Also by Miranda Parker
Someone Bad and Something Blue
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Good Excuse To Be Bad
MIRANDA PARKER
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Miranda Parker
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
To D, D, D, S, M, and D with unfailing, fiery love
Acknowledgments
Writing about a woman like Evangeline Crawford is a serious, sleep-deprived endeavor. She rarely lets me rest until I’ve chronicled her last escapade, her last confession, her last word, and in the exact order she told me. So if you catch me slumped in a corner, with shoulders drooping and my head bobbing and sliding across my laptop keyboard, you now know why.
Therefore, if it weren’t for the village that is Miranda Parker, I wouldn’t be sharing her story right now. I would like to thank my village here.
To my editor, Selena James, thank you for not just appreciating my cornball humor, but extending me more creative license than I thought I could get away with and accepting my blind manuscript despite it being fifty pages short. I suspect Angel has haunted you, too.
To Mercedes Fernandez, although you are not my editor, thank you so much for welcoming me to Dafina last summer at the Faith & Fiction Retreat in Atlanta. It gave me great solace to know that I would be writing for a publisher that has a human face . . . and a sense of humor.
To my cover designer, Kristine Mills-Noble, I’m a big fan of your work, so I’m humbled, honored, and a little giddy. The jewel green tone, Angel’s smirk, and the handcuffs brought the perfect balance of pop, fun, and sexy intrigue I wanted readers to note.
To my book cover photographer, George Kerrigan, when I received the mechanical for A Good Excuse to Be Bad, I was reviewing Ted Dekker’s The Bride Collector for a book award that I judge. I trembled. Thank you for giving me some sleep back. I can tell that Angel found you, because now she’s on the book!
The Kensington/Dafina sales and marketing team, thank you for getting behind Angel’s story at the sellers’ level. I may have written the book, but you help put it in reader’s hands, where it belongs.
To Rhonda McKnight, for holding my hand and holding it tighter during moments I wanted to fall off a cliff. To finding pieces of this manuscript when my computers had eaten it up, and for getting the story to Deatri at Romance Slam Jam, where it found Selena. I owe you big.
To the late, great Katherine D. Jones and family. I would not be here if it weren’t for her.
To FBCWA, ACFW, WORD, ACW Atlanta Chapter, RWA Kiss of Death Chapter, and PENWrites, thank you for making me write stories readers would love to read.
To my Book Buds, Tee C. Royal, Martin L. Pratt Johnson, Ron Kavanaugh, Ella Curry, Jacqui McGunis, Tarsha Burton, Chip MacGregor, Marina Woods, Curtis Bunn, Pam Perry, Rebecca Seitz, Troy Johnson, Tasha Martin, Carol Mackey, Ty Moody, Wayne Jordan, Rhonda Bogan, Jazz Vincent, Kevin Smokler, Angela Reid, Tanisha Webb, and Makeda Peterson, thank you for making this wide world of book publishing feel like family.
To my writer’s enclave, Dwan Abrams, Stacy Adams, L. A. Banks, Kendra Norman Bellamy, J. Mark Bertrand, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Carleen Brice, Claudia Mair Burney, Shana Burton, Bonnie Calhoun, Maggie Dana, Mary DeMuth, Virginia DeBerry, Sharon E. Foster, Ashea Goldson, Donna Grant, Linda Hargrove, Trice Hickman, Stephanie Jones, Deatri King-Bey, Sherri L. Lewis, Glenville Lovell, Creston Mapes, Shawneda Marks, JD Mason, Tia McCollors, Ane Mulligan, Victoria Christopher Murray, Kathleen Popa, Cydney Rax, Francis Ray, Chet Robinson, Gil Robertson, Hank Stewart, Michelle Sutton, Amy Wallace, Pat G’Orge-Walker, Tiffany Warren, Eric Wilson, and Cindy Woodsmall, thank you for befriending me before I became published, for being transparent and teaching me this industry.
To Drs. David Song and Steven Patten, I write because you saved and continue to save my life.
To Tom Gregory, you changed my life forever.
To Rev. Dr. Moore and St. Philip AME Church, thank you for not being too important to hold my hand those nights when I was in the ICU.
To my godmother Earlie for making sure I had my college books, a car to drive, and for hosting my Birmingham, Alabama soiree.
To my Agnes Scott College sisters, can you believe this? Go Scottie!
To God and his angels: Patricia Woodside (the best proofreader on the planet), Veronica (who’s like a fairy godsister), Vanessa, Trina, LaMonica, Pam, Sharon, Chip MacGregor, and David Long.
Chuck Palahniuk, thank you for teaching me how to be a storyteller, your advice, the purple beanie baby, the hand-beaded necklace with our names linked together, and the forget-me-knot seeds. I still keep them near when I write. And thank you for Fight Club.
To all the men I’ve had crushes on and the ones I heart now. Justus is a montage of you.
To my family, Mom, MeLana, David (my real twin), Daddy, and Aunt Doe, thank you for protecting Selah’s spirit for me, for watching her when I needed to attend a book event, for helping her with her homework when I had to turn in those extra fifty “cough” pages, and for buying Sweet Valley High novels every week to help me through my fifteen blahs, reading my bad first poetry, enduring saxophone lessons, and being my booster club.
To my ace, Dr. Natasha B., for talking me out of bad decisions, encouraging me when I thought my life was over, being the best godmom for Selah, and being the best Best Friend Ever.
And for Selah. I love, love, love, love you. Like Bella, you are the reason the world smells sweet, the sky twinkles, and my heart sings. You are the absolutely best daughter in my world. Thank you for showing me true unconditional love.
Thank you all!
P.S. If I missed someone, I apologize. I nodded off about halfway through. Blame Angel.
1
Wednesday, 11:00 PM
Club Night Candy, Underground Atlanta, Georgia
If I weren’t so screwed up, I would’ve sold my soul a long time ago for a handsome man who made me feel pretty or who could at least treat me to a millionaire’s martini. Instead, I lingered over a watered-down sparkling apple and felt sorry about what I was about to do to the blue-eyed bartender standing in front of me. Although I shouldn’t; after all, I am a bail recovery agent. It’s my job to get my skip, no matter the cost. Yet, I had been wondering lately, what was this job costing me?
For the past six weeks, Dustin, the owner of Night Candy and my Judas for this case, had tended the main bar on Wednesday nights. His usual bartender was out on maternity leave. According to Big Tiger, she would return tomorrow, so I had to make my move tonight.
Yet, I wished Big Tiger would have told me how cute and how nice Dustin was. I might have changed my tactic or worn a disguise, so that I could flirt with him again for a different, more pleasant outcome. See, good guys don’t like to be strong-armed. It’s not sexy, even if it is for
a good reason. Such is life . . .
Dustin poured me another mocktail. Although I detested the drink’s bittersweet taste and smell, I smiled and thanked him anyway. It was time to spark a different, darker conversation. The fact that his eyes twinkled brighter than the fake lights dangling above his station made it a little hard for me to end the good time I was having with him.
“If you need anything, let me know.” He stared at me for a while, then left to assist another person sitting at the far end of the bar.
I blushed before he walked away.
Get it together. I shook it off and reminded myself that I was on a deadline. I wanted his help, not his hotness and definitely not another free, fizzled, sugar water. It was time to do what I was paid to do.
When he returned to my station to wipe my area again, I caught his hand.
He looked down at my hand on his, glanced at my full glass, and grinned. “Obviously you don’t need another refill.”
I giggled. “No, I don’t, but I do need something from you.”
“I was hoping you would say that.” He smiled and took my hand, then held it closer to his chest. “Because I’ve wanted to know more about you ever since you walked into my club.”
“Great.” I couldn’t help but giggle back. “Does that mean I can ask you a personal question?”
He nodded. “Ask me anything, sweetie.”
I leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Do you have a problem with me taking someone out of here?”
“Of course not. You can take me out. My patrons don’t mind, long as the tap stays open.” He chuckled.
“No, Blue Eyes. I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about dragging someone out of your club. Very ladylike, of course, but I wanted to get your approval before I did it.”
He stepped back, looked around, then returned to me. “I don’t think I understood you, sweetie. You want to do what in my club?”
“Take someone out.”
He contorted his grin into a weird jacked-up W. “And what does that mean?”
“It means that you have someone in the club that I want, and I’ll shut this club down if I don’t get whom I came for. I don’t want to cause a scene, so I’m asking for your cooperation.”
He scoffed. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, it’s a shakedown, Dustin Gregory Taylor, and surprisingly, you’re the one who sent me. So I need you to play along with me right now. Okay? Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Sorry?” He stumbled back and let go of my hand. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“You’re causing a scene, Dustin, and that’s not good for business. Why don’t you come back over here and I’ll tell you . . . quietly.”
He looked around the bar. The club was jumping so hard only a few people around us noticed his confused facial expression and his almost backstroke into the glass beer mug tower that stood behind him. He ran his hand through his hair, then walked back to me.
He murmured. “Who told you about me?”
“We have a mutual friend.” I pulled out my cell phone, scrolled to a saved picture, and showed it to him. “I’m sure you know the man in this mug shot. It’s your cousin Cade. Correct?”
His brow wrinkled; then he sighed. “What has he done now?”
“What he always does, Dusty, robs banks and skips bail. But do you want to know the worst thing he’s done?”
Dustin just looked at me. He didn’t respond.
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway. He convinced your mom to put a second mortgage on the family house, in order to pay his bail the last time he got caught. Guess what? He got caught three months ago and then he missed his court date, which means—”
Dustin yanked the towel off this shoulder. “Say what?”
“Your mom’s home is in jeopardy if I don’t find him tonight. My boss Big Tiger Jones of BT Trusted Bail Bonds is ready to turn your childhood home into his Smyrna office, if you know what I mean.”
“Son of a . . .” He turned around in a full 360. His towel twirled with him. “This isn’t fair.”
I nodded. “Life can be that way sometimes.”
“I had no clue he had gotten back into trouble. He didn’t say anything to me, and my mom . . . No wonder she hasn’t been sleeping well lately.” He rung the towel in his hands, then snapped it against the bar. “I don’t believe this.”
“Believe me, I understand how frustrating it is to watch your family make horrible mistakes and you or someone you love pay the price for their burden.” I thought about my sister Ava. “Dustin, I have to take Cade downtown tonight. We both know that he’s here in Night Candy right now and has been sleeping in your back office since his ex-girlfriend Lola kicked him out of her house. So tell me how you want this to go down, nice or easy?”
“Neither.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You can’t do this, not here. It’ll ruin me.”
I sighed. “I know, ergo this conversation.”
Last year after a stream of violence and crime, the Atlanta Mayor’s Office and the Atlanta Police Department issued a new ordinance against crime. Any businesses that appeared to facilitate criminal activity would be shut down. Night Candy already had two strikes against it: for a burglary gone bad that ended in the brutal murder of Atlanta socialite and real-estate heiress Selena Turner, and then there was that cat brawl between two NFL ballers’ wives that was televised on a nationally syndicated reality TV show. The club definitely didn’t need a showdown between a habitual bank robber and me. I’d tear this place up and anyone who stood between me and Big Tiger’s money. I’m that bad, if I need to be.
“Maybe it won’t.” I touched his hand with hopes that I could calm him down. The last thing I needed was Cade to notice Dusty’s agitation. “But you must do as I say.”
Dustin leaned toward me. His starry eyes now looked like the eye of a hurricane. I shuddered. Man, he was hot.
“Listen to me,” he said. “It’s not you I’m concerned about. Cade has made it clear to everyone that he’ll never go back to jail. He will fight. Lady, he’ll burn my club down with all of us inside before he goes back in.”
I patted his shoulders. “I believe you, and that’s why Big Tiger sent me. See? Look at me.”
“I’ve been looking at you all night.”
“Exactly. This froufrou that I have on is a disguise.”
“Didn’t look like a disguise to me.”
“That’s my point, Dustin. I can sweet talk Cade out the back where Big Tiger’s waiting for him in the alley. No one will suspect a thing, not even the plainclothes APD dudes hanging around near the champagne fountain.”
He looked past me toward the fountain, then lowered his head. “I didn’t see them there.”
“That’s because your attention was on me, just like Cade’s will be once he sees me.” I grinned. “All I need you to do is to introduce me to him. I’ll take it from there.”
“Makes sense, but there’s a problem.” He ruffled his hair again. “Cade’s in the cabanas upstairs, but I can’t leave the bar. I’ll let Ed, the VIP security guard, know you’re coming. He’ll parade you around for me. What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
“Angel, that name fits you.” He looked at me and then over me. His eyes danced a little; then he frowned. “You’re very pretty and too sweet looking to be so hard. Are you really a bounty hunter?”
I slid off the stool, smoothed down my hair and the coral silk chiffon mini cocktail dress my little sister Whitney picked out for me, then turned in the direction of the upstairs cabanas. “Watch and find out.”
Night Candy sat in the heart of downtown Atlanta—underneath it, to be more exact—on Kenny’s Alley, the nightclub district inside Underground Atlanta. Real-estate moguls, music executives, and Atlanta local celebrities frequented the club whenever they were in town. They also hosted popular mainstay events there. The upscale spot had become so über trendy that unless you were on the VIP list, getting inside was
harder than finding a deadbeat dad owing child support. But getting admitted was worth the effort.
On the inside, Night Candy was its name: dark, indulgent, and smooth. Chocolate and plum colors dripped all over the lounge. Velvet and leather wrapped around the bar like cordial cherries. It even smelled like a fresh-opened Russell Stover’s box. Dustin looked and smelled even better. I wished we’d met under different circumstances.
The club had three levels with VIP at the top and the best live music I’d heard in a long time: vintage soul, reminiscent of Motown girl groups with a dose of hip-hop and go-go sprinkled on top. My hips sashayed up the stairs to the music until I stopped.
I checked my watch and huffed. In three hours the judge could revoke Cade’s bail. There was no time for errors. Cade had to go down now.
I texted Big Tiger. He had assured me he would be outside waiting for us. Trouble was, Big Tiger’s promises had 50/50 odds. I promised myself to hire a male tagalong next time, preferably one as big as this Ed guy standing in front of me.
Whoa. I reached the stairs he guarded. Ed was a massive, bronzed bald-headed giant. He had brawn and swagger. My little sister Whitney would eat him up. Dustin must have given him the green light, because by the time I reached the top of the staircase, he was smiling and holding out his hand to help me inside the VIP lounge.
As he gave me a personal tour of what I called a Godiva version of a party room, I spotted Cade and exhaled. The Taylor men definitely had great genes. I didn’t have to take a second look at his Fulton County Corrections Office booking photo to know it was him. He was drop-dead handsome—bald and dark, a bad combination for me. I’m a recovering bad-boy-holic. I hoped he wouldn’t give me too much trouble, but the thought of a good crawl with this guy was enough to send me to church first thing Sunday morning.
I melted into a milk chocolate lounge chair across from his cabana and waited for his jaw to drop at the sight of me. And boy, did it. He was talking to a barely clad and quite lanky teenybopper when he saw me through the sheer curtain covering the cabana. I grinned and slid my dress up too high for a woman my age to ever do without feeling like some dumb tramp. I wished I could say I was embarrassed acting that way, but I couldn’t. I liked having a good excuse to be bad sometimes.
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