Pretty Dirty Trick: A Rich Bitches Novel

by Kiss, Tabatha

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “What’s up?” he repeats, glancing at the men behind me. “He asks me what’s up. You got arrested today, kid. That’s what’s up.”

  “It was just a big misunderstanding,” I say.

  “Lucky break, eh?”

  “Not really. I didn’t do what they accused me of.”

  Daniel looks up and waves his thick arm, making the other man quickly disperse. They close the door behind them, once again leaving me alone with the big boss. I’m really not a fan of this new trend. I just make tacos, dammit.

  “Doogan…” Daniel says, blowing out a line of bright gray smoke. “He was with us for a long time.”

  I shrug. “Seemed like a decent guy.”

  “He was a fucking prick.” He stamps his cigarette out. “I want to know everything you know.”

  “About what?”

  “My sources tell me that our man Doogan was a lying, scheming cop,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’ve been able to keep a lid on that for now but you’re not leaving that chair until you tell me everything you know.”

  I turn up my hands. “They told me I killed a cop.”

  “So, you did kill him?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t. They thought I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they found evidence at the crime scene that tied me to it. I had an alibi. I was in my truck and park security footage proved it.”

  He scratches his chin. “What kind of evidence?”

  “Fingerprints. My hot sauce. They even found the fucking murder weapon hidden in my truck.”

  Daniel slams his hand down. “Those motherfuckers.”

  I sigh, glancing at the clock. “What motherfuckers?”

  “The McGregors,” he growls, his face recoiling.

  “You think they set me up?”

  “Who else?”

  He rises fast out of his chair and starts pacing behind his desk while slurs come tumbling out of his mouth.

  I feel like I should say something to dispute his theory. The McGregors think the Quinns killed Canon. The Quinns think the McGregors killed Doogan in retaliation. Neither wants to admit it. If someone was begging for a mob war, then surely someone would step up and take responsibility but they’re both very quiet. No one wants to take credit for killing a cop, I guess.

  There’s a third party behind the scenes somewhere, someone in-the-know enough to be able to nail the whole thing on me — Daniel Quinn’s most trusted truck driver, apparently.

  I don’t say a word of this out loud. The more I talk, the longer I’ll have to be here.

  Seriously. Fuck this mob bullshit.

  Finally, Daniel stalls out by his chair. “Where’s the truck?” he asks.

  “It was impounded,” I say. “I’ll go pick it up in the morning.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I’m covered in jail stank right now and I’d kinda like to go home and soak in a bubble bath.”

  He nods with understanding. “All right. Take the night off. Get the truck back onto the street tomorrow afternoon. Gotta keep things looking as normal as possible or else we’ll be in TBD Town for good.”

  I bite my tongue, thinking about Morgan’s threat. I can either find out who killed Canon or I can run a food truck — but I’m not sure I can do both.

  “Will do,” I say. “Hey, sir…”

  Daniel sits down again. “What?”

  “Just to reiterate. Y’all didn’t kill Canon?”

  He speaks quickly. “No. Why? Cops say something to you?”

  “No. No, sir. They’re as curious as you are.”

  He lets out a grunt and waves me away. I stand up and make wide, fast strides toward the door.

  “Hey, Milo.”

  I pause in the open doorway. “Yes?”

  “If you’re going for a soak, I deeply recommend Chi brand bath powder. Makes your balls smell like roses. You can get it at Harry’s down the street.”

  I blink slowly. What the hell is with people and my balls today?

  “Thank you very much, sir,” I say. “I’ll look into it.”

  He gives me a thumbs up.

  Thirteen

  Anna

  Milo Murray is Charlotte’s father.

  Cute dimples and all.

  I can’t believe I didn’t see it the second I looked at him. It’s so obvious now. I see him in her right now, just sitting there scribbling on the pages of her coloring book. Thin cheeks. Sparks of deep blue in her brown eyes.

  My chest aches. How can I look at her the same again?

  The doorbell rings. Charlotte twitches in her seat at the kitchen table to look over her shoulder toward the foyer.

  I hold up a finger. “Stay here,” I tell her as I stand up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  She nods and goes right back to filling in the tree with bright green leaves. I run a hand through her hair as I pass, feeling the soft, perfect strands and trying to remember if my hair was this nice when I was her age. I seem to remember multiple occasions of my mother trying to tame my wild, curly mane.

  I reach the front door and look through the side window to see who it is.

  My heart jolts.

  I spin away from the window but he’s already seen me.

  “Ann— er, Detective?”

  I back away from the door, keeping one eye on it as I reach for the gun in my ankle holster.

  “Detective?” I hear again. “Look, I know you’re there. Can we—”

  I throw open the door and step outside with my gun leading the way.

  Milo throws up his hands, his fingertips still marked with ink from the station. “Whoa—!” he says. “That’s a very big gun. All right, then.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “I just want to talk to you.”

  “How do you know where I live?”

  He stares at the gun between us. “You’re in the phone book. I looked you up. It wasn’t that difficult…”

  “Why?”

  “Anna…”

  “Detective.”

  “Detective Anna…” He slowly lowers his hands. “I had something to say and it didn’t feel right over the phone.”

  I stand firm. “Say it, then.”

  “Okay, but first… can you, just…” He raises a finger and sets it on top of my gun, slowly guiding it out of his face. I let it lower but I keep a tight grip on it. “There we go,” he says, breathing out.

  I close the door behind me, protecting my child. “What do you want?” I ask again.

  Milo pauses, quietly shifting on his toes before speaking. “Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?” he asks.

  “No,” I answer. “Why would I? You lie for a living.”

  “So do lawyers,” he says. “And yet, you chose one to father your child.”

  I squint with annoyance. “Okay, you’re sorry for committing fraud. Good. Anything else?”

  He shakes his head. “You misunderstand. I’m not sorry I did it. I’m sorry for how you feel about it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I did what I had to do to stay alive,” he says. “I had just gotten out of jail. I had nothing. I needed money. My fertility was the only thing of value I had but I was scared they wouldn’t let me donate with my criminal record, so I…” he hesitates, “I swiped my brother’s identity and signed up as him.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Brown hair, blue eyes. Harvard Law graduate. Layla the dalmatian…”

  “I see.”

  “I lied but I ate a few months of warm meals because of it. I don’t — and won’t — regret that. Trust me, down here on the bottom, others have done far worse.”

  I shake my head. “Now you misunderstand.”

  “I do?”

  “This isn’t about the ethics of stealing food to survive,” I argue. “This is about a little girl — a human being — whose existence is now tainted because of your lie.”


  “Tainted for who?” he asks. “For her? Or for you?”

  I open my mouth to argue further but I stumble over my tongue. “I don’t know who you are.” I bite down. “I don’t know who fifty-percent of my daughter is anymore and that terrifies me.”

  He shrugs. “What do you want to know?”

  “What?”

  “What do you want to know?” he repeats. “Ask me anything.”

  I shake my head and scoff but he doesn’t move. He stands there, unblinking, waiting for me to ask him whatever I want.

  Where do I even begin?

  “How’s your health?” I stutter out.

  He shifts a step back to lean against the banister with his hands in his jacket pockets. “Nothing worth noting,” he says. “Broke my arm when I was fourteen. Other than that, never had much reason to step into a hospital.”

  “What about your family?” I ask. “Is there a history of heart disease or cancer?”

  “No, none of that,” he answers. “Alcoholism may be an issue, but whose family doesn’t have a bit of that nowadays, am I right?”

  “Mental illness?” I add, ignoring the joke.

  “I had one uncle on my mother’s side who lived out of a whiskey bottle and jumped off a bridge,” he says. “Other than that, just a whole lot of social anxiety and a few freckles.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. My ancestors were from Western Europe. Irish and Scottish, mostly. My great, great grandparents came over on the Titanic, actually.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they, uh…” He breathes a laugh. “They stuffed her dress with a pillow to make her look pregnant so they could sneak onto a lifeboat.”

  I blink. “So, the lying bastard thing is genetic?”

  “Possibly…” he says, smiling. “But I think that’s more of a nurture issue than a nature one, so your girl should be fine as long as you raise her right.”

  “That’s…” I exhale. “Okay, then.”

  Milo pushes off the banister. “Do you love your daughter, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you trade her if you could?”

  “No.”

  “Then, here we are.” His shoulders bounce. “Anyway, I just wanted to say all that and make sure you know that if anything goes wrong with her, it won’t be because of me and my stupid scam. I’m not some time bomb you have to keep in the back of your mind because you’re scared I’ll suddenly go off one day and destroy your life. That’s not me. All right?”

  I study his stupid, handsome face. Emotion bleeds from honest eyes but how much of that can I really trust, given what I know this guy is? Does any of that really matter, given what he’s saying is absolutely true?

  My daughter is still the same perfect girl she was yesterday and she’ll be the same perfect girl tomorrow. That would be true whether I knew about this or not.

  I exhale and nod. “All right.”

  “I won’t take more of your time,” he says, turning away. He clears his throat. “Bye, Detective.”

  “Bye,” I murmur.

  He steps onto the lawn, partially disappearing into the shadows. My gut tugs at me, forcing me to say something that I second guess a half-dozen times before it spills out.

  “Milo.”

  He pauses. “Yeah?”

  I shift on my toes. “Would you like to meet her?” I ask.

  He inhales quickly, his eyes moving to the door behind me. “No,” he finally says. “No offense to the kid or anything.”

  “None taken.” I wave a hand.

  “My life is complicated enough right now as it is,” he adds.

  I nod. “I get it.”

  “Thanks, though.” He continues onto the sidewalk. “Oh—” He turns back around and points to his left. “Your neighbor in the blue house over there sells counterfeit iPods out of his truck to junior high kids. Just FYI. Since you’re raising a child here and whatnot. Good neighborhood otherwise. Brookline’s pretty nice.”

  “Oh.” I glance down the street. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Milo walks out of reach of the porch lights and disappears onto the sidewalk with the rest of the shadows.

  I walk back inside and close the door behind me. I lean against it, taking a long, smooth breath as I hold my head in my hand.

  “Mommy?”

  I look down at Charlotte in the hallway. My little girl. My perfect, little girl. I exhale away every second thought and doubt that’s plagued me over the last few hours.

  Charlotte might be part Milo’s. But she’s all mine.

  “Hey, honey,” I say, kneeling to discreetly slide my gun back into its holster. “You finished?”

  She holds up her drawing and I smile at the blend of colors on the leaves. Not quite staying in the lines just yet but I don’t care. She’s still perfect.

  “It looks so good, Charlotte.”

  She grins, showing off her little teeth, along with the ever-so-tiny gap between the front two. I don’t have that. Milo doesn’t either — but did he before?

  Just how much of him does she have?

  Fourteen

  Milo

  I have a daughter.

  I force the thought out of my head again. I don’t want to focus on what I can’t control. I want to focus on this mess the Boston PD left behind in my truck.

  They impounded it overnight to search it top-to-bottom for evidence, trashing it completely in the process. They left the freezer open, so all of that is melted, along with the meat I had packed in there. The fridge was unplugged but I can salvage some of that. Cabinets opened, everything pulled out and left either on the floor or on the counter. Mostly the floor.

  Thanks a lot, dicks.

  I drove it out to my regular spot in the park so I could clean it up, hopefully in time to get some evening business. A few have wandered over to order something but the closed sign, along with the crime scene tape I left hanging from the windows, have made them all back off slowly.

  I have a daughter.

  No, you have a mob problem. Yeah, remember Morgan McGregor? Let’s think about her instead. Let’s think about how she’s going to kill you unless you find out who killed her brother. Yeah, that’s good. That’s exciting enough to keep you from focusing on your daughter.

  Or even her mother.

  Guilt churns my guts as I kneel to clean out the fridge. I never thought twice about that scam after I did it. I figured some wealthy couple from wherever would commute down, get my not-so-Ivy League sperm, and go back home. Not a local cop. Not someone I would run into in my daily life. Having a biological kid I’d never know existed didn’t bother me because I’d never know it existed.

  I have a daughter. I don’t even know her name.

  A knock taps the window and I jerk up, slamming my head into the freezer door.

  “Fuck.” I wince and rub the back of my head. “We’re closed!”

  I reach for a dish towel to wipe up some spilled water from the freezer above. Another knock happens, this one on the back door of the truck.

  “I said, we’re closed!” I shout, this time louder.

  They knock again and I grit my teeth. I get up and spin around, marching toward the back door to throw it open.

  “Goddammit, I said we’re—”

  Anna stands outside in that black suit and tight ponytail. She lowers her hand and clenches the file she always seems to carry around with her at her side.

  “Detective,” I say. “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she says. “Can we talk?”

  I raise a brow. “Is this official police business?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She bites her inner cheek and shifts nervously as she looks around the park.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, everything is fine. I just…” She brushes an invisible hair strand back behind her ear. “I came up with a few more questions and I wondered if the offer to answer them was sti
ll on the table.”

  “Questions… about me?”

  “Yeah. You don’t have to if you don’t want. I just figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask, so…”

  “No, no.” I nod. “I’d be happy to answer them for you.” I take a step back. “Come on in.”

  Anna steps up into the truck and looks around. “Well, they really… They’re thorough,” she says.

  I turn up my hands. “It would appear the Boston PD doesn’t hold back when they suspect you of killing one of their own.”

  She gives a knowing nod. “Do you blame them?”

  “Guess not. Any word on who’s framing me?”

  “Not yet,” she answers. “Few ideas, but…”

  We look at each other for a long, drawn-out moment. She looks away first, once again scanning the roughed-up truck.

  She points behind me. “So, is that the famous Hot Sauce hot sauce?” she asks.

  I twist around and nod at the container on the counter. “It is, yeah.”

  “Could barely recognize it without a dead body beneath it,” she jokes.

  I laugh. “You ever try it?”

  She shakes her head at it. “No,” she says. “I’m not really into spicy foods.”

  “You should,” I say. “It’s great. Here.” I pop the lid off and grab a plastic spoon from the box by the window.

  Anna holds up a hand. “No, no,” she says with a laugh. “I don’t think I’ll like it.”

  I dunk the spoon, coating the surface. “Just a lick, detective. Trust me.”

  “Really, I—”

  “I insist,” I say, holding it out with my other hand hovering beneath it in case it drips.

  “Fine,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll give it a try…”

  I hand her the spoon and she slowly brings it to her mouth. She takes a quick inhale first and recoils.

  “Whoa, that is strong,” she says, coughing.

  I grin. “Oh, it’ll clear your airway.”

  Her lips twitch lightly as she builds up some courage. Finally, her mouth opens and her tongue sticks out. She taps it against the spoon, touching only the tip to the bright red sauce.

  “Mmm—” Her face shrivels up.