Merry Christmas to all! It's been such a wonderful year, and I can't thank you, my loyal readers, enough for making me feel so joyous and blessed.
As my gift to you, here's the full first chapter of my next release, THE TRUTH AS HE KNOWS IT (Perspectives #1). It kicks off a new series, with a new cast (plus a few familiar faces along the way).
Enjoy!
###
Officer Noel Carlson followed his partner down the breezeway
toward apartment 303 and the source of their disturbance call. Even without the
apartment number Noel would have been able to peg this place. A deep bass
thrummed through the door, right into his chest, reminding him of late nights
in hot, sweaty dance clubs. The neighbor who’d reported the party said the
music had been going like that for over an hour, and it was already after one
in the morning.
Officer Wade Benedict paused to adjust his hat before he hit
the bell, then banged a meaty fist on the door for good measure. Noel flanked
him, the junior officer in their partnership, allowing Benedict to take point.
The music continued, so Benedict bell-banged again. “Stratton
Police Department!”
Noel glanced at the other three apartment doors on
this floor, curious if anyone was watching through their peep holes. Enjoying
the floor show. Cedar Hills was one of the nicest, newest complexes around
Stratton, and far beyond Noel’s budget without at least two roommates. But his
privacy was worth more than extra space and a pool, so he was happy enough
renting a room above a church-run thrift store downtown.
Benedict pounded the door. “Police! Open up!”
Someone must have finally paid attention to his bellowing,
because the music went down to a bearable volume. The front door opened, still
on its chain. A sliver of a female face popped into view. “Show me your badge.”
Noel and Benedict took turns stepping into her line of sight
so she could see the badges on their uniform shirts. The door shut, a chain
slid, and they were allowed into a blast of air conditioning. Not unwelcome
after walking through the late-May humidity.
The open floor plan gave Noel a clear view of the party
still in progress.
Pink and white streamers and balloons. A banner that said Happy
Thirtieth, Sandy!.
The remains of a demolished birthday cake on the kitchen island. Liquor bottles
strewn about on various surfaces. Five women—two on the sofa, two in the
kitchen, one by the door.
The woman who’d let them in was listing a bit, cheeks
flushed, obviously intoxicated. “What’s the problem, Officer?”
Benedict grunted. “Are you the current tenant?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Olivia Presnell. Who’re you?”
“I’m Officer Benedict, this is Officer Carlson.”
Olivia smiled at Noel, practically batting her eyes. “You
wear that big gun in the bedroom, Officer?”
Noel almost laughed at the awful attempt at flirting. “Ma’am,
we received a noise nuisance call this evening.”
“Who was being noisy?” Olivia asked.
“You were,” Benedict said. He had a gruff, angry bear way
about him that made everything he said sound like he was snarling. And it
worked on Olivia, who slinked
into the kitchen.
“I think it’s time you broke up the party and called cabs
for your friends,” Noel said.
A grumble of protest came out of the living room. One of the
women on the sofa cast a forlorn look at a closed door at the back of the
apartment. Probably the bedroom. Something about it pinged Noel’s curiosity.
“Is this everyone who’s in the apartment?” Noel asked. “Or
are there others?”
Sofa Lady glanced sharply at Olivia, who was frowning.
Unease rolled through Noel’s gut. “Is there someone in the
bedroom?”
“Just the stripper,” Olivia replied, clipped. Annoyed. More
sober than a moment ago, possibly from adrenaline.
Odd.
Hiring strippers wasn’t illegal, as long as the transaction
didn’t cross the line into prostitution. He glanced at Benedict, who tilted his
head at the bedroom door. Clearly not volunteering to go get the guy.
Noel crossed the room and paused in front of the door. To
Olivia, he said, “Will you please open the door?”
She heaved a put-upon sigh, then stalked over and twisted
the knob. Noel nudged the door open with his foot, unsure exactly what to
expect. The light was off, and a thick beam from the living room cut across the
foot of a bed. Noel slid his hand along the wall until he could flip a light
switch. A floor lamp in the corner flared to life.
A man sat in the middle of the bed, propped up with pillows,
tied to the headboard by his wrists. He was mostly naked, except for a red
thong and a pair of laced-up work boots, and goddamn, Noel had to work hard not
to appreciate the long, lean expanse of male body on display. Or stare at the
unusual monarch butterfly tattoo on his left hip. The stripper was gagged by a
piece of cloth that did nothing to hide his pretty face, all sharp planes and
high cheekbones. He kept blinking at Noel like he wasn’t quite awake.
Everything about the scene felt off. Wrong.
“We were just playing,” Olivia said behind him.
Noel ignored her. He approached the figure on the bed
slowly. Dark brown eyes focused on him, really seemed to see him, then went
wide. He jerked against the cloth binding his wrists. Muffled words didn’t
quite make it around the gag, but Noel would be damned if they didn’t sound
like “Help
me”.
He undid the gag, which appeared to be someone’s scarf.
The stripper licked his lips, fear settling into his dark
eyes. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he said.
“What does it look like?” Noel undid the knot on the guy’s
right hand.
“I’m not a prostitute, I swear. She paid me to strip for her
friends, but nothing else. I’m not into this.”
Noel let the guy undo his other wrist for himself. “Not into
what? Getting tied up with silk scarves?”
“No, I’m not.” He got loose, then slid to the other side of
the bed.
“Then why were you?”
“Misunderstanding.”
Noel glanced at the door where Olivia was watching, her
expression hawkish. This entire scenario felt wrong to Noel, but he couldn’t
put his finger on it. The stripper seemed genuinely scared of something—getting
caught taking money for sex, probably. But Noel hadn’t seen any money exchange
hands, so he had no evidence of prostitution. And what a stripper did when he
was off the clock was not Noel’s business.
So why did he want to know why the dark-haired man hunched
over on the bed looked so haunted?
“What’s your name?” Noel asked.
“Shane.”
“Are you impaired, Shane?”
“I didn’t drink tonight.”
“What about drugs?”
“No, sir.”
“Anything you’d like to report about the party tonight?”
“No. I’d really like to go home now, if I’m not under
arrest.”
“You aren’t under arrest.” Noel pulled out a notepad and
pen. “But I do need some information for my report.”
“Shane Joseph, twenty-four, I live at 240 Naylor Street.”
Shane rattled off a phone number. “Would you like my social security number
too?”
The initial fear was sloughing off, leaving a lot of
attitude in its place. Attitude that sharpened handsome features into something
fierce. Almost feral. And the fact that Shane was still only wearing that thong
made the whole shift sexier than it had any right to be, and Noel had to quit
thinking like that. He was on the clock, damn it.
“No, that’ll do it,” Noel replied.
Shane fetched a patched backpack from the floor by the
dresser, then disappeared into the master bathroom. Noel returned to the outer
room, where Benedict was taking down personal information while the party
attendees called for rides. A minute later, Shane stormed past and out the
front door.
It slammed shut and Olivia jumped.
“Next time you want to throw a party,” Noel said, “watch
your volume. And maybe skip the stripper.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I will not be referring
him to my girlfriends.”
He curbed the urge to ask why. Shane had a body he looked
like he knew how to use— Quit it. Just
quit. No sexy thoughts about strippers he’d ousted from a birthday party
gone wild.
Noel took a bit of perverse joy in writing the noise
citation. He handed it over to Olivia. “I hope the party was worth the cost.
Good night, ma’am.”
If she could afford this place, she could probably afford a
seventy-five dollar ticket. But the glare she leveled at him was worth it,
because he’d gotten under her skin. Maybe she’d think twice before she blasted
her stereo that loud again.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck it
all and then some.
Shane had to drive super slow and super careful because he’d
lied to the cop when he said he didn’t have any drugs in his system. Or was it
really a lie, when Shane had been drugged without his consent? Didn’t matter.
All he’d wanted was to get out. Out of that fucking apartment, away from those
obnoxious women, and out from under the curious, concerned gaze of the
golden-haired cop who’d freed him.
Two years of stripping and he’d never landed in such a
fucked-up situation, and thank Christ someone finally called the cops on those
crazy bitches. He was tempted to change his online ad to male-only parties, but
right now he couldn’t afford the potential income loss. He’d learn from this
fuckup, like he learned from all of his many, many mistakes.
New rule: no more breaking your old rule about not drinking
anything at a gig that isn’t a brand-new, sealed bottle of water.
A glass of cold root beer—weakness though it might be—wasn’t
worth it.
Shane finally made it to the far side of town. The poor
side. Parsons Square wasn’t a square so much as a long dirt road with a lot of
rundown trailers dropped every twenty feet or so. Postage-stamp yards with too
many weeds. Small parking areas often full of cars on concrete
blocks, or no vehicle at all. Sometimes Shane left his rusty hatchback unlocked
on purpose, hoping someone would steal it. No one ever did.
Probably because they knew his brother, and no one wanted to
be on Jason McShane’s shit list. His reputation spoke for itself.
He pulled into his half of the gravel lot next to the
trailer he shared with Jason. Jason’s own ancient pickup wasn’t there. Shane
shut off his engine and stared at the empty spot, trying to remember which job
Jason had tonight.
Wake up, shithead.
Warrick’s.
Jason had taken on an off-the-books security guard gig at a
local junkyard not too long ago. Friday through Tuesday, ten at night to six in
the morning. Monday through Friday he worked eight to five at East Street Pets
& Feed, making Friday, Monday and Tuesday super long days. Only for another
year or so. Two max. They were almost out from under Shane’s medical bills.
Shane let himself inside, then went straight into the
bathroom to shower. While he waited for the hot water to start, he stuffed his
clothes into the bottom of the hamper. Even though he’d only worn the jeans and
T-shirt for thirty minutes, they still felt dirty. He kind of wanted to burn
the thong, but he couldn’t waste money buying a new one, and women liked the
red thong.
Cold fingers raked down his spine. He climbed into the stall
shower while the warming water was still searching for hot, but he didn’t care.
He grabbed the bar of soap and lathered it up as best he could. The cheap stuff
from the dollar store didn’t make great suds, but it did its job in terms of
cleaning, so he rubbed it all over. Through his hair, across his neck, abs, his
junk. Legs. Knees. Not an inch of skin went unwashed, and he still couldn’t
shake the feeling of being touched.
Shane had three rules when it came to this job: no photos,
no videos, no touching.
At least two of the three had been violated tonight. He
couldn’t be as sure about anyone videoing him. Not after the roofie kicked in.
He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, which
was really stupid because the water heater cost them on the electric bill. The
trailer was stuffy and hot, because they only used the two window units when it
got humid and unbearable, and even though it was late May, the weather had been
unseasonably warm. Didn’t stop him from throwing on a pair of light cotton
sleep pants and a long-sleeved tee. He wanted to be covered up, damn it.
Exhaustion settled in around the edges. Shane flopped down
on his narrow single bed, which took up half the space in his tiny bedroom.
Turned on the paper lantern that hung over his bed. He wanted to sleep, but he
had “homework” first. Supposedly every night, because he’d promised, but
sometimes life got in the way. He hadn’t done his homework in over week, but he
had to get this shit out before it ate him up.
He tugged the tattered spiral notebook out from beneath his
bed, where it resided with dozens of others, all filled. Edge to edge, both
sides of each page. This one was getting full. He’d have to buy another soon.
Tonight sucked. Really
sucked. Like for the first time since I started stripping I want to stop but I
know I can’t. We need the money, and it’s my fault we need the money, so it’s
like my penance. Is that the word? Penance? I think that’s the word. I’m not
telling Jason about it because he’ll get upset. He doesn’t like me doing this
anyway, even though it’s only a few times a month and it pays good. Better than
the deli, if you break it down by the hour, plus I don’t have to claim it on my
taxes. But it really sucked. It’s like my rules didn’t matter, because some
spoiled bitch had a birthday, and some people don’t know stripper =/=hooker. Fuck. Fuck them. They don’t get to
control my life. I’m in control.
Shane shoved the notebook under his pillow. He didn’t feel
in control. He stared at the pair of pill bottles on the shelf next to his bed.
He didn’t have to work at the deli until midafternoon. Maybe something to take
the edge off and help him sleep. Sleep and not dream about the hot cop who’d
rescued him.
A hot cop whose name he didn’t know. He hadn’t even had the
sense to look at the nametag in his mad dash out of the apartment.
Didn’t fucking matter. He wasn’t about to call the guy up
and thank him for the save, then offer a blowjob as a reward. As much as he’d
like to—no. Hot cops didn’t grow on trees in small towns like Stratton, and
Stratton had its quota filled in Officer Briggs. He’d seen the man both on-duty
and off-duty with his partner and their little girl. Sometimes the family ate
at the deli.
Shane would kill for the simplicity of that kind of life—a
pipe dream, for him. He came with too much baggage for most guys to handle, and
rehashing it hurt too much to bother. Guys like Shane got casual fucks,
dead-end jobs and rusty old trailers. They didn’t get hot, put-together cops
like his mystery savior.
He popped the cap on his prescription Rozerem—a
lucky script from a doctor he’d neglected to inform of his full medical
history, and that had come in handy these last few months. He washed a pill
down with stale water from the glass he kept on the shelf, then spread out on
top of his covers. He closed his eyes and thought about Hot Cop until the drug
eased him into darkness.
