SHIVER: 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror (56 page)

Happy Reading!

xo Daisy

About the Author

Before writing bestselling contemporary adult romances, Daisy dreamed of being an author while doing a lot of other things. Antiques dealer, baker, blue ribbon pie-maker, fangirl, freelance writer, gardener, pet mom and wife are a few of the titles she's acquired over the years.

Born and raised in San Diego, Daisy currently lives in a real life Stars Hollow in the Boston suburbs with her husband, their dog Hubbell, and a still nameless imaginary house goat.

Connect with Daisy

Website:
http://www.daisyprescott.com

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https://www.facebook.com/daisyprescottauthorpage

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Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7060289.Daisy_Prescott

Email:
[email protected]

Mailing List:
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Other Books by Daisy

Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Story #1)

Ready to Fall (Modern Love Story #2)

Missionary Position (Modern Love Story #3)

Take Two (Modern Love Story Short)

Trick o’ treat, a girl to meet. Blood Sangria wicked sweet.

eBook edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Ashley Pullo

Proofed by Proofing Style, Inc./Marla Esposito

First Digital Edition October 2014

4:15 p.m.

The tiny black
bowler hat, mustache, and unlit cigarette are the perfect editions to my crime scene photo.  After disguising my hostage, I shove the remaining Potato Head parts back in my desk drawer, and then scribble a ransom note on a Post-it. Positioning the succulent in a compromising pose with my stapler, I snap a photo.  Adam will be pissed - he’s been looking for his potted cactus for days.

ME:
image

Adam: you fucking asshole.

Laughing hysterically, I text back.

ME: Mr. Prickly will return to you in exchange for a case of Shiner.

“Mr. Brooks?”

I throw back a handful of candy corn before pressing the intercom button. “Yes, Roberta?”

“There have been some complaints about loud music coming from your office,” Roberta drones.

“Complaints? Who would object to The Old '97s?”

She doesn’t respond.

I check the volume on my iPod dock - if Adam is trying to get back at me by whining about my music, then it’s a pathetic attempt. “Roberta, I’ll lower it if you snag me some Rice Krispie treats from the pantry.” I smile to myself, knowing that bargaining is against her secretarial creed.

Being an associate at a prestigious Manhattan law firm comes with a shitload of rules and agendas.  It also serves as a breeding ground for arrogant assholes to strut around like peacocks only to have frumpy secretaries put them in their place.  Except for my buddy Adam Ford - he hit the jackpot when he made partner. His secretary is all boobs and mostly brains, but my secretary could frighten a gargoyle.

Since I can’t sneak out until the afternoon partners’ meeting, I decide to tend to some urgent matters in the world of Chris Brooks:  I play a game of solitaire on the computer.  I read an article about how different countries celebrate Halloween.  I reply to my older brother’s email about the Red River Shootout in Dallas. A little homesick, I then look up the fried treats previously featured at the Texas State Fair.  Holy shit, fried beer!

With a few minutes left to spare, I open my closing argument file for the Perkins case.  A competitor sued the Perkins family for two millions dollars claiming they stole their secret pickle recipe. I mean really, three years of law school, three years of legal practice, partner tracked, and
I’m
the asshole stuck defending pickle thieves.  The highlight of the case was when I traveled Upstate to the pickle factory to observe the ingredient taste test performed by pickle experts - food scientists equipped with the knowledge of extracting the exact ratios of vinegar, salt and garlic.  That was awesome.

At exactly 4:30, I switch off my iPod, grab my suit jacket, pocket some Snickers from my desk, hide Adam’s cactus, and then lock my office door.  I still need to buy candy to hand out to the kids in my building.  If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be that creepy bachelor dude that gives the kids matches and condoms.

Passing her desk, I say, “Good night, Roberta.”  As usual, Roberta ignores me. I clear my throat - she pretends to look through case files.

Walking toward the bank of elevators, I spot Adam speaking to a woman in a tight black suit. Not just a suit - it’s the sophisticated woman’s fuck-me-outfit.  I should avoid Adam because of my cactus thievery…but damn, that woman’s ass is like a magnet, attracting
my
Southern pole.

As I approach them, Adam shakes her hand and nods cordially. Jesus, how does he do it?  Gorgeous women just flock to him.

“Thank you, Adam. I’ll be in touch,” she rasps.

My eyes trace the curve of her ass before Adam catches me. “Lena, I’d like you to meet my associate, Chris Brooks.” Adam gives me one of his cold-as-fuck-smirks as she turns to face me - clearly planning his revenge for the cactus prank.

First impression?  Sexy.  Jet-black hair, ruby lips and pale skin … she’s basically Snow White with huge tits.

Extending my hand, I drawl, “Cute.”

Lena smiles slightly as she places her icy hand in my palm. “I’m Lena White,” she asserts. “What exactly do you find cute?”

Oh, fuck. My Texas charm isn’t going to work on this woman. In fact, she’s intimidating.

Adam scrolls through his Blackberry and says, “Sorry to rush off, but I have a partners’ meeting.”  He looks up from his phone and smiles at Lena.  “Chris will be happy to escort you downstairs.”

Following Adam’s suggestion, I press the elevator button with a smile.  When the door opens, Lena steps inside and moves to the back of the elevator. I follow her, first pressing the button for the lobby and then joining her against the wall.

Alone in the elevator, we stand silently, watching as the numbers light up in descending order.

She breaks the silence by asking, “What size jacket do you wear?”

Without looking at her, I reply, “I’m not sure - my suits are custom tailored.  But I think I bought a forty-four athletic blazer for my sister’s engagement party last summer.”

Continuing with her odd questioning, she asks, “Do you smoke?”

“Nah, never.  Although I did chew dip as a freshman back at UT Austin.  A horrible habit endured by fraternity pledges.”

“And do you smile all the time?” she asks, maintaining her stance and focus ahead.

Smiling and tapping my elbow against hers, I answer, “Smiling’s contagious.  It’s also rule numero uno for the Matthew McConaughey School of Charm.”

Turning to me and smiling tightly, she deadpans, “You nailed it.”  Her dark eyes narrow in on my smile, and then slowly trail down my chest.  She’s mentally undressing me - I know that look! Flipping the roles and staring predatorily at my junk, she asks, “Why would you think I’m cute?”

The elevator dings with the passing of each missed floor.  It’s a countdown.

Floor five
. If she were a client, Adam would’ve introduced her as such. 
Floor four
. She’s not wearing a wedding ring. 
Floor three
.  I haven’t had sex in five weeks. 
Floor two
. It’s Halloween - the freakiest day of the year.

I move in front of her with my back to the elevator doors. “Lena, what I meant to say was …” I trail my finger slowly up her arm to rest on her cheek. Staring into her dark eyes, I stretch out my answer with an exaggerated Texas drawl. “You ridin’ my face and wearin’ nothin’ but a smile would be super cute.”

Floor one
. I exit the elevator with a huge grin.  Assuming she’s following me, I lead her toward the 5
th
Avenue exit.

“Chris,” she calls.

Turning my head back with a cocky smirk, I answer, “Yes, Lena?”

Her cold hand grabs mine, pulling me away from the revolving doors.  “Would you like to go to a party with me tonight?” Lena’s chestnut eyes narrow in on mine, leaving me with no choice.

“Like a costume party?”

She releases my hand and takes a step back. “Is that a problem?”

“Are you into that?” I ask, wagging my eyebrows.

Lena’s mouth opens to speak, but then her lips curl into a seductive smile instead. She removes a black business card from her tiny purse and places it in my palm.  “Pick me up at eight. And Chris,” she takes a step closer, “don’t ever walk in front of me again.”

The curt inflection of her voice nearly melts my face - smooth, white hot, and full of sexual tension.  I watch as she floats through the revolving doors, graceful and confident. Studying her business card with a single phone number, I realize this woman has the potential to destroy me.  I can either bite my knuckles and whimper, or forge ahead and bag that fine piece of dominating ass.

***

5:35 p.m.

Deep inside the
mothball emporium of last-minute Halloween costumes, my phone rings.

Shit, it’s Adam.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Where are you?”

“Salvation Army.”

“Why?”

“I need a costume.”

“Did you get her number?”

“Of course,” I say proudly.

“Lena’s unique. Be careful,” Adam advises in a hyper-creepy voice.

Sorting through a rack of plaid shirts from the past two decades, I laugh.  “Fuck off, man.  What’s her story anyway?”  There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.

“She’s researching an old murder case.”

“Good.  A client would suck.”  I spot a shiny buckle under a stack of belts. Perfect - even though it’s engraved with the name DICK.  “All right, bro.  Gotta get dolled up for my date.”

Laughing, Adam says, “You do that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Get a
clue
, Brooks.”

I end the call and join the line of other dumbfucks shopping at the last minute.  Finally reaching the register, I throw my handful of western wear on the counter and teasingly say, “Scary night, huh?” The young woman at the register closes her eyes, clearly pissed about the long line of rich folks trying to score some costumes.

She opens her eyes and glares at me.  “Yeah.”  She sighs.  “Cash or check?”  She scribbles down the prices on a sales ticket and manually adds the tax.

“What about credit?” I ask.

“What about it?  You owe $47.50 - most assholes round up, seeing as this is a charity and all,” she suggests.

I take out my wallet and attempt a friendly smile.  She bites the inside of her mouth and waits.  I place a fifty on the counter and take the receipt.  She calls the next person in line as I shove my overpriced clothing in the sack with my small bag of peppermint Lifesavers - the only bag of candy left above 53
rd
Street.  “Happy Halloween!” I shout to the people in line behind me.

I walk a few blocks east before popping into my second favorite pizzeria.  Kids in costumes zoom around me, collecting candy from a bowl on the counter and then rushing back out to street.  I forget that New York City children don’t really have an opportunity to go door-to-door begging for sweet morsels of tradition.

When I was a kid back in Austin, we had a system.  My two brothers and I would circle the neighborhood in cheesy Halloween masks, recycled from year to year.  I think I wore the mask of Hulk Hogan a dozen times before high school.  After our first trip out, we would empty our bags, switch our masks, and then go with our own set of friends.  Later at night, we would combine our candy and have enough to last until Christmas.

“Can I get two slices?” I ask.

The pizza guy slides two congealed slices in the oven and preps a to-go box. “Six bucks.”

Goddamn, that’s robbery.  I place money on the counter and snag a Milky Way from a candy bowl.  He gives me a dirty look - like I’m literally taking candy from babies.