Cash Braddock is doing…okay. She sort of has a girlfriend, her business sucks less, and the cops are only picking her up for interrogations every other weekend. Mediocrity has underrated appeal. It’s fine.
The universities are back in session, which means drugs are in high demand. Cash is becoming more reluctant to sell, while Detective Laurel Kallen is on the trail of someone who’s been drugging and assaulting women at college parties. Cash’s and Laurel’s goals should be aligned, but neither is convinced of the ethics of her job anymore.
When Laurel’s younger sister is assaulted, okay stops being okay. If Cash wants to help the Kallen sisters, she must decide her own moral bounds.
Third in the Cash Braddock series.
What Reviewers Say About Ashley Bartlett’s Work
Cash Braddock
“There were moments I laughed out loud, pop culture references that I adored and parts I cringed because I’m a good girl and Cash is kind of bad. I relished the moments that Laurel and Cash spent alone. These two are really a good match and their chemistry just jumps off the page. Playful, serious and sarcastic all rolled into one harmonious pairing. The story is great, the characters are fantastic and the twist, well, I never saw it coming.”—The Romantic Reader Blog
“This book was amazing; Bartlett has a knack for being able to create characters that just jump off the page and immerse themselves into your heart.”—Fantastic Book Reviews
The Price of Cash
“The chemistry between Cash and Laurel is fantastic. This match has tension, heartache that pulls you deep into their dilemma. You want them to go for it and damn the consequences. It is so good! The whole book is fantastic, the love story, the crime, supporting cast, really top notch. Ashley Bartlett has written a fabulous follow-up. I cannot say enough good things about this one. I am absolutely hooked on this series!”—The Romantic Reader Blog
Dirty Sex
“A young, new author, Ashley Bartlett definitely should be on your radar. She’s a really fresh, unique voice in a sea of good authors. …I found [Dirty Sex] to be flawless. The characters are deep and the action fast-paced. The romance feels real, not contrived. There are no fat, padded scenes, but no skimpy ones either. It’s told in a strong first-person voice that speaks of the author’s and her character’s youth, but serves up surprisingly mature revelations.”—Out in Print
Dirty Money
“Bartlett has exquisite taste when it comes to selecting the right detail. And no matter how much plot she has to get through, she never rushes the game. Her writing is so well-paced and so self-assured, she should be twice as old as she really is. That self-assuredness also mirrors through to her characters, who are fully realized and totally believable.”—Out in Print
“Bartlett has succeeded in giving us a mad-cap story that will keep the reader turning page after page to see what happens next.”—Lambda Literary
Dirty Power
“Bartlett’s talents are many. She knows her way around an action scene, she writes memorably hot sex, her plots are seamless, and her characters are true and deep. And if that wasn’t enough, Coop’s voice is so genuine, so world-weary, jaded, and outrageously sarcastic that if Bartlett had none of the aforementioned attributes, the read would still be entertaining enough to stretch over three books.”—Out in Print
“Here we have some rough and tumble action with some felons on the run! A big plus is the main characters were very engaging right from the start. …If you like your books super chocked full of all manner of things, this will be a winner. I definitely ended up enjoying this wild and woolly whoosh through the world of hardcore criminals and those who track them. Give it a try!”—Rainbow Book Reviews
Cash and the Sorority Girl
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Cash and the Sorority Girl
© 2019 By Ashley Bartlett. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-311-6
This Electronic Book is published by
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P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: May 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Megan Tillman
By the Author
Sex & Skateboards
Dirty Trilogy
Dirty Sex
Dirty Money
Dirty Power
Cash Braddock Series
Cash Braddock
The Price of Cash
Cash and the Sorority Girl
Acknowledgments
The previous Cash novels debate morality and criminality and social constructs. This book is not concerned with existential wrestling. Rape is not debatable. At the same time, I am not offering grand solutions—or any solutions, really. I am condemning sexual assault and suggesting our emotional, physical, and social survival is contingent upon being respectful and kind. It’s harder than we imagine.
The research for this novel gutted me. Mary Alice, I cannot fathom the courage it takes to be a sexual assault and domestic violence counselor. You are heroic.
Once again, Sydney, you lent my cops authenticity. I’m sorry the authority figures in your life probably think you do weird drugs now.
This book was most challenging, of course, when I had to dress a femme girl. Aurora, thanks for responding to my inarticulate questions with coherent answers and pictures. You’re swell, doll.
My mental health was not great when I was writing this. Carsen, I don’t know what to thank you for. Everything? You make me laugh and you build my confidence and you fight my battles—even when I’m fighting with myself. Ruth, my bro. I’m certain our text conversations would baffle any scholar. Thanks for getting how my brain works. I love you guys.
Cindy, I know you hate texting. And talking on the phone. Really, any communication before three a.m. But you do it anyway and I know that means you love me. Thanks for lecturing me and talking me off ledges.
Bold Strokes Books is the best home I could ask for. Radclyffe and Sandy, you have created something exquisite and I’m lucky to be part of it.
Finally, a massive thank you to my audience. You guys are pretty great. Thanks for sticking with me and Cash on this strange journey.
Dedication
For my wife.
Because you get me.
And because you don’t suffer fools.
Chapter One
The phone ringing didn’t wake me. Laurel had perfected the art of stealthily answering a barely audible phone in the middle of the night. There was probably some woman in the past for whom she had developed that skill. I’d never given it much thought. The women in the past, that is. The ninja phone answering I’d thought far too much about.
As she spoke, I pulled her closer, pressed my face to the warm cotton draped over her shoulders, and continued to doze. It was her lack of movement that made me wake up. The usual subtle catches and shifts of her breath when I splayed my hand against her stomach were strangely absent. Her breathing was deep
and too even—like she was holding it at the top of each inhale. Her exhalations were measured, cultivated. That was what woke me.
I opened my eyes and rolled away. I couldn’t see through the haze of sleep and I couldn’t understand what Laurel was saying. Words were too hard to process. But the control, the curt urgency in her tone was chilling. She tapped the phone to hang it up. The pad of her finger against the glass echoed dully through the room. She sat up. I pushed myself up too.
“I need to go to Mercy.”
“The hospital?” I asked.
Laurel nodded. “Lane is there.”
“Your sister? Is she okay?”
Laurel started to shake her head, then shrugged instead. “I don’t know.”
I waited for her to expand. When she didn’t, I knew she couldn’t. “I’ll drive you.”
She nodded once. “Thanks.”
We moved around each other, dressing, finding shoes, blinking away sleep. The efficiency of her movements was the product of a detective’s hours. Mine weren’t born of habit, but panic. I’d never seen Laurel quite this coiled, subdued.
We drove out of midtown into East Sac. The lights on the dash rolled to three a.m. Laurel kept both feet on the floor. Her hands were folded in her lap.
“Do you need to call anyone? Your parents?” I asked.
“No.”
I pulled into the hospital lot and followed the signs to the emergency room. Laurel didn’t say anything so I assumed that was the right place. I parked and Laurel walked to the brightly lit entrance. Her pace slowly accelerated so we were almost jogging by the time we got inside. She walked through the waiting room, turned down a hallway, and took a hard corner.
“Where are we going?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.
We stopped outside a closed door. She knocked twice, then let herself in.
A woman sitting on a rolling stool just inside vaulted to her feet. “No, absolutely not, Detective.” She blocked Laurel’s forward movement. Lane was sitting on a hospital bed in the center of the room. She looked at us but said nothing as Laurel was forced back into the hallway. The woman closed the door and stood directly in front of it. “You cannot be in there. The waiting room is back around that corner.” She pointed. Her hand, her voice was steady. “When she is ready, I’ll bring her out to you.”
“I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I’m her sister.” Laurel tried to edge around the woman.
“I’m not misunderstanding anything. You absolutely cannot be in that room. If you try, I will have you removed.” The woman crossed her arms. She was older, early sixties, maybe. She was a good six inches shorter than Laurel and probably weighed a hundred pounds. She looked South Asian, Indian maybe. Her dark hair was faintly graying, tucked into a loose bun. She was wearing shapeless jeans and a casual shirt. It looked like she had rolled out of bed and come directly to this room to yell at Laurel. There was something commanding in her presence.
“I’m not trying to break protocol here. I’m not just a family member. I’m also a detective with Sac PD. I just want to be present when she is interviewed.”
“I know who you are. Lane has already been interviewed by the police.”
“She wants me in there. She asked you to call me for a reason.”
“I’m sorry. She doesn’t want you in the room.” The woman’s unrelenting stare broke for a moment. Pity came through. “You know how this works, Detective. It’s better if you’re in the waiting room.”
Laurel deflated. “Yeah, okay.” They stared into each other’s eyes for a long second. “Thank you,” Laurel said before she broke and turned back to the waiting room.
I followed. I thought I understood what was happening, but speculation felt like a violation. So I sat in an institutional chair and held Laurel’s hand. She brought our joined hands to her lap. With her free hand she traced the bumps and cracks in my knuckles. We sat there for a long time. Or maybe it was only five interminable minutes. The doors slid open, and a wall of sound came at us. Laurel jerked. Lance Kallen came through the door. It was his uniform making all that noise. The radio on his shoulder, the creak and groan of his equipment belt, the partner in uniform trailing behind him. Laurel extracted her hand from mine.
“You tell them to find that little bitch motherfucker. I want him. I’m taking him in. You let them know I’m the arresting fucking officer. I don’t give a goddamn fuck what precinct he’s in.” Lance turned back to make sure his partner was receiving the message.
The partner held his hand over his radio but wasn’t touching it. “Kallen, calm down. I get it, but we need to do this by the book.”
Lance’s hand shot out and grabbed his partner’s shirt. The other guy rocked back, pissed, but he stopped himself from reacting. They stared hard at each other. Lance dropped his hand. They sighed and walked the rest of the way into the room.
“Lance.” Laurel stood.
He crossed the room in two big steps and swept her into his arms. It took me a second to realize she was holding him. He hunched and buried his face in her neck. She cupped the back of his head. Their voices were indistinct murmurs.
Lance’s partner hung back. We made awkward eye contact. The doors slid open again. Seth—Lance’s childhood best friend—came in. It was less loud this time. His radio was already turned down. He stepped lightly, purposefully. There was only a faint creaking of leather. And he wasn’t shouting. That helped. The door closed halfway, then changed course and slid back again. A fourth uniform followed Seth. She stepped to the side and stood at casual attention next to Lance’s sweating partner.
Laurel and Lance broke apart. Seth stepped forward. He gripped Laurel’s shoulder so tight his knuckles went white. Lance fell to Seth. Seth let go of Laurel and wrapped his arms around Lance. Their forearms bunched and bulged as they squeezed each other. Lance finally stepped back and straightened to his full height. Lance’s partner stepped forward hesitantly. Lance rounded on him.
“Did you call it in? Did you tell them?” Lance asked.
“No. I—I don’t know if that’s the right call,” the partner said.
Seth stepped between them. “Dispatch doesn’t know she’s a Kallen?”
“No.” Lance shook his head once. “I want Sac State flooded with uniforms. The detectives who interviewed her have the description of the perp. Every available body needs to be on this.”
“And tell them Lance and I want to take the guy in. Make sure they tell everyone,” Laurel said.
Seth nodded and reached for his radio.
“Wait,” I said.
All five cops turned and stared at me. Lance and Seth seemed a little surprised to see me there at all. Laurel seemed surprised that I was slowing down this tar and feather party.
“Why?” Laurel asked.
I stood and stepped close to Laurel. “You guys can’t announce on the radio that Lane was raped.” I whispered it, but Laurel and Lance drew back like I’d slapped them.
“That’s not what we’re going to say,” Lance said.
“Not in that language, but whatever you do say is going to involve her, and you can’t do that,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because it will make her a perpetual victim.”
“I don’t know what the fuck that means. Call it in.” Lance shifted his weight. He was ready to bolt or fight someone. Or both.
“Hold up.” Laurel gestured at Seth and he nodded. “What do you mean a perpetual victim?”
“If you put out a call for help in finding the guy who raped the Kallens’ youngest daughter, you’re branding her for life. Every event she goes to, every fundraiser, every cop she runs into in a grocery store will suddenly know this intimate detail of her life.”
“But it’s not her fault,” Seth said. “I know cops aren’t known for their sensitivity, but no one is going to blame her.”
“That’s just untrue.” It was a nice story, but all of them knew better than to believe it. “And even if your entire department sud
denly pays attention to their cultural competency training, it’s not our story to tell. It’s hers. So radio in and say it’s a family friend of an officer, tell them this young woman deserves nepotism, but do not label her further. She’s already had her consent stripped away tonight. Don’t compound the problem.”
“That’s bullshit,” Lance said.
Seth shook his head. “It’s not.” He waved Lance’s partner over. “Don’t let him contact dispatch. I’ll be right back.” He bypassed the radio and pulled out a cell phone.
Lance flexed and spun in a tight circle. Laurel let him. After the third spin, she grabbed his arm and pulled him into a chair. His partner crossed his arms and stood over them. I think he was aiming for protectiveness, but it just read as threatening. Laurel shot him a look and pointed at the chair on Lance’s other side. He rolled his eyes carefully and sat. Laurel turned her gaze to me and I quickly dropped into the chair next to her.
Seth’s partner hovered behind him, just out of earshot. When he hung up the phone, she stepped forward and they had a whispered conversation. After a minute, they crossed the waiting room and sat facing us. Seth nodded at Laurel. She nodded back.
Everything felt very quiet. I waited for a follow-up. Something to make me feel better or worse. It felt common. As though I’d already heard the story, but I didn’t know what happened. I only knew why. Lane was a girl. Girls were for raping.
Lance stood abruptly. “I need to help them look.” His eyes were wide, the muscles in his jaw and neck were tight. He looked caught.
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