Chapter One

Chapter One

DASH

Pickins are slim in the Canyon Inn lobby. That’s for damn sure.

I blow a long line of smoke up at the ceiling, before stubbing out my cigarette in the dented tin ashtray. This is where I’m at, huh? Placing advertisements in the local newspaper for an assistant. Watching the bottom of the barrel show up in response. I figure things have been worse. But they’ve also been a hell of a lot better.

Four women mill around near the Inn’s entrance in sequined crop tops, newspapers folded under their arms, looking like a gaggle of depressed strippers. My last assistant made off in the middle of the night with a purse full of my hard-earned cash, putting me in this clusterfuck. Doesn’t seem like I’ll be getting out of it any time soon, either. Is there a single woman alive that can be trusted?

The answer to that is a resounding hell no.

I check my watch for the time, reckoning I’ll give it another two minutes before bailing out the back entrance. A couple of the crop tops are getting wise, starting to glance in my direction and putting two and two together. Yes, yes, ladies. I placed the ad. Does anyone else in this pile of dust and mortar look like a magician to you? Hell, I stand out on the Vegas strip, let alone in this one-stoplight town. If I don’t get out of here soon, one of them will get brave and approach me. I don’t have time to explain that I’m not interested in their services.

Or that I’m not really a magician.

I look down at my watch again, sucking my teeth as the little hand ticks up to the twelve. That’s it, then. Adios, crop tops. I’ve got places to go and money to steal. Hopefully somewhere between this town and my next gig, I’ll run into a woman who can perform under pressure. Someone with sticky fingers and a distracting smile. Is that really so much to ask?

With one final glance at the door, I stand from the sagging sofa and—

There’s a moment in every man’s life when he senses his downfall. Sees it hurtling straight at him like a goddamn torpedo. Maybe it’s a bad poker bet, a wrong turn in a terrible neighborhood, or one line of coke too many.

Mine is a redhead.

I know the second she breezes in, not sparing the crop tops a single glance, that I am royally screwed. She’s electric. The air near my fingers, around my ears, starts to buzz like I’m being swarmed by bees. Am I having a stroke? Jesus, that’s what it feels like. As if some voodoo curse has taken over my body, rendering my feet useless where they remain stuck to the brown, carpeted floor.

Don’t even get me started on my cock.

The redhead has only taken two steps into the motel and it’s already at half-mast. Four steps and I’m primed for fucking. Her. Just like that. Like turning on a radio when the dial is turned to full blast.

She’s wearing green satin in the form of a dress. If you can call the thin, fragile ribbon of fabric a dress. It starts just above her nipples and ends an inch below her cunt. If we were alone in the lobby, I think I might pin her down on the couch and rut her without exchanging a damn word. Hell, I’m thinking about doing it right now with everyone watching. Just snarling at everyone who comes close to my conquest while I wet hump her into a coma.

Get your shit together, Dash.

Now.

I’m known for keeping an almost eerie cool in any situation. Guns pointed at my head, fleeing an angry mob, you name it. I do it all with a smile on my face. So I have no idea what comes over me when the redhead flips her hair and saunters in my direction, those slight hips swaying right and left. From across the room, I can see that her eyes are a startling mint green. And they’re full of determination.

I love a determined woman. God knows I do.

But with a punch in the gut, I realize the redhead ain’t no woman.

Not yet, anyway.

In a split second, my hard-on becomes something shameful. The kind of secret erection men stroke while thinking bad thoughts. Or looking at pictures they shouldn’t be looking at. I’ve never been one of those men. My type has always been blonde and busty, but this redhead…she has ruined me in a matter of moments. She’s my torpedo of destruction and it’s a direct hit. From this day forward, I have no doubt my thoughts will be impure and punishable by God every time I take my dick in my hand.

Matters become worse when she glides to a stop two feet away, her braless tits rebounding up with that final step, nearly sending a nipple into view above the green satin. Fuuuuuck. Her face had to be sweet, didn’t it? All dewy and flushed, eyes huge and clear. Somehow her perfect button nose even turns me on.

The couch is right there. Right there. I could rut her. I could do it. There’s a gun tucked into the back of my waistband, if anyone tries to stop me while in the act.

Christ, do you hear yourself?Do you?

Women proposition me. Not the other way around. On the rare occasion I’m interested, there’s no sense of impending death. There’s no desperate, miserable ache in my balls…or a ridiculous pounding in my chest. Yet here I am, wanting to perform an act that transcends propositions. Shame. Shame on you.

She must be the devil disguised as a girl.

Or maybe she’s the devil’s bride, because haven’t I always been referred to as the devil? Yes, I have. Too many times to count. By people I loved. By people who hated me. Which one is this girl going to be?

Nothing. She can’t be anything to me. It would be wrong on every level.

When she opens her mouth, though, the torpedo finishes its tear through my middle. “Excuse me, sir?” She wobbles in her high heels, sets her duffel bag down, and extends a hand. “I’m your new assistant.”

*     *     *

BABETTE

Oh lord. Whydid he have to be so good-looking?

Good-looking isn’t the right description for a man built by sin, though. Surely, surely not. I’d pictured a middle-aged man with a waxed, black mustache. In a sparkly turban and a cape. Damn my stepfather for never letting me out of the house. With only one television in the house and no computer, my access to the outside world consists of the public library’s free—but spotty—internet access.

There are handsome boys back in town, I suppose. When one of them approaches me, I keep my composure by picturing them as toddlers, snot coming out of their noses, crying for their mamas. My mind is drawing a blank for the magician, though. Maybe he was never a child. Isn’t that a wild thought?

His hair is golden. Like the tokens I saved from my first and last trip to Chuck E. Cheese when I was ten. His eyes are piercing, terrifying ice. Blue, brittle ice. Although I have this deep-down feeling he can melt them, if inclined. Make them appear more like a warm summer lake. That inkling gave me courage to address him, a man, before he spoke to me first. The bravery to lift my gaze up, up, and meet his cool stare. God, he’s tall. Tall and…menacing. I wonder what he’s thinking about.

I’ve been holding out my arm so long, it has begun to tremble, but I refuse to take it back. Refuse to look down. The advertisement was clear about no whiners or crybabies, and I don’t intend to be one. Is showing up here and asking this beautiful stranger to sweep me out of town a long shot? Yes, it darn well is. But I read the paper every day, so I know this opportunity isn’t coming around the bend again.

Bottom line, I need to get out of this town. I need to get away from my home, because I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive. So I’ll stand here until my arm breaks and I won’t shed a single tear as long as I’m in this man’s acquaintance, so long as he takes me with him. Wherever. I don’t care.

“My new assistant?” One end of his devastating mouth ticks up. “I don’t think so. Run along now and let the adults play.”

Heat climbs the column of my neck, but I force up my chin. “I’m not going anywhere, sir.” Disappointment goes through me like an arrow, but I have my pride, even though someone has done his best to steal it from me. “Not until you shake my hand. It’s only polite.”

A small gust of breath escapes him. “I’m not touching you.”

Darn. I thought this dress was decent. Thought curling my hair with Coke cans might make it look nice. What do I know about looking nice, though? A big load of nothing, that’s what. I do know about being a curse. An actual redheaded stepchild with no mother to help me fix my hair. Not anymore.

Stop being a crybaby.

That’s the only lesson my mother ever taught me, so it’s no small coincidence this gentleman’s ad used that exact word. It’s fate. I have to believe that. I have to believe in something.

As long as the man is standing there, I won’t give up. It isn’t over until he walks away. “Fine. If you won’t shake my hand, I suppose I’ll just start the audition.”

His dark blond eyebrows knit together. “There is no audition.”

Ignoring the pin pricks in my sleeping hand, I turn on a heel and strut, the way I’d once seen women do on a runway when my stepdad fell asleep and I finally had control of the television remote. Sweat slicks the palms of my hands as I stop and circle around, cocking a hip. As if there is a magician performing to my right, I throw out my arms to present him. I smile so big, my cheeks protest. I can feel the women near the entrance burning holes into my back, but I ignore them and I fight for my life. I strut and turn and toss my hair. Give it everything I have.

Apart from the long, low, confusing growl that leaves his mouth, the man gives me no reaction. None at all. Until he pivots on one shiny loafer and strides for the back of the motel, looking as though he’s seen a ghost.

My arms drop. Heat butts up against the backs of my eyes. No. No, he’s my ride out of town. My one hope of escaping alive with some kind of chance, some means to make money and live. I’m a survivor, and he’s going to know it.

It’s now or never.

Throwing every ounce of caution or self-consciousness to the wind, I open my mouth and I sing. I sing for my survival. Of course I pick a Lucinda Williams song, because she’s my favorite and she’s a badass, even when her heart is broken. And that’s what I want this man to believe. That I can be the badass he wants. I won’t ever break in front of him, as long as I live.

Heck, I might not live past this afternoon if I can’t make him believe me.

He doesn’t turn around until I’m on the second verse, and even then, he only grants me one icy-blue eye over his left shoulder. He’s very still. Deadly still.

When I finish, I clasp my hands together and hold my breath.

“What’s your name?” he asks quietly. Carefully.

The single word bursts out of me. “Babette.”

“Dash Kelly.” He nods once and keeps walking. “Let’s hit the road, Babs.”