Love Bank: Jobs From Hell #1

by Ray, Marika

  Love Bank

  Jobs From Hell #1

  Marika Ray

  Marika Ray Publishing

  Contents

  Love Bank

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Marika Ray

  LOVE BANK

  Copyright © 2020 by Marika Ray

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

  First Edition: February 6, 2020

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  To the little town where I spent the last three years of my youth…this book should sound like home.

  #sorrynotsorry

  Love Bank

  In hindsight, maybe I should have known my biggest nemesis would end up locking up my heart.

  Believe it or not, running a fertility clinic in Auburn Hill, located right next to a prison, isn’t the worst thing. Nope, the worst thing is the infuriatingly sexy warden of the new prison - who doesn’t care that his newly-released inmates are stopping by my clinic on their way out of town to make a “deposit” for some quick cash. Sure, it’s his circus, but according to him, those clowns aren’t his responsibility once they walk out the door.

  Until one of them pulls a gun on me in a desperate robbery attempt and I realize I have to be a little more…ahem…persuasive with the warden. Stumbling upon him in a compromising position is just the leverage I need, and I’m not above a little blackmail. Turns out, he’s not above pushing me up against the door and kissing the hell out of me either.

  Adding in ex-lovers, magical goats, scheming mayors, gossiping mail carriers, a man-hating mother, and nonstop seagull shenanigans makes me realize one thing.

  Don’t bank on love developing here in Auburn Hell.

  Prologue

  Lucille

  Ah, weddings. Supposed to be such a happy union where two people come together and promise in front of family and friends to love each other forever, forsaking all others.

  I thought it was a load of baloney, if you asked me. Which no one ever did. You see, I was a pariah of sorts. In this modern day and age, I was an old maid, but it was hardly PC to call me that, so most people just didn’t call me at all. Or text. Thirty-six was hardly old, but I knew it had more to do with the way I carried myself. I wasn’t what you’d call “fashionable” or “young at heart” or “fun.”

  I was also still a virgin.

  Boom. There. I said it. Can we move on now?

  I was invited to weddings constantly by my older sister, Lavender, probably because her husband, John, would never go with her. Fan emergency down at the factory, every stinking time. I thought that was a load of baloney too, but hey, it wasn’t my marriage to endure for the rest of time. I think she secretly hoped to auction me off to any single men in attendance while they were soft around the edges due to the romantic nature of weddings.

  So there I was, witnessing Lavender’s friend Gabby marrying some hot ginger of a man named Rhett, who looked like a grown-up frat boy with a constant twinkle in his eye. Those two were cute as a button up there at the altar with two ring bearers and a flower girl flanking them. I may have had something in my eye when Rhett nearly broke down at the sight of Gabby at the end of the aisle walking toward him at a surprising clip. She was a stunner herself with that jet-black hair, white dress, and deep-red rose bouquet. And good Lord, did she have a booty to rival that one family on television the teenagers obsessed over.

  The vows had us all in stitches. The tears were flowing unashamedly. The kiss at the end was what romance movies were made of. The recessional was set to a peppy New Kids on the Block song. I mean, it really was convincing. I may have even briefly questioned my belief on the whole “marriage and a baby carriage” thing.

  I wasn’t bitter, per se. I was realistic.

  In my line of work, you saw a lot of pieces of work. Skepticism became a healthy mechanism for survival.

  “Lucille! Come meet my friend Gabby.” Lavender tugged me forward and thrust me in front of the bride. She had on a radiant smile and flushed cheeks, every bit the blushing bride.

  “Gabby, this is my little sister, Lucille.” Lavender did the introductions and I reached out to shake Gabby’s hand.

  “Congratulations on your marriage. Thank you so much for having me today.” I nodded regally. It wasn’t her fault I’d been strong-armed into coming by a strong-willed sister.

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Lucille. How come I haven’t met you before?”

  I waved my hand through the air breezily. “Oh, I work up in Northern California, so I don’t get down here that often.”

  “Oh? What do you do?” Gabby leaned in.

  The blush hit my own cheeks. This was always such an intricate conversation. Be truthful and shock everyone? Or lie and be boring like they expected of me? I was sure you could guess which direction I normally chose.

  Just then something brushed against my hip, not an area that saw much action, so naturally I was startled. Looking down, I found a farm animal staring up at me with remarkably human eyes. I wasn’t fanciful by any means, but if I were, I’d say he was daring me.

  Listen, I back down from a lot of things, but never a goat challenge.

  I looked back up at Gabby—who didn’t seem surprised at all by the interruption of a goat at a wedding reception. In fact, she petted his horned little head—and I felt a frisson of something breathtaking and toe-curling travel up my body.

  “I run a spank bank.”

  Boom. There it was, out in the open, floating along the sound waves for anyone to pick up on. I could hardly believe I’d uttered the words.

  Gabby hiccupped loudly and then burst into giggles. Lavender looked at me askance, probably thinking I needed a hug to soothe myself out of my crazy mood. Billy the Goat gave me a respectful head nod as if to say “well done, young lass.”

  “A-a what?” Gabby was gasping for air, tears threatening to do more damage to her makeup than all the crying during the ceremony.

  I felt a little dizzy, maybe even a little high on honesty. Weed was legal here, but telling the truth was all I seemed to need for a good time.

  “Well, I’m a nurse, you see, and I run a sperm bank in Hell.”

  Gabby bent over with a renewed peal of laughter, hand to her stomach, nothing but a wheeze drifting up. Rhett walked up to her and introduced himself while Gabby got herself together. I surely didn’t mind shaking that man’s hand. I wondered if he had freckles anywhere else besides his cheekbones.

  Is it hot out here?

  “Babe. Lucille runs a spank bank in Hell.” Gabby grabbed Rhett’s arm and got him up to speed between fits of laughter.

  “Like hell hell?” he asked, fac
e all twisted up and, surprisingly, even more handsome.

  “That’s what we NorCal people call it. It’s actually Auburn Hill, California. Add a little country twang to it, shorten it, and boom, you now live in Hell.” I smiled, truly enjoying myself for once. “So, if you ever have fertility issues, you just let me know and I can fix you right up.”

  Rhett went a little pale under his tan like most men did when we talked about the family jewels not being worth much.

  Gabby leaned in, whispering, “Considering the test I took yesterday, I think we’re all good in that department.”

  “Gabby?” Lavender gasped.

  Gabby nodded, her smile taking over her face. The two women hugged while I eyed Rhett’s jewels rather openly.

  “Well done, fellas,” I told them. You had to remember, I dealt with penises and sperm all day long. Totally normal to talk directly to them.

  Rhett moved his hand to cover his fly and edged closer to Gabby.

  “Actually, Lucille, I have a television director friend who might be interested in your business. Do you mind if I give him your name and number?” Gabby seemed sincere, which made me want to accept.

  “Sure, sure. I mean, they’d have to blur a lot of things out, but the place is a hotbed of crazy stories. You won’t believe the number of times we catch women trying to steal the samples!”

  Gabby, Rhett, and Lavender burst out laughing again and I rode the high.

  The high of having fun.

  The high of speaking the truth for once.

  The high of being the center of attention.

  Shoot, maybe I’d be getting myself a goat once I got home. These goat challenges were powerful indeed. Maybe the next one could challenge me to find a boyfriend to break this thirty-six-year dry spell.

  Not sure what kind of man I could find in Hell, but I was up for the challenge.

  1

  Lucille

  “Thank God for Keva and underwire garments,” I muttered, coming around the corner and seeing the lights on at the clinic already. Considering I should have been there twenty minutes ago, I could beat myself up over my own tardiness, or I could simply pat myself on the back for my insightfulness in hiring such a responsible front desk clerk. Keva was the real deal: young, hardworking, and organized. What she lacked in street smarts could be made up for by her unfaltering kindness.

  A loud horn shook me from my frazzled Monday morning thoughts.

  “What in the gold-digging hell is this?”

  In the rearview mirror, I saw a huge gray bus behind me, the driver reaching down to the steering wheel like he was going to lay on the horn again. All because I was going thirty in a thirty-five zone. This here was Brinestone Way, the brand-new road paved just days before my clinic opened to the public. Mayor Bennett had grand aspirations of making Auburn Hill a thriving metropolis, all starting with bringing in new businesses along this stretch of road. There was no need for speeding and, dammit, I’d been here first.

  I threw my free hand up in the air, hoping it properly conveyed my irritation at his aggressiveness. I refrained from using the middle finger, though I swear it was itching to get in on the action.

  “Damn magical goat stirring things up,” I muttered.

  I put on my blinker and tapped the brakes as I approached my turn-in. Every bolt, spring, and dried-out belt in the ol’ 1968 convertible Karmann Ghia struck up a symphony as I eased her over the huge bump of a curb and into the parking lot. The huge bus barreled on down the road barely missing my back bumper, shaking the frame of poor Ghia in its aftermath.

  I narrowed my eyes at the back of it, picturing it getting a flat tire or two and that nasty driver begging me for assistance. I scoffed out loud at the chances of me lifting a finger. He’d be on his knees crying and I’d simply honk at him and tell him to get out of the way. Justice was served, even if only in my own head. Where was Waldo when you needed him? Sheriff Waldo that is, not the guy with the striped hat in those kids’ books. Sheriff Waldo didn’t take kindly to strangers showing up in town and being rude.

  I shook myself and focused on what was important. My establishment. My pride and joy.

  Coastal Fertility Clinic.

  Also known as a spank bank.

  Now I know most entrepreneurs don’t start off their solo journey thinking they want to open up a clinic where men jack off all day long, but when you have a master’s degree in nursing like me, and you’re sick of running your tail off all day at the hospital for middlin’ wages, you had to think outside the box.

  Or in my case, think inside the specimen cup.

  So here I was the proud owner of the finest, most upscale fertility clinic this side of the Sierra Nevadas. We’d been open six months and already made our way to the breakeven point, meaning we could afford to start being more selective with our deposits. The higher the pedigree of the sperm, the higher the price when we went to sell it to a female looking to birth the next Michael Phelps. Forget the black market, I was selling the goods on the sperm market.

  I swung my tiny metal door open and bellowed an enthusiastic “heave ho” to get myself up and out of the little car barely scraping above sea level without flashing the entire town of Auburn Hill in my knee-length wool skirt. The car was impractical, I’ll give you that, but I loved the old gal. With age came refinement and I was clinging to that adage like a fly on horse shit in August. At thirty-six years of age, I felt my grip slipping on my youth, which was why the fertility clinic before me held my own eggs, cryogenically frozen for the day I finally kissed my chances of a real live man in my life goodbye and took to science to create the offspring I’d always wanted.

  My heels clacked over the pavement, already pinching my toes like they hated me personally for bringing them into this world. Flats just seemed so pedestrian, especially for such an upscale environment like the one we created at Coastal Fertility. We tried hard not to make patients feel like they were at a hospital. Sterile was not the impression you wanted to leave men with when they were pumping the family jewels for heirs.

  The bell rang out as I pulled the door open and breathed in the essential oil blend I made especially for arousal—not to be confused with the oil blend best for animal arousal—that we kept running twenty-four seven. My clinic wasn’t a place for porn and dirty magazines. High-end sperm required calm, relaxation, and classy imagination.

  “Good morning, Ms. Eureka!” Keva grinned from ear to ear, hopping up out of her chair like I deserved a standing ovation simply for showing up to work late.

  I slipped behind the desk and kicked off my heels with a full-body shiver of delight, meeting her grin with my own.

  “It’s Lucille, and please, have a seat.” I’d told her at least twenty times in the last three weeks to call me by my first name, but it hadn’t taken yet. I’d heard it took thirty days to cement a habit, so I was holding out for next week being the day we turned the corner to a less formal relationship.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I do apologize for being late.” I grabbed a hair pin out of our emergency stash in the top drawer of the desk and swooped back a piece that had gotten away from my bun on the ride over. “Nearly got run over by a bus pulling into the lot.”

  “Oh, I heard the new prison would be opening any day now. Are you okay?”

  Keva finally sat in a dramatic plop, those ruby red lips of hers now in an overexaggerated oval. She had a way with makeup, making herself look at least five years older. Made me ponder at what point you quit trying to appear older and used those same cosmetics to look younger.

  “I’m fine, though it sped my heart rate to that of a myocardial infarction patient.” I smoothed my blouse down and sucked in a deep breath. Being rushed and stressed was not the proper way to start a Monday. “I just can’t believe the mayor approved a private prison right next door. Of all the asinine businesses to put next to a fertility clinic.”

  “Oh yes, I much prefer the National Cat Protection Society.” Keva’s head bobb
ed up and down, reminding me of the bobblehead Hawaiian doll my mother had on the dash of her old boat of a Lincoln. I used to love to see that grass skirt swaying while the sun shined down. As a little girl with an active mind, I could practically feel the tropical breeze as I imagined that doll was a real live hula girl.

  “Hmm.” The jury was still out on Yedda’s cat house on the other side of my building. While I respected her dream of giving cats a place to retire when their owners may have given up on them with their high medical expenses, I didn’t particularly care for cats as I was allergic. “All we need is a blow-up doll factory to come to town and we’d be the laughing stock of the nation.”

  “Oh!” Keva’s mouth dropped open again, this time shocked delight widening her eyes.

  My own eyes popped open, realizing I’d said that last bit out loud. The poor girl was only eighteen. I probably shouldn’t be speaking of blow-up dolls like the wizened hussy I wasn’t. Though she did work at a spank bank, so her sensitivities must not be too great.

  She giggled and I chastised myself silently. I needed to rein in my wayward mouth. Ever since that damn goat had rubbed its filthy head against my hip the other day, I’d lost my filter. Which was even more odd because I thought that filter had been built into my face with reinforced metal plates worthy of a NASA inspection and therefore impossible to take off.