Felony Ever After

by Helena Hunting

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Note From Helena and Debra

  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 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Helena Hunting

  Penelope Ward

  Tijan

  Katherine Stevens

  KA Robinson

  Liesa Rayven

  Liv Morris

  SM Lumetta

  Vi Keeland

  JM Darhower

  Nina Bocci

  Belle Aurora

  Debra Anastasia

  1 Story

  13 Authors

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 Hunting Anastasia Productions

  All rights reserved

  Published by Hunting Anastasia Productions

  Cover art design by Shannon Lumetta

  Cover font from Misprinted Type

  Cover image from ArtMarie at istockphoto.com

  Back cover image: jo_poker Depositphoto.com

  Formatting by CP Smith

  Editing by Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofing by Sarah Piechuta and Eve Chin Lavin

  Felony Ever After is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the authors’ twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Dedication

  This is for all the readers who think outside the box.

  A Note From Helena and Debra

  Welcome to Felony Ever After. This process started as a wild idea over a year ago and we quickly accumulated the stunning roster of authors you will read in just a few moments. Everyone was a on board for something wickedly different. The challenge was this: Pass one chapter to the next author with just the vaguest of outlines to work from and see what emerged. We were guilty of passing a box from one chapter to the next to try and mess with each other. See if you can find out who finally had to handle what was in it.

  We wanted to thank our fellow authors for the chance to collaborate on such a unique project. We all have to give Jessica Royer Ocken a round of applause because she is the most amazing, flexible editor in the world. CP Smith is a dream formatter, and sitting at the computer for days at a time working with two crazy authors is something she was willing to commit to. A quick boob tap to Teresa Mummert for being on standby as well. SM Lumetta’s cover work is our favorite, and gratitude belongs there. High tits for Nina Bocci and her magical PR expertise. Huge love and appreciation to Sarah Piechuta and Mr. Anastasia for proofing this insanity faster than a lightning strike and to all the authors involved who jumped on the brain train with us.

  So please enjoy, in this mix we have Wall Street Journal, New York Times and, USA Today Bestsellers, Amazon rock stars and a fabulous handful of debut authors cutting their teeth on this wild adventure. So let’s get on with the show, here’s what thirteen Indie authors can put together…

  Love, Helena & Debra

  Chapter 1

  Stolen Taxi

  Debra Anastasia

  The pen hit the ground in front of her. It was the oldest, stupidest trick in the book. Anytime she wore a skirt, Mr. Lay would manage to “drop” an office supply. Two months into this job as the receptionist for SalesExportt.com, Verity Michaels was on to him.

  “I’ll be needing that.” He pointed to the pen.

  “Then you’d better pick it up.” She twirled on her heel and walked toward the door.

  Verity was still wrapping her head around her boss’s unique combination of hotness and complete social ineptitude. When she’d first arrived at good ol’ SalesExportt.com—a small fashion/clothing import-export business—she’d noticed that Larold S. Lay, CEO and president, was pretty attractive. But then he spoke. Or moved. Or interacted in any way with the people around him. His personality was off-putting. And this helpless act seemed to be his version of flirting.

  Thank God it’s Friday. Just a few hours more.

  She’d almost reached the door to leave his office when he thought of something else to say.

  “How’s the report about the certified pre-owned jeans coming?” Suddenly he was all business. “I trust you’re getting it together?”

  “You’ll have it next Thursday. Like you asked,” she reminded him. But she’d lost the battle.

  “I like to be timely. Of course you know that.” He waltzed up to his pen and grabbed it with as much defiance as he could muster. He also managed to take a peek at himself in the reflection of the office’s tinted window.

  Verity stared at him for a moment. He was a manufactured and manicured kind of handsome. His five o’clock shadow never took a break, his pants were never wrinkled, and his white smile was chemically blinding. His attention had been flattering and a little exciting until Verity realized just how weird he was—and that she was one in a line of plenty anyway. For some of the women around the office, his good looks and impressive title were enough to get past the rest, it seemed. But Verity was determined to succeed because she worked hard and earned it, taking a pass on sleeping with her creepy boss so she could make her father proud.

  “It’s like his last name’s a prophecy.” Angie Bobshell, head of sales, had rolled her eyes while dishing with Verity at the end of her first week of work. Apparently receptionists at SalesExportt.com usually did better if they were young, tight, and willing.

  Verity shook her head, hoping her disgust wasn’t evident on her face. “You know what, Mr. Lay? I think I’ll get started now.”

  “Are you sure? I’d love to take you for a drink. You can tell a lot about a woman by what she orders.” Lay seemed to be trying to bulk up his pecs as he spoke, making his voice sound strained.

  Verity left Lay’s office and stomped down the hallway to the elevator, which would take her back to her desk one floor below. Though the company was small, Lay had arranged the offices over two floors in the Bunts highrise, which was near the Chrysler Building in Midtown Manhattan. Made things more impressive, he’d explained during her interview.

  The worst part was, he had a secretary. But Marge was way past retirement age and left when she wanted. She was more like an office cat than a worker. So all these reports that were supposed to be her responsibility had somehow become part of Verity’s job. She realized she stayed late to work on them a lot so she could avoid Lay’s drink offers on his way out of the office. She slapped the down button like it owed her money.

  It was all about money. Her paycheck here was the best one of her life. Her father had arranged the job interview for her after discovering Mr. Lay belonged to the s
ame college fraternity. Totally different generations, but just uttering the three Greek letters inspired an involuntary, elaborate handshake and an immediate desire to do favors. And who was she to refuse? She’d been in the dog house with her father after her attempt at a photography business was a complete flop in her small Florida town. He had given her the seed money that evaporated in the process.

  After she’d spent a few months wallowing in yoga pants, he’d dared her to try for a job in NYC—a “real job” in the business world, he’d specified. He’d paid for the trip, as well as arranging the interview, but now she was on her own. It was a little bit thrilling, but most of the buzz of getting the job and moving to the big city had worn off when she’d had to sell her beautiful camera to afford the security deposit on her tiny apartment.

  With startup expenses out of the way, Verity hoped to kick ass at work, keep earning that fabulous salary, and eventually save enough to buy her camera back. Even if photography couldn’t be her job, she wanted it in her life.

  Settling back at her desk downstairs, Verity pulled up the report Lay had drafted. It would take at least two hours to translate the talk-to-text nonsense he insisted was coherent.

  He came down the elevator not even ten minutes later, talking loudly into his phone, set on speaker, as usual. He didn’t acknowledge her on his way out, which was shitty but kind of a blessing.

  “Son of a bitch.” Verity typed as fast as she could, but beefing up Lay’s weak sentences took her way past the time she felt comfortable on the train. So she’d be paying for a cab to boot.

  It was almost ten when she finished, but now it was done—and done well. Verity dropped the report on Lay’s desk, and the security guard walked her out the building’s front doors and locked them tightly behind her. The cab he’d called for her pulled up as she stepped onto the sidewalk. As she approached, a sketchy-looking guy wearing a hoodie trotted up and held the car door open for her.

  “Share the ride? Where you headed?”

  The last thing Verity wanted to do was sit beside a tattooed druggie. But she smiled, deciding to be polite.

  “Forty-third between Ninth and Tenth.” Please be going the other way.

  “Perfect. Get in.” He motioned for her to enter.

  Verity worked at not giving him knowledge of her panty color as she climbed in and slid over. She told the cab driver her address in Hell’s Kitchen, and he nodded as she pulled out her phone to tweet. It made her feel less alone in this huge city. It also gave her a way to look busy. Surely that, combined with the taxi’s annoyingly loud music, would keep Tattoo quiet.

  “Boss keep you late?” he asked.

  Or not.

  “More or less. He’s a real prince.” Don’t dis the boss, you ninny. This guy’s probably his brother.

  “Tough. You headed home to the husband?”

  She slid her gaze to his face. The first thing she noticed were his blue eyes. Second, he wasn’t checking out her cleavage, just waiting for her answer. And the question seemed flirty, but his face was earnest.

  “We getting personal here? I’m sharing a cab with you, not filing joint taxes.” She crossed her legs and was knocked off kilter by the cabby’s erratic driving. She steadied herself on the door handle. She hated touching anything in a cab.

  The tattooed guy shook his head and smiled, not pressing her further. He started drumming his hands on his thighs. Probably cracked out on something. He had his hood up and a beanie pulled low on his forehead.

  The cabby cursed as he pulled into a traffic jam. He tried to merge into a faster lane and cut off a Mustang to do it, though it got him nowhere. The Mustang’s driver was huge and filled to the top with road rage. He hopped out of his car like the cabby had slapped his mother with a dead chicken.

  “Oh, shit,” the tattooed passenger observed.

  The cabby, God bless his crazy ass, was just as insanely angry as Mustang. He leaped out the door and the two men went toe to toe, letting the insults fly.

  Verity was trapped between the fight and Tattoo. “What are we going to do?” she wondered aloud.

  A green light loosened the traffic enough that the cab and the Mustang were now obstacles in the flow. Mustang Rage Monster tossed the cabby against Verity’s door. She reached over and hit the lock.

  Her fellow passenger opened his door, hopped out, and re-entered in the front seat. He scooted over behind the wheel and threw the cab into drive.

  “Buckle up, baby!” Tattoo calmly drove the cab through the green light, leaving the two men fighting in the center of the street.

  Verity turned to see them quit their fisticuffs to watch the cab pull away.

  “Are you stealing this cab? Right now? With me in it?”

  Despite the fact that he was now technically a felon, Tattoo drove very carefully.

  “No, I’m removing us from a dangerous situation. That cab driver entered a verbal contract to get us from point A to point B. I’m just helping him fulfill his duties.” Tattoo winked at her in the rearview mirror.

  Verity covered her mouth for a minute while she tried to register what was actually happening to her. Am I being kidnapped? Murdered?

  Tattoo changed the radio station, and one of her favorite songs came over the speakers.

  “Great tune!” He tapped on the steering wheel.

  According to the meter, they now owed the non-existent cabby twenty dollars.

  “I’ll have you know that I’m carrying a taser and have a throbbing, super-contagious rash. Right now. In my pants.” She pointed at the reflection of his gorgeous eyes in the mirror.

  “Sounds like you have an exciting evening planned.”

  “Don’t be a wise ass, Tattoo.” She tried to estimate how slow the cab would have to be going before she could roll out of it and survive.

  “Tattoo?”

  “That’s your name in my head right now. I’m calling the police.” She looked up from her cell and she realized he’d pulled onto 43rd between 9th and 10th.

  “Which building do you need?” He turned his head a bit.

  “That one. The one with the brown brick.”

  He double-parked and got out of the cab. He opened her door before she could figure out how to unlock it.

  She got out slowly, watching his hands, anticipating a trick.

  “You’re really high strung, Country Girl.”

  Verity frowned at his nickname. “Really?”

  He pulled out his wallet, tossed the fare in the front seat, and closed the door behind her before following her to the sidewalk.

  “What? You’re Country Girl in my head right now.” He clicked his tongue and smiled, revealing two goddamn dimples.

  “How can you be so sure I’m from the country?” She made sure she was more than an arm’s length away.

  “Hmm. The taser-powered rash was a dead giveaway.” Tattoo put his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “And that southern accent is charming.” He winked at her.

  “I’m from Florida. I have no accent. So you’re just going to leave it there? The cab?” She pointed at the distinctive yellow car.

  “If that angry cabby was paying attention when we gave him our addresses, he’ll know where to find it. This your place?” He pointed at her building.

  “Well, yes, but—hey, wait. What if the cabby remembers where I worked?” Verity knew she was going to jail tonight. Jail would break her. “I’m getting arrested! They’ll do body cavity checks.”

  “That head of yours went from working to jail in the span of a few seconds?” He smiled at her. Again.

  “Screw you, Tattoo. I bet you’ve been to jail a hundred times. I never want to pee in front of a group. Ever.” She walked up the stairs toward the building.

  “Because I have tattoos? You’re judging me on my ink?” He unzipped his jacket, letting her see the tattoo creeping up his neck.

  “I’m judging you on your felony—the one I was a party to tonight.” She pulled her keys out of her purse.

>   “Okay, that’s fair. But maybe I was saving you.” He bowed at the waist. “Sometimes white knights have tattoos, princess.”

  Before she could respond, he was off.

  Her heart pounded. What a ride home. The arousal she felt was due to adrenaline, she told herself. It had nothing to do with picturing where exactly on his body his tattoos might end.

  Verity Michaels @VerityPics03

  If my boss tries to see my cooch one more damn time, I’m putting hot sauce in his coffee. #EyesUpHere

  Verity Michaels @VerityPics03

  Oh, how did you get home tonight? “The usual. Felony combined with crazy.” #NeverAgain (TwitterPic)

  Verity Michaels @VerityPics03

  Okay, a guy with a neck tat can be sexy, right? That’s allowed? #ReplacingBatteriesInTheRabbit

  Chapter 2

  Pandora’s Box

  J.M. Darhower

  On Monday morning, Verity was late.

  She hated being late.

  She hated anything to do with tardiness—hated it even more than she hated taxicab-thieving tattooed dudes.

  Ugh, okay, so she maybe didn’t hate taxicab-thieving tattooed dudes. Well, not all of them anyway. Just the one that had gotten up in her head all weekend long. That one was the reason she was running almost thirty minutes late for work. Never in her life had she slept through her alarm, but in the midst of a particularly hot and heavy dream, she‘d ignored its noise. The obnoxious beep-beep-beeping got lost somewhere with the phantom bang-bang-banging of a headboard in her subconscious and her neighbor angrily beating on their shared apartment wall, trying to get her to turn the damn alarm off.

  There was no time for the subway. No, she’d had to rush and take another cab to the office. Thankfully, this one wasn’t stolen.

  At least, not while she was in it.

  “You’re late.”

  Those words slapped her in the face as she skidded to a stop in front of her desk, almost colliding with an immaculately dressed Mr. Lay. Ugh. He stood there, staring at his expensive watch, almost as if he’d been waiting for her.