Flesh and Blood (Dixie Mafia Series Book 1)

by Cynthia Rayne

  What an asshole!

  “You thought wrong.” Belle put the full weight of her loathing in her stare. It wasn’t only about Dix. The disgust for men like him had been seeded by her father and nurtured by jackasses like her former boss.

  “Even though you are hangin’ on by the thinnest thread—no money, no prospects?” He seemed flabbergasted.

  “I’ll figure a way out. I’m resourceful, and I’ll think of something.” Belle said the words with a conviction she didn’t quite feel.

  “Hot damn.” He shook his head. “You shocked the shit out of me, darlin’, and that don’t happen too often—not in my line of work.”

  Like she gave a damn.

  “Mull it over and get back to me.”

  “I don’t have to. The answer is—”

  “I said think on it.” Dix clasped her arm, but she snatched it back. “If you still feel this way in twenty-four hours, I’ll accept your refusal—no harm, no foul. Deal?” He held out a hand for her to shake.

  She didn’t want to touch him.

  “Deal?”

  Belle wanted to refuse and walk out of here with what little dignity she had left, but her bravado faded as her temper cooled. Making an enemy of him would be stupid.

  “Okay, fine. Deal.” She shook his hand.

  “Good. I’ll have Rebel take you home.” He made the call and then walked her to his front door. They lingered by the entrance in an awkward silence.

  Dix watched her while she looked at anything else—floor, ceiling, pictures on the wall.

  After what felt like an eternity, Rebel pulled into the drive.

  “Don’t you want to know how much of an allowance I’d give you?” Dix placed a finger beneath her chin, raising her gaze.

  Children had allowances, not grown women.

  “No,” she said sourly. It didn’t matter. He could offer a million dollars, and the answer would still be “no” with a side order of “screw you.” This was about principles—right and wrong.

  “Damnation, but you’re difficult.” Dix chuckled. “I’m gonna tell you anyway—ten thousand a month.”

  Belle gasped, too dumbfounded to hide it. Holy hell—10K, like it’s nothing. Maybe to a rich man like Dix, it was nothing—mere pocket change.

  Dix had offered her a fortune compared to what she’d made as a counselor. Even though she had a master’s degree, working in mental health didn’t pay particularly well. After taxes, she cleared a bit under three thousand a month—MBAs made more than twice what she did.

  “Ha!” He grinned. “Got your attention. And that ain’t all, darlin’. I’ll throw in some extras to make you feel welcome.”

  Extras? What is this—a dirty version of a game show?

  Belle stubbornly refused to ask.

  Then he leaned down, getting in her personal space.

  She backed away, ready to bolt out the door.

  Dix straightened, a smile tugging at his lips. “I was hopin’ for another kiss, but I can wait. Unlike you, I’m a very patient person.”

  Good for you, buttwipe.

  “Good night, Belle. I hope you accept my offer.” Then he disappeared down the hallway.

  Belle swayed on her feet and shuffled to the waiting car on jellied knees.

  Somehow, her desperate prayers had been answered all right—by a demon.

  ***

  By the time Rebel dropped her off, she’d recovered—well, mostly. Dix’s offer was on auto-repeat in her mind, playing over and over again like a siren song. And she tried not to think about what she could do with the money, her cash flow problems solved with one flick of Dix’s pen.

  No, stop it. Don’t be Carolina.

  As she walked in the door, Belle found Quaxo circling an enormous wicker basket on the floor in the center of her living room, like a fluffy shark. The cat purred, rubbing his cheeks against it. The basket was filled to the brim with everything he could want—toy mice, an enormous canister of catnip, bags of kitty treats, a large bag of cat food (the brand she normally bought Quaxo), and even a cat grass plant.

  Eyes closing in ecstasy, he chomped on the green stems.

  Dammit.

  “How did this even get in here?” Belle crossed back to the door and checked the latch. It didn’t appear tampered with in any way.

  Rebel. It had to be—this had been his assignment for the night. No doubt Dix had ordered Rebel to finesse his way into her apartment. The building superintendent would’ve let him in, especially if Rebel had name-dropped Dixon Wolf.

  So this was either a welcome gift because he’d assumed she’d say yes, or a bribe.

  She had to hand it to Dix. It was an excellent strategy. Quaxo was a helpless animal and shouldn’t have to pay for her mistakes. Somehow, the cat going hungry bothered her more than her own rumbling belly.

  Quaxo grabbed a bag of treats and hauled them out of the basket, carrying it across the room like he was a miniature lion with a fresh animal carcass. He licked the bag, purring. Groaning, Belle grabbed the basket and the pilfered bag of treats, hauling them into the kitchen before he decorated the carpet with his prizes.

  She dropped a couple of treats on the floor to sate him then put everything away. The cat devoured them, chomping loudly.

  “Enjoy it while you can, buddy.”

  As she opened the cupboards, she discovered they’d been filled with food as well— canned goods, pasta, and all the basic staples. Muttering curses, Belle opened the fridge to reveal milk, orange juice, cheese, yogurt, and eggs, as well as a ton of fresh produce. And in the freezer, all the meat she’d need for a month—chicken, seafood, and even steak.

  On the countertop, she found another basket, this one filled with a selection of Starbucks whole bean coffee, a grinder, a collection of syrups, and a steel carafe to keep it all warm.

  More extras.

  Dix hit the right vulnerable spot—coffee. She could almost taste it.

  Belle surveyed her new stash of ill-gotten gains. She should be doing a happy dance—she wasn’t in danger of starving anytime soon—but all of this had been bought and paid for by Dixie Mafia money. Blood money.

  Belle recognized the grand gesture for what it really was—a seduction.

  And it was working.

  She stuffed the coffee basket in a closet and stomped off to bed.

  “Well played, Dicks. This round goes to you.”

  Chapter Six

  I can do this.

  The next morning, Belle woke up with even more determination. It was a new day, and she vowed to get a job in town before the sun set.

  One that didn’t involve lying flat on her back.

  Before going to bed, she’d made a list of local businesses—Sugar Daddies, Jumbles, and How-De-Do. Lone Star Lounge, the strip club, and Poison Fruit, the new winery, were removed from consideration. Belle didn’t want to take off her clothes for obvious reasons—ending up there would be hitting rock bottom. And the town’s rumor mill connected Poison Fruit to the Dixie Mafia so it wasn’t an option.

  After getting dressed in a sweater and a pair of black trousers, she fed Quaxo. He was overjoyed by the return of wet food and gobbled it down greedily, purring around mouthfuls.

  Meanwhile, she stared at the coffee maker in consternation. She really wanted a cup, and a brand new bag of Starbucks was in the closet, beckoning, begging her to be enjoyed.

  She licked her lips at the thought. A delicious cupful would help her wake up. And if she remembered right, she had fresh fruit and yogurt in the fridge to go with it. A good, healthy breakfast would give her the energy to get a job today.

  Or start her on the path to Mistressland. What am I thinking?

  This is how the descent into the dark side begins. Screw Dix and his high-end coffee beans too. She didn’t have the heart to restrict Quaxo, but she’d be damned if she’d give in to Dix so easily.

  After making a peanut butter cracker sandwich to go, she walked over to Sugar Daddies to conserve her gas. The bakery
was two streets over from her apartment building, so it couldn’t be any more convenient.

  Belle had been in the shop a few times. When she’d worked in nearby Nelsonville, she’d stopped by to grab a quick breakfast a few times. Belle had been to most of the small businesses in Crimson Creek, out of necessity.

  Belle smoothed her clothing and raced across the street to the pink and mint green storefront. While there wasn’t a Help Wanted sign out front, it never hurt to ask. Besides, the owner might know of someone else who was hiring. Through the spacious window, she saw three wrought iron treat towers loaded down with artfully arranged cut-out cookies in the shape of Texas.

  As she walked in the front door, a cheery bell rang, announcing her presence. A couple of patrons sat at a white table with pink polka-dotted chairs, munching on donuts and sipping tea and coffee, which smelled so good.

  Focus.

  Belle sat down on a polka-dotted stool. A man sat at the other end of the counter, eating what looked like a miniature apple pie on a Popsicle stick while he read the morning paper.

  Belle perused the inventory, determined to make a good impression. On a separate shelf was a tower full of “cupcakes for cats,” according to the signage. There were two flavors—tuna fish and cheddar, and chicken and salmon. Quaxo would love them both.

  How cute! Belle made a mental note to buy Quaxo his own cupcake when she had some cash, and she’d have one of those baby pies.

  Maybe this is a sign. She suddenly felt warm inside—working here might be fun.

  She’d always enjoyed baking, and spending her days making tasty treats for townies might be therapeutic. Belle wouldn’t be worried about how to pay her bills, and she could get off the application, interview, and inevitable disappointment roller coaster for a bit. It’d free her up to catch her breath and strategize a new plan of attack.

  I can do this.

  As she was buzzing with a sense of renewed confidence, a bakery box on the countertop filled with cupcakes caught her attention. All of the confections were a pale pink. Some of them had been dusted with chocolate shavings, others had only a few, and another set of cupcakes was completely bare. In the center, each petite cake had a reddish ruffle.

  No, not a ruffle. Lips. Yes, they resemble little mouths. No, not mouths...

  Then it hit her. They resembled another set of womanly lips.

  Woah. Vagina cupcakes, complete with chocolate pubic hair. Right on the counter for all the world to see.

  “Good Lord, I left my lady part cupcakes on the counter. Where are my manners?”

  Walker Evans appeared behind the counter and whisked the box away, tucking it into an ancient white refrigerator behind him. Walk owned Sugar Daddies, and Belle had made small talk with him when she’d stopped in for breakfast. While she didn’t know him well, she’d built up a friendly customer rapport.

  Belle guessed Walk must be in his forties, going by the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. He was a tall, thin man with gorgeous features—high cheekbones, a square jaw, and a long, thin nose. His hair was platinum blond—courtesy of a bottle, no doubt—and he had bright blue eyes accentuated by a soft-looking blue sweater paired with slim-fitting jeans.

  “Well, hello there, Belle.” He smiled. “Sorry for the lewd cupcakes. The erotic bakery in Nelsonville closed, and I’ve been fillin’ all sorts of peculiar orders. All those flaps and folds and holes took me forever. Can you imagine?”

  Belle sputtered for a response. “No, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “I don’t pay no nevermind. I’ll take the money and go. I lost all my shame on prom night.”

  Walk was every bit as frank and friendly as Belle remembered.

  “Pecan tart?” He grabbed a pair of black tongs and walked over to the case.

  Her eyes rounded at the word tart. For a crazy second, she wondered if he’d somehow perceived her recent employment opportunity. Then she remembered her usual order. He made delicious tarts with a cream cheese and butter crust, filled with diced pecans and honey, which tasted like miniature pecan pies. They were decadent, and she only ordered them on grueling days at work.

  “Good memory.”

  “I hardly ever remember names, but I’m great with pastries, sugar foot. What can I get you this morning?”

  “Actually, I’m fine, but I hoped you had a job opening.”

  He frowned. “You’re askin’ me for a job?” Walk leaned over the counter.

  “Yes, I am.” She could feel the blood rushing into her cheeks.

  Walk whispered, “I’d heard you were out of work. Grace Burton, the nice lady who lives beside you?” Belle nodded. “She said you haven’t been to work in months. What happened?”

  Damn these small towns. Why didn’t they stalk celebrities instead of each other, like the rest of the world? There were no secrets in a place this tiny. Evidently, her neighbors noticed she hadn’t been working, because she didn’t drive into work.

  “I’m fine.” Well, she’d be fine, provided someone hired her, like yesterday. “So, do you have an opening?”

  “Dontcha want a job in your field?”

  “I do, but I can’t find one.” Belle sighed. She should’ve practiced a speech before coming in.

  “So, you only want to be a baker for the time bein’?”

  Belle nodded. It sounded bad, even to her own ears.

  “Well, bless your heart, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  Which was a polite Southern way of saying, “Well, isn’t that sweet, but you haven’t got a prayer.”

  “I appreciate you stopping by, Belle, but I ain’t got any openings. Sugar Daddies is more of a hobby for me. I’m only open five days a week for a few hours a day, so I don’t need any extra help.” Walk fiddled with the napkins on the counter, arranging them in a fan shape.

  Belle had been blown off by Lickety Split, and now she’d gotten shot down at Sugar Daddies too. There weren’t many local businesses. Her opportunities were rapidly dwindling.

  And if she couldn’t get hired—then what? The old Saturday Night Live skit popped into her head. In the sketch, Chris Farley scared kids straight by warning them about ending up living in a van down by the river.

  Would she end up living in her truck by the murdery creek bed?

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and Belle was mortified. She couldn’t keep them back. Great, now the whole town would talk about her meltdown at the bakery.

  “Oh, now don’t turn on the waterworks.” Walk tucked a napkin into Belle’s hand then offered her a tray of sweets. “Here, try one of these. They’re new—Dr. Pepper mini cupcakes. Some sugar will cheer you right up.”

  The itty bitty chocolate cupcakes had red wrappers and were topped by clouds of white frosting garnished with tiny straws. Utterly adorable and ingenious—Southerners had a thing for Dr. Pepper.

  “Oh, I couldn’t...”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course, you can.” He handed her a cupcake. “And if you don’t want to eat it now, wrap it up and save it for later.”

  “Thanks.” Belle wiped her eyes with the scratchy napkin.

  Walk placed a hand over hers. “For what it’s worth, I’ve had my trials and tribulations. I got no earthly idea what’s goin’ on with you, but it’ll get better. I promise, sugar foot.”

  “Thank you,” Belle squeezed his hand. The encouraging words helped. “I should be going.” She’d already embarrassed herself enough for one day.

  “You don’t gotta leave. We can sit and talk if you like. I can’t offer you a job, but I’ve got a fantastic shoulder for cryin’ on. You can ask my boyfriend.” He winked.

  “Thank you, but I can’t.”

  Mortified, Belle crept out the front before she lost it again.

  ***

  Half an hour later, Belle had pulled herself together—more or less. After snacking on the cupcake, she’d come up with a no-nonsense approach to getting a position. Lying wouldn’t work. Belle sucked at it, so she’d have to sell this
.

  Next up was a shop named Jumbles, which specialized in used merchandise. She’d never ventured in there before—no reason to, really. She didn’t enjoy shopping at flea markets or thrift stores searching for a bargain. It just wasn’t her thing. Although plenty of people in town loved the shop. It did a lot of business on the weekends.

  Compared to the rest of the shops on the strip, Jumbles looked, well, junky. A black guitar lettered with the store name hung above the awning, which had seen better days—at one time it’d probably been white, but now it was a rusty brown. Nearly everything in Texas got coated with prairie dust, and it had to be wiped off every so often.

  Jumbles wasn’t her kind of place. However, Belle was running out of options. Better here than the strip club.

  When she walked into the store, everything was piled up. One old bookcase held door knobs balanced on wooden slats. Two shelves had mismatched dishes—plates, cups, bowls, teacups, canisters, and other items were stacked precariously on top of one another. Belle worried she might bring it all smashing down by walking too close.

  On the wall, there were old longhorn antlers and mirrors situated next to dusty, still life paintings. Another wall held books—children’s board books nestled beside forgotten bestsellers. One unraveling straw basket contained a collection of what looked like old maps.

  At the front counter stood a tall, imposing man. He had thick salt and pepper hair, a trimmed beard, and full lips. Belle guessed from the deep grooves carved into his forehead, he was probably in his late sixties. He wore a pair of raggedy jeans, a black V-neck shirt beneath his gray plaid flannel shirt, and a swirl of black ink decorated his clavicle—a tattoo of some sort, though she couldn’t quite make it out. Around one of his wrists, he wore a leather cuff.

  Next to him, he had a tall Mason jar with the words “Curse Jar” stenciled on the front.

  “What can I do ya for?”

  “Uh, hi.” Belle stuck out her hand in what she hoped was a confident manner. “I’m Belle Nunn.”

  He shook it firmly. “Pleased to meet ya, missy. I’m Moss Mosley.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mosley. I’m looking for a job in town. Do you have any openings?”