Teased to Death (Misty Newman 1)

by Gina LaManna

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  TEASED TO DEATH

  by

  GINA LAMANNA

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  Copyright © 2015 by Gina LaManna

  Cover design by Viola Estrella

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY GINA LAMANNA

  SNEAK PEEK

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I punched the power button on the stereo. Barely visible through the feather boas and sequined gloves draped over the machine, the light blinked red as I selected the perfect song. A flutter of excitement rose in my stomach. An upbeat, spicy tune pulsed through the speakers.

  "What is burlesque?" I punctuated the question with a sly smile through stained red lips. Glancing at the mirror-paneled walls, I took in my very own, sparkling new dance studio—the floors shiny, polished, and begging for eager feet.

  However, as I spun around to answer my own question, a sinking feeling took over the pit of my stomach. The words died on my lips, and my excitement evaporated as quickly as it'd bubbled up. There was one very major thing missing.

  Students.

  I sighed. How depressing. I'd had the studio for a month, and this afternoon was supposed to be my first class. But amid numerous phone calls, ads in the newspaper, and posters slated around town, my class list contained nothing but a big, fat goose egg.

  Trying to cheer myself up, I'd decided to run a practice class even though the room was empty. It wouldn't hurt to get some of the kinks out if I ever got a pupil to sign up for my Intro to Burlesque class. Plus, it always felt good to dance.

  When, I reminded myself, when my first student signed up. It wasn't my fault that Little Lake was a closed-minded small town happy to bask in its humid summers and cozy, snowy winters, tucked safely into rural Minnesota—a town where Sunday Mass was a social event and gossip was the most important currency of the locals.

  They just needed some time to warm up to the idea. But in all honesty, I wasn't sure that the class would ever be a success.

  I extended one leg and touched my toes, letting the fire stretch through my calves and into my hamstrings. The burn was welcome.

  God, I am so out of shape. It's been so long since…the incident.

  "Burlesque is classy. It is the art of tease." I shook my hips tentatively to the beat. It'd been a while since I'd moved like this, a nice shake of the bum, hands snaking through my hair before letting it fall seductively around my shoulders.

  The beat of the music picked up. I stepped in time around a chair, running my hand over the seat, swiveling my legs until I was seated just so on the edge. Lifting a satin-gloved hand, I slowly pulled on the fingertips, loosening the fit. Next came a shimmy, a shake, and in one smooth motion, I stood, flipped my hair back, and pulled off the glove with my teeth.

  I swung the glove like a lasso above my head. As the song neared its climax, I peeled the other glove from my hand French style, spun in a circle, and tossed it behind me.

  Bending over, butt in the air in nothing but spandex, I caught a glimpse of movement behind me.

  What the… My heart raced.

  I snapped into a standing position and turned around. Whoever was behind me had a perfect view of my bum. And it wasn't that I was shy about my body—I wasn't allowed to be, given my previous job consisted of dancing almost naked in front of strangers—but I also didn't make it a habit to greet strangers rear end first.

  As I turned around, however, I realized it wasn't the first time we'd met. In fact, the man standing before me was anything but a stranger.

  Leaning with a cocky confidence in the doorway, trim and muscular, Jax Adams' arms flexed as he began a slow clap. His hair stood up in chaotic intervals, but somehow he wore the chaos with boyish charm.

  I narrowed my eyes, and his face burst into a grin.

  "Misty Newman." His voice rolled like a pleasant, soothing thundercloud at midnight.

  "Mr. Adams," I replied. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  "It's been a while since I've seen you dance." His words were confident. He could probably get away with it only because his smile was so dang disarming. "It's nice."

  He swung my satin glove in lazy circles. He must've caught it when I tossed it backward.

  The man was trouble. I knew that for a fact, but still I had a hard time remembering the words I wanted to say. "Yeah, don't get any ideas, buster. And gimme that."

  I held my hand out for the glove, which Jax tossed to me with a long stride forward.

  "Oh, I've got plenty of ideas."

  I blushed. "What are you doing here? If you want to sign up for my class, fine. If not, please leave my studio. The floors are clean, and I don't want you mucking things up."

  Jax raised an eyebrow. "This time I'm not the one mucking things up."

  I crossed my arms.

  Jax took a step forward and put one hand on my arm. "I've mucked up plenty in my day, but this one's on you, honey."

  I looked up into his crystal eyes, pure as an Icelandic glacier with the capacity to be just as frigid. His words jumbled in my head, and suddenly putting a sentence together became like something of a Rubik's Cube for my brain. Something about his familiar scent—the minty freshness of his aftershave—twisted my gut and brought back years of emotions. Despite the surge of frustration and hurt, there was still a bit of attraction that I hated to admit was alive and well.

  "What do you mean?" I cleared my throat.

  Jax, my high school boyfriend and first love, stepped close to me, his chest inches from mine. My heart leapt even though I wanted to cage it back and lock it away. My head was telling every part of my body no, no, no! But my body was more than ready to ignore the warning from my brain, judging by the warmth snaking through my veins.

  "Jax, I…" I paused, my chest rising and falling with years of pent-up emotions. "Why are you here?"

  He rested one hand in his pocket, shifting uneasily. Whiffs of lemon, crisp fall leaves, an
d freshly brewed coffee swirled in heavenly drifts around us. We were close enough that I could feel his hot breath steam down my neck. Goose bumps erupted over my legs. Even without touching, I felt years of anger disappear in a second, and all I wanted was for Jax to pull me into a hug.

  "Jax, I—listen." I took a long sigh and prepared an apology. An explanation. But as I began to speak, he pulled away, and I saw confusion in his eyes.

  He scratched his chin, looking uncomfortable. "Yes?"

  "I'm glad you're here," I said. "And I really appreciate you stopping by. I've been busy since I arrived back in Little Lake, and I haven't had much time to catch up with people, what with getting the studio up and running…"

  "Misty—"

  "No, let me," I interrupted. "I know we have a bumpy and, uh, unresolved past—but I'd like for us to be friends." I finished my sentence in a rush, looking down at my toes. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, and I wondered if I should have been so forward.

  Jax cleared his throat.

  "Now would be a good time to say something," I urged, still stubbing my toe against the floor.

  "Well, I appreciate the sentiment," Jax said, "but…"

  "It's okay if you don't want to be friends. I'd understand completely." I shook my head. "I shouldn't have said anything. I just wanted you to know I'm sorry."

  "This makes things very awkward," Jax said.

  Now we were both looking away from each other, which was very difficult due to all the mirrors in the place. I caught a glance of my reflection—medium brown hair, long legs clad in fishnet stockings, and hazel eyes, now staring back at me with fear. The tension was so thick I could've sliced it with a butter knife.

  "Let's just forget this ever happened. Truce?" I stuck out a hand and forced my eyes to meet his stare.

  "I'm afraid it's not that easy," he said, pulling the hand from his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. "Misty, I need to ask you some questions."

  "About what?"

  "I'm sorry about this," he said, his voice not one hundred percent convincing. He'd morphed from an awkward conversationalist to a calm and professional cop, which was cemented by the uniform he wore. After a long moment, he sighed and dropped my hand. "I need to ask you some questions about a murder."

  My spine went rigid, and I was already kicking myself for thinking I ever wanted a hug from this man.

  "Will you come down to the station so I can ask you a few questions?" he asked.

  "What does a murder have to do with me?" I asked, hearing the tremble in my voice. "Why would you need to ask me questions?"

  "The body was found in the alley behind your studio, strangled with a pair of fishnet stockings." Jax paused before locking eyes with me. "It'll be a few days before we get the DNA tests back, but if it turns out the tights are yours…"

  Jax didn't need to complete the sentence for me to know exactly what would happen if the stockings were mine. I stumbled backward. "Jax, I didn't do anything. I don't even know what you're talking about. Whose murder?"

  Jax reached forward and caught me just before I ended up in a heap on the floor. His muscular, familiar arms pulled me into a standing position.

  "It's impossible," I murmured, still stuck on the notion that I could be arrested for a crime I didn't even know had been committed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Misty, please cooperate," he said. "If you come down to the police station, we're just going to ask you a few questions about the murder of Anthony Jenkins. If you didn't do anything, then you have no need to worry—"

  "No! Please, Jax, you have to believe me." My knees gave out, and I felt myself sinking to the floor again as I registered the victim's name. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  Jax's professional, clinical manner was unnerving. He'd changed from a reckless, wild boy into a law-upholding policeman. His eyes softened a bit as he reached forward and helped me to my feet. "Everything will be smoother if you cooperate."

  "But Anthony was just my landlord. I've barely spoken to him at all since I came back to town. I don't understand why—how—I'm being taken in for questioning," I said, my hands trembling.

  Jax ran a hand through his hair and exhaled loudly. "Please come with me. It won't take long."

  "Can I at least put pants on?" I asked. I glanced down at my fishnet stockings, tiny leotard, and bare feet. The black feather boa, complete with sparkles, swung haphazardly from my neck.

  He gestured for me to go ahead.

  I wriggled quickly into a pair of sweats, my fingers shaking as I tied the waistband.

  "Shall we?" he asked once I finished.

  "I don't think I have a choice," I said, trying to put on a brave face on the outside. Because on the inside, I was full of fear.

  He marched next to me in a long, uneasy silence down the hallway of my studio. I glanced toward the small office I'd worked so hard to make cozy, despite its less-than-ideal location at the far end of the hallway. The space was the size of a shoebox and would have better functioned as a broom closet, but I'd had to make do for the price. Plus, I didn't spend a lot of time in there. In fact, once I'd set it up two weeks ago, I hadn't gone back.

  As we emerged into the sunlight outside, I did my best to ignore stares from shoppers as Jax led me past the parking lot the studio shared with the other stores in the small town center. Jax tried once or twice to make conversation, but I didn't take the bait.

  "I'm sorry," he apologized.

  "It's fine," I said shortly. I wasn't exactly sure how to feel at the moment, my words coming out clipped. I supposed there was a little bit of confusion, a little bit of anger, a little bit of terror—at the end of the day, this was all a giant misunderstanding. I just hoped the cops would see it that way too.

  He turned to me as we reached his cruiser. "On the plus side, you look very nice," he said, breaking the tense silence once more. "I like what you've done to your hair."

  I didn't respond, thinking instead that my hair might look nice for a mug shot at the rate things were going today.

  Jax opened the door to the cop car.

  I held my stance and looked him in the eye. "I'm going to talk to your sister about this."

  "She'll hear about it one way or another," Jax said with a sigh. "Careful now, duck your head." Jax gently but firmly shoved me into the backseat.

  Sitting in the back of the cop car, I felt as if I'd taken a soccer ball straight to the gut. Half of me wanted to puke. The other half wanted to cry until I was all sobbed out. There was also the frustrated half of me that wanted to call Jax some not-very-nice names.

  But there was also a small part of me asking scary questions. What's this all about? Sure, I hadn't seen Jax in ten years, but it was obvious by the hard line of his jaw and the firm contours of his face that this was serious business.

  "Do you think I did it?" I asked, my voice soft.

  Jax surveyed me in the mirror, but his look wasn't one that might be exchanged between a man and a woman who'd once been intimate. Instead, his eyes scanned me like a cop, analyzing my actions, features, movements. The sterility of his gaze hurt the most, a realization that shocked me.

  "I don't know, Misty," Jax said, shaking his head. "But it's my job to find out."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Ms. Newman, may I ask you a question about your personal life before we start?"

  "What sort of question?" I asked hesitantly.

  Alfred Shnocklepops, an unfortunate name tagged to an unfortunate body, sat before me. The plump cop had a row of pimples across his forehead that vaguely resembled the Rockies, and his hairline had been receding since sixth grade.

  "How many lovers have you taken since me?" His round eyes stared at me with alarming clarity.

  I started. "What?"

  "Relationships, Ms. Newman. How many relationships have you had since ours?" he asked with a sweeping gesture.

  I glanced around the room where I'd been taken to answer a few questions. I'd been pro
vided with coffee and water, and it seemed like the cops were trying their best to make me comfortable. Except for Alfie's probing questions, that is. "Alfie, we never had a relationship."

  I was ashamed to admit that Alfred Shnocklepops had been my first kiss—not because of his looks but because of the reason behind the smooch. Looking back, it would've been nice if my first kiss would be a romantic moment, something sweet and memorable, with someone I loved.

  Instead, Alfie and I had been two six-year-olds playing dodgeball on an old, rickety playground during recess. At the time, I had whipped the ball as hard as my scrawny arms could at none other than Jax—the elementary school heartthrob—but Alfred's big noggin got right smack dab in the way. It wasn't my fault his head was the size of a watermelon.

  Little Alfred had proceeded to cry and scream and generally make a fuss for the rest of recess. Since I desperately didn't want him to tattle on me in front of Jax, I pleaded with him to reconsider his formal complaint to our teacher.

  I've never been proud of it, but eventually Alfie agreed to a deal. His one condition, however, was that I give him a kiss. Which was the story of my first smooch.

  "I see," Alfred said, after a mini stare-down. He tapped his pencil, tsking sadly, as if I were in denial of a special relationship we'd once had.

  I made a sound in my throat, but I was trying to follow that old rule: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. A grunt didn't really count as saying anything.

  "Let's move on." Alfred looked at his paper. "Where were you on the night of Anthony Jenkins's murder?"

  I paused a moment to collect my thoughts. "You're going to have to be more specific. I have no idea when you're talking about. Today? Yesterday? Two weeks ago?"

  "Last night. Anthony Jenkins's body was found in the alleyway outside of your studio this morning, and he was believed to have been killed late last night. Where were you?"