Morgan Taylor is back and she is still broke and single.
Now Joe Linklater Bonds and Private Investigators is nearly insolvent until a mysterious man walks in offering a once in a lifetime opportunity: fifty thousand dollars to retrieve stolen cash from the Hard Rock Casino in Tampa Bay. The only problem is two lunatic hitmen are also in pursuit of the money.
Like everything else in her life, things quickly go awry in this raucous novel when Morgan must contend with a lusting gun dealer named Eyeball, her pothead teenage son, Caleb, and a redneck YouTube sensation who obliterates fruit and vegetables using her enormous breasts.
It’s all too much for a single woman to take.
Now Joe Linklater Bonds and Private Investigators is nearly insolvent until a mysterious man walks in offering a once in a lifetime opportunity: fifty thousand dollars to retrieve stolen cash from the Hard Rock Casino in Tampa Bay. The only problem is two lunatic hitmen are also in pursuit of the money.
Like everything else in her life, things quickly go awry in this raucous novel when Morgan must contend with a lusting gun dealer named Eyeball, her pothead teenage son, Caleb, and a redneck YouTube sensation who obliterates fruit and vegetables using her enormous breasts.
It’s all too much for a single woman to take.
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For the first time in years, Morgan Taylor was having a great time on a date. In the past, many of her dates consisted of dudes looking for a place to live or some cash because they couldn’t hold down a job. But this man was different. His name was Charles and he was good looking, had a vocabulary big enough to express himself, his jokes were actually funny, and he worked in a lucrative business as a financial adviser.
Just as Morgan was taking another sip of wine, her phone rang. She swiped to ignore the call and not even twenty seconds later, her phone rang again. She looked at the screen. It was her boss, Steve Linklater, from Joe Linklater Bonds and Private Investigators. “Excuse me,” she said to Charles. Then she put the phone to her ear. “What?”
“Are you still on your date?” Steve asked.
“Yes.” She looked at Charles and smiled. He winked back.
Steve on the other end of the phone chuckled.
“What?”
Steve said, “Let me ask you a question. This Charles guy. Is he about six foot one, blue eyes, slight scar across his right eyebrow?”
Morgan looked at Charles who was leaning back, watching her with a bemused smile. “Yes,” she said.
“Sharp dresser?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Says he works as a financial advisor?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Not to be the bearer of bad news, but his real name is Bret Goldman and he cons the elderly from their life savings and leaves them broke and destitute. Real dirtbag. And he has a warrant. So I figured since you are there with him, we might as well take him in and earn a nice chunk of change.”
“Do you usually do this?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Destroy all my fun.”
Steve said, “Think of me as saving you from certain heartbreak. I’m like your guardian angel.”
“You sound like my mom,” she said.
“Listen, whatever you do, don’t let him leave. Keep him occupied and I’ll come down to arrest him.”
“You mean now?” Morgan said.
“No, I mean after you bring him home and introduce him to your teenage son.”
“Now you really sound like my mom.”
“Anyhow, just keep him seated there.”
Morgan closed her eyes and lowered her head. She was cursed. Morgan imagined that someone put a voodoo hex on her sex life. Most likely her ex-mother-in-law. Of course, she couldn’t rule out her own mother either.
“What’s going on?” Bret asked.
Morgan looked at the glass of red wine in front of her. She downed it in one gulp. Then she looked at Bret’s glass. “Are you going to drink that?”
“Well I—”
Without waiting, Morgan swooped her hand in and downed his glass of wine in another big gulp.
“I was going to say yes,” he said.
Morgan lifted her hand and motioned for the waiter. “Another round,” she yelled.
Then she turned her attention back to Bret. “So what were you saying?”
Bret said, “I don’t remember, but what happened on the phone? Bad news?”
“You can say that.”
He looked at her and waited for her to say something. Instead Morgan put her hand to her mouth and belched.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Maybe we should leave,” he said.
Morgan slapped her hand on his. “Leave? Now? Why?” The alcohol hit her like an uppercut. Her eyes were feeling woozy and her inhibitions nonexistent. “Let’s stay. Drink. Talk.” She opened her phone and checked the time. Not even two minutes have elapsed. “Christ, can the waiter take any longer?”
“You just ordered a round less than a minute ago.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you sure everything is alright?”
“Purrrrfect,” she slurred, her lips curled in a drunken grin.
“Are you ready to leave?”
“Leave? Why?”
“Because dinner is done and I’m ready to go.”
“Don’t be a party pooper. Let’s talk. Tell me, what’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever done in bed?”
Bret was momentarily lost for words. He looked at her with an arched brow. Then he smirked and leaned forward. “How about I answer that question back at my place.”
“How about you answer it right here.”
“You really want to know?”
“Of course,” she smirked.
“Will you tell me the kinkiest thing that you’ve done in bed?”
Morgan nodded. “But I asked you first. So you tell me.”
Bret licked his lips, looked to his left and then right, and said quietly, “A woman I once dated was into golden showers and—”
“Wait, what? Did you say golden shower?”
“You mind keeping your voice down,” he said.
“You mean when you pee on someone?”
“Or when they pee on you,” Bret said quietly.
Finally the waiter came with the wine. Morgan said, “Oh thank god, you’re here.” Then she grabbed her glass of wine and gulped down half of it.
“Are you okay?” Bret asked.
“I’m perfect. So tell me about this. I’m curious. Did she pee on you or did you pee on her?”
“She liked to do the peeing,” he said.
“Where?”
“What do you mean where?”
“Like where did she pee on you?”
“In the bathtub,” he said.
“No. Where? Did she pee on your face?”
Bret lifted his wine glass and took a swallow. He said, “On my chest.”
“Not your face,” she asked, feeling disgusted yet oddly fascinated.
“No,” he said. “I’m not a weirdo, you know.”
Morgan made a face implying that perhaps he was a weirdo. A very disturbed weirdo. The kind of weirdo who gets off on a woman awkwardly squatting over him and peeing. “Did she fart on you too?”
“What?”
“You know how sometimes when you pee you fart. Did she let one rip while squatting over your chest?”
Bret cleared his throat. “So what about you?”
“What about me?” said Morgan.
“What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve done?”
“Nothing as sick as that.”
“Oh c’mon,” he said. “You started this. Now you’re going to judge me?”
“Alright, fine. My ex-husband once tried to stick it in my butt without telling me.”
“What happened?”
Morgan said, “I turned around and punched him in the nose.”
Bret smirked. “And what’d your ex-husband do after you punched him?”
“He went to the ER with a broken nose,” she said.
“With one punch?”
Morgan held up her right fist. “I used my hammerfist.”
Bret raised a brow and nodded. “Is that why he’s your ex?”
“He’s my ex because he lied, cheated, and stole. Something I’m certain you’re familiar with.” The moment she said that, Morgan closed her eyes. That was stupid, she thought. She had to save herself. “So,” she said, “seen any good movies lately?” She picked up her glass and took a sip.
“Hold on. Why don’t we take a step back,” Bret said. “What do you mean about me being familiar with lying, cheating, and stealing?”
Morgan held up her glass. “Don’t mind me. It’s the wine.”
Bret tapped his finger on the table. “What exactly do you do again?”
“Limited surety agent.”
“I thought you were a private detective.”
“That too.”
“So you’re a bail bondsman.”
“Woman,” Morgan corrected.
“I’m just going to use the restroom,” Bret said. “I’ll be right back.”
Morgan watched him stand up, put his linen napkin on the table and then walk behind her toward the bar. She cursed herself for her stupidity and turned in her chair and watched Bret as he walked past the restroom door, past the bar, to the front entrance of the restaurant where he walked past the young hostess, pushed open the door, and walked out.
“Oh shit,” Morgan said, pushing out her chair as the waiter arrived with the check. “Just leave it there,” she said, grabbing her purse and looping it around her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” Drunk and having two inch heels didn’t help her run as quickly as she liked, but the moment she stepped outside, she saw Bret hit the button on his key fob unlocking his car doors.
“Hey,” Morgan yelled, waving her arm.
Bret looked back and then hurried to open his car door.
Morgan kicked off her shoes and charged after him, her bare feet slapping the sidewalk. When he got the car door open, Morgan leapt on his back, wrapping her legs around his midsection and her arms around his face and neck.
Bret gurgled and groaned.
Morgan said, “You are under arrest for—” and she was at a loss. Maybe it was the alcohol, but she couldn’t remember what the hell Steve told her on the phone. Suddenly she felt Bret swing her into the back door of his car, and she hit the door hip first, which really fucking hurt. She squeezed her arms tighter around Bret’s face. “Would you stop?” she yelled.
Bret gurgled again. This time he moved her forearm from his mouth. “Get off me!” he yelled.”
He swung her into the door again. Now this pissed her off. She began hammer fisting him on the side of his face, which did very little since his skull was as hard and thick as granite. Finally she heard a crack as her fist finally connected with the bridge of his nose.
Bret screamed and blew out thick wads of blood and snot. He turned and slid on a patch of gravel, falling to his hands and knees. Huffing, he reached behind him and found a wad of Morgan’s hair and began pulling.
They both cursed.
Morgan looked up and saw a bunch of people standing there, three of them filming the entire scene on their cell phones. “Could you call the police?” she yelled. But no one did. One guy yelled at them to get a room.
Now Bret pulled her hair harder. Seething, Morgan said, “Stop pulling my hair.”
Bret said, “Let go of my neck.”
Neither budging, Morgan bit down on his neck and Brett, his mouth agape, screamed as if a scorpion fell down his underpants. He pushed himself part way up and swung his elbow trying to bash her ribs. Instead his elbow connected with his car door with a loud thunk.
Bret fell over, this time cradling his elbow.
“That’s going to hurt,” said an older man on the fringes of the crowd.
Morgan felt her adrenaline dissipating. Her arms were tired. She was out of breath. And now she tasted cologne on her tongue. She wanted to spit, but her mouth was too dry. Finally, Bret was able to peel her fingers off and she slid down to the ground.
Huffing, Bret looked at her like a snarling dog ready to pounce. “You’re going to regret ever doing that,” he growled.