Deadly Dancing

by Nicolette Pierce

  Deadly Dancing

  By Nicolette Pierce

  Published by Nicolette Pierce at Smashwords.

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

  Copyright © 2011 by Nicolette Pierce

  Cover designed by Frank Wassenberg, W/Creatie

  All rights reserved.

  Third Edition, 2014

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. 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.

  Dedication

  For my Grandma Marie—

  Thank you for stashing your “smut” books where I could find them. You helped shape my future. I miss you every day.

  Acknowledgements

  An enormous thank you goes out to Nikki Gavin for giving me solid, spot-on advice. I couldn’t have finished this book without you.

  To Jaclyn Jacunski: Thank you for always having my back. Your support means the world to me.

  Thank you to Frank Wassenberg for the new look of the Mars Cannon series. The cover is a great addition!

  Aaron Dean, firefighter and writer, thank you for giving me a list of edits! The second edition is looking much better. I look forward to seeing your creative writing published.

  Thank you to Amber Barry who helped with yet another round of editing. I appreciate your hard work and speedy turn around.

  Books by Nicolette Pierce

  Mars Cannon Novels

  Deadly Dancing

  Predator Patrol

  Security Squad

  Biker Brigade

  Nadia Wolf Novels

  The Big Blind

  High Stakes

  Cashing Out

  Squeeze Play

  Nadia Wolf Character Novels

  The Last Tailored Suit

  My Traitor

  Please visit me on my website at:

  nicolettepierce.com

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  “We’ve got ourselves a big one this time!” a voice, shaky with age, shouted through a megaphone. “Code magenta!”

  The voice jolted me awake. Code magenta? Oh, geez! It’s Mrs. Janowski again. I dragged my face from the pillow and rolled over with a groan. My eyes cracked open to a narrow slit, allowing me to read the alarm clock. Ugh! It was six in the morning and on a Saturday, too. I buried my head under the pillow, but my legs had already made their way half off the bed. I crawled the rest of the way out, muttering curses.

  I shuffled to the window and peered down to see Mrs. Janowski marching up and down the block, shouting battle cries through her husband’s old army megaphone. She hadn’t bothered getting dressed and was still wearing her fuzzy pink robe adorned with little blue flowers. The poufy pink tassels on her slippers bounced as she marched. Little curls of gray hair were mashed on one side of her head from sleep.

  Mrs. Janowski was the sole neighborhood watchdog, and she took the self-appointed role very seriously. Ever since her husband died five years ago, she’s been getting more vigilant in her eighty-plus years.

  I sighed and trudged downstairs to the front door.

  “Mrs. Janowski,” I called to her from my doorstep, “what’s going on?”

  I didn’t really want to know, but if it stopped her from yelling through that blasted megaphone, so be it. Plus, the neighbors were still ruffled from her last round with the megaphone.

  “We just got word from headquarters that a mancer was found dead at Longhorn’s Bar. It’s looking like murder.”

  From previous experiences with Mrs. Janowski, I knew “headquarters” meant the police scanner she kept continuously turned on in her living room.

  “What’s a mancer?” I asked her through a yawn.

  “It’s a male exotic dancer,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Isn’t that something? Women paying men to shake their bobbles at them. I’m sure they would do it for free. Even Mr. Billick on the corner has given unsuspecting women free peeks. He’s a spry thing.”

  My stomach churned. Mr. Billick had to be a hundred years old. He was the incredible shrinking man complete with a walker pimped out with tennis balls on its feet. I wouldn’t consider him spry. Maybe I’d think differently if I was in my eighties like Mrs. Janowski.

  “Did they say anything else about Longhorn’s?” I asked. “I have an event there tonight.”

  “No, but the police and EMT are there now.”

  Great!

  “By the way, what’s ‘code magenta’?”

  “That’s part of my new code system. Red is death, but entertainers need more pizzazz than just red. Magenta has pizzazz, doesn’t it?”

  I stared at her for a moment, trying to understand the logic, but at six in the morning, logic wasn’t coming to me too quickly. “You could be right,” I said to appease her. “I have to go and get ready.”

  “Me too. I have to get the new code system passed out to all the neighbors. Wouldn’t want them to think code lime-green means a Jell-O party when it really means the roads are slimed.”

  Mrs. Janowski shuffled back to headquarters, and I returned home to shower. Of all the times there had to be a death, why today? I let the water pour over me until it turned icy cold. Slimy roads? I chuckled.

  My name is Mars Cannon. My father, an astronomy teacher and enthusiast, gave me the nickname years ago and it stuck. He was never happy my mom named me Marsalla. It was my grandmother’s name, and she always had a thorn in her side when it came to my dad.

  My nickname may be odd, but my life isn’t remotely odd or exciting. I’m able to describe myself as an average woman of thirty. I’d like to believe my two best features are my full lips and my almond-shaped blue eyes. I have shoulder-length hair that goes through various shades of brown. This time it happens to be golden chestnut. My downfall is my strawberries-and-cream complexion. My skin ordinarily tends toward cream, but the color of strawberries comes out when I’m overheated or embarrassed. Unfortunately, the latter happens way too often. I’m five feet and a handful of inches tall. I could stand to lose fifteen pounds or so. It all seems to reside in my chest, hips, and butt. It doesn’t seem to make men run for the hills, so I don’t get too worried about it. Of course, I haven’t had a date in a while, so I may have to rethink that . . . but not now. I’ve been craving cheesecake . . . I always crave cheesecake.

  My cell phone rang as I stepped out of the shower. I ran over to the nightstand to read Jocelyn’s name on the caller ID. I cringed as I answered it.

  “Hello?” I asked, knowing it was Jocelyn.

  “I just heard on the news about the dead guy at Longhorn’s,” she said. “Go do
wn there and do something.”

  “Do something?” I asked.

  “Fix it!” she demanded. “I can’t have a bachelorette party with no stage and no men.” I heard her huff right before she hung up.

  I work for Jocelyn McCain Events. Jocelyn and I have a long-standing arrangement in terms of my employment. Meaning, I work as many hours as needed to get the job done, and she lets me go about it with minimal interference—at least what she considers minimal.

  Jocelyn is the face for Jocelyn McCain Events, but she doesn’t want anything to do with the day-to-day operation. That’s where I come in. She makes cameo appearances at events to schmooze the clients, leaving the details, setup, and cleanup in my hands. Most of the time, I work close to eighty hours and she works closer to ten. Since I’m salaried, my take-home pay is always the same and always dismal. It’s enough money to get by, but not enough to have a life.

  And I had every intention to “fix it.” Tonight was an event, but it was also for my best friend, Kym.

  I opened my bedroom window to let some fresh air in. The June air was already hot and humid. The perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes the size of melons. I made a mental note to stock up on sprays and citronella candles for our outdoor events.

  I picked out a pale blue sundress with strings that tied around my neck and strappy sandals. I grabbed my purse as I headed out the door to find my twelve-year-old blue compact car waiting for me. It’s a nice car, but it doesn’t scream excitement or adventure. Reliability rarely screams anything at all.

  I pulled into Longhorn’s parking lot next to a squad car. There were only a couple of uniforms outside the building. An UrgentMed truck sat close to the door with Evan West sitting at the wheel. His window was rolled down as he waited.

  Jocelyn McCain Events uses UrgentMed frequently for our larger events. You never know if someone will choke on a cocktail wiener or pass out from sunstroke. We try to avoid deaths and scenes of chaos by always being prepared. Evan worked with us on many occasions. Of course, that could be because I ask for him specifically, but I would never admit that to anyone. He’s what a person might call “eye candy” . . . and I could really use a free sample.

  “Mars.” He smiled as I approached his window. “You always appear when I need a good tussle in the back of the truck. How about it?”

  Evan was about as hot as they come. He had carefree dark hair that hung into his ice-blue eyes when he looked down at me from his five-eleven length. I figure he’s about my age, but I’ve never asked. He’s not overly muscular but deliciously firm and lean. His one great passion in life is to make women fall for him, and damn it was so easy.

  If I didn’t think about it, I would have jumped in back of his truck with him. Our relationship was that of a flirty nature. We’ve never dated nor been intimate. Mostly because he had girls falling over him and I don’t like crowds. Evan liked to play with them and then put them aside to find a new one. He almost never circled back to a girl already conquered.

  “Mmmm, you know I would love to, but I have business to take care of,” I murmured as I pressed against the truck door to loop my finger around a curl by his neck. A flash of heat surged through me at the touch. I quickly unlooped my finger from his hair and pushed off the side of his truck. His arm shot through the window and wrapped around me, pressing me back into the door.

  “The sundress you’re wearing is sexy as hell,” he rasped in my ear. “I’ll be free soon. They’re about ready to release the body and wrap things up here. My partner is in there now. Let me take you out later.”

  I gave him a lazy smile, which I was hoping had a bit of sexy to it, but it probably looked more like a nervous twitch. I unwrapped myself from his arms and floated, without another word, to the entrance of Longhorn’s. That was a little too close. A few more minutes and I’d have been in the back of his truck with a satisfied smile on my face but with no hope of future flirting.

  I reached the door and peeked in. The air in the bar was stale and it was darkly lit except for a couple of spotlights within the yellow-tape barricade near the stage. The police were still there, taking pictures and scribbling notes. The office was located on the opposite side of the bar. I decided I’d better go search in the office for the owner first.

  A cop stepped in front of me to block my path. “Excuse me, this area is restricted. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “I just need to find the owner,” I explained. “I have a party scheduled here tonight. I need to know if we’re still on.”

  “You’ll have to come by later and ask.”

  Later? My stomach flipped.

  “I can’t ask later,” I explained. I moved closer, which forced me to stare up at the cop. I tried to keep my tone even and calm. “What if I can’t have the party here? I’ll have to find a different location. Do you know hard it is to find a place at the last minute?” I asked. I could feel my eye starting to twitch. “And then I’ll have to notify everyone! What will I tell them?” By now, I’d worked myself up into a panic at having Kym’s party ruined.

  He stared down at me with a face of stone.

  Pulling myself together quickly, I dug through my purse. “Here,” I said. I pulled out my business card and pushed it into his hand. “Please make sure the owner calls me right away . . . er, Officer Dugan.” I read his name tag, making a mental note to remember. “If I don’t hear from him in an hour, I’ll come back here looking for you.” I gave him my best don’t-mess-with-me stare just before he ushered me out the door and closed it behind me.

  As I was escorted out, my eyes caught on a man on the other side of the road. He stood with his back leaned against the wall of a building and his muscular arms crossed in front of him. He stared straight at me with narrow eyes and a tightened jaw. I hadn’t noticed him before because he’d fallen into the building’s shadow . . . or it could have been because I was too focused on Evan. The man wore jeans and a dark-colored T-shirt. His short dark hair blended into a rugged few-day-old beard. He was probably a vision in the bedroom, but out here he scared the begeebers out of me. I couldn’t see much else of him and that was fine with me.

  I dropped into my car and took off. Within minutes my cell phone rang with the owner of Longhorn’s telling me I could still have the party tonight. The crime scene was to be released by noon and a cleaning crew was already on their way. I smiled. I knew Officer Dugan liked me, even if he did kick me out.

  By late afternoon, I was back at Longhorn’s to get a lay of the land and to add a few tasteful decorations at our reserved tables. Well, as tasteful as decorations could be at a strip bar. A woman named Annie was there to let me in.

  I looked around to see if any of the yellow tape remained. Most of it was gone except a small section at the back of the stage.

  “Is this tape going to be here tonight?” I asked.

  “Hard to say,” she replied. “The owner didn’t give me instructions on it. I was told the crime scene was released, so I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll just hang a curtain in front of it; you’ll never be able to see it.”

  “Thank you. That’d be wonderful,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask who died?”

  “No,” she said. A small strand of her dark-blonde hair fell out of her ponytail. “It was Jesse Corbin. He liked to call himself Jesse James and used it as a stage name. I’m sorry he died, but he was a jerk.”

  I detected an exposed wound, so I treaded carefully.

  “Do they know how he died?”

  “The cops said he was hit with a sledgehammer,” she said. Her hazel eyes focused on a glass she was polishing.

  “A sledgehammer?” My stomach churned. “Do they have a suspect yet?”

  She glanced warily at me. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m sorry. I overstepped,” I said. “I have a natural tendency to be nosy. I get it from my mother.” I shrugged my shoulders at a loss of what to say next.

  She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I guess I’m a lit
tle anxious about the whole thing,” she said. “They don’t have a suspect yet.”

  Chapter 2

  It was difficult deciding what to wear for the party. At typical business events I would wear a professional skirt suit or something business casual. Tonight, though, I could actually have fun and enjoy myself. There wouldn’t be any reason to dress to impress clients. No men at the party to impress either except for the strippers, but they don’t count.

  I pulled on jeans and a loose-flowing, emerald-green shirt that was shoulderless and held in place by a ribbon tied around my neck. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and let a few hairs fall out to frame my face. I fluttered my eyelashes at the mascara wand and applied a light, glossy lipstick.

  I created Kym’s bachelorette party like I’d want for myself: a lot of friends and great food at The Lake Breeze restaurant. The male strip club, Longhorn’s, which we will be heading to after, was added for Kym. It’s not really my thing, but it’s her party and she specifically requested it—or, rather, demanded.

  There were nineteen girls and one feisty aunt at the bachelorette party. We dined out on the restaurant’s patio overlooking the lake, drinking margaritas by the gallon. The hot, humid air formed beads of sweat on the glasses, but after the countless margaritas, no one seemed to notice the heat.

  I kept a watchful eye over my friends, especially Kym. She, out of all of them, was the hardest to keep track of once she had a few too many. She was a happy drunk . . . way too happy. And there was no way to contain her colorful behavior once she began.