Stuck with a Stiff

by Scott, D. D.

  STUCK WITH A SCHMUCK

  (The Stuck with a Series)

  (A Prequel)

  By D. D. Scott

  Copyright © 2012 by D. D. Scott. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  First Electronic Edition: August 2012

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table Of Contents

  STUCK WITH A SCHMUCK

  CHAPTER ONE • CHAPTER TWO • CHAPTER THREE • CHAPTER FOUR • CHAPTER FIVE • CHAPTER SIX

  STUCK WITH A STIFF

  CHAPTER ONE • CHAPTER TWO • CHAPTER THREE • CHAPTER FOUR • CHAPTER FIVE • CHAPTER SIX • CHAPTER SEVEN • CHAPTER EIGHT • CHAPTER NINE • CHAPTER TEN • CHAPTER ELEVEN • CHAPTER TWELVE • CHAPTER THIRTEEN • CHAPTER FOURTEEN • CHAPTER FIFTEEN • CHAPTER SIXTEEN • CHAPTER SEVENTEEN • CHAPTER EIGHTEEN • CHAPTER NINETEEN • CHAPTER TWENTY • CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE • CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO • CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE • CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR • CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE • CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX • CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN • CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT • CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE • CHAPTER THIRTY • CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE • CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  NOTE FROM D. D. SCOTT

  ABOUT D. D. SCOTT

  BOOKS BY D. D. SCOTT

  NOTE FROM DAVID SLEGG

  CHAPTER ONE

  “The right shoe can change your life…just ask Cinderella.”

  That’s what the Bitchy Sign in the airport’s gift shop had said. And no, I didn’t buy the damn thing.

  Why not?

  Because not all of us go totally Cinderella and marry our own prince.

  Okay, yes. My cousin, Zoey Witherspoon, did.

  But there are plenty of us who end up with frogs. Frogs that never become princes no matter how many times you kiss ‘em.

  Hell, at this point, I might just take another frog. That sure beats my current reality, which is a big nothing, zero, nada, as in no man in sight.

  ‘Course, now that I’m about to be at the cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, if I saw a man outside my first-class cabin window, he would not be my choice of a dating prospect. Whatever he was doin’ out there couldn’t be good.

  Realizing just how far that little sign had sent me over the edge of my barely-there sanity really scared the hell out of me. When would I ever get myself put back together again?

  I fought with the coarse blanket I’d retrieved from the overhead compartment. These miniscule scraps of fabric were never big enough to cover my long limbs. Luckily, I’d grown used to the discomforts and irritations of travel and always brought along my own pashmina scarf. I’m a total Linus, desperately in need of my blanky.

  While struggling with the blanket and my scarf, I managed to tip over my tote bag, which was way too big to fit nicely underneath the seat in front of me. Out flew one of my old business cards.

  I thought I’d tossed out every last one of those bastards months ago.

  What the hell?

  It must have been hiding in one of the interior pockets.

  After retrieving the card, I couldn’t seem to quit staring at the fancy metallic embossed letters. I stared so long my eyes began to water.

  “Aldredge & Aldredge” the card read.

  Hmph. No need for that second Aldredge now. And yes. That Aldredge was my total nightmare of a frog.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Aldredge, is there anything I can do for you before departure? Perhaps a cocktail?”

  Thankfully or unthankfully, depending on how you chose to look at it, my self-pity party was interrupted by the annoyingly kind but canned concern of a flight attendant. The talking mannequin bore a nameplate identifying her as Allison.

  Flashes of rage heated my cheeks. Somehow though, I managed to contain my deep desire to strangle the shit out of Allison’s way-too-perky affront.

  “That would be Ms. Aldredge. And no thank you.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Allison, attendant extraordinaire, who looked like she should be on that once hot, now cancelled television show Pan Am – a beehive of an upsweep hairdo included - glanced at her manifest.

  What was that about?

  Did she think I didn’t know for sure that I was now single?

  “Let me know if you change your mind and would like a drink.”

  I nodded and buried my head in my hands, trying to shake off the horror.

  And yes, sound reasoning to the rescue, I was fully aware that Allison had no way of knowing the significance of her error. But in my book, it was a damn big one. And I wasn’t about to let it slip by without correcting the offending party.

  I closed my eyes and settled back into the cushions of my reclined seat. The long hours I’d spent reworking an overdue manuscript had left me drained.

  “Ms. Aldredge.” Allison poked me in the arm with her bone-cold pointer finger. “You must put your seat in the upright position for takeoff.”

  I swore I heard the bitch place emphasis on the ‘Ms’. But without further comment, I repositioned my seat. I had bigger battles brewing and didn’t need to start a new one with Pan Am Barbie.

  The sound of the jet’s engines roaring to life mercifully brought an end to my flight attendant’s honey-tongued torture. Thank the powers that be she had a cabin to prepare and no additional time to mess with me.

  I leaned against the window and watched LaGuardia’s runway disappear.

  Before the plane could have even been off the air traffic controllers’ radar, I was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “If Indianapolis is your home, welcome back. If you’re just visiting, then we hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Until the wheels touched down and Allison’s annoying voice echoed throughout the plane, nothing had broken through my dream fog.

  I sure wish I was here for a short-term visit, but fate had dealt me a different hand.

  Once we’d taxied into our gate and Allison gave her final set of instructions, I stood up and cracked my head on the overhead bin.

  “Perfect way to begin my journey,” I muttered to myself while checking the bin to make sure nothing had fallen out of my laptop bag. I’d left the damn thing unzipped. And since “idiot” was now my middle name, that was par for the course.

  On my way to retrieve my baggage, I spotted the blessed Starbuck’s mermaid and privately praised sweet serendipity.

  Perhaps all hope was not lost. The single shot of espresso included in my normal red eye just wasn’t going to cut it today. I don’t even know if a black eye could do the trick.

  Noticing the juice bar next to the Starbucks, I had to laugh. If my cousin Zoey had been with me, we’d be going there too for one of her horrendous all-things-green wheat grass shots.

  I, on the other hand, don’t like much of anything good for me. Including men. I had a knack for choosing losers across the board. Except in one particular area of expertise, where I’d had nothing but winners. Big-time winners.

  Seeing a combin
ation newsstand and bookstore conveniently located on the opposite side of Starbuck’s, I couldn’t pass it up. It just wasn’t in my nature to walk past a bookstore, even though I did all my reading on a Kindle.

  For that matter, my world as of late seemed to revolve around all-things-Kindle and Ereaders in general. Along with my final job as a Senior Editor for one of New York’s largest publishers, I freelance edit for many of today’s hottest Indie Epub superstars.

  Now that I was freelancing and getting paid well for preparing manuscripts to become Ebooks, browsing these little shops seemed like taking a stroll through the past. A past my Ex refused to let go of. Yep, he was on the TradiPub Titanic. I…had sailed on. He was going to sink along with all The Big Six publishers. I wasn’t.

  In fact, I would be the perfect subject for some New York Times piece on the Epublishing World. If newspapers like The Times, firmly entrenched in the world of The Big Six - who spend major bucks advertising with them - had any interest in talking about the new reality.

  Setting my carry-on bag between my feet, I freed my hands to explore the storefront racks and shelves. I focused my attention first, as I always did when beginning my perusal of a new store, on the Bestseller display. Like a child seeing his or her artwork proudly displayed on the refrigerator, I smiled triumphantly.

  Four of my authors anchored down the second, third, sixth and seventh slots. Not bad for a once senior, then executive, now almost totally on her own freelance editor.

  Luckily for me, my authors were selling Ebooks by the cyber-truckload. They were out of contract and had no interest in continuing to be screwed by The Big Six. They were all going Indie Epub all the way, meaning I hadn’t lost a single client and stood to gain a gazillion new ones.

  I pulled up the handle of my suitcase and headed for the rental car area.

  The fact that the second place author, Nicky Blane, had survived getting his last book published was not only a miracle for him but for me as well. If I’d spent one more session with him, one of us would have ended up on Death Row and the other would be buried several feet beneath the earth’s surface.

  It really wouldn’t have mattered which of us received which fate, as we both would have volunteered to suffer either as long as it was at the expense of the other.

  Labeling our relationship as love-hate is much too generous. There’s no love. And way too much hate.

  We’re no Castle and Beckett.

  Our books are the same kind of police procedural crime thrillers of that dynamic Nielsen-ratings duo, but we don’t have the made-for-TV attraction of Fillion and Katic, which is what makes that show work.

  To be honest, I’m still not sure what makes Nicky Blane and I work so well together. But we have ten bestselling books that say we do…at least on paper and in E-sales.

  Nicky Blane is the biggest jerk I know. In fact, I’m certain Webster had him in mind when stating the definition. And every thesaurus would be accurate using ‘Nick’ as an alternative for the word ‘asshole’.

  Trying to cool off my attitude and cool down my coffee, I blew through the hole in the lid another time then sighed. What I wouldn’t give to be back in Manhattan. What I wouldn’t give to…

  What?!

  Not see Nicky waving at me like a suave pig from the Hertz desk. Maybe I should stop and grab an apple at the fruit stand that separated us.

  Wanting to get the pain over with as soon as possible, I took a deep breath and quickened my pace to the rental car center.

  Forcing a tight smile, I rolled my suitcase up and over Nicky’s foot. Oops. So yeah, I guess I wanted to inflict some pain too.

  Seeing him flinch, I relaxed a bit.

  Checkmate, Asshole.

  But after surmising from the desk clerk that Nicky was my ride and not a rental, Nicky’s discomfort from my luggage wheel connecting with his dorsum couldn’t have come close to matching my displeasure at having to be his passenger.

  The jackass had cancelled my reservation. And since Hertz was out of cars, I had no choice but to accept a ride from Nicky.

  “Ahhh, Nicky. If I’d known I had to see you this soon, I would have had a least one drink on my flight.”

  Maybe Pan Am Barbie was smarter than I’d given her credit for. After all, she had tried to convince me to have a cocktail.

  “Better wipe that shitty grin off your face, Ms. Allwitch…I mean Ms. Aldredge. For a minute there, I thought you were actually glad to see me.” Nicky grabbed my carry-on as well as the rest of my luggage from the carousel then pointed me toward the exit doors.

  “Not in this life-time, Nicky,” I said and sidestepped his reach to put more distance between us.

  “It’s Nick, God damn it! My name is Nick. Not Nicky.” He moved past me and into the revolving door that spit him out toward the parking garages.

  “Not according to your book covers,” I said struggling to keep up with him.

  “That was your idea, Allwitch. Not mine.” He glared at me while we scrambled to make an elevator before the door slid shut.

  As the door closed with him in and me out, he hollered, “Third floor. Take the next elevator or use the stairs.”

  “Asshole”, I said, not giving a damn that the priest standing behind me heard it.

  I stomped up the stairs.

  Out of breath by the time I reached the last landing, I looked up and saw Nicky tapping his foot and studying his watch.

  “Don’t you even think…about goin’ there,” I huffed and puffed, resenting the fact that he was the big bad wolf to my now aching little piggies.

  I mean, really, who hustles up multiple flights of stairs in brand new Louboutins?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “All I was gonna say was Happy Valentine’s Day, Allwitch,” Nicky said, so sweet and innocent-like I wanted to kick him in the shin.

  Except I couldn’t kick him ‘cause my feet hurt too damn bad. I couldn’t wait to get into my Ugg boots.

  “Bite me,” I said and stomped past him.

  “Uhm, my car’s this way.”

  I stopped mid stomp and turned back to face him as heat flushed my cheeks and the sweat on my forehead became glue for my bangs. Although, I was sure those issues were left over from my impromptu cardio workout.

  “I knew that. I just needed some extra space.”

  “Right. Sure you did. What? Are you gifted with more than word magic now? You also know where cars that you’ve never seen are parked?”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  And then he did the worst thing he could do…

  He laughed at me.

  “Leave it to me to get stuck with a schmuck on Cupid’s Big Day,” I said.

  Noticing he flinched a bit at that, I almost felt bad.

  “A schmuck? Really? Ouch.”

  He still opened the car door for me, so I had to give him a few points back for that.

  “Okay. Maybe schmuck was a little harsh. It’s not like you’re a total oaf. Some would actually argue you’re brilliant.”

  “Now that sounds much more like me.”

  “See? There you go. Right back to Schmuck-ville. When your ego gets the best of you with those shitty remarks, I can’t stand it.”

  Oddly enough, Nicky Blane was then silent for a long while. Long enough that before he said another word, we’d exited the parking garage and were already on 465 North headed to his farm.

  “Maybe my ego gets the best of me ‘cause no one else does,” he muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear him over the heat blasting and the wipers swiping at the ice that was hitting the windshield.

  “What do you mean by that? You’re a bestselling author many times over. I’d say, with you, every reader gets the best.”

  “I’m not talking about my readers.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” I asked, thinking this was a very strange conversation to be having with “the” Nicky Blane, Mr. Macho, who could have any chick he wanted and
who made a regular habit of keeping a steady stream of them at his beck and call.

  “If you’re referring to women, maybe if you got to know one, more than overnight, some not-so-bright one might stick around for a while.”

  “Never mind. You’d never understand. And hell, if you did, you sure as hell wouldn’t care.”

  Well now that wasn’t true. Okay. Maybe sort of. But it’s not like I really actually hated the guy. He just irritated the hell out of me. Kind of like a pesky fly at a picnic that keeps showing up when all you want is another bite of your pie.

  “Am I really that much of a cold witch to you?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer, but knowing that at least I could count on him to give me the truth.

  That’s one positive. The guy never sugar-coated a damn thing.

  “I do call you Allwitch.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I will give you some credit though. It wasn’t until after your divorce that I lost all hope in you having a heart.”

  It was my turn to say ouch, which I did.

  “I’m that bad?”

  “Yep…that bad,” Nicky said, turning onto the two-lane highway that would take us almost another hundred miles north to his farm.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, settling back into the ultra-comfy leather of his Cadillac SUV.

  “Me too,” he said, clearing his throat then turning up the soft-rock station currently playing some over-the-top depressing Air Supply tune, even though Nicky had told me on many occasions that he didn’t care for such sentimental fluff.

  I sooo did not need to be reminded that I was “All Out of Love.”