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Copyright ©️2020 J.D. Fondry

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any
person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters
and story lines are created purely by the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

Editor: Emily A. Lawrence of Lawrence Editing

Interior Formatting: Najla Qamber Designs
Cover design: Najla Qamber Designs
Cover photo: Shutterstock
To all my fellow Becks in the world; the ones not afraid to live life in bold. The ones who
are loud, and strange, and dare to be who they are. No matter how messy.
This one is for you.
 Good for You Playlist:
Daisy - Ashnikko
Ride It - Regard
Sex Metal Barbie - In This Moment
Cold Hart - Tammy and The T-Rex
DIOR - Pop Smoke
You? - Two Feet
Move to Miami ft. Pitbull - Enrique Iglesias
Gangsta - Kehlani
Dirty World - Dope
Hit Me Like A Man - Pretty Reckless
Bad Habits - Nerv
Breaking Me - Topic & A7S
Wish You Well - PVRIS
Roulette - MGK
Cold Showers - Only Human
Numb - Lukr
St Patrick - PVRIS
Otherside - Post Malone
Wreak Havoc - Skylar Grey
Life - Darci
Overdose ft. Kamaara - KAIBA
Virginia - The Dangerous Summer
Sand Storm - Apashe
Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge
About Love - MARINA
And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.
- John Steinbeck
 PROLOGUE
One year ago
Becks

I SMEAR THE EXCESS POWDER against my gums, waiting for the

usual rush to hit.
The slight petrol smell in the air around me reminds me why I stopped
using this shit regularly. Now it’s just for parties and celebrations. Though I
guess tonight really isn’t either.
Tonight I just want to get lost.
The numbing sensation hits instantly—my gums, followed by the back
of my throat, tingle as I stand on wobbly legs. I’ve drunk my weight in
Patrón and the room is already fuzzy. But I needed something more, just
something a little…extra.
I worked a double tonight, apparently the epicenter for all the rich
fucks of New York, and I’m ready to let loose after being wound far too
tight. Like a shaken carbonated beverage, I’m ready to fucking blow at the
first mishandling. Dodging pickup line after pickup line from my station
behind the bar tonight, realization struck. The bitchier you are, the more
they think you’re flirting. What kind of messed up, psychological bullshit is
that?
I actually just can’t stand the sight of you, Cody, that’s why I’m being a royal
cunt.
 I’m not even sure that was his name. He did look like a Cody, though. A
frat boy—polo popping, khaki wearing, Sperry sporting rich little shit—
they’re all the same, regardless of their names.
Nameless, faceless assholes in a sea of even bigger assholes.
Thanks, but no, thanks.
I’ll keep my head up in the clouds, my mind altered by various
substances, and my sights set on my goals.
Living the American dream, B.
Okay, so, fine…maybe I’m a mess.
Emotionally, gearing toward financially and probably even physically,
though I’ve yet to find a mirror in this penthouse that isn’t being used for
cutting lines.
In the grand scheme of it all—the bigger picture—it doesn’t matter
anyway.
None of it.
Because no one will ever change me.
 CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
Becks

MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF NEW York City?

This place fucking smells.
That was well over five years ago.
My impression today?
This. Place. Fucking. Smells.
The day I got my first MetroCard, I felt like I had finally made it. I was
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fresh off the bus from Nashville—and not the
fun ‘yee-haw’ one either. No. Nashville, Indiana. A small town no one on the
face of the planet besides those who reside there have ever heard of. And
even those people wish they hadn’t.
My entire life growing up in small-town USA, I had been told, ‘you’re
such a pretty girl, Rebecca!’ and ‘You’re sure to go far with that face,
Rebecca!’ Forget all about my mid-range B-plus average in school, any
semblance of brains matter not when you’re from East Bumfuck.
You look like a model? You’re expected to be one.
And what’s even worse? Once it became common knowledge in my
Podunk little town that I wasn’t strictly interested in boys and girls also
tickled my fancy, my fairly straitlaced parents politely asked me to leave their
home. By fairly, I mean extremely, and by politely, I mean at twenty-three I
was kicked from the bird’s nest and expected to fly, soaring into the
catalogues and runway shows. Somehow, I think they have it in their minds
that if I were to in some way make it big, the fact that I’m bisexual might be
okay. It wasn’t so much a gay thing, as they viewed my preferences as an
excuse to be a slut.
And they weren’t the only ones.
I learned early, and often, that I wasn’t taken as seriously for my
choices. Bi chicks get a bad rep. Lesbians look down their noses at you
because you occasionally like to drive stick, and guys just view it as their wet
dream come to life.
My sexual orientation is the laughing stock of America. Cool.
So, honestly, where else do you go with no place to call home and
dreams of making it with the big wigs to live your life on your own terms
other than NYC?
I was finally here, I was thriving, and no one could stop me.
…That was until I was nearly trampled by a pedestrian and dropped
said MetroCard into a pile of what I can only assume to be human feces.
My time in the Big Apple basically started spiraling from that moment on.
I’m not even sure where my unrealistic view of the city came from.
Maybe the movies? I was fully expecting to step off the bus, hit the ground
running while the clouds opened up, showering me with sunlight. The birds
would be chirping, people would tip their hats to me as I passed them on
the streets, and I would make friends with the cheerfully friendly locals. A
woman named Donna, or Beverly, with a curly haired mole on her cheek
and red lipstick stained teeth would remember my coffee order and have it
piping hot as I stepped through the door and call me suga’ in her retro fifties
diner outfit.
Needless to say, that didn’t happen. Not even fucking close.
The thing about the city is that you’re always in someone’s way.
Everywhere you go. People are moving about a mile a minute; their lives far
more important than whatever the hell it is that you’re doing. At least in
their own deluded minds. People lay on their horns at the slightest
inconveniences, but where I’m from, you’d get a friendly beep and a wave.
The loud sounds throughout the city were the hardest to get used to.
This made it a little more difficult to hold onto the shiny pipe dream I had
of living my best life here.
And yeah, sure, I’ve made a few acquaintances, but no one close enough
to really matter. I used to be the big fish in my tiny little Nashville pond—
but here? I’m a minnow surrounded by sharks.
I guess the plus side is that I’m still swimming.
I’ve also, unfortunately, picked up the stereotypical New Yorker
attitude. You can only get shoved in the street and publicly shunned so
many times before you join in with the best of them.
Brakes screech outside my window and said honking commences,
followed by yelling, snapping me into the present.
Another glorious day in the city so nice they named it twice.
“Daisy” by Ashnikko wafts through my stereo as I get ready for work.
Work that allowed me to get my own place—this shit box studio apartment
smelling like stale Doritos that I pay far too much for. I scoff as the irony of
the words hits me like the stench of pot from my neighbor down the hall. I
mark down a mental note to hit him up later for a smoke as I make another
pass through my medium-length hair with my straightener, scorching those
pesky kinks out of my tresses. This month my mane is a shade of light,
honey-kissed and golden blond—who knows what it’ll be next week. I’m
just lucky it hasn’t fallen out with all the abuse it takes on the regular. Once
I’m satisfied that it’s straight enough, I shimmy into the skintight dress I
planned to wear to work tonight, only to tear the fabric as I squeeze myself
like a bottle of toothpaste to get into the damn thing.
Groaning, I pop an Addy, swallowing it dry. I decide on a black corset
top as my replacement. Securing the ties, I fasten them in a bow where my
cleavage meets. I roll on some black fishnet stockings and pull up some
black pleather booty shorts. Assuring that my eye makeup is just the right
amount of smudged, I swipe on a thin layer of my tried and true MAC
lipstick in Honey Love, and peck my vanity mirror. The nude kiss stain
against the reflection stares back at me and I’m actually pleased with the
last-minute wardrobe change.
Respectfully slutty with no chance of a nip slip. It’ll do.
I glance at the clock on my microwave.
Fuck.
I’m going to be late if I don’t haul ass.
Darren, my boss, will chew me out if I stroll in past the start of my shift
again. Last week an open casting call had me running thirty-five minutes
late. The girl I was relieving practically flayed me with her eyes as I ran
through the door. I still had my jeans and white tee on—which goes against
the club’s strict all black wardrobe requirement. Thankfully I had a few
things lying around in my locker out back. Darren ended up having words
with me after that. That really just resulted in him groping my thigh as he
leaned in and gave me a stern talking to. He cupped my cheek before he let
me leave his office, telling me I was his most valuable asset, and not to take
his kindness for granted again.
Barf.
Sexual harassment really doesn’t mean much when you work in a sex
club passed off as a bar. My night job is in an entirely different league of its
own—Darren’s made sure of that. It’s a one-stop shop for people searching
for a good time that know exactly where to look. We have strippers, a live
DJ every night, a fully stocked bar bigger than my entire apartment, a dance
floor, a private lounge in the back for questionable activities, and an upstairs
if you’re one of the rich fucks who cheat on your significant other and need
a place to do so. All wrapped up in a ten-thousand-square-foot warehouse
in a shitty part of Brooklyn.
As I descend into the York Street Subway station, I pop an earbud in,
and “Ride It” by Regard begins to play, the beat matching my feet padding
down the concrete steps. I’m able to squeeze into the train about to leave
the station and I exhale, thankful that I might just make it to work on time
after all.
It might be rough, but it puts food in my belly and a roof over my head.
I don’t live lavishly, because quite honestly, I can’t fucking afford to, but I
have what I need. I pay my bills on time, I haven’t starved myself to death,
and I can splurge on the occasional frivolous wants—some new makeup
here and there, the newest phone when it tickles my fancy, and all the iced
coffee I could dream of. I moved here to focus on modeling, but over time I
realized that maybe in Nashville I was a hot commodity, but here, I was just
a faceless girl among the masses. In order to make it, I needed to first
survive. Darren hiring me allowed me to do just that.
Before I moved here, I had a few tattoos; small, girly little things—and
as it turns out, that shit isn’t really what top modeling agencies are looking
for. So I added a few more, here and there, and tried to break into a different
niche—the tattoo modeling world. With so few, I couldn’t really make it
there either, so I’ve been adding more to my skin collection over the past
few years. Slowly but surely, I will be covered and my chances at booking
more jobs will increase.
But it’s a damn slow journey.
See above; little fish, meet big pond.
It’s not a bad life—it’s mine, and I work hard for it, but some days—
“Move it!”
My earbuds rip from my ears as the shuffling bodies push their way
through the masses to exit the subway. The asshole to my left who so
politely asked me to move shoves his way past me and onto the platform.
It’s my lucky night, because it’s my stop as well. I shuffle out the large
doors and trot along with the hundreds of other people bustling about at
nine o’clock on a Friday night. I march the four blocks to the dingy, brick
entrance lit up with neon tubing. In the dark of night the place doesn’t look
half bad—but once the lights turn on after last call? Totally different
ballgame.
 Pausing just before the entrance, I look up at the turquoise and
magenta neon light flickering against the black backdrop of the city night.
Taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly, I lift my Louboutin knock-offs
through the iron entryway.
Here we go again.
I can’t wait to see what type of assholes populate Elixir tonight.
 CHAPTER TWO
Travis

STROLLING INTO ELIXIR, THE ATMOSPHERE feels different tonight.

Maybe because tonight I’m planning to lay all my cards out on the table. A
royal fucking flush, if you will, that I pray to God gets picked up. “Sex Metal
Barbie” by In This Moment is blaring, which seems to be a trend when she’s
the main bartender of the night. I nod to the beat as I make my way up to
the bar with my target in sight.
I’ve been coming here ever since the end of last summer. Kennedy had
left without so much as a goodbye text, and I was sick of moping around
with nothing to do. I had seen a flyer for this place at my uncle’s house,
crumpled up in the trash, and decided to check it out.
I sure as hell wasn’t disappointed.
It was like another realm in this place. One minute, you’re standing
outside, smelling the piss and smog of city life, and the next, you’re
shrouded in darkness, surrounded by the strangest people and seeing shit
you thought only happened in the movies.
People hanging from the ceiling in cages type shit.
Definitely not in Beacon Hill anymore.
It became an escape for me. I would people watch, grab a drink, and
head home. Each time making my stay a little longer than the last. On my
third trip into the city, I saw her.
She looked familiar. Which I found out later was because she was the
brunette I was crushing on at the annual Beacon bonfire a few months
prior. Slim, above average height, perky tits, great smile, and these killer
tatted legs.
She’s a blonde now, but the statement still rings true.
Her name? Becks. Carter.
The name alone is enough to give the coldest of men a raging hard-on.
I may have been intrigued by this place from the start, but Becks kept
me coming back. Nearly every week, as often as I could, I’d be here. I’d chat
her up, make her laugh on very rare occasions, and eventually we became…
acquaintances?
She knew me by name, and on less busy nights, had my drink ready
when my ass hit the barstool.
Progress.
Eventually, I learned that she was friends with my uncle.
Cue the eye roll, because of-fucking-course she was. Chicks were
always drooling all over notorious bad boy Colson Palmer. She was shocked
as hell to find out we were related, but it gave us something new to talk
about.
This all leads us here, to tonight.
Tonight, I was going to make some headway on what I like to call
operation make Becks mine, not to be confused with operation Get Becks on
her back, which had a better ring to it. That’s a goal, but it’s not the end
game. Yeah, I’d like to get in her pants—I do have a working appendage
down there, after all—but I want her heart. I want her.
And of course, she’s looking like a full course meal tonight. One at
those fancy restaurants, too, where they have a valet and a plate costs eighty
bucks. I bite down on my fist to stifle the groan she elicits from deep within
me. Not that anyone would hear it over the screaming vocals in this place.
Becks’ honey blond hair is pin straight tonight instead of its normal
state of ‘just been fucked’ waves. Her eyes are coated heavily in black
shadow and framed by thick, long black lashes.
 “What do you want, Travis?” Becks’ annoyed tone doesn’t match the
smile toying at the edge of her lips.
All in tonight. Here goes nothing.
“You.”
She stops shaking the drink she’s mixing and turns to me, incredulous
brow quirked. “Me?”
“Did I stutter?” My lips turn up at the corners as she begins shaking her
head, her blond locks fluttering about.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” she deadpans.
Oh yeah, this is about to be fucking fun.
“That’s awfully forward of you to assume I’m trying to sleep with you,
Carter.” Feigning offence, my dick jolts in my pants all the same. “I’m just
here for your always stimulating and friendly conversation.”
Her eyes are lost in a roll at the back of her skull as she continues
looking for more excuses. “I’m too old for you, T.P.” She emphasizes my
initials through her plump lips as though it’s an insult.
“Like a fine wine?” I just smirk, knowing I’m wearing her down. “Age is
just a number, babe.”
“You’re twenty-one,” she deadpans.
“Oh, you keeping tabs on me?” My playful grin just turned full-fledged
cheese.
If I’m being honest, I don’t even know how old Becks is. I know she
isn’t as old as my uncle, but if I had to guess, I’d feel confident in saying late
twenties. Not that it matters much to me.
Age is just a number, after all.
“Considering I know who you are now and you just started showing up
here out of the blue ordering the most basic drink in the world, why would I
assume you’re anything other than just-turned-legal?”
Okay, well, one…rude.
Rum and pineapple is delicious and I don’t give a damn who thinks
otherwise.
 “Well, gosh, I wasn’t aware you were doing your research on me, pretty
thing. If I’d known, I would’ve tried to make myself a bit more interesting
for your viewing pleasure.” A chuckle slips out from between her parted lips
and I know I’ve got her. “I knew you thought I was hot.” I motion
exaggeratedly up and down my torso. “Because obviously. But this is big,
exhilarating news. You thinkin’ about me in your free time now, or what?”
She smacks her lips together, the sound oddly arousing, as she ignores
my taunting. “I also know your uncle and his little girlfriend would be less
than impressed to see me tainting your boyish charm. Now, go away, Travis.
It’s not happening. I’m working.”
“Good thing they aren’t here right now then.” Or even together…I lean
forward, bridging some of the distance between us. “And I’m making a
mental note that none of your reasonings for turning me down just now are
based off of lack of attraction.”
“What are you even saying?” She scrunches up her face, the purposeful
slit in her brow furrowing in the cutest damn way. “You talk too much.”
Let’s try spelling this one out, shall we?
“Are you attracted to me? Yes or no.”
“I do have eyes.”
I snort. And not saying no.
“Gorgeous ones,” I wet my lips, zeroing in on her smoked out, cat-like
orbs. “And I have ears, but yet I’m still not hearing an answer. Is that a yes?”
“Yes, that’s a fucking yes!” she shouts, exasperated, over the music.
“You’re not hideous.” Smirking, she adds, “But that—”
“Leaves us without a problem,” I interject cockily, leaning over the bar
top, deciding to push my luck even further. I didn’t give myself a pep talk all
the way here just to leave empty-handed, and she’s not walking away, so I
know she’s not completely over this conversation yet. “Take me home with
you tonight.”
God, please just agree.
“Take you—” She shakes her head as if she’s trying to process the words
that just came out of my mouth. “I’m sorry, take you home with me? Isn’t this
pickup line ass backward? And didn’t you literally just say you weren’t trying
to sleep with me?”
“I’m staying with my mom until I save up enough for a house. Shit’s
expensive.” I lean in closer to her over the bar top—close enough that I can
smell her—vanilla and something spicy. “And I don’t remember saying I
wasn’t trying to sleep with you. I said it was forward of you to assume—not
that you assumed incorrectly.”
“Jesus.” She rubs her fingertips against her temples and my grin only
widens. “I’m working. I can’t stand here and fuck off with you all night.”
“That’s cool. I have nowhere else to be.” I lean back in the stool and
interlock my fingers behind my head, getting comfortable. “Do your thing,
babe. I’ll watch.”
I wink and she rolls her eyes yet again, moving to pour the couple next
to me their refill.
Not a bad start. Not bad at all.

Becks

TONIGHT WAS TOO LONG OF a shift. Some nights the drunk assholes
falling all over themselves in ridiculous getups, searching for someone to sit
and spin on their lap gets really old, really quick.
Tonight just happened to be one of those nights.
I popped my last Addy before my shift, so it’s not like I can make this
night better by finding something else to do. I’d have to contact my main
dealer, Krystal, and I’m not trying to open that can of worms tonight.
All I want is my bed, some after midnight snacks, and a good night’s
sleep.
As I exit the building to do just that, I sense someone behind me.
Without turning, I speed up my gait until I recognize Travis’ deliciously
tantalizing cologne. Some mesmerizing mix of amber and smoke.
 “Stalking is illegal in the continental U.S., Palmer Junior.”
“It’s not junior when that’s my last name too, Brainiac,” he calls from a
close distance behind me.
“Doesn’t make it any less creeeepy,” I sing, praying he can’t see the smile
spreading across my lips.
“It’s not creepy if I’m walking my girl out after a long shift.”
My girl. I pause my strides, waiting for him to round the front of me.
He’s practically panting when he finally faces me.
“Those long legs of yours really get you truckin’. How tall are you
anyway? Six feet? Seven feet—”
“Five ten,” I cut him off. Crossing my arms over my chest to somewhat
cover my far too revealing top. Travis looks me up and down, pausing to trap
his bottom lip between his teeth before speaking again.
“Make this easier for both of us and just agree to be mine. It’s really the
only option, the way I see it.”
“Ah, the way you see it, huh? As cute as that is, I’m not sure I can
overlook who your relative is, given he’s an acquaintance of mine. And
you’re young.”
“I make my own decisions. I’m not a child, Becks.”
“Okay, well, you’re not my usual type.”
Wrong. So wrong.
“I’m not your type?” he scoffs, his tongue dancing beneath his cheek
before he smirks. “Tall, strong, hilarious, and devastatingly good-looking? I
call bullshit.”
“Okay, well, you’re just a little…clean, I guess.”
“Clean? What, like I bathe?” He takes a step closer as I sigh, bridging
the gap between us, and his smell alone ensnares me. “Your criteria for ‘not
your type’ is a damn short list, babe.”
Let’s try another route.
“I just don’t date.”
“I’ve gathered that.” He nods, his gray eyes focused intently on mine.
“But I go after what I want. That’s you.”
An exasperated “why?” tumbles from my lips. I truly don’t get it.
“Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that. I’ve been coming here
since I turned twenty-one—as you already said—for you.” His penetrating
eyes laser back in on mine. “I know exactly what I want.”
And I know all too well what people see when they look at me. The
party girl. The good time. The me and my buddies heard that you swing both
ways conversations. It gets old. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to—dick
or no dick and once word got out, it cheapened it somehow. Like people
turned my sex life into some kind of a joke.
I’m used to it, but it doesn’t mean I need to stand for it.
“Exactly what you want, huh? Like a good time? A threesome, maybe?
Is that what this whole thing is all about? You’ve heard a few stories and
think I’ll just bring you into my bed and I can be a good time you brag
about with your little friends back home?”
“Wait.” He shakes his head, his eyes squinting. “What are you—”
“You don’t play dumb, Travis!” I prod my fingertip into his pec, taking
stock of the hard muscle flexed beneath his T-shirt yet doing my best to
ignore it. “I know what you’ve probably heard about me. That’s your
expectation of where this would go, right?”
“You’re so far off base here, Becks.” He continues shaking his head, the
crease between his brows furrowed in anger.
“Am I?” I step closer, practically nose to nose. I smell his intoxicating
aroma and my heart flutters.
“Yes.” The finality of the word and hard set of his jaw tell me he’s
getting pissed at my acquiescence, but I don’t care. I didn’t pull this out of
my ass. People suck, they always just want and want. Take and take.
But I’m done giving everyone else what they want.
I make my rules and I decide when to break them. From now on, I’ll do
the fucking taking.
“I don’t think I am. You heard I fuck anyone, male or female, and here
you are, begging for some scraps thinking I’ll just spread my legs for you?”
“No.” His voice is sterner this time. “I have heard about your…
orientation, but—”
“Exactly, so—”
His hand flies up between us, halting my words. “But I’m not looking
for that. You’re jumping to conclusions and you haven’t even heard me out.”
“I’ve heard you plenty. All you do is yammer on. But do you blame me?
You’re looking at me like I’m your next fucking meal—what else am I
supposed to think you want out of this? A relationship?” I scoff at the word
tumbling so casually from my lips.
He says nothing for the longest, most painstakingly tense moment, but
his eyes widen a fraction as he straightens, towering over me, before
speaking again.
“That’s exactly what I want. I could be good for you, Becks.”
“What, like fucking Cheerios? Are you heart-healthy, too? I don’t do
relationships,” I spit back.
He ignores my jab, but I don’t miss his slight wince. “That’s not what
I’ve heard. What about Krystal?”
I scoff. “That’s not serious. We scissor occasionally. That’s all I’m
interested in. I. Don’t. Date. How do you even know about her anyway?”
Probably her big ass mouth.
“I know a lot about you.”
“And that’s not creepy or anything…” I roll my eyes.
“I prefer dedicated.” He smirks, and without prompting, catching me
entirely off guard, his hand reaches out, cradling my cheek. His hand is large
enough that his thumb brushes against my mouth, dragging ever so lightly
along my bottom lip. He stares at me, almost thoughtfully, and we stand
there, simply breathing. His hand, rough from his work at his uncle’s shop,
grates against the soft skin of my cheek. A fleeting thought occurs to kiss
the calluses on his palms, but it passes before I can act on it. My lips part as
my breathing slows and I realize—I want him to fucking kiss me.
 Wait, what the hell?
He lets out the softest exhale, hardly audible, but I’m so hyperaware of
him and us in this moment, that it sounds like it’s on surround sound.
“Becks.” His voice is just above a whisper. “Stop trying to talk yourself
out of this.”
Just as I’m about to ask him what the hell that means, his lips are on
mine. He wraps his muscular arms around me, bringing my body flush with
his. This kiss, questioning but demanding, nearly pulls the strength from my
knees. I’m thankful he has such a tight hold on me, or I might melt to the
ground.
Melt to the ground? What the hell kind of language are you—
Travis groans against my lips, and my own part, allowing his tongue
entrance. The warm muscle slips between my lips, massaging against my
own, and my pussy clenches, needing some friction. His mouth tastes so
good—like pineapple and rum—and I would know, since I served him all of
his drinks tonight. His hand slips beneath my tight, black shorts and grips
the back of my thigh, almost painfully, but I’m so turned on the slight sting
makes me even hotter. He pulls my leg up over his hip, grinds his impressive
erection against my begging center, and presses me lightly against the
exposed brick at my back. Just as I’m about ready to simply say fuck it, he
pulls back. Wide eyes peer between us.
“Jesus Christ, are you wearing garters?”
“Yeah, I do here sometimes.”
Travis lets out the deepest rumble of a groan I’ve ever heard, tossing his
head back. The movement exposes his lean neck, and I latch on, sucking on
the tender skin where his jugular meets just above his collarbone. Suddenly,
I want to dirty him up, stick my fingers into his squeaky-clean soul and
squeeze. Finally take something I want, the repercussions be damned.
Sucking until I taste the slightest metallic-like twinge, his entire body
twitches in my grasp.
“Harder.” He manages to grate out. “Mark me, Becks. I’ll wear it.”
 Well, fuck, I wasn’t expecting that.
I pant against his neck, trailing suckling kisses along his chiseled jaw
line, over his cheek and back toward those full, perfect lips. This next kiss is
more consuming and sure, rather than hesitant and questioning.
It’s more take and less asking.
It’s more heat and less sweetness.
It’s goddamn exquisite and I need more of it.
I want nothing more than to climb Travis’ tall frame like tree limbs—
anything to get myself closer to him, to deepen this kiss, to immerse myself
so deeply in this that I lose myself in the process.
Our harsh breathing melds together, music to my ears, and I don’t even
give the slightest fuck that we’re making out in the middle of the sidewalk.
My grandmother could walk past clutching her rosary to her bosom and I
wouldn’t break this kiss. As the thought passes and I’m almost ready to
combust, Travis releases his vice grip on my leg and disintegrates the
connection between our lips. He’s panting wildly, like a rabid animal, but he
pushes me back with such gentle force. Creating a foot of space between us,
he runs a hand through his short, bleached hair, sending the strands every
which way.
“I should go.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
I wipe at my lips with the back of my hand. “You’re just gonna leave?
After that?”
He takes a moment, like he doesn’t quite know how to answer me.
“It’s probably for the best, yeah.”
There’s no way he doesn’t have ulterior motives. He initiates this, gets
me all hot and bothered, rubs his giant dick against my groin, and then he
pulls back? And now he’s fucking leaving?
Oh, hell no.
“Is this some sort of fucking game?”
“I don’t play games. I told you what I want. The ball’s in your court now,
Becks.”
“What does that even mean? Stop speaking in your weird townie code,
Travis.”
In one step he’s back in front of me, his long legs proving useful. He
cradles my cheek in his large palm. His skin is so hot, and he smells utterly
delicious. I’m officially fucking soaked.
“I’m an only child. That means I never learned how to share, and I
certainly won’t share you.”
So, he wants me…but he doesn’t want to have sex with me? Or…wait,
what?
I’m all sorts of confused and I don’t know which way is up at this point.
His lips sucked the sanity from me like a damn leech and now I’m clueless.
“But you do want to fuck me, right? I’m lost here, Travis.”
He chuckles at my expense before wetting his lips, the simple action
revving me up further. “I’d do anything you damn well asked of me, woman.
So yes, that includes, but is not limited to fucking you.” He pauses, turning
somber. “But only if you’re mine. No one else’s.”
“Look, if the goal tonight was to get me to beg for it, I’m practically
there. Do I have to do that?”
He chuckles again and quite honestly, I’m getting pissed off.
“I don’t want you begging until I have you naked.” He grasps my hand
in his, pressing alternating kisses to each fingertip, never once breaking eye
contact with me. His soft, sweet gesture the complete opposite of the words
falling out of his mouth. Sucking the tip of my pointer finger into his
mouth, he nips at it and I yelp; my heartbeat catapulted into my damn
throat. “Not until you’re mine and I’m yours.”
“Trav, I already said I don’t—”
“Date—yes, I heard you.” He doesn’t let me finish, silencing me with
another playful bite against the pad of my finger. “If you want a repeat of
that, and a lot more, think about what I said. I want to be your only.”
His hand falls from mine, and the loss of his warmth has me nearly
ready to crumple into the fetal position on the grimy ass sidewalk.
What is happening to my body? I’ve never reacted this way toward someone.
Travis begins backing away, and I’m enraptured. I can’t tear my eyes
from his retreating form. Even as his stupid blond head disappears around
the corner of the building and I’m stuck standing in the same spot.
What the hell just happened?
 CHAPTER THREE
Becks

THE POUNDING IN MY HEAD jolts me out of my sleep. It’s so fucking

hot in here. Rolling onto my back, I peel the hair, slick with sweat,
beginning to curl off the nape of my neck. I see Krystal’s form next to me,
the main source of the heat under my sheets.
She spent the night. I never let people spend the night.
Fuck. This definitely won’t end well.
The top sheet rests just below her generous chest. Her curvy figure is
one of the things that drew me to her at first. Broad hips, thick thighs, a
chest that spills out of my palms. She’s gorgeous. Anyone with eyes could
tell you that. Her dark, inky brown hair flows around the pillow and the
slow gust of breath squeezing past her parted, full lips is barely audible.
After last night’s mind fuck from Travis, I decided to shoot her a text
and turn her into my night cap instead. The empty bottle of Cuervo Silver,
single shot glass, and residual fine white powder scattered across my coffee
table remind me of what got me here with a sleepover on my hands.
We killed my nearly full bottle of tequila, each did a few lines,
christened almost every surface in my tiny studio apartment, and then
ended up in my bed with her tongue lapping between my thighs. I was
practically comatose during all this, so I’m not surprised I passed out.
All in all, multiple rounds of rough, hot, consensual sex sound like my
idea of a damn good time, yet somehow, last night was just…off. I couldn’t
stop thinking about Travis’ offer.
He wants me. My body sure as fuck wants him; just seeing him gets my
panties wetter than the Atlantic. He’s in my head now. So much so that I
had my fingers in nearly every orifice of Krystal’s tight body last night, and
when I closed my eyes, it wasn’t her I saw.
It was him. Travis.
It was between his legs my tongue sought refuge.
It was his stupid bleached head of hair I was tugging on.
It was his tongue lapping up the release between my thighs.
It was his full lips I was nipping and sucking on.
Get a fucking grip, Becks. It can’t fucking happen.
A soft groan next to me snaps me out of my own head. Krystal’s leg
splays across my thigh just as her arm encircles my waist, tugging me closer
to her. Her warm breath against my neck has me fighting the urge to cringe.
“Mmm, good morning.” Her raspy voice first thing in the morning is
confusing my libido. “What’s the plan today?”
“Plan for what?” I rotate my head on my pillow, facing her. Her eye
makeup is smudged slightly under each eye.
“I mean, what are we doing?”
My skin crawls, like ants beneath my dermis, parading around like
millions of little intruders. My comedown mixed with her insinuation that
we’re about to run errands and hold hands while doing so makes me want to
ralph. I rip the covers off me, slide out from under Krystal’s hold, and
jackknife myself off the bed. Taking the two whole steps toward my dresser,
I grab a large army green T-shirt and wring it between my palms.
“We aren’t doing anything today.”
Shit, tone it down, bitchy. You’re going to hurt her feelings.
Krystal looks as though I shot her damn grandma.
Backtrack, backtrack…
“I just mean I have, you know, shit to do today.”
Nice save. Totally believable.
 “I can just tag along. I don’t mind. Maybe we could grab breakfast, go
see a movie or something?”
She sits up, hopefulness gracing her features as the sheet falls to her lap,
showcasing her voluptuous tits. I swallow down my unease. I could suck one
into my mouth and buy me a few seconds to choose my next words
carefully. But that would only confuse her and make it harder for me to kick
her out.
Not to mention I’m confused enough for everyone.
“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Krys.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t—” I motion between us. “You know, do the whole ‘next
day breakfast and errands’ thing. I don’t do that relationship bullshit.”
“So you’ll do drugs with me and let me do that shit we did last night,
most of which I don’t even think there’s words in the English language for,
but you still refuse to date me?”
I hide the smirk that threatens from remembering bits of the previous
night. “Yes. I’ve said that more than once.”
“I thought that maybe now that…”
“Now that what, Krys? Now that we’ve fucked a few times? Come on.”
“That’s all this is?” The hurt is evident in her tone.
“I told you multiple times that’s all this is.” My annoyance with having
to defend my actions is making me twitchy. I’m more agitated than normal,
but I know that’s the withdrawals talking. I just want her to leave my
apartment—this space seems suffocating with both of us inside. “Just
because you’re a frequent flyer doesn’t mean you get the girlfriend perks.”
“That’s fucking cold, Becks, and you know it.” Fury blazes in her brown
eyes as she tears the sheets from her body. Her kickass legs swing over the
side of the bed and her small feet pad their way toward me. “What’s so
wrong with letting someone in, letting someone—”
I let out a groan and drop my head back, staring at my white tin ceiling,
and her words fall short. This is the shit I’m not equipped for.
 Explaining myself. Letting others dictate what I can and can’t do.
I moved to New York City to chase a dream—my dream. No one else
can work as hard or get me where I need to be. I can’t afford a distraction.
It’s me, myself, and I and that’s the way it’s going to fucking stay.
Sensing the bitter dismissal I’m giving, she continues her strides boldly
over to me, her perky breasts reflecting the strip of sunlight coming in
through the blinds. Her body moves with confidence. She doesn’t need me.
She might want me, but what she doesn’t know is that she’d be better off
without me. I’ll never put anyone first. People like me aren’t good for people
like her.
I could be good for you, Becks.
Travis’ words from the night before ring in my head. What is it about
this guy that’s gotten under my skin?
Almost as if she can sense the appraisal of her body I made moments
before, a sly smile spreads across her lips and she pauses less than a foot
away from me. Krystal’s old-school traditional tatted arm reaches out,
pulling me by the back of my neck to crush our lips together. Hers are soft
and warm. She pulls my bottom lip between her teeth and sucks. I moan at
the sensations—her delicious curves pressed against my lean figure, the way
her hands work their way over every inch of my skin, searching, seeking,
admiring. Her tongue tries to dance with mine and my head gets foggy.
She’s distracting me with her sex appeal, and as much as I love a good lay, it
doesn’t change my answer to her. Stringing her along will only end up
hurting her in the long run.
I need to shut this shit down.
Placing my palms on her upper arms, I push her away, our mouths
disengaging. A parting whimper slipping between her lips.
“The answer is no, Krys. So, look, I have shit to do today. Can you,
like…” I motion toward the door no less than ten feet from where we’re
standing.
Yeah, I live in a damn tin can. And I’m a bitch.
 “Whatever.” She starts as she snatches my T-shirt from my grasp, slips
it over her head, and shimmies on the pair of shorts she came here in. I’m
left standing speechless. “When you finally deal with your emotional
bullshit, fucking call me.”
I watch her retreating form reach my front door, open and then slam it
behind her. The loud sound makes my shoulders shoot up toward my ears.
You’ll be waiting a long damn time for that call, girl.
 CHAPTER FOUR
Becks

RIDING ALONG IN TRAVIS’ JEEP is a welcomed change. I tap my

fingers along to “Cold Hart” by Tammy and the T-Rex, thankful that the
interior smells like a mix of the air freshener dangling on the rearview
mirror and his spicy cologne.
Much better than the smell of body odor and piss found on the train.
“Nice car. When were you planning on telling me about your small
penis?”
I watch as his lip curls up in a cocky smirk before he turns to me,
wetting his lips.
“I’ll whip it out right now if you wanna talk smack, Carter.”
“That won’t be necessary, T.P.”
Try as I might, I can’t stop the smile from splitting my face. Banter with
Travis is so easy. It’s lighthearted and freeing just to flirt and play—tease
and poke. It just flows with us.
It has since the first day he stepped foot in Elixir all those months ago.
If the night continues on as it has been? I’ll kill someone.
Let it be known now.
“Can I get a rum pineapple?”
Can I get a rum pineapple? My inner bitch mocks the deep tenor requesting
the bitch drink from behind me.
I snag a highball glass from the cooler and dip it in the ice bin, ready for this
night to be over so I can finish it with a nightcap of the white pill variety and
pass the fuck out. I lament over my plans while pouring in three ounces of Bacardi
Silver and a splash of pineapple juice. The bitch doing the dishes for me bumps into
my backside, spilling the sticky substance onto my other hand.
“Shit,” I hiss.
Fuck this fucking night.
“No, thanks, had that for dinner,” he attempts to joke.
Only then is it that I see who’s actually called out the drink order. Tall. Dark.
Fucking hot.
Steel gray eyes stare back at me, a curious smirk splayed across his face. The
sharp angles of his jaw accented so perfectly in the neon lights of the club.
“That for you?” I question incredulously as I slide the glass along the top of the
bar and shake the excess juice off my palm before he speaks next.
He gives me a puzzled look. “Is what for me?”
“The bitch drink,” I quirk a brow and he looks taken aback.
“ You don’t like pineapple?” He looks thoroughly confused.
But now it’s my turn to be lost.
“I never said I didn’t like it—I said it’s a bitch drink.”
Mystery man’s eyes peer down into the yellow concoction, his full lips pursed
before he looks toward me again.
“Forty percent alcohol versus the, what, maybe five percent in his Bud
Light?” He nods toward the other end of the bar where one of the Brooklyn
College bros downs his third water beer of the night. “And I’m supposed to be the
bitch? I’ll get trashed twice as fast and it tastes delicious.” His dark brow is
quirked, matching his equally dark hair.
“Fair point,” I concede with a laugh, knowing full well it’s sexy as hell when
men can own drinking their fruity drinks and not give two shits about the
societal expectations attached to them.
My guess? Mr. Pineapple and Rum probably has a huge cock.
“I’m Travis.” He beams, all thirty-two perfect teeth on full display.
“I’m happy for you,” I offer a half smile before I turn to mix the Crown and
Coke for the polo-wearing dipshit next to Travis, and attempt to ignore him to
the best of my ability. “Want a straw with that?”
He looks like he could be my next mistake. My next distraction. And I can’t
afford that.
He shakes his head before speaking again.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?” His smile only grows. “We were really
having a moment here.”
My eyes roll, but I decide to placate him. “Becks.”
“Becks,” he muses, and I find I like the way my name rolls off his tongue.
Even with the music blaring, the sound makes my skin tingle. “I like it. I like it a
lot. What are you doing after work, Becks?”
“Not you.” I slide the Crown mixture to the right and take the tenner
extended from between his finger and stick it down the front of my shirt. I don’t
miss the way Travis’ eyes follow the path the Hamilton takes between my tits.
“Right, I had that scheduled in for some time next week.” His eyes finally
meet mine once more. “See? We’re already so on par.”
I scoff, but it takes everything in me not to grin at this beautiful fool.
“Where’s your place at?” Travis queries, snapping me out of my
daydream from all those months ago. His eyes are on the road, his left hand
resting casually atop his steering wheel as he waits for the light to change to
green.
I’m not taking him to my apartment, that’s what he doesn’t know.
“Just up here.” I motion toward the next intersection. We hit another
red light before we make the turn, and Travis jolts us to a stop this time.
“Good night at work?”
I shoot him a dubious glance.
“I work in a cesspool of drunken, horny, privileged assholes. Do you
think I had fun?” I deadpan, but he knows there’s humor evident in my tone
as well.
He laughs, tightening and loosening his grip on his steering wheel.
He’s nervous.
 When an unknown number texted me while I was working, asking if I
wanted a ride home tonight, I was slightly unnerved. Though, in the next
moment a selfie came through of Travis making a puppy-dog pouting face,
clearly parked outside the club. I couldn’t turn that offer down, now could I?
Plus. I’m a glutton for punishment, if nothing else, and I’m dying for
his lips on mine again.
After the awkward dismissal of Krystal yesterday morning, seeing
Travis again was welcomed. I can’t stop thinking of his lips on mine; his
body beneath me. I’ve been craving him since he followed me outside of
work.
The light turns green and he inches us into the bustling intersection.
“Right up here.” I point and we jump the curb, turning in between two
buildings.
“You live behind a Kmart?”
“No. We’re parking behind a Kmart.”
“For…what purpose?” He makes his way to the back of the lot and puts
the Jeep into park. “You about to stab me to death? Don’t want an audience?
Is this the end of the movie?” he teases.
“Something like that.”
I unbuckle, swinging myself over the center console as I pull the lever
to the right of me and back his seat up from the steering wheel, reclining us
ever so slightly.
“Shit.” Is all he manages, before I crush my mouth down onto his.
I rub myself against his lap just as his hands latch onto my hips, pulling
me down tighter against his groin. I can feel him hardening between us. I
fucking love it.
Thank God my black jeans are stretchy. The tight fabric rubs effortlessly
against my throbbing clit, hitting me in the exact right spot, and I shudder
against the pressure.
“When we do have sex? I’m on top. Just like this.” I pant against his
lips. “You good with that?”
 “Like I’m gonna complain about your hot ass doing all the work?”
I stop my gyrations in his lap and pull back.
“I won’t be doing all the work.” I level him with a stare. “But I am in
charge.”
He rears his head back with the slightest tilt. “In charge? Oookay.” He
chuckles, almost timidly. “What are you, like a Domme or something?”
Silencing his nerves, I latch onto his bottom lip and suck. He groans as
I tug at the plump skin. Once I release it, I ease back, noting his eyes
opening slowly, hunger displayed in full force in front of me.
“There are no words for what I am.”

Travis

I PRACTICALLY IMPLODE FROM THE husky tone in Becks’ voice.

There are no words for what I am.
Fuck. Me.
She’s grinding in my lap like her life depends on it. And maybe it does.
Maybe she realized she needs this as bad as I do.
Ever since her lips melded with mine, I’ve thought of nothing else.
The guys at the shop have been making suckling kissy faces at me for
the past two days, claiming the shit-eating grin on my face has to be
because of a chick.
Am I that transparent? Do I even fucking care?
No. Not even in the slightest.
Becks moans against my lips, the minty bite of her breath packing a
mean punch. I suck her tongue into my mouth, in and out, in and out. Her
nails, clean of polish and perfectly shaped into squared tips, bite into my
shoulders as she writhes against me.
My hands slip beneath her black tank top and brush against the
cashmere soft skin of her back. Her flesh breaks out in a chill beneath my
fingertips and I smile against her lips.
 I force myself to break the kiss. “Wait. You said when.”
Her face bunches up in confusion as her chest heaves. The ink dancing
above her sternum moves in a wave as she sucks in breath after breath.
“You said when we have sex. Did you change your mind?” I smirk at the
state of us, making out like horny teenagers in the front seat of my Jeep.
She lets out a single laugh. “I did. It’s not gonna be tonight, though.”
My dick weeps at her words. Straight up starts bawling beneath the
confining denim.
“What?” I latch onto her neck, speaking with my mouth full of her.
“Why?”
She tips her head back, exposing more of her soft skin to my onslaught.
I take advantage and pepper kisses down her throat, making my way toward
those tits I’ve been dreaming of for months on end—only to have them
disappear from my trajectory as she leans back to stare at me.
“Because I’m in charge.” She grins down from her vantage point above
me; her eyebrow arched in question as she trails a fingernail down my
cheek. “Or did you already forget that?”
She leans forward, in tantalizing slowness, her lips against the shell of
my ear.
“We fuck when I say we fuck.”
Jesus Christ.
My mouth drops open a fraction, allowing the breath to seep from
between my lips.
Did I just come?
I might have. I’m not entirely sure.
I don’t have a chance to worry much about it, since she shoves her
tongue back into my mouth with such force I think I nearly swallow it.
She resumes her torturous rubbing against the front of my pants, in
perfect rhythm with Pop Smoke’s “DIOR” playing through the speakers of
my Jeep. My dick is harder than steel and there’s no way she doesn’t feel it
between us, straining to be inside her.
 Just the thought alone of sinking into her wet pussy has me moaning.
She picks up the pace of her bucking. Her nails dig in once more and
she bites at my lips, the little nips jolting my cock each time. Trailing her
lips outward once more, her hot breath against my ear, she growls, low and
primal, at the same moment he does in the song, and I swear I combust.
“I love how responsive you are.” She giggles, moving so her cheek is
pressed against mine, speaking low into my ear. Her heady pants against my
neck send shivers down my spine. “Each time I do this”—she sucks against
the skin just below my earlobe—“I can feel you harden further beneath me.
Or when I do this…” Her nails scrape down the outside of my arms, trailing
over the fabric of my T-shirt and onto my bare skin. I hiss, and my head
drops back against my seat. She chuckles against my skin, loving her power
over me. “You do that.”
“It’s no secret that my body reacts to you, Rebecca.”
My skin burns, and then chills as she shoots up straight; her lips
disconnected from my neck and her hands falling to her lap between us.
Wait, no. Come back.
“Don’t call me that.” Is all she says, her voice devoid of the sensual tone
from just moments ago.
“Sorry.” I cradle her head between my hands and bring her lips back
down to mine, kissing her gently. “I’d prefer to call you mine, anyway.”
Her hands stay limp between us, but at least she’s kissing me back with
equal fervor now. I growl, needing her back fully in the state of mind she
was in just moments ago before I fucked it up. Flicking the tip of my tongue
against her top lip, I suck it into my mouth, plumping the flesh between my
teeth.
“Come back to me, Becks.” I tilt my head, gaining easier access. “Give
in to this, let yourself want me. I know that you do.”
Like a switch flicked back on, she drives her hands through my hair,
tugging at the roots. That’s it, baby.
She’s recharged, her grinding hitting me in just the right spot that she
might as well have her hands down my pants, stroking me. I like to think,
now that she’s finally letting go, that maybe she decided her mutual want for
me is greater than whatever the hell it is that’s holding her back—the
laundry list of reasons she gave me outside of Elixir.
“Say my name,” she pleads breathlessly, and the Jeep begins rocking
with her hard thrusts.
The tingling of my impending orgasm is nearing, and I’m still in both
my boxers and fucking jeans. Hearing her speak in that tone sure as shit isn’t
helping.
“I’m gonna come, Becks.” I manage to spit out. “Fuck, I want you so
fucking bad, but you gotta stop.”
“No. Come for me.” Her hand slips between us and grips me through
both layers of fabric. “Say my name when you do.” She latches onto my
earlobe, sucking the soft tissue between her teeth like taffy.
My thighs tense and I clench my ass, fighting off the end—I don’t want
this over with, but I can’t hold back much longer. Between her dry humping
me for the past twenty minutes, her hand caressing me, and those sexy ass
lips of hers performing magic on my skin, I’m doomed. My balls seize, and
the static electricity takes over my lower back, spasming as she continues
working me over.
“Fuckkkkk.” I groan, just as the fever takes over, the built-up pressure in
my balls seizes, and my release fires as I come, seeing stars dance behind my
eyelids. “Fuck, Becks. Yes…yes.”
I pump upward against her, feeling the wetness spread over my thigh
like a sticky paste.
Real fucking cute.
She’s stopped her gyrations, but her hand continues working over the
front of my zipper. Her movements have slowed, almost as if she’s feeling
me out—seeing how perfectly I fit in her palm.
A lick up my neck expels the last of my seed. The wetness is
uncomfortable, but if she wanted to stay on my lap for five more hours, I
wouldn’t complain once.
“Well, that was hot.” She smirks down at me as she raises her head
from beside mine.
“That was…shit.” I laugh.
I’m glad I’m sitting since the smile she graces me with would surely
cripple me otherwise.
She dismounts with the grace of a gymnast from my lap, swinging
herself back over the seat, and situates her shirt more securely over her
chest. The chest I never did end up getting my mouth on. Her hand reaches
for the handle and I shoot forward, ready to grab her and haul her back to
me if need be.
“What are you—”
“I needed to pick up a few things. My apartment is just a block over.”
She motions around the building with a jerk of her head.
“You aren’t gonna invite me up?” I can only manage a half tilt to my
lips, knowing full well what her answer is going to be.
“Nope.” She pops the P like bubble gum and exits my truck.
I watch her ass as she continues walking away from me, before rolling
my window down and calling out a simple ‘Hey!’ to her.
Peering over her shoulder, she finally says, “Don’t forget, I said when.”
I slump back in my seat, watching her cute little ass sashay toward the
minimart.
The one word is all that’s keeping me seated.
It’ll happen.
We’ll happen.
Looks like it’s just a matter of when.
 CHAPTER FIVE
Travis

“WHAT’S THAT SHIT-EATING GRIN FOR?”

My rapid-fire fingers hover over my text to Becks as I peer up at my
uncle.
“Huh?”
“‘Huh’,” he mimics, scrunching up his face to mock me. He stops, his
hand on the door to the refrigerator, and points an accusatory finger toward
the iPhone in my hand. “You. That. What’s got you so giddy?” His lips tilt
into a knowing smile. “Or maybe I should ask, who’s the chick?”
Oh, pal, if only you fucking knew.
I stifle my laugh. “No one. Just a funny meme,” I lie.
“Right...” He nods off my fib, knowing full well I’m a lying sack of shit.
My uncle knows me well—too well—and probably better than anyone else.
He’s been my biggest supporter for as long as I can recall.
I honestly don’t really remember my father, but if he’s anything like the
stories I’ve heard from others, that’s probably a good thing. Cole filled the
shoes that deadbeat left behind, and I never truly felt like I was missing out
like other kids did around me who grew up without their fathers. He never
once missed a single sports game, and he always cheered the loudest. He sat
through countless hours of torturous middle school band concerts and
eventually taught me how to play the drums properly, like Tommy Lee.
I caught my first fish under his direction. He showed me how to do
simple household chores like mow the lawn and load the dishwasher,
allowing me to help out my mom while she worked three jobs to support us.
He even gave me my first job at his auto body shop, teaching me anything
and everything I needed to know about machinery.
All in all, Cole Palmer is good shit, much as he might try to tell you
otherwise.
“I need to run to the store. You boys need anything?” my mom chirps as
she enters the kitchen with a little extra pep in her step today.
Boys.
I roll my eyes.
Like Cole being five years younger than she is makes him a boy still,
and I’m of legal age to get smashed in public.
We’re fuckin’ men around here, Ma.
She might run a little loose with the term, but Jamie Palmer deserves
the gold star of all gold stars. She’s worked herself to the bone, day in and
day out, and always managed to shower me with love and attention. I’ve
never felt taken for granted or unwanted. She’s a goddamn rock star and she
doesn’t even know it.
When I told Becks I was living with my mother until I saved up for a
house, it was only partly true. Yes, I do plan to eventually move out.
Somehow, I don’t think the forty-five-year-old man still living with his
mumsie gets the ladies’ panties wet—but I do feel a sense of obligation. My
mom has given up everything for me, worked tirelessly to provide me with
some semblance of a normal life, and even went so far as to secure me name
brand items when she could. As a kid, that stuff never struck me as anything
crazy, but looking back on it, I know how much she struggled to get me
those ugly ass Jordans I so desperately needed, or that Hotrod set everyone
else had. At the time, being so young, that stuff didn’t register. But now? I
see those small things—and can appreciate that they were actually huge.
Truth be told, I really just don’t want her to be alone.
“I’m good. Thanks, though,” I respond in short.
 She pecks a kiss to the top of my head as she rounds the fake granite-
top island and snipes the orange juice out of my uncle’s hand. Unscrewing
the top, she takes a healthy gulp.
“Really, J? Have some manners,” he jokingly chastises her while
following suit, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. My eyebrow rises
and I shake my head at the two of them. “What? She did it first.”
“All right, children,” I tease, finishing off my text. “I’m headed into the
city later. You need anything before I leave?”
“No, sweetie, I’m good. Thank you, though.” My mom’s warm smile is a
beautiful sight these days. She seems more carefree somehow.
I wonder if she’s dating…I shudder at the thought of my mom with a
guy in her life, shutting that shit down instantly. That would be so fucking
weird.
“Will you be gone overnight?” she questions, a little too hopeful
sounding if you ask me.
“Most likely. I’ll have my key, though, so don’t wait up for me.” I remind
her.
“What’s got you traipsing into the city so often now?” Cole raises an
eyebrow in question.
It’s not that I won’t ever tell him about Becks. Shit, I’m trying to make
her mine—he’d know eventually. But I can see him throwing a conniption
fit over it, and while I’m trying to win her over, I’d rather not have him
nipping at my heels. I had just texted her now with a plan for the night—
one I’m hoping she won’t turn down.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I mean…I would, yeah. That’s why I asked, fucknut.” He grins.
“Language!” My mom’s palm connects with the back of his head.
“Maybe you should be a little less concerned with my whereabouts and
a little more concerned with winning back that girlfriend of yours, huh,
motherfucker?”
“Will you—” The next slap to the skull is for me. I wince at the residual
sting.
“It’s a work in process, fucker.” Cole’s grin is wide now. “And don’t
change the damn subject.”
Mom looks between the two of us, her mouth agape.
“If you were making any significant progress with that, you’d be with
her right now and off my fucking back, old man.”
“TRAVIS AARON PALMER! That is enough. The both of you.”
It’s never good when that middle name gets tossed around…
I chuckle, until her deep brown eyes meet mine and breathe fire in my
direction.
“He fuckin’ started it,” I whine, gesturing to Cole. She only tilts her
head at me, glaring further. “Shit.” Fuck. “Sorry.”
Lobbing her head back with a groan and snagging her keys from the
countertop, she exits the kitchen. It’s only when she’s at the front door we
hear her call back, “I need some damn estrogen in this house!”
Oh, don’t worry…I’m workin’ on it, Ma.
 CHAPTER SIX
Becks

I PRESS THE BUTTON FOR the thirtieth floor repeatedly, hoping to

have the doors close before anyone else can hop into the elevator with me.
F. M. Enterprises is a massive glass structure overlooking the city, with Ford
Michaelson seated in his ivory tower on the top floor. My agent.
Sleazeball.
Asshole.
Rich man with a God complex.
But he turns wannabes into the real deal, so here I am.
I’ve only been working with his agency for a little over a month. He
told me he would get me noticed. That my beauty and expanse of artwork
across my skin would have everyone in the city knowing my name in a short
time—the rest of the country shortly after that—followed by the whole
world.
I’m still waiting.
While I can’t deny that his name backing me has opened up more
opportunities for me, the climb has been gradual. I was expecting shit to
take off like a G6 overnight with Ford’s brand attached to my portfolio, but
like most things I expect, the reality is quite different.
The metal doors ping loudly, announcing my presence, as his secretary,
Jessica, gives me a curt smile.
“I’m here for—”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 The constable took the hair and placed it carefully between the
blank pages of his notebook. He was not quite certain as to its
precise importance, but he was very amenable to suggestion. “’E’s
dead all right,” he announced portentously.
In the background Mr. Priestley was hovering uneasily. The
aching to escape was getting almost unbearable. Whatever this
extraordinary girl might or might not be, her continued proximity to
the representative of the Law was intolerable. Escape first, and
explanations, perhaps, afterwards; but anyhow, escape first! He cast
agonising glances from her to the invitingly open window, and from
the open window to her. The ridiculous child did not seem even to
understand the awful gravity of her position.
Casting discretion to the winds, he caught her eye with his own
rolling optic, jerked his head backward and then nodded it towards
the window; he could not make his meaning plainer without words.
He had made it only too plain. The constable might not have
possessed the brightest intellect in Duffley, but Mr. Priestley’s
agitated eye and jerky leaping would have conveyed suspicion to the
most charitable. The constable rose portentously to his feet. Mr.
Priestley edged towards the window. The constable followed him.
Unfortunately for Mr. Priestley’s plans it was his opponent this
time who had the revolver. Nor did he scruple to employ it. “You
stand still!” ordered the constable in a dignified bellow, the inner
meaning of the situation growing plainer to him every minute. Here
was a perfectly good murder, and here were two people in a state of
considerable agitation, and here also was a revolver. This wanted
looking into. “You stand still!” he repeated, advancing to look into it.
Mr. Priestley stood still; but he did not stand silent. “Run!” he
shouted suddenly to the girl, unawed even by the menacing revolver.
“Run for it—window—I’ll look after this chap! Get away!”
“Ho!” said the policeman, and promptly placed his burly body
between the girl and the window. “Would, would you? You’ll ’ave to
comealongerme, both of you. Now then, ’ands up!”
It is difficult not to accede to the request of a formidable man
when his demand is emphasised by a judiciously wielded revolver,
and there was no doubt that the constable was now a very
formidable man indeed. The state of affairs had become even
clearer to him. Here were not only two murderers, caught quite
literally red-handed, but here also was himself, and at the business
end of a revolver. Even the constable could put this two and two
together and make the answer “sergeant.”
After a momentary hesitation, Mr. Priestley’s hands wobbled up.
After a still longer hesitation, those of the girl did also. The happy,
carefree expression had departed from her face; she looked like a
lady who had made advances to a cow and found that she was
toying with a bull. The corpse took a hasty glance round and uttered
a faint, strangled sound, but spoke no word; his not to reason why,
his but to do and die. He went on dying.
By means of a series of brisk commands, punctuated by prods
of the revolver, the constable manœuvred his captives into line
facing the door. They jumped nimbly to execute his pleasure. Then
their wrists adjacent to one another were gripped, there was a sharp
click, and the sound ensued as of a heavy body stepping back with
satisfaction.
“Now you can take ’em down,” observed the constable almost
benevolently, regarding his handiwork with modest pride. “And stand
still while I make out me report, if you please. An’ don’t you try any
more monkey-tricks with me.” He drew out a stub of pencil from his
pocket, seated himself at the desk, laid the revolver in front of him
and contemplated the two with a truculent eye.
They returned his gaze gloomily, even Mr. Priestley. Mr.
Priestley had never before been tethered by the wrist to that of a
particularly charming young woman, and he might have been
pardoned for feeling a little exhilaration in the idea; yet his
countenance was completely lacking in exhilaration. A large number
of emotions, it is true, were represented there, but exhilaration was
not among them. Nor did the young woman evince any greater
delight in being tethered to Mr. Priestley. Handcuffs evidently brought
her soul no joy. By her expression, anybody less addicted to the use
of handcuffs would have been hard to find. She now wore the air of
one who has stepped gaily into a train labelled Birmingham, and
finds herself in Crewe; a blend of dismay, annoyance, bewilderment
as to the precise whereabouts, and anxiety regarding the return to
the starting-point. The corpse was now prudently keeping its eyes
tightly closed.
And then events happened with a rapidity that would have done
credit to an American Cinema producer. With one dive Mr. Priestley
was at the desk, and the revolver in his hand. With another he was
at the nearest door, and lo! it was open. The young woman, having
no option, followed his movements about the room with the jerky
leaps of a fish manœuvring in mid-air, at the end of a line; this was
not the moment to consider feminine deportment, and Mr. Priestley
quite rightly did not stop to do so.
The door he had flung open was not that by which they had
entered the room; it gave access to a shallow cupboard, having
shelves across its upper half and tolerably empty below. Mr. Priestley
viewed it for one-fifth of a second with exultation, then he turned
back to the thoroughly bewildered constable. Rural constables get
very little time for attending the cinema.
“Get in there,” said Mr. Priestley very grimly to the constable, “as
you value your life.” And he in turn pointed his words by a recourse
to the argumentum ad hominem.
The constable did value his life. He did not know very much of
what was happening, but he did know that. He got in.
Mr. Priestley closed the door on him and turned the key. Then
he bent down, jerked the young woman’s right wrist somewhere into
the neighbourhood of the small of her back, and curved his free arm
round her knees. The next moment she was swung off her feet and
hoisted up in the air, while this new cave-man edition of Mr. Priestley
trotted with hasty, if slightly wobbly steps out into the night. Thus did
the knight not only rescue his lady, but even carried her off with him
in the orthodox way.
The corpse was so far galvanised as to sit up and stare after
their swaying figures. Then he, too, rose and fled into the night,
uttering strange noises.
 Chapter V.
Confusing the Issue
In the shadow of a shrubbery two hitherto respectable English
citizens clutched one another with ecstatic fingers, moaning feebly.
Through uncurtained French windows just in front of them a large
policeman could be seen, flourishing a revolver. The words, “You
stand still!” floated out into the peaceful night.
“Oh, my sacred hat!” moaned the shorter of the two citizens in
the shrubbery. “This is better than the films—far, far, better. Why go
to the cinema, when you can stage this sort of thing in your own
home?”
The other citizen, a tall, lanky figure with bowed shoulders,
removed his pince-nez, misty with emotion, and polished them
hastily. His long body quivered with guilty joy. “Yes, but look here,
Doyle,” he said reluctantly, “what’s going to happen? We can’t have
Laura taken off to the police-station.”
“Why not?” asked that young woman’s future brother-in-law
unfeelingly. “It’d do her all the good in the world. And I wouldn’t bail
her out either. Oh, sportsman!” he added, as more words floated out
on the still air. “He’s trying to get her to bolt for it, see? Strikes me
that old Priestley’s coming through this with colours flying.”
“He is,” agreed Guy. “But I really think we ought to intervene
now, you know. Matters have been taken rather out of our hands,
with this ass of a policeman interfering. We don’t want to get
involved in a conspiracy to make a bigger hass of the law than it
usually is. We’d better go along and explain before things get
worse.”
“Good God, no!” croaked Mr. Doyle with emotion. “For Heaven’s
sake don’t spoil things now, Nesbitt. They’re just beginning to get
interesting. We couldn’t have got a policeman into it more neatly if
we’d plotted for a month. Just think how his presence is going to
intensify our friend’s reactions, my dear chap!”
“That’s true enough,” said Guy quivering again.
“And you needn’t worry about things,” pursued Mr. Doyle
earnestly. “Not so long as Laura’s on the spot. You leave it to her. I’d
back that girl to— Hullo! What the blazes is happening now?”
In the lighted room two uneasy backs now confronted their
audience. The constable could be seen approaching them with awful
determination in every line of his massive form.
“Great Scott!” observed Mr. Doyle a moment later, in tones of
respect. “He’s handcuffed ’em. Handcuffed ’em together. Handcuffed
Laura to—well, well, I’ll be blowed!” One gathered that the person
who ventured to handcuff Laura had earned Mr. Doyle’s deepest
veneration.
Guy began to chuckle silently. The idea of a handcuffed Laura
appeared to appeal to him too.
“Keep still!” Mr. Doyle implored, recovering from the first shock
of this novel spectacle. “Oh, Nesbitt, keep still! We mustn’t interrupt
this. Oh, sacred pigs, how gorgeous! Look, he’s going to make out a
report. My dear chap, can you see Laura’s face? We’ll rescue ’em
later somehow, but—oh, cripes!” He clung to a laurel-branch and
abandoned himself to helpless giggling.
Guy, scarcely less self-controlled, caught at his arm. “Look! That
friend of yours is turning the tables. Oh, well done, man, well done!
Look—he’s going to put him in the cupboard. He—well, I’ll be
hanged!”
With damp eyes they watched Mr. Priestley’s imitation of an
American film-drama. An instant later a heavy body in swift if
somewhat unsteady motion, lumbered past their hiding-place;
peeping cautiously out, they were just able to catch the look of alarm
and despondency which was being worn by the most disconcerted
damsel in England at that moment. They clapped their hands
hurriedly over their mouths and clung to one another again. Then
came George.
“Did you fellows see?” demanded George weakly. “Did you
see?”
 “We did, oh admirable corpse,” moaned Mr. Doyle and promptly
clung to this more solid support. “And do you mean to say you lay
through it all and never gave yourself away?”
“Don’t think I did, no,” replied George modestly. “But look here, I
say, what on earth are we going to do? That bobby’s rather messed
things up, hasn’t he?”
“We’ll give them ten minutes to get away,” Guy grinned, “and
then we’ll liberate him. It’s all right, I think. Laura will take her cue
from that handcuff, and see the game’s up. She’ll bring him back
here, and we’ll have to file the thing off. Do you know, I wondered all
the time whether it would come off at all (the plot, I mean, not the
handcuff), but I never dreamed it would fail as gloriously as that.”
“She got him up to scratch all right,” George observed.
“Something to do with letters, he was babbling about. Anyhow, he
pooped off like a good ’un. Well, what about wandering along to the
drawing-room and telling the other two what’s happened? I say, we’ll
have to let that bobby out soon, or he’ll have the house over. Listen
to him!”
They listened. Through the French windows now came sounds
as of a large person in distress, whoopings, bellowings and thuds,
mingled now and then with muffled solos on the policeman’s whistle.
“We’ll give him five minutes,” Guy decided. “Come on, then.”
Doyle caught his arm, his face alight with new excitement. “I
say, Nesbitt,” he spluttered, “don’t go in yet. I—I’ve had a
tremendous brain-wave. Look here—don’t you see what the gods
have sent us?”
“Beyond a bellowing bobby,” said Guy, “and an awkward pair of
handcuffs, I don’t, no.”
“Why,” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, now almost incoherent with
excitement, “why, don’t you see? A detective story in real life! The
stock beginning of half the thrillers ever published! Mysterious
stranger murdered, bobby surprises suspicious couple who may or
may not be guilty, couple turn tables on bobby and make their
escape, and when bobby is released—the corpse has disappeared!
Man, it’s great! We must make use of it somehow!”
They stared at each other. George stared at both of them. He
was not quite sure what was happening, but as long as they did not
want him to put on another false beard or spoil another white shirt
with red ink, he was perfectly game.
Over Guy’s features spread an unholy smile. “This wants
looking into,” he agreed. “Let’s to the drawing-room.”
Disregarding the muffled frenzy from the library, they went.
Two agitated women rose at them as one girl, and danced
before them.
“Guy, dear,” demanded that gentleman’s wife, “what has been
happening? We heard the shot, and then. What is that curious
whistling noise?”
“Pat, tell me the whole story,” Miss Howard danced with
impatience, “or I’ll scream! I couldn’t have stood it a minute longer. I
don’t care how strict your orders were, we were coming out the very
next minute. Weren’t we, Cynthia?”
With all possible haste Guy put them out of their misery. He
went on to mention Mr. Doyle’s brilliant scheme.
“Oh, dear!” Cynthia collapsed weakly into a chair. “Guy, this is
too silly. Poor Laura! Handcuffs! Oh, dear!”
But Miss Howard was made of sterner material. Disregarding
her sister’s interesting predicament, she concentrated on the matter
in hand. “Clues!” she announced, wrinkling her own pretty forehead
in the same way as that which, in her sister’s case, had led directly
to Mr. Priestley’s undoing. “Wait a minute—let me think! The body’s
gone. Yes, but how did it go? It was dragged! Where to? Obviously
the river, where there was a boat waiting in readiness to receive it.
How’s that?”
The others looked at her with respect.
“But look here,” George interposed, “what’s it all about? I mean,
what are you getting at? What’s the idea?”
The others looked at him, without respect.
“They want to set the scene for an ordinary conventional
shilling-dreadful, George, in order to find out what would really
happen in actual life instead of fiction,” Cynthia told him gently. “I’m
not at all sure that I approve. Anyhow, never mind those children;
come and sit here and tell me how you liked being shot. But do, for
goodness’ sake, take off that dreadful beard!” she concluded with a
little squeak, collapsing again.
 George did as he was bid, and tugged manfully at his spirit-
gummed beard. Having tugged the tears into his eyes, he gave up
the effort in despair and continued to wear his face-embroidery.
The others were busily conferring.
“A sack of potatoes is what we want,” Doyle remarked. “We
don’t want to have to drag George on the seat of his trousers, but
unless you can suggest anything else——!” He looked inquiringly at
Guy.
“I don’t think we have a sack of potatoes,” Guy replied, “and
there’s always the possibility that George might object. What about a
rug, with George sitting on it? That ought to give the right track.”
“That’s fine,” Dora agreed breathlessly. “Come on, George;
you’re wanted.”
“At once, do you think?” Doyle demurred.
“Of course, idiot!” retorted his fiancée frankly. “We must let him
hear the corpse being dragged out.”
“Dora,” said Mr. Doyle, “you’re a wonder. Come on, George!”
Not altogether willingly, George came.
In the hall Doyle held up his hand. “We’re murderers, don’t
forget,” he whispered. “Now, where the murderer in real life usually
goes wrong (the one who gets caught, I mean) is, as my fellow
criminologist will tell you, through insufficient attention to detail. Take
care of the details, and the body takes care of itself. Let us therefore
concentrate upon details. We are a couple of genteel desperadoes,
aren’t we? Therefore, we’re in boiled shirts and dinner-jackets.
Good! But we are on a river-trip, and we don’t want to be recognised
by stray passers-by; therefore we wear overcoats and hats, and
mufflers across our mouths. Overcoats, hats and mufflers forward,
please?” He grabbed his own coat and began to struggle into it.
“Is that really necessary?” asked George plaintively.
“Not for you. You’re only a corpse. For us, yes. Ready, Nesbitt?
Then you creep very softly in by the door here, George, and take up
your former position. We will enter by the French windows, talking in
gruff voices in a foreign tongue, to match your beard and
decorations. We are, as a matter of fact, inhabitants of Jugo-
Chzechovina, and converse almost entirely in ‘z’s’ and ‘x’s.’ Let her
rip!”
 George crept dutifully off, and Guy, pulling his soft hat well down
over his eyes, led the way down the passage. Mr. Doyle hovered
near his fiancée, who was keeping a superintendent’s eye upon all of
them. “Do you realise this means our furniture, old girl?” he grinned
at her.
“Furniture? Pat—what do you mean?”
“Why, isn’t this the chance of a life-time? I’ve got a scoop here,
backed by that bobby’s evidence, that’s going to be worth a whole
houseful of furniture, and a watering-can for the garden as well.
What else do you think I’ve been engineering it all for? Thzmx zp! as
they say in Jugo-Chzechovina.” He sped after his host, winding his
muffler across the lower part of his face as he went. Dora gazed
after him with a very different expression on her face from that
usually seen by the public.
When the two approached the French windows a moment later,
the noise was still in full swing, though now spasmodic and
conveying a somewhat dispirited effect; but they had hardly stamped
over the threshold and exchanged a few gruff “z’s” and “x’s” before it
ceased abruptly.
“Eel ehcoot, ler jongdarm, sxs zz,” grunted the shorter of the two
Jugo-Chzechovinians. “Oo eh ler zbodyx? Ahxha! Venneh soor,
Zorx! Soor ler mattoh-x, zzz.”
With stealthy movements and sibilant noises they spread a mat
beside George and rolled him on to it. Refusing to wait in the wings
this time, Cynthia and Dora appeared in the doorway to watch the
performance, the latter going so far as to lend a helping hand,
tapping about on the parquet flooring with her high heels; for, as she
very reasonably pointed out to her fellow-conspirators as they bent
over the corpse together: “Il faut absolument xsx avoir une vamp,
zzz?”
The inert George was then conveyed on his rug across the floor,
over the threshold into the garden (involving a four-inch drop on the
small of his back) and across the lawn to the river at the bottom.
There Mr. Doyle caused all four of them to jump energetically about,
so as to leave the choicest collection of footprints that any sleuth
could desire, after which they returned to the house.
 From the cupboard in the library all this time had come a silence
even more eloquent than the former protestations.
“Anything else to be done?” asked Mr. Doyle, thoughtfully, when
they had returned again to the hall. He seemed to have taken charge
of affairs for the moment and Dora, observing the gleam in his eye,
had no difficulty in understanding why. She gave her fiancé the credit
of being an artist; he was, she knew, quite capable of arranging the
whole thing purely for art’s sake. But the vision of that elusive
furniture was a very powerful aid to art.
She was very ready to encourage him. “Clues!” she said,
wrinkling her forehead again. “We must have some more clues. But
what?”
“It’s a pity we’ve got to do things in such a hurry,” remarked Guy.
“This sort of affair wants properly thinking out. I don’t see how we’re
going to arrange a real set of interdependent clues, on the spur of
the moment.”
“Well, I can think of one at any rate,” said Mr. Doyle thirstily.
“Blood! When all’s said and done, there’s nothing like blood. The
river was all right, but blood is well known to be thicker. Some blood,
please, somebody!”
“No, I’m hanged if I will,” said George with decision, catching the
predatory gleam in his eye. “I’ve done my share.”
“But only in red ink, George,” Mr. Doyle pointed out wistfully. But
George, muttering about “this infernal beard,” was already on his
way upstairs and to the bathroom.
“I suppose you haven’t got a spot of blood to spare, have you?”
Mr. Doyle inquired politely of his host.
“Pat, I won’t have you after my husband’s blood,” Cynthia
interposed.
“Besides,” added her husband, “I gave away most of mine
yesterday. I’m afraid I’m almost bloodless at the moment.”
“And it’s practically useless trying to get any out of a stone, I
understand,” said Mr. Doyle thoughtfully. “How exceedingly awkward.
I shall have to furnish some myself. I take it that you have at any rate
a lethal weapon of some sort on the premises; a safety razor, for
instance. Lead me to the slaughter, then, please.”
 “Don’t bleed to death, darling one, will you?” remarked Dora with
anxiety.
“Dora, you touch me,” said her fiancé with emotion. “This
solicitude is admirable. No, for your sake, my dearest, I will try very
hard not to bleed to death.”
“I was thinking of the furniture we’re going to get out of this,”
retorted his fiancée frankly. “We don’t want it wasted.”
Mr. Doyle moved with dignity upstairs.
Guy, following him, looked back over his shoulder. “I think you’d
better turn the library light out,” he said. “We don’t want any more
unwelcome visitors. And turn all the other lights out as well, will you,
Cynthia? I’ve been thinking that we may want an alibi later.”
Cynthia turned into the drawing-room to carry out this request;
Dora made her way out into the garden to enter the library once
more. She was an astute young woman, and she had recognised
that a light turned out by somebody entering the library from the
house instead of the garden might give the policeman material for
thought upon the wrong lines.
Guy’s chance reference to further visitors proved to be not wide
of the mark. As Dora was tap-tapping out into the garden again after
extinguishing the light, a form loomed up out of the darkness in front
of her.
“Hullo, Mrs. Nesbitt,” observed the form cheerfully. “Bit late to
call, I know, but I saw a light as I was passing (seems to be out now)
and it’s rather urgent, so I thought you wouldn’t mind. Oh, I—I beg
your pardon. I thought it was Mrs. Nesbitt.”
If Dora had been nonplussed it was only for a moment. In rather
less than a second and a half she had determined on her line of
action. Drawing the chiffon scarf she was wearing across the lower
part of her face, she clutched violently at the form’s arm. “Murder!”
she exclaimed tensely. “There’s been murder done in there. No—
don’t go in, you’ll only make matters worse. Go for the police—
quick!”
The form (a thick, short form it was) staggered back. “M-
Murder?” it echoed. “Good gracious, you don’t mean Mr. or Mrs.
Nesbitt?”
 “No!” Dora replied impatiently. “They’re out of the way. They’ve
been got out of the way, if you must know. It’s nothing to do with
them. It’s the Crown Prince of—no, I daren’t tell you. My own life
hangs by a hair. Quick, I must go; I can’t keep them waiting any
longer. The police—run for the police!”
“Th-th-them?” repeated the now thoroughly agitated form. “Good
Heavens, do you mean the—the murderers?”
Dora laughed bitterly. “You can call them that, of course. They
call themselves executioners. It’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. But
I mustn’t stay a moment longer. If he caught us we shouldn’t be alive
another second!”
“Who is he?” gasped the form.
“The Man with the Broken Nose,” Dora replied in sardonic tones.
“You’ve never heard of him, I suppose? Oh, God, would that I hadn’t
either!” Her voice broke with considerable artistry. Dora was certainly
wasted in revue.
“But look here!” squeaked the form. “Who is—the Crown
Prince? Good gracious, but——”
Dora shook his arm with awful agitation. “Hush!” she whispered
tensely. “He’s coming. Run, man—run for your life! And for the
police, of course. Run!” With a final shake she broke away from him
and darted in the direction of the river.
The form stood for a hectic moment gazing after her. Then it too
lumbered away at a brisk jog-trot. It did not lumber in the direction of
the library.
Considerably pleased with herself, Dora returned to the house.
Only Cynthia and George (now beardless) were available, sitting, a
little uneasily, on the couch in the now darkened drawing-room. Guy
and Mr. Doyle were still about their bloody business.
“George, I’m surprised at you,” remarked Miss Howard
facetiously, when this state of affairs had been made known to her.
“Sitting there and holding hands with Cynthia in the dark. Why
haven’t you been up and busy, like me? Listen to what sister’s been
doing for the cause.” With no little zest Dora embarked upon an
account of her encounter with the form.
She was just finishing it when the other two conspirators
returned, Mr. Doyle complaining bitterly of weakness and requiring
his fiancée to support him on his feet. Shaking him off, that unfeeling
young woman promptly began to recite her adventure over again.
“But who on earth was it?” Cynthia wondered.
“Search me!” responded Miss Howard tersely. “I didn’t stop to
ask him his name and address. Anyhow, you see what I’ve done.
Provided a new and independent witness, and filled him up with just
the sort of tale we wanted—Crown Prince and executioners and
gangs and distressed damsel and all the rest of it. The Man with the
Broken Nose! Do you know, I’m rather proud of that title; I feel
there’s a good thriller behind that title, simply waiting to be written.
Oh, by the way, here’s a souvenir,” She tossed a handkerchief into
Cynthia’s lap. “I extracted it from his coat-sleeve in the intervals of
shaking same. I could have relieved him of his watch and chain if I’d
wanted too, and probably his collar and tie as well; he was far too
dithery to notice little details like that. Most useful knowledge I’ve
gained, if I ever take to crime in real earnest.”
Cynthia was examining the handkerchief by the light of a candle
which Guy had lit. “R.F. in one corner,” she announced. “Who on
earth is R. F., Guy?”
“Reginald Foster!” replied her husband promptly. “The biggest
bore in creation.” He began to shake again with unholy glee. “Have
you any blood left, Doyle?”
“Precious little, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m not parting
with it. There may be a few scrapings in the cup, though. Why?”
“Just an idea. Here, George; something you can do. On the hall-
table you’ll see a cup, bearing traces of blood. Wipe that
handkerchief round inside it, and then go and drop it on the river’s
brim—where we’ll hope that not even the Inspector from Scotland
Yard will mistake it for a primrose. Hurry, won’t you?”
George hurried.
“I think you’re being perfectly horrible, Guy,” said his wife. “Why
couldn’t you go on using red-ink, like civilised human beings?”
“Because red-ink when analysed does not respond to the tests
for human blood, wife.”
“But good gracious, you’re not expecting matters to get as far as
that, are you?”
 “I was once a Boy Scout, Cynthia,” Mr. Doyle intervened, “and
my motto was ‘Be Prepared.’ It still is. Another of my mottoes,” he
added thoughtfully, “if I remember aright, was ‘Zing-a-zing, Bom
Bom!’ But don’t ask me what that means, because I never could
discover. It’s probably Jugo-Chzechovinian.”
“But what did you do with the blood?” Cynthia pursued.
“Oh, just sprinkled it about in convenient dollops, like the gentle
dew from Heaven, you know.”
“Well, goodness knows what’s going to come of all this,” Cynthia
sighed.
“I say,” remarked George, with the appearance of careful
thought, “wouldn’t it be a good idea to put your brother and sister off
now? Er—supposed to be coming on Tuesday, aren’t they? Yes,”
said George weightily, “if I were you I should put them off.”
“We’re certainly going to get into the most dreadful mess,” said
Cynthia, not, however, relieving George’s mind.
“Your library carpet’s got into that already,” said Mr. Doyle
consolingly.
“Enough of this chatty badinage!” Dora broke in. “Do you know
that Mr. Reginald Foster has gone galloping off for the police? He
won’t find him, because he won’t think of looking in your library
cupboard, but he’ll ring up the nearest station; and then things are
going to get busy. We’ve got to work out a plan of campaign.
Remember I’ve had it put on record that our host and hostess were
lured away from the house.”
“Well, there’s nothing to contradict that,” Guy agreed. “It’s lucky
we gave the maids the week-end off, just in case of emergencies.
Emergencies seem to be arising every minute. I’ve thought out a
plan. I’ll get George and you, Doyle, to help me push the car out of
the garage and a little way down the road, and then I’ll come driving
back, making as much noise as I can, and generally enact the
householder arriving home after a long ride. I surmise that those
strange sounds, which seem to have died away altogether, will then
break out with renewed force from the library, and I shall liberate our
prisoner. I will then deal with any other emergencies as they crop up.
It doesn’t matter about our stories coinciding, because your
household won’t have heard or know anything at all. So, after you’ve
helped me with the car, you three sneak home and go straight to
bed.”
“All except me,” murmured Mr. Doyle, “who will be summoned to
the telephone a few minutes after the prisoner has been liberated.
‘Knowing that such a distinguished journalist was in the vicinity, Mr.
Nesbitt, etc.’”
Guy grinned at him guiltily. “You’re not going to make a
newspaper story of it too, Doyle, surely?”
“You bet I am,” rejoined Mr. Doyle grimly. “And a houseful of
furniture too. My motives, let it be understood, are entirely
mercenary.”
“Well, good luck to them! Now then, here comes George; are we
all ready?”
“I say,” said Cynthia suddenly. “I wonder what’s happening to
poor Laura all this time? It’s nearly half-past eleven. Oughtn’t we to
do something about her? But I suppose we can’t!”
It was the first time anybody had given a thought to poor Laura
for almost an hour.
“By Jove, yes, Laura,” agreed her husband. “We must keep an
eye open for her. I hope she doesn’t bring that fellow gaol-bird of
hers back at an awkward moment. And what the deuce are we going
to do about him?”
Had Guy but known it, that question was already in process of
being answered for him at a spot some considerable distance away.
 Chapter VI.
Adventures of a Pair of Handcuffs
When Mr. Priestley performed his masterly retreat from the
scene of his crime it was without any definite plan in his head
beyond reaching the waiting two-seater and reaching it very quickly.
Blundering through shrubberies and over flower-beds, his
speechless burden still in his arms, he made his way by a sort of
blind instinct to the hedge that bordered the road. Through it he
plunged manfully, heedless of the prickly twigs which scratched his
face and hands and the dangling legs of his companion (a fact of
which the companion herself was anything but heedless), and then
at last set his burden on her feet.
But even then there was no time to waste in useless
explanations or converse. Grabbing her handcuffed hand with a brief
grunt, Mr. Priestley, that suddenly transformed man of leisure, set off
at a round pace down the road. His companion, having no say in the
matter, and no breath to say it with had she had one, followed. They
reached the car and fell inside in a congested bundle.
The fact that it was Mr. Priestley’s left wrist which was tethered,
made things a little awkward. For them to sit decorously side by side
in the orthodox manner was out of the question, for the car’s gear-
levers were on the right.
“I’ll stand on the running-board,” Mr. Priestley panted, “till we’re
safely out of the way.” He scrambled nimbly over the side and did his
best to anchor himself against it.
Laura started the engine, backed the car out of the lane and set
off up the road. Getting into top gear, she drove steadily ahead at a
rapidly increasing pace, her face as grim and set as she imagined
that of an accessory to murder and professional thief should be. At
her side Mr. Priestley bounced unhappily up and down, clinging
desperately to the side of the car with his free hand and expecting
every moment to be jerked backwards into the road. That in such an
event his companion would be neatly extricated from the car to share
his fate afforded him no consolation. Fortunately he was far too
preoccupied for the moment in saving his own life at every twist or
jolt in the road to be in a fit state to think coherently about what had
happened since he last saw this car.
Laura, on the other hand, was thinking rapidly. Once the
confusion had subsided of that wild rush from the house and her
ignominious part in it, her brain had found itself free again to return
to business. It was now working overtime.
Two thoughts were foremost in Laura’s mind. One was that this
affair had turned into the most glorious rag that the mind of man (or
girl) could conceive, and that nothing must be done to spoil it by so
much as the set of a hair. The other was that Mr. Matthew Priestley
had acquitted himself really most surprisingly, almost incredibly well.
He had not only risen to the occasion and obligingly fired off the
revolver, he had not only turned the tables on that ridiculous
policeman and rescued the two of them from a situation which, if it
had been as real as he thought it, would have been a remarkably
ticklish one, he had not only proved himself in spite of circumstantial
evidence to the contrary to be a man of courage, determination,
decent feelings and resource, but (and perhaps this appealed to
Laura more than all the foregoing catalogue of Mr. Priestley’s
surprising virtues) his first thought from beginning to end had been
for her alone, and that even after she had led him to think her a
professional thief and therefore, according to the social code, of no
personal account whatever. Laura felt herself warming quite a lot
towards this normally mild little man with the heart of a bulldog.
But that did not go to say that she enjoyed being handcuffed to
him. She did not. Indeed, in the presence of those handcuffs, it was
difficult to see how this glorious rag was going to continue. Obviously
they must be removed, and as soon as possible; or else they would
have to go back and⸺
At this point Laura became aware that words were coming
towards her, jerkily, over the side of the car.
 “N-not so f-fast!” came the words spasmodically. “I can’t—hold
on—m-much longer!”
Laura glanced at her speedometer; the needle was hovering
between forty and fifty. She hastened to pull up at the side of the
road.
“I’m so sorry,” she said contritely, as Mr. Priestley sobbed for
breath and relief. Travelling outside the shelter of the windscreen at
fifty miles an hour does knock the breath out of one.
“’Sallright,” gasped Mr. Priestley, drooping like a wet blanket
over the side of the car. “But I thought—’f I fell out—you’d have to
come—too—oof!”
“Good gracious!” observed Laura, much impressed. “Do you
know, that simply never occurred to me.”
“No?” panted Mr. Priestley politely. “But it—would have done—
oof—’f I—had. Oh, oof!”
A minute or two was devoted to Mr. Priestley’s pursuit of his lost
breath.
“Well, Mr. Mullins,” Laura then remarked brightly, “now perhaps
you’ll tell me what is the next move?”
“To get rid of this infernal handcuff,” said Mr. Priestley without
hesitation.
“Yes, I’d thought of that too. But how?”
“File it off!” returned Mr. Priestley promptly. “Have you got a file
in your tool-box?”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t. Oh, Mr. Mullins,
this is a terrible business! What are we to do?” The look of appealing
helplessness that Laura turned on her fellow-adventurer was not
what might have been expected from a young woman who had just
been driving a car at nearly fifty miles an hour along an unlighted
road.
Fortunately Mr. Priestley was in no state to notice such
discrepancies. “Don’t you worry, my dear young lady,” he said
paternally. “You shall come to no harm. Now, let me see, is there any
other way we can arrange ourselves? I really think we should push
on a little farther before we see about getting hold of a file, and this
running-board is really a most uncomfortable way of travelling. How
can we manage?”
 “Supposing you knelt in front of the seat with your back to the
engine?” suggested Laura. “We might be able to manage like that.”
“Humph,” replied Mr. Priestley, to whom the idea did not seem to
appeal. “No, Mrs. Spettigue, I think —by the way, I suppose you’re
not Mrs. Spettigue now?”
“I’m afraid not,” Laura confessed with much contrition.
“You’re not married at all?”
“No,” said Laura, hanging her head. One saw that she was now
overwhelmed with shame at the thought of her base deception.
“Then who are you?”
“I’m—I’m usually known as Chicago Kate,” Laura said in a very
small voice. “I’m supposed to be the cleverest woman thief in the
world,” she added with simple pride, brightening a little.
“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, gazing at her with renewed
interest. She looked very young for so notorious a person.
As he gazed Mr. Priestley felt a guilty thrill run through him.
Abandoned she might be, but indubitably she was charming; and he
was committed to a desperate adventure with her. His fate was
linked with hers, in fact, not only literally but metaphorically too. They
were joined together not only by a handcuff, but by the joint secret of
what Mr. Priestley even now could not bring himself to regard as
murder. Dash it all, he had never meant to kill the man! He would
never have dreamed of firing if he had even distantly suspected the
revolver of being loaded. Manslaughter, perhaps, and most
reprehensible; but certainly not murder.
It came to Mr. Priestley with a shock of surprise to find how
singularly lightly this man’s death sat upon his conscience at that
moment. Probably reaction would come later and he would be
properly horrified, but just at the moment his mind was far busier with
other matters.
“Well,” he resumed briskly, “what I propose is that we push on a
little farther, and then set about borrowing a file. Of course we must
take obvious precautions. We must not stop at a place which is likely
to be on the telephone, and as we shall appear to be—h’m!—holding
hands, I think we should have some story prepared to account for
any awkward questions.”
 “Oh, Mr. Mullins,” exclaimed his companion delightedly, “it’s a
positive pleasure to crack a crib with you. You think of everything.”
Mr. Priestley, who was also of the opinion that his strategy was
not too short-sighted, blushed modestly. It was on the tip of his
tongue to reveal the fact that he was not Mr. Mullins at all, but a
private citizen of hitherto unblemished reputation, but foreseeing
embarrassing queries as to the exact identity of the hitherto
blameless citizen, he chose the path of prudence. Mr. Priestley had
always been jealous of his good name, and it looked as if he would
need in the near future all the jealousy he could muster.
“And you don’t look like a burglar a bit,” continued the girl
warmly. “No wonder they call you Gentleman Joe. I must get you to
tell me some time about that time when you stole the Countess of
Kentisbeare’s diamonds, disguised as a dumb waiter, and knocked
out two policeman and the butler. Ah, yes, you see I know all about
you. These things get round the underworld. By the way, do you
work on cocaine or morphia? Personally I always use strychnine; a
little strychnine in half a tumbler of soda makes me feel capable of
anything. That’s how I escaped from Sing-sing, as you’ve probably
heard.”
“Erh’rrrrrm!” coughed Mr. Priestley, somewhat uneasy at the
technical turn of the conversation; he did not feel yet quite up to a
professional chat with this nefarious young woman. “Yes, yes, of
course. Now what about moving on? How are we going to dispose
ourselves?”
“Well, if you don’t want to kneel on the floor,” said the nefarious
young woman regretfully, “I’m very much afraid you’ll have to stay
where you are. I’ve been thinking, and I really can’t see any other
way.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, without joy. He brightened as an idea
occurred to him—a wicked idea, quite in keeping with all his other
devilry. He spoke in an exceedingly airy way. “How would it do,” said
Mr. Priestley very airily, “if I sat where you’re sitting, and you sat—er
—on my knee?”
“I’d love to sit on your knee, Mr. Mullins,” said the young woman
frankly. “It would be great fun. But unfortunately I couldn’t drive the
car at the same time, you see; I couldn’t reach either the pedals or