by Liliana Hart
My dad wore shorts and a T-shirt and his head was covered with a baseball cap. He looked like everyone else enjoying their evening out.
He smiled like him showing up was an every day occurrence and he stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted you to know I wish I could be at the wedding. It would be nice to walk you down the aisle.”
Jack tensed beside me and I felt him shift as he reached for his gun and handcuffs.
“You’re leaving?” I asked, wondering why I found the news so disappointing.
Jack made small movements and kept his gun down by his side so as not to cause panic around us. “I have to take you in, Malachi. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Turn around and put your hands on the back of your head.”
My breath caught in my throat as Jack gave the order. My dad just smiled at Jack and didn’t make any move to do what he’d been asked. Then he looked back at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“I just wanted to say goodbye, honey. And to tell you not to trust anyone. There’s more going on here than meets the eye. I’ll be back when I can. You two be good. And maybe think about giving me some grandchildren.”
“Don’t do this, Mal,” Jack warned.
I knew my father was a wanted man—a criminal—but I didn’t know how I’d feel if I had to watch the man I was going to marry arrest the man who had raised me. Fortunately, my father took the situation into his own hands.
My dad looked at Jack’s gun and raised a brow, daring Jack to use it. Then he winked at me and disappeared back into the crowd as if he’d never been standing there.
“Son of a bitch.” Jack put his gun away and started pushing through the crowd, trying to follow behind him, but it was no use. Malachi Graves was gone. Again.
I grabbed onto the back of Jack’s shirt so I didn’t lose him too, and we finally made it back to the entrance. My chest hurt and my palms were sweaty at the thought we might catch him.
“You know I have to take him in, right Jaye? I don’t have a choice in this,” Jack said. He ran a hand through his hair, obviously frustrated, and he kicked at an empty popcorn bucket on the ground.
I sighed and tried not to let my relief show that my dad had escaped. “I know. I just wish it didn’t have to be you.”
“Unfortunately, I’m the only one who knows he’s alive at the moment, so the task falls to me. Hurry and get to the car. Maybe we can get a road block set up before he slips through.”
I caught him by the arm before he could start moving. Panic had settled somewhere in my stomach and I wasn’t comfortable with the determination I was seeing on Jack’s face. “You can’t call this in, Jack. Not until we know the reasons why he had to fake his death. You told me how we handled this was my decision.”
“And I stand by that. But he stood right in front of me. He’s playing with us, wondering how far we’ll go to catch him. You can’t expect me to stand by why he does that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Jesus, Jaye.” He kicked the popcorn bucket again and then started moving toward the car. I knew he wouldn’t betray my father. At least not yet.
I followed him back to the car, but I knew there was no point in searching for my father. We wouldn’t find him. It was impossible to find ghosts.
I stopped when we got to where the car had been, and it took me a minute to process the fact that it wasn’t there. An empty parking space was all that was left and there were no cars going in either direction on the street.
“Sometimes I really dislike your father,” Jack said, standing beside me with his hands on his hips as he looked at the empty space.
My lips twitched once before a terrible thought struck me. “Oh, my God. The boxes! That’s what he came back for all along. He wouldn’t be saying goodbye if he didn’t have them.”
“They’re locked in the safe inside the house, and up until a couple of hours ago Wolfe was there.” Jack got on his phone and asked for a patrolman to come pick us up.
“Do you really think that will matter?” I asked once he disconnected.
Jack started to say something and then stopped as he thought it through. “Shit. We need to get back to the house. But you’re probably right. I bet they’re long gone.”
We wasted precious minutes waiting to catch a ride, and we rode in tense silence all the way back to Bloody Mary. By the time the patrolman pulled into Jack’s driveway, I knew for sure we wouldn’t find the boxes in the safe. Jack’s car was parked in the garage as if it had never been anywhere else.
Jack waved the patrolman away and then pulled his weapon. We entered the house, and I followed behind Jack while we checked each room for signs of my father. The house was empty. I didn’t need to walk through it to know for sure.
We got to the top of the stairs and went into the master bedroom where the large walk-in safe was built into the closet. The safe door stood wide open. The cash, guns, and other valuables were exactly where they were supposed to be, but there was no sign of the boxes. In their place was the small circle of silver that had belonged to my mother. I picked up the ring and slipped it onto my right hand.
“Son of a bitch,” Jack said. “I guess it’s a good thing we were able to get a few of those flash drives to Carver. There must be something really important on there.”
I twisted the metal around my finger, trying to figure out how I felt about all of this. “Did you ever think that maybe he was telling the truth? Maybe things aren’t what they seem and we need to find out the truth. He said he’d be back.”
Jack looked at me with pity and pulled me into his arms for a hug. “Babe, that’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
Be on the lookout for the newest novel in the Addison Holmes Mysteries…..
WHISKEY, YOU’RE THE DEVIL
Things are looking up for Addison Holmes. She’s about to take her P.I. exams, she’s living in sin with the man of her dreams, and she hasn’t had a phone call from her mother in three whole days. But she should have known things were too good to last.
When Rosemarie Valentine’s fingerprints are found on the murder weapon used to kill a sex shop owner, it’s up to Addison and the gang to clear her name before Rosemarie is thrown in the pokey with no hope of getting out again.
With the help of Nick, Savage, Kate, and Addison’s mom and sister, what could possibly go wrong?
Available June 3, 2014!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Liliana Hart is an award winning author of more than a dozen books. She lives in Texas in a big rambling house with her laptop and cats, and she spends way too much time on Twitter. She loves hearing from her readers.
Connect with me online:
http://twitter.com/Liliana_Hart
http://facebook.com/LilianaHart
My Website: http://www.lilianahart.com
If you enjoyed reading DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDREL, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.
Lend it. This e-book is lending-enabled, so please, share it with a friend.
Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends, readers’ groups and discussion boards.
Review it. Please tell other readers why you liked this book by reviewing it at Amazon or Goodreads. If you do write a review, please send me an email at [email protected] so I can thank you with a personal email. Or visit me at http://www.lilianahart.com.
JOIN THE LILIANA HART NEWSLETTER!
WIN $100!
Beginning in April, I’ll be giving away a $100 gift card* on the 15th of the month, and every month after, to one newsletter subscriber. The winner will be announced inside the newsletter, so you’ll have to actually open it to see who won:-) So if you’re not a newsletter subscriber, go do it. This will also be open to international readers.
*Must be deliverable online
CLICK HERE TO JOIN!
LINKS TO MY OTHER BOOKS
Dane
Thomas
Riley
C
ooper
A MacKenzie Christmas
MacKenzie Box Set (includes the 5 books listed above)
Cade
Shadows and Silk
Secrets and Satin
Sins and Scarlet Lace
The MacKenzie Security Series (includes the 3 books listed above)
Kill Shot
Breath of Fire
Whiskey Rebellion
Whiskey Sour
Dirty Little Secrets
A Dirty Shame
Dirty Rotten Scoundrel
All About Eve
Paradise Disguised
Catch Me If You Can
Who’s Riding Red?
Goldilocks and the Three Behrs
Strangers in the Night
Naughty or Nice
If you enjoyed DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDREL, you might enjoy WHISKEY REBELLION, the first book in Liliana Hart’s Addison Holmes Mysteries!
Now free at all vendors!
Here’s a sneak peek:
I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in thirty years of living. Like when I was eight and I decided to run away from home with nothing more than the clothes on my back, peanut butter crackers and my pink Schwinn bicycle with a flat front tire. And the time when I was sixteen and decided it was a good idea to lose my virginity at an outdoor Metallica concert. And then there was the time I was nineteen and decided I could make it to Atlanta on a quarter tank of gas if I kept the air conditioner off.
There are other examples, but I won’t bore you with the details.
Obviously my judgment has gotten worse as I’ve grown older, because those bad decisions were nothing compared to the one I was about to make.
“Hey, Queen of Denial, you’re up.”
I gave the bouncer guarding the stage entrance my haughtiest glare, sucked in my corseted stomach, tossed my head so the black wig I wore shifted uncomfortably on top of my scalp and flicked my cat-o-nine tails hard enough to leave a welt on my thigh. It was all in the attitude, and if I had anything to do with it, The Foxy Lady would never be the same after Addison Holmes made her debut.
The music overwhelmed my senses, and the bass pumped through my veins in time with the beat of my heart. The lights stung my eyes with their intensity, and I slunk across the stage Marlene Dietrich style in hopes that I wouldn’t fall on my face. Marlene’s the epitome of sexy in my mind, which should tell you a little something about me.
I’d run into a little problem lately, and let’s just say that anyone who’s ever said money can’t buy happiness has obviously never had the need for money. My apartment had a date with a wrecking ball in sixty days, and there was this sweet little house in town I wanted to buy, but thus far the funds to buy it hadn’t magically appeared in my bank account. I could probably make a respectable down payment in three or four years, but I had payments on a 350Z Roadster that were killing me, yoga classes, credit cards, a new satellite dish that fell through my roof last week, an underwear of the month club membership to pay for and wedding bills that were long past overdue. My bank account was stretched a little thin at the moment.
None of those things would be a big deal if I was making big executive dollars at some company where I had to wear pantyhose everyday. But I taught ninth grade world history at James Madison High School in Whiskey Bayou, Georgia, which meant I made slightly more than those guys who sat in the toll booths and looked at porn all day, and slightly less than the road crew guys who stood on the side of the highway in the orange vests and waved flags at oncoming traffic.
Since I’d rather have a bikini wax immediately followed by a salt scrub than have to move home with my mother, I’d declared myself officially desperate. And desperation led to all kinds of things that would haunt a person come Judgment Day—like stripping to my skivvies in front of men who were almost as desperate as I was.
The beat of the music coursed through my body as I twirled and gyrated. The lights baked my skin and sweat poured down my face from their heat. Something tickled my cheek. I caught a glimpse of black out of the corner of my eye and realized a false eyelash one of the working girls had stuck on me earlier sat like a third eyebrow on my glistening skin. I swiped at it nonchalantly, but it wouldn’t budge. I ducked my head and peeled it off my cheek, but then it stuck to my finger and I couldn’t get the little devil off.
I shimmied down to my knees and knelt in front of a portly man with rosy cheeks and glazed eyes that spoke of too much alcohol. His sausage-like fingers came a little too close, so I gave him a slap with my whip to remind him of his manners and the fact he was wearing a wedding ring.
I ran my fingers through his thick, black hair and left the eyelash as a souvenir of his visit to The Foxy Lady. The thought crossed my mind that he might have a hard time explaining the eyelash to his wife, but the music kicked up in tempo and I had to figure out something else to do with my remaining two minutes on stage. Who’d have guessed it would take me thirty seconds to run through all my dance moves?
The arches of my feet were screaming and I almost laughed in relief when I saw the poles on the far side of the stage. I could spin a few times and hang upside down a few seconds to take the pressure off my feet. Besides, I watch T.V. Men always seem to go crazy for the pole dancers.
My sweaty hand clasped the cold metal pole and I swung around with more gusto than was probably wise. Little black spots started clouding my vision, so I slowed my momentum down until I was walking around like a horse in a paddock on a lead rope.
I made another lap and saw Mr. Dupres, the club’s owner, frowning at me. He swung his arms out and gestured something that resembled either taking off his shirt or ripping open his chest cavity, and I realized I still had on every scrap of clothing I’d walked on stage with. I threw my whip down with determination and ripped my bustier off to reveal the sparkly pasties underneath. I tossed the bustier into the audience and cringed as it knocked over a full drink into some guy’s lap. Just call me the human version of a cold shower. Not a great endorsement for a stripper. I waved a little apology in his direction and tried to put a little more wiggle into my hips to make up for the mishap.
Would this freaking song ever end?
I prayed someone from the audience would have mercy and just shoot me. I spun one last time on the pole and nearly fell to the ground when I saw a familiar face in the audience.
I would have recognized the comb-over and pasty complexion anywhere, though when I usually saw Principal Butler he didn’t have a stripper grinding in his lap. I kind of hoped the way his glasses were fogged would keep him from seeing me, but when he took them off and wiped them on his tie my hopes were dashed. He did a double-take and blinked like an owl before he paled.
I just wanted to vomit.
Mr. Butler practically shoved the woman in his lap to the ground and reached for something in his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped off a picture. Not good. I guess he wanted proof to show to the school board before he fired me.
I covered myself with my arm and edged back toward the curtain. The music pounded. I waved to a few customers on the front row, their faces twisted and disgruntled at my early departure. I considered my bounty. A grand total of seventy-two cents on a bed of peanut shells lay at my feet.
Tough crowd.
Principal Butler’s eyes were still glued to my chest as I finally found my way behind the thick curtains at the back of the stage. It was a darned good thing there was only a week left until school was out. Maybe the summer would give Mr. Butler time to forget he saw me in pasties and a thong and me time to forget that I saw my principal’s tiny excuse for an erection.
Or maybe not.
So it turns out I’m not cut out to be an exotic dancer, and I’ll be checking the employment section of the paper again.
I had to say that after the conversation I just had when I was fired from The Foxy Lady, I probably couldn’t count on them to give me a glowing recommendation.
“Listen, Addison, I just don’t think you’re cut
out for this type of work,” Girard Dupres told me after my first and only routine.
I can’t even begin to tell you how many times in my life I’ve heard those exact words. If I weren’t such a positive person, I would live in a constant state of depression.
Anyway, Mr. Dupres was the guy who hired me, and he looked like a Soprano’s reject—thinning dark hair, beady eyes, hairy knuckles and greasy skin. He obviously didn’t know anything about hiring good strippers or he never would have considered me.
I decided it was best to look slightly downtrodden at my termination, but inside I was relieved that exotic dancing wasn’t my calling. I don’t think I pulled off the reaction I was hoping for, because Mr. Dupres thought it would be a good idea for me to perfect my technique in a private showing just for him. But to give him the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to have a conversation and not look desperate when you’re topless and covered in sweat.
I told Mr. Dupres “Thanks, but no thanks,” and headed backstage to gather my things and get dressed. I decided to keep the costume and cat o’ nine tails just in case I ever had a dominance emergency, but I left the itchy wig on the little plastic head I’d borrowed it from.
I took out the blue contacts I’d worn to cover my dark brown eyes and creamed off the heavy eye makeup. I pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail, slipped on my jeans and baby-doll tee from the Gap and stepped into a pair of bright pink flip-flops. It was nice to see the real Addison Holmes once again. I’d only misplaced myself for a few minutes, but it was long enough to make me realize I liked the real me enough to find some other way to make the extra money I needed.
I’d just hide this little incident away and no one but Mr. Butler and me would ever know about it.
I pushed open the heavy metal door that led from the dressing areas to the alley behind The Foxy Lady and squinted my eyes as the sun and heat bore down on me. I slipped on a pair of Oakley’s and hitched my bag up, digging at the bottom for my car keys.
If I’d been looking where I was going instead of at the bottom of my purse, I’d never have tripped over the body. I’d probably have walked a wide path around it and wondered how someone could already be drunk enough on a Saturday afternoon to be passed out in a strip club’s parking lot. As it was, my foot caught the man right in the ribs and sent me sprawling to my hands and knees.
