by Dan Taylor
Megan says, “I don’t know how I feel about this, Jake. You’re corrupting her.”
I frown. “What? I’m just teaching her how to use a bong.”
Annabelle says, “It’s okay, Megan. I want to learn.”
“Just don’t make a habit of it. You’ll end up as dumb as Jake.”
“I’m not dumb. I’m just mentally lazy sometimes.”
“Define sometimes.”
“Pass me a thesaurus and I will.”
“And my point’s proven. Thank you, Jake.”
“You know what I meant. And give me a break. I’m on my third bong already.”
“Exactly my point.”
I don’t know what her point is, so I ignore her and start filling up the bong for Annabelle. A baby-size hit. I’m not a monster.
As Annabelle hits it like an amateur, Megan watches her as though she’s above it all.
But when Annabelle’s finished, she says, “Fill it up for me, will you, Jake? I don’t feel too good after yesterday’s all-day session.”
I take a second to look for evidence on my pajamas that she wasn’t just brushing her teeth in the bathroom. There isn’t any vomit.
Then I say, “So Ms. High and Mighty suddenly wants to party? Wait, let me reword that—”
“Just do it.”
Déjà vu from last night, but I don’t call Megan on it. Not in front of Annabelle.
Speaking of Annabelle, she’s gone really quiet. I glance at her while emptying the bong of ash, and her face is the color of those old-ass statues in Rome.
“Annabelle, are you okay?” I ask.
“Jake, is your face my face?” she replies.
“I’ll take that as a no. And no, my face is my face…and Greg’s, now that I think about it. Just let me hook Megan up and get you a beer to balance you out.”
I glance at Megan. She scolds me with a look.
“What?”
“You know what.”
Thirty minutes later we’re into the second episode of Sponge Bob.
Megan’s all relaxed now, and I can get on with enjoying my Sunday. Annabelle’s feeling better too.
She asks, “I don’t get it. Is SpongeBob supposed to be a fish?”
“I never thought about that before. All the other characters are sea creatures.”
Megan interrupts our intellectual debate and mumbles, “Breakfast, Jake. Food. I need it.”
“Relax. I ordered breakfast before you got up.”
“Huh?”
“Pizza.”
There’s a buzz at the intercom.
“Here it is now.”
I pause the show and go over to buzz Greg in.
Then I unlatch the door and go back to the living area and sit down.
A couple minutes later, Greg comes in carrying a pizza box with actual pizza in it this time. I told him it was a staff party and that he’s obligated to be here.
He looks around at us, finishing on the TV screen. Then he says, “Why are you watching a cartoon about a yellow sea sponge?”
So that settles it, a yellow sea sponge. I was thinking maybe a discarded Maxipad.
I say, “And good morning to you too, Greg.” I introduce him to the girls. “Greg, this is Megan. She’s also an aspiring actress.”
He nods at her, ignoring my insult.
“And this is Annabelle, the girl you grunted at last night on your way out.”
When Greg nods at Annabelle, there’s something there. Greg smiles for once. And Annabelle’s eyes light up through the marijuana haze. That figures. They both like Grey’s Anatomy and Greg’s face is my face. Looks like Annabelle’s crush on me was only skin deep, face-skin deep.
He puts the pizza on the coffee table and goes and sits next to her.
This seems like as good a place as any to end it. With Greg and Annabelle sitting close to one another, a weird electricity in the air. With Megan staring at Bob, waiting for me to get up and get her a plate. Me with a stupid smile on my face.
But Greg ruins that ending, says, “Why does it smell funny in here?”
The End
Not quite…
Epilogue
BRADLEY HOVERBROOKE’S ON TO his second oil change of the day when fellow mechanic Pete Lowdry comes over and says, “There’s a guy on the phone. He says he wants to speak to you. Something about a trip to Las Vegas you’ve won.”
Brad frowns. Then says, “Weird. Did you get the guy’s name?”
“I think he said it’s Dominic Newcomb. Guy said he’s a tourism discovery coordinator, whatever the hell that is.”
The End
Jake Hancock’s story continues with Dead Friends Don’t Lie.
Personal Message from the Author
I hope you enjoyed this book or any other of my books as much as I love to write them! If you have, click this link and tell me. I personally respond to each email I receive, and love reading what fans of my books have to say.
I also keep in touch with my readers on my Facebook page, informing them of my new releases and blog posts. Head on over and like it and say hi.
Alternatively, you can sign up for my newsletter to find out when new books are released. You’ll also receive a discount on the latest publication.
Lastly, it would be really appreciated if you could take a few minutes to write a review, helping me grow the community of Hancock fans.
Thanks for taking a chance on my writing.
Dan Taylor
About the Author
Dan Taylor is an English dude stranded in Oslo, Norway. His girlfriend, a Norwegian national, captured him, but he doesn’t require rescuing. He’s the author of the Jake Hancock series and doesn’t take himself seriously as an author, though he works his ass off to make his readers and himself laugh. He doesn’t like skiing, probably because he sucks at it, but he can build one hell of a snowman. He’s silly, but you already knew that. You can read his blog at https://jakehancockbooks.wordpress.com/
The Jake Hancock P.I. series
Kiss Hidden Lies
Out of Crime
Served Ice-Cold
Saving Grace
Our Little Secret
Dead Friends Don’t Lie
Excerpt from Dead Friends Don’t Lie, the sixth Jake Hancock novel.
Prologue – The Date
THE WHOLE TIME they’d been sitting at the table, she could think of only one thing: What kind of a man wears a tie on a date?
She checks her watch. It’s too early to be checking it, but she takes the opportunity when a waitress walks past with her black skirt seemingly vacuum-sealed onto her bubble butt, drawing the eyes of her date.
After he takes his eyes off the waitress’s ass and she off her watch, they make eye contact and probably think the same thing. Did I get caught? He smiles, she smiles, and then conversation turns to a topic she’s expecting.
“So, you’re an actress. Have I seen you in anything?” he asks.
She sighs, but he doesn’t hear it, because she does it with her vagina. A technique she learned in yoga class.
“Do you watch daytime TV?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then you probably haven’t.”
“Oh.”
They sit in silence a second or two. The awkward kind. Despite his tie, she almost feels sorry for him, having struck out with the first topic of conversation.
Tonight she’s feeling generous, so she says, “I was in a toothpaste commercial once. And a few other commercials of late.”
“Cool.” His eyes brighten and he leans forward, relaxing into it a little. “Was it fun?”
“The toothpaste commercial?”
“Yeah.”
“I played a mistress who nearly gets caught brushing her teeth in her lover’s bathroom,” she says.
He laughs. And she tries to.
“Wait a minute. How is that an endorsement of the brand of toothpaste?”
“I’m like two seconds into brushing when his wife pulls int
o the driveway. He comes storming in, tells me I have to hide in the wardrobe. When I smile, despite having only brushed them for two or three seconds, my teeth light up the wardrobe.”
He puts a napkin to his mouth when he laughs this time. A strange gesture. Then he says, “Why did you smile?”
“To show how brilliantly white my teeth were.”
“No, not you, the character you were playing.”
“The wife catches him anyway. I left a pair of panties hanging on the doorknob. He sees them at the last second, but it’s too late. She comes in, shuts the door, and knows immediately that they’re not her panties. At least that’s what it said in the script. The finished product was a little unclear on that.”
“So your character wanted him to get caught?”
“Yeah.”
He thinks a second. “And what came before the teeth brushing scene?”
She takes a sip of her cocktail. “I think you’re thinking too deeply about it. It’s a commercial.”
“Maybe I am. Do you want to talk about something else?”
“And deprive you of probably the only conversation we’ll have tonight that involves my panties?” She raises an eyebrow, not sure if she’s toying with him or not. He’s kinda cute, in a goofy sort of way.
He blushes. “In my defense, they’re not technically your panties, but the character’s.”
“What would you say if I told you I swapped the ones the director put on the doorknob for my own?”
“I’d say holy shit and ask if it was okay to YouTube it.”
She frowns.
He’s embarrassed.
“Shit. Can I take another run at that? I thought it would make you laugh,” he says.
Again, she’s feeling generous. “Take off the tie, loosen up your top button, and then try it again. Same script.”
“Huh?”
“I’m curious about something.”
“Okay…”
He looks put out, like the tie might have been a gift from his mom, but he takes it off anyway. He shoves it into his pocket, loosens his top button. He looks down at how much of his chest undoing the top button has revealed and then starts on the second-from-the-top button.
She leans over and stops him with a caress of her hand. He looks up at her, startled slightly. Then he glances at her cleavage, and his clean-shaven Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
Bunching up her lips seductively, she takes a sip of her cocktail.
Then she says, in a voice she could charge a premium to hear, “What would you say if I said they were my own?”
He leans back in his stool, takes a deep breath, relaxing into it, and says, “I’d say, ‘That’s a hell of a do-not-disturb sign.’”
She comes out of character. “Hey, you cheated. I said the same script.”
“Sorry.”
“And do-not-disturb signs tend to be hung on the outside doorknob.”
He shrugs.
“Anyway, it satisfied my curiosity nonetheless.”
“Which was?”
“You do look better without that goofy tie.”
“Thanks.”
She met the guy on a dating site. She’s about to move the conversation on to how many dates he’s gotten from it. But he says, “So, in this commercial. What happened before you—sorry, I mean the character—starts brushing her teeth?”
“What does it matter?”
“I want to know why the mistress smiled when he got caught.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she thought he might leave his wife when she found out. Maybe she thought she might leave him, making him available. Or maybe she was just a spiteful bitch who wanted him to get what he deserved.”
He smiles creepily, no longer looking better without the tie. “Spiteful bitch… I like that one. Is it what he deserved?”
She shrugs. “They were both at it.”
He takes a drink. Thinks a second. “What about the character you played? What does she deserve?”
She looks at him curiously. “Why does that matter? It’s just a commercial.”
He shrugs it off. Tries to act like he’s not that interested. But for some reason he is. “I’m just a little curious, is all.”
“She’s as guilty as him, I suppose. Look, are we going to talk about this all night? I appreciate you asking a lot about me. God knows I’ve been on a few dates with a few self-centered assholes of late, but why all the questions about the shitty TV commercial I was in?”
He holds up his hands, showing his palms in a gesture of mock surrender. “Hey, whatever you want to talk about we’ll talk about.”
She thinks a second. “The website we met on. This the first date you’ve been on?”
“How did you guess?”
“The last time a guy showed up with a tie on to a date with me it was my high school prom.”
Guy goes redder than a baboon’s ass. “I thought it looked smart.”
“Geez, don’t I sound like a bitch.” She bites her lip, feeling bad. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Really, it looked cute. I was flattered you’d made such an effort.”
“Should I put it back on?” he says, clowning her.
“I wouldn’t want to put you through the effort of clipping it back on.”
“Nice. Got any more?”
“If my friend were here, he’d tell you 70s’ Bill Cosby phoned, said it don’t matter much about returning it.”
“These are zingers. Keep on going.”
She takes a second to think of the next one, but not before thinking that this guy is all right, with the way he’s taking this ball busting so well. “I’ve got one, but I’ll save it for later. How about you? Any bad tie jokes?”
“I think I’ve got one.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then smiles as he says, “That bitch from the commercial? What did she deserve?”
“Okay, asshole. That’s it.” She downs the rest of her cocktail and stands up to leave. “And a little bit of advice for your next date, you misogynistic ass wipe: Don’t wear a tie your blind five-year-old niece designed as a kindergarten project.”
She takes two steps away from the table before her date says, “Are you leaving?”
She can’t believe the gall of this guy. “Of course I’m leaving, asshole.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Huh?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t leave.”
“Why not?”
She’s about to tell him to go fuck himself, until she starts to feel drowsy.
1.
I’M JAKE HANCOCK, former private investigator to the stars…and I’m pretty sure someone just pinched my ass.
I turn around, to ask the offending ass pincher, Really, at a funeral? Until I see who it is.
“Elise Hewter-Pickle?” I recognize her from her eulogy.
She should be wiping tears away, at least sniffling, as we’re standing next to her dead brother’s body. Open casket. But she’s only got eyes for me. The worst part? Her brother’s the spitting image of me. At least he was.
“That’s me. Are you Jake?” she asks.
“I am. And did you just—” I look over her shoulder, seeing that there’s a queue forming to pay their respects to Elise’s brother. “Never mind. We should get moving.”
I take her by the arm and lead her away from the casket. She giggles or sobs as we go; I can’t tell which. We take a couple of the chapel floor seats. I leave one between us.
Then she says, “Pinch my ass?”
“What?”
“Before you got distracted and looked over my shoulder, you started asking a question. I finished it for you.”
“Oh. And did you?”
She looks around, making sure no one’s within earshot. Then she giggles. Definitely a giggle this time. “I kinda did.”
I lower my voice. “Will you stop doing that? We’re at your brother’s funeral.”
“I
know. That’s why it’s so bad.” She smiles seductively.
“That’s a good thing? That it’s bad?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well duh!”
Then she closes the gap between us. I move one seat along, putting distance between us again.
She says, “I think it’s so sexy you paid for my brother’s funeral. He would’ve liked that.”
If someone offered to pay for my funeral, I would not approve of my sister thinking it was sexy.
I say, “It’s the least I could do.”
“He talked about you all the time, you know.”
“Nothing bad, I hope.”
She giggles again. I wish she’d stop doing that. “He really looked up to you.”
“Well, I was a couple inches taller.”
“Not like that, dummy. Not literally.”
This woman’s obviously insane. I have no idea why I’m bantering with her. It’s time to steer the conversation back to the usual funeral chit chat. Whatever the hell that is. I say, “Your brother was a good man.”
“Hardly, but thanks for saying so.”
“He talked about you all the time too, you know.”
“I think that unlikely, but I appreciate your saying so. Gregory and I didn’t get along that well. Were you and my brother friends for a long time?”
“Not too long.”
“Good.” She closes the distance between us again, this time putting her hand on my knee.
I take it off, then say, “Long enough for this to be really inappropriate.”
She acts like a kindergartner after she’s found out she can’t have another cup of milk. She turns away from me, her arms crossed over her chest, and I try to make a quick exit. But before my ass has left the seat she puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “Don’t go! I need someone to comfort me in my time of…in my time of—”
“Grief?”
She shrugs. “That’ll do.”
