mad.)

  Skin and Blond

  Blond Noir Mysteries, Book One

  by V. J. Chambers

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was having sex with a trucker named Ralph.

  We were in the sleeping berth of a truck parked behind the truck stop off the interstate. Ralph had picked me up at the bar about a half hour ago. We were both drunk, so we’d stumbled back to his home on wheels, a huge eighteen-wheeler that he’d had to help me climb up inside.

  I didn’t take men back to my place anymore. I’d long since learned that was a bad idea. It gave them the upper hand. Then they knew where I lived, and I didn’t like that. Sometimes men got the wrong idea about what had happened between us.

  I saw them as a brief respite from my chatty mind. Sex was an oasis of calm in which I could lose myself in nothing but sensation and pleasure, leave behind guilt and worry and terror and anger and everything I hated about myself. For a few moments, those men gave that to me, and I was grateful.

  But gratefulness only goes so far. And most of the time, it was better if I didn’t see the men after that one time. I wasn’t interested in a relationship with them, you see.

  Relationships were full of worry and guilt. They were difficult. Sex was easy. All I wanted from those men was sex.

  Ralph had a bed in his cramped sleeper berth. There was barely enough room for the both of us on the bed, even stacked on top of each other. But that was where we were. He was above me, and I was underneath. He was puffing, and he was a little sweaty, and his perspiration smelled like old liquor and cigarettes.

  None of that was pleasant, exactly, but I didn’t really mind it. I liked being immersed in the present moment, because it was an escape from the rest of my life. I liked that sex brought the minute details of reality into sharp relief. I liked that I could focus on the mundane, the banal, the physical.

  Focus.

  I liked focus.

  It was the same thing I liked about detective work, in fact. When I really got going on a case, it was all I thought about. Everything else would get blocked out, and I would focus only on solving it.

  That was my job. I was a private detective. But I wasn’t thinking about that right now. No, blissfully, all I was thinking about was sex.

  The sex I was having with Ralph wasn’t particularly good sex, though, but that wasn’t a problem. I didn’t care. It was still blocking everything else out. The only thing that was annoying me was the fact that Ralph was having trouble keeping his dick hard.

  This was probably because he’d been drinking too much, but possibly because there was something wrong with him. I was secure enough in myself to know that it had nothing to do with me, so it wasn’t bothering my confidence.

  Anyway, it made sex difficult, because I couldn’t really feel him. He kept going soft inside me, and then I might as well not be having sex at all. Not to mention the fact that he kept falling out. Trying to stuff a mostly soft penis back inside my vagina was not the easiest thing on earth. It was like trying to put one of those overstuffed pillows into a regular-sized pillowcase or something. Not only that, it took me out of my blissful little reverie, and made me focus on solving a problem, not on being perfectly in the moment, noticing every detail around me—every droplet of sweat, every tiny breath, every carnal scent.

  Right at that second, I was trying to put Ralph back inside, and I wasn’t having a lot of luck.

  “Sorry,” he panted.

  “It’s okay,” I muttered. I didn’t like there to be a lot of talking during sex. Moaning was fine. Meaningless words like “god” or “fuck” or “sexy bitch” were fine. But actual conversations? They tended to make everything feel awkward and strange. Sex was a vaguely ridiculous thing. There was a certain atmosphere that had to be kept up in order to make its ridiculousness unnoticeable.

  “It’s the condom,” he said.

  I glared at him, not that he could see my features real well. It was pretty dark up here. “Well, you’re not taking it off.”

  “Right,” he said, sounding chastised.

  I flopped onto my back, letting go of his dick. “Maybe we should just—”

  “No,” he said. “I can do this. I only need…” He looked around, as if the answer was going to appear to him out of thin air.

  “It’s really okay,” I said in a soothing voice. “You’ve been drinking a lot, and I know that sometimes—”

  “That’s not it.” He sounded annoyed.

  Oops. Well, far be it from me to challenge the male prowess. Guys were so sensitive about this topic, seriously. I didn’t understand why. An erection was mostly involuntary, and I didn’t see why they took it personally. They didn’t have control over it, not really. I understood that. I didn’t think any less of them because of it.

  I supposed it was probably not that they thought less of themselves, but that they felt panic at the idea that they might be broken. It was easier for them to think they were a failure than to think that they were damaged. Failures could dust themselves off and try again. Damaged people were, well, ruined.

  “Roll over on your stomach,” said Ralph.

  “That’s not going to work,” I said. “The ceiling’s too low, and—”

  “Trust me.” He was already pushing at my hips, trying to move my body.

  Sighing, I did as he asked. But I didn’t think that there was any way that we’d fit together this
way. I’d need to get up on my hands and knees in order for him to fit—

  I gasped.

  Suddenly, he was rock hard. His hands were rough, and I kind of liked that. He lifted my hips with one hand, and he was suddenly pushing against my flesh, stabbing me deeply inside.

  I gasped again.

  Now he felt crazy huge, and I wasn’t exactly really wet anymore. It hurt a little.

  I cringed.

  He placed one hand on my back, holding me down, pushing my face into his pillow, which smelled even more like his sweat.

  This excited me—the pain, the danger, the seediness.

  I gasped once more, but my voice was swallowed up by the pillow.

  And he fucked me hard for several perfect moments. Moments when I was unable to focus on anything except my body. Except his body. I had escaped, yet again, from everything that bothered me, and I was in my oasis of the present moment.

  But it was over pretty quickly.

  He was done, grunting over me, resting his weight against my body, crushing me and making it hard to breathe.

  I struggled a little.

  When he didn’t move, I elbowed him.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. But he moved and let me out from under him.

  I rolled over onto my back.

  “Did you come?” he asked me.

  “A while ago,” I lied. I wasn’t sure why I bothered lying about that. Maybe just because it was easier. What had I been saying about male prowess?

  Yeah, if they couldn’t make me come, they probably felt damaged too. I didn’t have time to deal with their neuroses.

  And I didn’t have sex for orgasms. Orgasms were nice bonuses, but they weren’t the point.

  “Good.” He kissed me.

  I let him.

  He pulled back. “You want to stay tonight? I have to be on the road early in the morning, but if you don’t want to walk by yourself while it’s dark—”

  “No, I’ll be okay,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You’re a police detective or whatever.”

  “I’m a private detective.” I got kicked off the police force. But that wasn’t a story I felt like getting into.

  “Whatever.” He yawned. “So, what? You catch serial killers or something?”

  I snorted. “Hardly. Mostly I catch people cheating on their husbands. Or wives. Sometimes the department shoots me a missing person’s case if they can’t do anything with it. And I’ve even found a couple missing pets.”

  He laughed softly. “Pets?”

  “Yup. Mostly, it amounted to calling around to the local pounds until the dog showed up. It wasn’t a bad way to make some cash.” I sat up, stretching. I needed to find my clothes. “Definitely just as exciting as serial killers.”

  “You should stay,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I sleep better in my own bed.” I found my clothes in a pile, tangled up with the bed sheets. I began to wriggle into my underwear. “You know, I bet catching serial killers isn’t all that exciting anyway. They don’t really have motives other than being confused about fucking and killing people.”

  “Really?” His voice was sleepy, but still skeptical.

  I fastened my bra in front and slid it around my body so that I could pull the cups up over my breasts. “Oh, yeah. All of ‘em. Richard Ramirez. Jeffrey Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy. They’re all the same, you know. It’s all about wanting to dominate people that they find sexually attractive. And ego too. They think really highly of themselves.”

  “Maybe they’re not all that way.”

  I yanked on my pants. “Trust me. They’re all that way. I’ve read about them.”

  “You’ve only read about the ones that got caught, though,” he said.

  “Well, yeah.” I tugged my shirt over my head. “I guess maybe it’s possible we’ve only caught the serial killers who are bad at what they do. Maybe there are killers out there who do it differently, but we don’t know about them, because they’re too good to get arrested.”

  He was quiet. “That’s kind of unsettling. Maybe they’re out there right now.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I think I’ll just stick with pets and cheating and leave the serial killers to the FBI.”

  “Hey,” he said, “maybe you really shouldn’t walk home by yourself. I know you think you’re tough, but you’re pretty and blond and someone might—”

  “Seriously?” I raised my eyebrows. “One conversation about serial killers, and you’re worried about my safety? I’ll be fine.”

  “I just feel responsible, I guess. You’re here with me, and I don’t want to kick you out or anything.” He stroked my arm.

  I yanked it back. I didn’t really want him to touch me anymore. I didn’t much like them to touch me afterward. I guessed that was just another sign that I was incredibly fucked up.

  “At least take my phone number, huh?” he said. “In case you need help.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “People almost never die around here. Over in Renmawr, sure. That’s where my private eye practice is. It’s a real city. This is just a rinky-dink college town. It’s safe.”

  * * *

  “I’m worried my sister might be dead,” said Andrew Webb, the man who’d been waiting at my office when I opened up. He’d followed me around as I unlocked the door and hung up my purse, telling me his name, and that he’d been sent here by the Renmawr Police Department, because they said I might be able to help him.

  It was about one o’clock in the afternoon. I rarely opened the office before that. My job forced me to keep late hours. And I also drank a lot. I rarely got to bed before two or three in the morning. Getting to the office by one o’clock was a feat, actually. And this morning—afternoon, whatever—I felt pretty groggy.

  I sized up Andrew Webb. “You’re not here about the assistant job.”

  “No.” He looked frustrated. We were standing inside my office now. It wasn’t much. Two rooms—one an outer waiting area, with a desk set up for an assistant, and one in the back, which contained my desk and files, and was where I met privately with clients. “I told you that they sent me here from the police. They said that you were good at this kind of thing.”

  I massaged the bridge of my nose. “I had an interview with someone for the assistant job at one o’clock. I thought that person would be here.” But there was no one except Andrew Webb.

  He folded his arms over his chest. “Are you at all interested in my missing sister?”

  I winced. This was why I needed an assistant. I was shit at talking to clients. I could handle them when we were talking about the case, that I could handle. I could be all business. But the interpersonal stuff was not especially my strong suit. And I really hated talking about the money stuff.

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

  Well, his frustration was better than a dumb-blonde joke. I got those sometimes, and I was supposed to find them funny or something. So, I had blond hair. That didn’t mean that I enjoyed having my intellect called into question. Of course, I had to admit that I was kind of groggy and hungover at the moment, which might be making me look sort of dumb.

  I gestured to the open door to my inner office, trying to collect myself. “Why don’t you go on in and have a seat? We’ll talk about your sister.”

  He appeared to be considering it, and I hoped he wouldn’t simply walk out the door. From the sounds of it, Pike had kicked this over to me, and I needed these kinds of jobs to keep from going insane. Pike was a lieutenant at the police department. He and I used to work together, and he would sometimes send people my way if he thought I could help them. Doing work on those kinds of jobs made me feel like a real detective again, not just someone who broke up marriages.

  But Andrew inclined his head and went through the door.

  Relieved, I started to follow him.

  The door opened.

  I turned.

  A girl came in. She was i
n her early twenties, and she was attempting to look professional, but the cut of her clothes was just a little too trendy to keep her from having a bit of a teeny-bopper look. She looked around, eyes wide. “Um, I’m here for the interview?”

  I cringed again. So far, this was a bad start to the day. “I have a prospective client that just showed up, and I need to talk to him. Do you mind, uh, waiting a little bit?”

  “Waiting how long?” she said.

  I rubbed my forehead. “Never mind. I’ll call you to reschedule.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Well, I guess I could hang out a little while.” She peered around me at Andrew in the inner office, giving him a little wave. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” she called.

  Yes. That. Interpersonal stuff. Why wasn’t I good at that?

  “It won’t be too long,” I said, heading back to the inner office.

  The girl looked around and then sat down in the waiting area.

  I closed the door to the inner office and turned all my attention to Andrew. “Sorry about that.”

  He still looked annoyed.

  I sat down behind my desk and got out a legal pad. I liked to take notes on them. “Why don’t you tell me about what’s going on with your sister?”

  “Well, she’s gone,” he said.

  “Right,” I said, nodding. “This is a missing person case, after all. When was the last time you talked to her?”

  He fidgeted. “Well, about a week ago, maybe.”

  “Has anyone seen her in a week?”

  “I don’t know. I went to her house three days ago, and she wasn’t there. Her car’s still there. All her clothes are still there. It doesn’t look like she went anywhere. And she wouldn’t, anyway. Not without telling me. We’re very close.”

  I scribbled on my pad. “Okay. So, I assume you want to hire me to try to find your sister.”

  “I think she’s dead.” He sucked in a breath, and then his face crumpled.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She… her bed was stripped. That’s the only thing missing. Her bed sheets and her covers and her mattress pad. And there are things in her room that don’t look right. They’re knocked over, messy, not the way she kept them. I think there was a struggle. I think that someone wrapped her body up in that bed sheet and took it away.”