Meet Morgan Taylor.
She is broke, a single mother, and, worst of all, approaching forty with a non-existent love life. 
Morgan Taylor needs to find a job. And a man. Fortunately, she stumbles into a position with Steve Linklater, a bail bondsman/private detective, who is also the kind of man Morgan dreams about.
Morgan's first case: find a missing FBI agent. Things quickly become lethal when she encounters FBI corruption, a psychotic drug cartel leader who publishes self-help books, and a once popular nudist resort in Florida.
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“Follow me,” Morgan said, stepping out of the car and hurrying over to the Staff Only door. Steve followed closely.
“What’s your plan?”
The lock on the door was broken and the wood on the door frame was cracked and rotting. Morgan opened the door and flicked the light switch on. The dark supply closet reeked of mildew and dirty ass. In the yellow light was a housekeeping cart with cruddy cleaning supplies that needed disinfecting themselves. Its plastic lining had black and green mold growing in it. Laying on the cart was a bristle brush. As if she was fishing her cell phone from a public toilet, Morgan made a face and picked up the handle with her thumb and index finger. The bristles were coated in either feces or black mold or some kind of alien spore. Morgan said, “So you think this was used recently?”
“Does it matter?” said Steve.
She dropped the brush back on the cart. “I guess not.”
Morgan grabbed the housekeeping cart and pulled. There was a loud screech as metal scraped the cement floor. “Shit,” she said. She crouched down. “A wheel is broken off.”
“Then we go with Plan A. My plan,” said Steve.
Morgan grabbed Steve’s arm. “Just wait,” she said.

Morgan slowly dragged the housekeeping cart until she was in front of room 110. Then she pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail.
“You know, you look pretty with your hair tied back in a ponytail,” said Steve.
Morgan paused and slowly turned her neck giving Steve a what-the-hell-did-you-say look. “For your information, I worked on my hair for over thirty minutes this morning. I get it looking perfect. Now when I throw it back in a ponytail, you throw out a compliment. I’ll never understand men.”
“Better late than never,” Steve said.
“Maybe for periods, but never for compliments,” she said.
Steve quietly moved to the other side of the door away from the window. “I guarantee you he’s not going to open it,” whispered Steve.
“We’ll see,” Morgan said. She straightened herself, flexed her fingers, and sucked in a deep breath. Nervous, her hair felt as if it was standing on end.  She exhaled a deep breath and knocked on the door. “Housekeeping,” she yelled.
“Fuck off!” screamed a psychotic sounding voice on the other side of the door.
Morgan knocked again. “Housekeeping,” she yelled again.
She heard a person approach the door. “I said fuck off!”
Steve raised his brow to signal that this isn’t working. Morgan held up her index finger to signal to give her one more try. She knocked again. “Blowjob,” she yelled.
A moment of silence. There was a look of surprise on Steve’s face. Morgan shrugged. Then the door started unlocking and it opened a crack. The door chain was visible. Earl’s vulture face peeked out. The unmistakable Fuck You tattooed across his neck. He gave Morgan a slow up and down stare. “How much?” he asked.
“Twenty grand,” said Steve. He slammed his shoulder into the door, knocking Earl off balance. Earl twisted and stumbled and landed on his knee. On the dresser were two pistols. Earl lunged for one. Steve hurled himself on top of Earl and they crashed on the floor, both grunting. Earl clawed at the dirty carpet, trying to twist free from Steve’s grip. He got one leg loose and started kicking his heel into Steve’s shin.
Steve cursed and punched Earl in the face. First, the cheek. Then the nose. Blood poured from Earl’s nostrils and coated his few remaining teeth.
Then Earl grabbed Steve’s fist and tried to bite it. Steve quickly grabbed Earl’s jaw and pushed it back. “Hit him!” yelled Steve. “I’m losing my grip.”
“What do you mean hit him?” yelled Morgan. “You said you can handle him.”
“Hit him! Hit him!” screamed Steve.
Seeing only the toilet brush in front of her, Morgan grabbed it and ran over and smacked Earl in the face with it. Flecks of brown and black splattered across his lips and cheek and his bald tattooed head.
Earl cursed and spit.
When he opened his mouth a second time, Morgan shoved the bristle brush into that gaping hole.
Earl’s childish screams were muffled as he tried twisting his neck away from the horrifically filthy toilet brush rammed in his mouth.
Now on his knees, Steve punched Earl in the stomach, and then he grabbed Earl’s arm and twisted it, forcing Earl on his stomach. Moving swiftly, Steve grabbed his handcuffs and slapped them on Earl’s wrists.
Morgan pulled the toilet brush from Earl’s mouth.
Spittle and fecal and mold specks sprayed from Earl’s mouth as he coughed. The sight made Morgan nauseous. Then Earl glanced up at her. “You fucking bitch,” he screamed. “You’re dead. When I’m—”
“Oh fuck you,” she said, shoving the toilet brush back in his mouth.
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