Dalton, Tymber - Stoneface (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

TYMBER DALTON

Copyright © 2011

Chapter One

Good morning, gorgeous! I received my ARCs yesterday from your editor. Kissy-huggy! You totally rock, Go-Go girlfriend! Love ya! - TimE.

Gwen propped her chin in her hand and blurrily stared at Tim’s e-mail on her laptop screen as she slurped her coffee. She’d only had three hours sleep the night before.

That’s what I get for taking Dickweed’s call.

Richard—AKA Dickweed—Callahan, her ex-husband. Drunk dialing, of course, but when he cried about how he wished he hadn’t screwed up their marriage, she was just pitiful enough she let him talk for a little while longer.

Until he propositioned her for a blow job. That’s when she started screaming at him, once she realized he was the same damn scruples-challenged horndog he always had been, and only called her looking for some easy midnight nookie.

His girlfriend had broken up with him that morning—oh, surprise!—for cheating on her. He got drunk and horny and called Gwen at one in the morning. She only answered when her cell phone rang the
Psycho
theme she used for him because she worried maybe he’d been in an accident or something.

It’s my own damn fault. I should know better.

She let out a disgusted sigh.
Would have been better if he’d been in an accident.
Of course, after that rant and hanging up on him, she felt so angry and wide awake that she couldn’t get back to sleep and lay in bed tossing and turning and concocting some pretty horrible revenge fantasies that would most likely end up in a book at some point.

Fucking asshole.
A benefit of being a writer was that she could kill her ex off in multiple books and not only never do a day of jail time, but get paid for it in the process.

Cheaper than therapy.

Staring at her laptop, she smiled at Tim’s e-mail. At least something about her morning was going right. He was such a sweetie. He reviewed books on his store’s blog and had fallen in love with her and her writing.

Well, as in love with her as a gay man in a committed relationship could fall in love with a straight woman who wrote male-male erotica.

If she had to start a crappy, sleep-deprived, six-freaking-thirty morning at her computer, at least it opened with a sweet e-mail from Tim.

She set her nearly empty mug aside and tapped out a reply.

Kissy-huggy backatcha, babycakes. Hope you enjoy it. You owe me coffee one of these days. Snugs and Hugs, Go-Go.

She hit
send
.

It had been their routine for almost three years, ever since Tim discovered her and started reviewing her books. He’d dubbed her “Go-Go” because of her initials G.O., Gwen Oxford, even though she wrote the erotica under the pen name Gwenna Olmsford. Also, because he said she churned out books faster than a go-go dancer shimmied. He’d meant it as a compliment, not a complaint, because he was always begging her to “write more, write faster.” He always signed “kissy-huggy,” and she always signed “snugs and hugs.”

She’d never met him in person, but would like to one day. If she could ever find the time. She rarely left her town, it seemed like, much less made it across the country to Laguna Beach, California, where he lived. That would be one hell of a drive from her home twenty miles east of Columbus, Ohio.

Flying was not an option. She did
not
fly.

Ever.

She drained the rest of her coffee and returned to the kitchen where she refilled her massive mug. It would be a three-pot morning, no doubt about it. Screw using the French press, too. She needed massive quantities of coffee on tap at all times to deal with a morning like this without committing homicide.

By seven o’clock she had poured mug number three and posted her morning Twitter and Facebook updates. She didn’t dare blog today. Not when she wrote, “Writing first kill scene between heroes this morning,” when she meant to type, “Writing first kiss.”

Ugh. Goddamned Dickweed. Divorced three years, and he still fucks up my life.

God only knew how badly she could screw up a blog if she tried to write an entry when this tired and cranky.

A little after eight, Amy’s car rolled into her driveway. Gwen stared out the front windows of her dining room, where her desk and laptop sat, and let out a deep sigh. Her older sister’s arms were filled with folders.

Gwen grabbed her mug and headed for the kitchen. By the time Amy made it into the kitchen and dumped the armload of folders on the counter, Gwen had started another pot of coffee.

“Please tell me that’s my tax paperwork?” Gwen asked.

Seeing her up close, Gwen thought Amy looked like she didn’t feel very good even though her dyed blonde hair had been perfectly styled, as usual, and her makeup flawlessly applied.

Amy examined a long, perfectly shaped and lacquered nail. “You wish. It’s not bad, though. It’s all the stuff from your lawyer about the divorce. I picked it up from their office yesterday afternoon. You can put it back in storage now, as long as Dickweed doesn’t try any more bullshit.”

Gwen shook her head. “Don’t say that man’s name to me this morning.” She related the drunk-dialing episode.

Amy studied the files. “Oh. Well, then maybe you should hold on to these. He might try another bullshit motion to get money out of you.”

“I’ll castrate him if he does.” He’d tried three different times, despite their divorce being finalized, to get alimony from her, or get his alimony payments to her reduced since her writing career had taken off, despite the fact that she still made far less than he did as an orthodontist.

Asshole.

“Enough about Dickweed,” Amy said as she tapped a fingernail on the table. “I’ve got an idea. What do you say I do some research for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve got a conference in Rapid City next week. I can go hit the local monuments and stuff for you. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, all those. There’s a lot to do out in that area. It’d make great background info.”

“Evil day job?”

Amy dropped her gaze to examine her fingernails again. “Yeah. Tourism conference.” Her evil day job was working part-time for the county’s tourism board, in addition to helping Gwen as her assistant. Well, when she wasn’t home at their parents’ house and helping care for their brother.

It bugged Gwen that she couldn’t put her finger on it. “What’s up with you today?” she asked.

“What?”

“You’re…off somehow. Is something bothering you? Did you get into it with Dad or Mom?” Wouldn’t be the first time, although they didn’t take out their ire on Amy nearly as much as they did Gwen.

Amy shook her head. “I need some downtime, that’s all. Vacation. Breathing room.”

“You need to get laid. You’ll be forty next year. Use it or lose it.”

Her sister’s brief smile told Gwen the truth. This wasn’t just a business or research trip. But she probably needed an alibi to extend her stay out there.

“Okay, spill it. Who is he?”

Amy blushed and shrugged. “Nothing serious, okay? Just a guy.”

“Not even worth sharing his name?”

She blushed again. “Maybe if it gets serious.” Amy had always been the closed-mouth child. While Gwen and Liam could talk about anything to each other, Amy did good to share what she’d had for breakfast, much less deeply personal details.

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone. Go, have fun. Enjoy yourself.” Gwen’s phone rang on the counter to the tune of “Wipe Out.” Gwen’s best friend, Ruth. Calling about her daily crisis, most likely.

Amy stood and left the room.

Gwen didn’t have time to wonder what else was really going on with her sister, even though she sensed something more bothering her than just a secret man on the side. “What’s up, Ruthie?”

“I think Bob’s cheating on me.”

Oh, this day suuucks.
“What?” Gwen contemplated adding a heaping portion of Jack Daniel’s to her coffee and heading back to bed a little before lunch.

Hell, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

“I think Bob is cheating on me. I swear he is.”

“You say that every year about this time. Tax time just happened. He does taxes for a living. He works a lot of hours. You promised me last year when we went through this that you’d ask your doctor for extra meds this year.”

“No, I really think he is cheating on me this time.”

“You thought that last year. And the year before that. And every year.”

Ruthie’s voice turned petulant. “I thought you’d be sympathetic.”

“I
am
sympathetic.” Gwen eyed a bottle of Valium sitting on top of her microwave with her vitamins and Tylenol, three pills left, from back surgery she’d had two years prior.

Damn, out of date.
She tossed it. “I’m sympathetic every year when you think he’s cheating, and every year I’m helping you apologize to him for acting like crazy jealous psycho woman.”

“I called one of the numbers on his private cell. A woman answered.”

Gwen took a calming breath. “And?”

“She answered like she was happy to hear from him, and she said his name. Then when she realized it wasn’t him calling, she hung up and wouldn’t answer when I called back and now the number’s no good.”

“Creepy women calling me and asking me if I’m schtooping their husband tend to make me want to hang up and hide too, honey.”

Ruthie’s tone changed, uncertain. “Do you really think I’m overreacting?”

“Probably. You’re always overreacting. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

Now Ruth sounded like a little girl caught misbehaving. “No.”

“Okay, honey, what’s our rule?”

“I eat and take my meds before I call you.”

“Go eat. Did you take your meds?”

“Yes.”

“What’s our other rule?”

“If I feel paranoid it means I probably didn’t eat when I took my morning meds.”

Gwen took a deep breath to help minimize the amount of snark in her tone. “Riiiight. Sweetie, go eat and call me back later. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Thanks for putting up with me, Gee.”

Gwen felt guilty for her irritation. She literally was the only friend Ruthie had left. She gentled her voice even more. “Go on, and call me back when you feel better.” She hung up and laid the phone on the counter.

Amy returned to the kitchen, still looking odd. Gwen wondered if maybe Mercury had gone retro again and no one remembered to tell her.

“What is it this time?” Amy asked. “Is her foil hat on a little too tight? Green men in her toilet?”

“I know you don’t like her, but she’s a good person.”

“She’s a basket case.” Amy sat at the kitchen table. “I don’t know how you put up with her.” She went back to examining a nail. “Damn sure don’t know how her husband puts up with her,” she grumbled.

Gwen turned on her. “Go what she went through and tell me you wouldn’t be three steps from a rubber room,” she angrily sniped.