1989: Once Bitten, Twice Shy: Love in the '80s: A New Adult Mix

by Martin, Kelly

  1989: Once Bitten, Twice Shy

  Love in the '80s: A New Adult Mix

  Kelly Martin

  Vol. 10

  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

  Sneak Peeks

  1980: You Shook Me All Night Long

  1981: Jessie’s Girl

  1982: Maneater

  1983: Cruel Summer

  1984: Against All Odds

  1985: Careless Whisper

  1986: Why Can’t This Be Love

  1987: How Do I Get You Alone

  1988: Need You Tonight

  1989: Once Bitten, Twice Shy

  Copyright@ Kelly Martin 2016

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction.

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  Cover Design by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design

  Edited by Crystal Rae Bryant of Plot Ninja

  Book Design by Indie Formatting Services

  Published in the United States of America by WaWa Productions

  A portion of all profits go to Direct Relief

  Direct Relief is a humanitarian aid organization, active in all 50 states and 70 countries, with a mission to improve the health and lives of people affected by poverty or emergencies.

  Direct Relief’s work earns wide recognition from independent charity evaluators, including a 100% fundraising efficiency rating from Forbes, the No. 1 spot on Charity Navigator’s list of the “10 Best Charities Everyone’s Heard Of,” and inclusion in Fast Company’s list of “the world’s most innovative nonprofits.”

  "What sort of name is Johnny Slade?" My dorm mate, Amy, is laying with her face buried in her pillow, crying so much I'm fairly sure the mascara stains will never wash out. Glad it's hers and not mine. Last time this happened, I was pillowless for a week. Not my favorite time of life.

  "Then again, I guess he didn't have much say in what his name was." It is as compassionate as I can get. I'm trying to study. Trying being the operative word. I love Amy. I do. We've been dorm mates since freshman year, and we've had our share of ups and downs. She can be a little needy, and I'm not the coddling type.

  As much as I love living with her, sometimes I'd like to be alone. This is one of those times. I have a massive chem test tomorrow that I'd like not to fail. I know I shouldn't be mad at Amy, though. It isn't her fault the dude she dated Saturday night dined her, wooed her, sexed her, and left her.

  For the past three days, she's been stuck by the phone, waiting for it to ring, praying it is Johnny Slade, a man I've never met, but I'm fairly sure—according to Amy's description—has horns.

  I wish I could help her. I take that back, I wish she'd help herself by moving on with her life. Seeing as that's not happening anytime soon, I consider spilling the beans about my little...side business.

  It's for girls just like Amy: girls who have been used, abused, mistreated, or downright screwed over by the men in their life.

  Some people might argue that I'm taking advantage of these poor souls in their state of weakness. I say, if they want to pay me, who am I to be their moral compass? I have bills to pay, and the revenge industry pays a hell of a lot more than stripping. And, dare I say it, more fun.

  Amy sits up, rivers of black cake on her red cheeks that would make Frank N Furter green with envy. She sniffs a few times and takes a deep breath, "Do you think he lost my number, Nancy?"

  Oh my God.

  If I had a dollar for every client who called Once Bitten asking the same thing... I wouldn't need to go to college. I could retire on a beach with a drink and a cabana boy making my every dream come true.

  I start to say this to Amy, but I can't. She's my friend and I don't want to hurt her. Yes, I want her to move on; getting lectured from me isn't the way to go. "I don't know, Amy. Maybe?"

  "You really think so?" Hope. I don't like hope. Hope kills more than guns, in my opinion.

  I smile and pray it doesn't come off plastic. "It's possible."

  Amy sits up on her knees straighter, a huge grin reaches from ear to ear.

  I wait for it...

  I think Bon Jovi sang it best with “Shot Through the Heart.”

  It’s like a jolt of understanding hits her right in the guts all at once. Her smile contorts into a Ronald McDonald grimace and, with a sob I'm sure they hear two floors above us, Amy falls face first into her pillow.

  I shouldn't say what is running through my mind. It is tacky and impolite. Truthfully, it does no good now. The deed, as they say, is done. Can't put the horse back in the barn—as my Grandma Molly said with a warning glare every time she decided to have the “sex” talk with me.

  Amy beats me to it. "How could I be so stupid to lose my virginity to him?"

  More sobs.

  I throw her a tissue box cause I'm nice like that.

  "I don't know, Amy. How could you be so stupid to lose your virginity to him?" Tactful? No. But damn, it is a question I've wanted answered since she strolled in here Sunday night with her hair teased and distressed more than normal, her tights ripped, and her shirt pulled way, way off the shoulder even for her. I don't think he was easy on her.

  Amy shakes her head in the pillow. "Dnwo loo lear bet wiered a feing a foudee-foudee..."

  Muffled pillow talk isn't my major. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

  She lifts her head and glares at me with through squinty, tear filled eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of being a goody-goody, Nancy? We’re seniors in college. Don't you ever want to throw the virginity card out the window and have some fun once in a while?"

  I don't mean to laugh. I can't stop myself. I'm a horrible person. "Yeah, ‘cause you look like you've been having fun the last three days."

  Honestly, if that's what it feels like to get close to someone, to let them get close to me, then no. I'd rather stay where I am in life and do what I do to make ends meet, thank you very much. I get close. I take pictures. I turn to blackmail. I get paid for it. What is wrong with that?

  "That's not what I mean."

  "I go out." I sigh, this chemistry test won't study itself.

  "You go to the library and study. That isn't going out."

  If she only knew. Most of those “study” trips were dates with the exes of clients. Revenge is different for everyone. I aim to please.

  Amy dries up her tears mighty quickly and looks at me
like she pities me. Oh for the love of...

  "I feel sorry for you. I really do."

  Funny how coherent she sounds now. "That a fact?"

  "It is. You have no life. No prospects of a boyfriend, and yeah, maybe Johnny Slade did break my heart, but at least I put my heart out there. What have you done?"

  Gotten paid to serve up revenge. "Nothing as worthwhile as you." I grab my book and my bag. There is no way I'm getting any studying done here tonight.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Out."

  "Fine," she huffs.

  "Fine." I head for the door when our phone rings.

  She looks at me.

  I look at her.

  I know what she's thinking. She's wishing for Johnny Slade.

  I know what I'm thinking... I hope it isn't a client. So far I've been lucky. She's never answered a call for me, but I know the time is coming. I need to be honest with her, but now isn't that time.

  She reaches for the phone. I throw my stuff down and dive for it.

  It fumbles out of her hands and into mine. "Hello?" I say before she can grab it from my hand.

  "Is it Johnny?" she whispers.

  I motion for her to be quiet.

  "Once Bitten?" the female voice on the other end of the line says.

  Amy's big, black stained eyes plead with me to tell me who it is. I'm pleading with her to let it go. "Hi, Dad. It's good to hear your voice." I say, causing Amy to run from the room in an outburst of epic proportions.

  "Excuse me?" The young woman on the other side of the line doesn’t seem to catch on very quickly.

  "Never mind. Please talk quickly. How did you get this number?"

  "Friend of a friend."

  Just like they all do. "What can I help you with?"

  "My name is Dana Knox."

  I nearly drop the phone. I know her! Holy cow! Dana Knox has been all over People Magazine and Teen Beat for the last six months or so for dating Senator Harris' son: Beautiful Socialite Tames Wild Political Heir Romeo. "Chad Harris needs to pay."

  Amy will be back soon so I ask Dana if she can meet me somewhere private, though when you are Dana Knox and dating the most eligible bachelor in the country, nowhere is really private.

  We settle on the book store on Third Avenue. It rarely has patrons, and when it does, they are normally older folks who wouldn't know Dana and Chad if they walked up and touched their nose.

  I leave a note for Amy to let her know I'll be at the library studying. It isn't a total lie. I am going to a place with books, just not the library on campus. And I will be studying, but studying a potential new target instead of chemistry.

  Lord, I think I'll flunk chemistry.

  I start to walk out the door with my jean bag thrown over my shoulder when I stop. My darn conscience is getting the best of me, and here I'd been told by numerous men over the past few months that I didn't have one. I don't have any sympathy for them, none at all. They made their bed and they can stew in it.

  I do have compassion, though, and while Amy drives me insane sometimes, she is also one of the only friends I have. I don't want to see her hurt, and honestly, it would be nice to get to talk to someone about Once Bitten. I think I can trust her to keep her mouth shut. In this business, you don't want everyone and their brother knowing who you are.

  That's why I need a cellular phone. I imagine business would be so much easier if I had a portable phone that I could answer anywhere without Amy getting suspicious.

  Course, one of those phones cost about four thousand dollars. If I could afford that, I could afford not to run Once Bitten to make ends meet.

  Why do they have to be so damn expensive?

  I grab the pen again and scribble to Amy that when I get back I need to tell her something. It is time to spill the beans, as much as I hate it. Necessity and all that.

  It is a pretty night outside: a few clouds, a few stars. The wind gently blows through the trees, causing the newly turned leaves to float through the air. I love fall. It is my favorite time of the year. The weather gets cooler. Halloween things come into the stores—I'm a big kid when it comes to Halloween. I always look forward to October first when the bigger stores put their displays up.

  Today is September thirtieth. I'll have to go peruse Wal-Mart tomorrow.

  It only takes about fifteen minutes to walk to the library on Third Avenue. Traffic is light at this late hour. Most of the town rolls up the carpet at eight. There is nothing to do in Nashville at night unless you like to drink or make money walking the streets. I'd rather make money my own way, thank you.

  Parson's Book Store is the rare exception to the rule. It stays open to the ungodly hour of 9:30—heathen. It also has a coffee shop in it, which is amazing. More book stores should have coffee shops. They'd make more money. Someone should invent that.

  The bells on the door dings when I walk in. Old Man Parson jumps up from behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box with a huge smile and an even bigger hairdo. Mr. Parson enjoyed the sixties so much he never left. I hear he gets a perm every two weeks to keep his hair so “stylish.” I say to each his own. Lord knows I spray enough hairspray on mine. My hair isn't as close to Heaven as Amy's, but I'm knocking on Heaven's door.

  "Evenin', Mr. Parsons."

  "Call me Clark," he always says.

  I never do. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Is anyone else here?"

  Course I can see her, peeping around the romance section like a spy. Double-oh-seven she is not.

  He motions me closer. I oblige. The smell of smoke is thick, and not the smoke I'm used to smelling at my Dad's house. "She's back there." He's a little too loud to whisper and a little too high to be subtle. "I'd be careful of that one. She seems shady."

  I laugh to myself. "You got it, Mr. Parsons."

  "Clark."

  I nod. "We will be gone before closing time."

  "What time is closing time?" he asks.

  I... just... whatevs. I shrug and head through the stacks to find the romance section before Dana Knox has a heart attack waiting on me.

  "What took you so long?" she whispers, pacing like a caged animal. I didn't know book stores had such an effect on people.

  “Had to walk here. Took a minute or fifteen.” I try very hard not to roll my eyes at her. Dana Knox, though one of the richest twenty-somethings in not just Tennessee, but the world, was hurting. She’s a person who has been wronged and it is my job (if I take her on as a client, that is), to help her anyway I can.

  I’m a humanitarian.

  Dana nods like she hadn’t really been listening to me. She rubs her hands together so much I fear she’ll lose the hide from them, and keeps right on pacing. “Were you followed?”

  Now why in the world would I be followed? I’m me. No one in the free world cares about me. “Ummm… no. Were you?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. You know how those tabloid people are.”

  Yes, I deal with them all the time… not. “Of course, look, Ms. Knox—”

  “Dana.”

  “Dana.” I have no problems calling her by her first name. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we really need to get started on this. I have to get back before my roommate misses me.”

  That certainly gets her attention. “She doesn’t know your profession?”

  The way she says profession makes me sound like I’m a card carrying member of the world’s oldest. Shoot me now. “She knows enough,” I lie.

  Dana raises a quick brow, then appears to decide she has better things to do than worry about my business practices—thank the Lord. She walks toward the small seating area at the back of the store, and I follow.

  This has never been my favorite spot in the world. Yes, it is secluded, and yes, that is a good thing. The problem is this is a very old building and this corner, with the two dust covered, fabric torn chairs that have seen better days and the little table that has copies of Good Housekeeping from 1968 littered on it, isn’t my favorite sort of han
g out spot. The mold—from the books, damp ceiling, or chairs—burns my nose, and I have to force myself to sit down. I don’t consider myself high maintenance. I go to thrift shops and all that. This little slice of Heaven is grody to the max, though. And, I swear if that is a spider web, I’m out of here.

  Dana, on the other hand, who I would expect to be grossed out by a place like this, sits down so hard in one of the chairs that a plume of dust envelops her. She doesn’t flinch. That woman is a machine.

  A woman on a mission, I suppose. I can get behind that.

  Dana sits forward, resting her elbows on her bare knees, and finds her fingers very interesting. As easily as I can, I barely place my bottom on the other chair, all the while praying to the good Lord above that I don’t catch any diseases from being back here. When was my last tetanus shot?

  I pull my notebook from my bag, take the ink pen from the spirals, and flip to the first empty page. Dana is client number seventeen. Seventeen wronged women; seventeen men who had to pay, in one way or another.

  “Now, Dana. I won’t lie to you and tell you that I don’t know who you are.”

  “Everyone knows who I am.” She doesn’t sound snarky, just like she is telling me a fact. The sky is blue. The trees are green. Everyone knows who I am. She never stops piddling with her fingers.

  “Yes, I suppose a girl can’t date Chad Harris without some public curiosity.” I write Dana’s name on the top of the page along with the date. I can normally get these cases taken care of in a day or two, week tops. I’ll have this case wrapped up by Halloween.

  “That’s an understatement. I don’t know what you think of me…”

  “To be honest, I don’t think of you often.”

  She looks at me then. I think I’ve hurt her feelings. “I mean, no offense. It isn’t like I am a religious reader of People magazine and I don’t have a Teen Beat shrine in my dorm room.”

  She smiles. “Good to know. So you won’t be taken in by Chad’s celebrity like I was.”

  To me, he was just another jerk. “No. I can be professional and objective.”