Dial A for Addison Read online

  She glared right back at me. “You can’t let him get away with that crap.”

  Asher grabbed my hand, forcing my attention back on him. “Dylan, if your boss did or said anything inappropriate, you have options for—”

  “For never getting a job in this town again?” I asked, emboldened by my frustration. I tugged my hand away from his, stood, and started pacing to work out my energy. “As much as I would love to do a solid for women everywhere and nail Kirk’s balls to the wall, I have to think about my future here. Do you have any idea what a sexual harassment case does to a woman’s chances of employment? I need to work, Ash. I had a plan and I was…” I paused long enough to swallow back my emotions, reminding myself that crying wouldn’t solve anything. “It would be less detrimental to my career to kill him than it would be to sue him.”

  “Great, I’ll get my gun,” Addison said, heading for the safe.

  Always the voice of reason, Asher lunged to wrap his sister in a hug, effectively cutting off the route that would begin her murder sentence. “I get what you’re saying, Dylan. I don’t like it and I wish I could change your mind, but I understand why you don’t want to go after your boss. He’s definitely not worth those consequences.”

  Addison snorted. “We can hide a body, Dylan.”

  “You say that like you’ve done it before,” Asher accused.

  Addison raised her hands. “I will neither confirm, nor deny...”

  “To be clear, we’ve never bagged a body then weighted it down with twenty-pound cinderblocks before throwing it in the river, watching it sink and never be seen again.” I winked at Addison and then sighed. “Asher’s right, though, Addie. I don’t want to spend any more time or energy on Kirk. I just want to drink my feelings away this weekend, and then Monday morning I’ll put on my big girl panties and update my resume.” And with a little luck, I’d have my college loans paid off right about the time I hit ninety.

  Addison’s expression softened. I could tell she wanted to hug me, but was thankful she didn’t, because I could barely hold on to my tears as it was. “You’re amazing and awesome and super-duper incredible, so you’ll find something quickly. I know you will. I’ll help you go through job listings this weekend.”

  “Thanks, Ad.”

  “Tonight we party, though,” Addison said. “On me. Ashey, wanna join us?”

  “Can’t, Sis. I’d love to stick around and make sure you two don’t end up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, but I’ve gotta get back to work. And I have dinner with a client tonight. But call me if you need anything.” He released Addison to grab a file off the coffee table. Then he hugged me.

  Asher had been one of my two best friends for years, and his arms felt safe and familiar, like a lighthouse directing me out of my current storm. I laid my head on his shoulder and breathed in his scent, content to let him hold me while tears stung my eyes. I wished I could stay like that forever, but all too soon the rest of my body picked up on his nearness, increasing my pulse and launching my stomach into a triple-tuck flip with a half-twist.

  I started to pull away, but Asher gave me one last squeeze, whispering, “I miss you” against my cheek. Then he released me and headed out. I watched his very impressive backside disappear out the door before turning back to Addison.

  “That bit about the body in the river was clever,” she said. “A little terrifying, but clever.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been reading mafia novels.”

  Addison rolled her eyes. “You’re so weird. No reading tonight, though. We’re gonna go out and make sure you forget all about that sleazy boss. Which reminds me, I finally figured out a way to deal with my own sleaze problem.”

  Because Addison was gorgeous and at least a dozen tax brackets above the average working guy, she was often hit on by greasy gold-diggers who wanted to get their hands on her daddy’s money. Yes, male gold-diggers were a real problem for her and, just like their female counterparts, they had no shame. Many of our conversations had been interrupted by men, shirts open to their waists to thrust their ripped chests into Addison’s face like she was some kind of bitch in heat who wouldn’t be able to stop herself from rolling over and showing her who-ha at their manliness.

  Right. But no matter how many cheesy pick-up lines they tried to sell to Addison, they couldn’t seem to buy a clue that jobless, pretty-boy scrubs weren’t her type. And sometimes the overly-confident jerks were really hard to deflect, forcing Addison to get creative.

  The last time we’d gone out some douchebag who oiled his chest—not kidding, he was shiny and reeked of baby oil—wearing an open blazer and skinny jeans wouldn’t leave our table, insisting she give him her number. Seeing no way out of it, she scrawled a random number on a napkin and handed it over. He took two steps away from our table, called the number, then turned to freak out on Addison for throwing him fake digits. As if his pretty face and stacked body entitled him to her number.

  “Good. What’s the plan?” I asked.

  She grinned. “This time I’ll use a real fake number.”

  “Come again?”

  “Well, I added another phone line to my plan, so I just need to record a voice mail for my fake name, and bam! Problem solved.”

  I scratched my head. “So you’re paying another monthly line fee to give guys a fake number?”

  She nodded, still grinning. “Genius, right?”

  I was thinking more along the lines of expensive and unnecessary, but I could see where it would be useful. “You sticking with the name Lynda?” I asked.

  Both Addison and Asher called all their navigation systems Lynda. I’d made the mistake of asking why once, and had gotten some long, drawn-out answer that boiled down to neither of them knowing. It was just something they did. So when Addison gave out a fake name, she used Lynda. Using her navigation system’s name was her way of telling people to get lost, and writing Lynda with a Y instead of an I was like telling them to get lost with a flourish on the tail. Which pretty much summed up why she was my best friend.

  “Of course,” she said, grabbing her phone. “Then whenever we’re having a crap-lousy day, we can dial in and listen to the messages. It’ll be like our own little reality show. We’ll call it Clueless Scrubs.”

  Despite my own crap-lousy day, I couldn’t help but laugh as Addison set up an extra-breathy message on her new voice mail. “You know…” I grinned. “If your dad ever cuts you off, I think you could have a real future as one of those phone sex operators.”

  She threw her phone at me. Then, knowing exactly what I needed, my bestie clapped her hands together and said, “All right, let’s get this party started.”

  We drank mimosas for breakfast.

  Dylan

  I WAS SLEEPING off the worst hangover of my life Saturday morning when loud pounding woke me up.

  Before I could even get my bearings, the door of my studio apartment burst open and two police officers blazed in with their guns drawn.

  I sat up and tugged my comforter around me, instantly sobering up by at least three margaritas. “What… what’s happening?” I managed to get out.

  Neither spoke. The Hispanic cop kept his weapon trained on me, while the blond scoured the small space, checking behind my sofa, searching the closet, and peeking under my bed before he paused in front of the bathroom door. He swore, then squared his shoulders and entered. I heard the shower curtain slide over its rod before he reemerged.

  “There’s blood in the bathroom. No other suspects. Let’s take her in.” He turned and spoke into his radio, but I was too freaked out to pay attention to what he said.

  “What blood? Wait, take me in? To where? For what? What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We need you to calm down, ma’am,” the Hispanic cop said.

  Which had the opposite effect of calming me down. Heart thundering against my chest, I asked, “What?! Why are you here? Am I being arrested?”

  “Blood in the bathroom?” he asked the other cop.

/>   “Yes. We’ll need to get it roped off.”

  The Hispanic cop turned back to me. “Yes ma’am. You’re under arrest for suspicion of murder. Anything you say and do can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Suspicion of murder?” I interrupted. “Whose murder? Where? What are you talking about?”

  Instead of answering, he kept reading me my Miranda rights while he tugged me from my bed, revealing my tank top and panties. The blond kept his gun on me while the Hispanic officer gathered clothes and sneakers and tossed them on the bed. As soon as I dressed, he handcuffed me. When he tugged me past the bathroom door I peeked in. Dark streaks ran across the floor, the wall, and the shower curtain.

  “What the hell?” I asked, leaning back as they shuffled me forward. “That blood? Wait, I can explain that blood.” My face heated at the idea, but embarrassment was far better than jail time.

  “Ma’am, anything you say can and will be used against you... you heard that part, right?”

  I bit back a snarky Addison-esque comment and dropped my head.

  We stepped out into the hallway where the Hispanic handed me off to a female officer. She tugged me forward, around two more cops who were roping off the area with yellow crime scene tape. I looked past them to see the body of a man propped against the wall, only steps from my front door.

  I recognized the rumpled dark suit, thinning brown hair, and squinty little eyes immediately.

  But the knife sticking out of his chest was new.

  I swallowed, but couldn’t seem to take in any air. Whether from an excess of alcohol or a lack of oxygen, the edges of my vision darkened and my body trembled. The female cop pulled me along. We squeezed past two men in suits and a couple of men in white jumpsuits. I glanced back, catching one final glimpse of the body.

  Just yesterday, Kirk Miller had terminated my employment and I’d—very publicly, in front of the entire office—told him right where he could stick my job. In fact, I’d even offered to do it for him. Now his dead body was propped against the wall outside my apartment, making it clear that in the end I was the one getting screwed. Talk about irony.

  * * *

  Addison

  The buzz of my cell phone dragged me away from my dreamy make-out session with Charlie Hunnam, and when I glanced at my alarm clock, I swore. “Someone better be dead,” I answered.

  “Addie,” Dylan rasped. “I’m in jail.”

  I rubbed my eyes and frowned. “What the hell do you mean, you’re ‘in jail’?”

  “Kirk the...” Her voice cracked.

  “Kirk the Jerk?” My blood pressure spiked. “What’d he do this time?”

  “He was right outside my apartment this morning and—”

  “What?!” Had he been there all night? Dylan was so wasted she wouldn’t have noticed if she’d stumbled over him to let herself in. I wanted to shake her for insisting that the limo driver didn’t need to walk her to her door. “I don’t care how independent you think you are, from now on Jimmy is walking you all the way to your apartment, you hear me?”

  She sniffed.

  Something was seriously wrong. I softened my tone and asked, “So why are you at the jail? Filing a restraining order?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what, exactly?” Seriously, sometimes trying to get information out of Dylan was like getting a rectal exam. Tight and unyielding.

  “Addie, Kirk’s dead.”

  “Dead?” The word refused to set in. “As in, figuratively?”

  “No. Dead as in literally, and I’ve been arrested for his murder. I need an attorney. Like yesterday.”

  “Shit, you’re serious?” I sat up. “That’s crazy.” And complete bullshit, because my bestie was smart. If she was going to kill anyone, she’d call me and set up an alibi.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I’m at the Multnomah County Detention Center. Do you think Ash will help me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’ll help you. We’ll both be right there.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” I promised.

  “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

  She hung up and I dialed Asher. He didn’t answer so I was forced to leave a voice mail. “Ashey, Dylan’s been arrested. I need you to meet me at the MCDC, ASAP.”

  I hung up, took the fastest shower in history and, after haphazardly throwing clothes on my body, grabbed my keys just as my phone rang. “Hey, Ashey.”

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  I hurried through the hall and caught the elevator down to the parking garage while I filled him in and we agreed to meet at the jail.

  My father had given me a Mercedes as a guilt offering for not being present for my sixteenth birthday—or any of my other birthdays for that matter (he provided a brand new version of my Mercedes each year). I hated to drive, though, so I usually called his limo driver, Jimmy, to cart me around. No time for that now, I hopped into my Merc and stepped on the gas. My condo was in the Pearl, not far from the jail, but I still broke a few speed laws to get to Dylan. The parking gods blessed me with a close space, and I paid for my ticket, stuck it to my window, and rushed into the building. Asher was already there and requesting to see his “client.”

  “Ash!” I called.

  He turned and pulled me in for a quick hug.

  “What did they say?”

  “They’re getting me a room so I can talk to her,” he said.

  “I want to see her too.”

  “Impossible. Having a third party there breaks privilege,” he said. “She needs to be able to tell me everything.”

  I crossed my arms with a huff. “I’m not a third party, I’m her best friend. And you really think she’ll tell you things she won’t tell me?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Even if the police would let you go back there with me, it would be a bad idea. Besides, you were with Dylan last night, so they’re going to want to question you. But first, we need to talk.” He led me back out of the building and down the block before turning to ask, “What did you guys do yesterday?”

  After I described our day and night in great detail, and promised not to make any snarky comments that would incriminate either Dylan or myself, Asher let me back into the building and directed me toward the sexiest man I have ever laid eyes on. Tall and built, the delicious specimen before me was clearly no stranger to the gym. His just out of bed hair made him look a little wild and rugged (and delicious), and his dark blue eyes seemed to stare right into my soul.

  “You caught this?” Asher asked.

  “Yeah,” Sexy McSexerson said.

  Asher smiled. “Jake, this is my little sister, Addison. Addie, this is Detective Jake Parker. He’s heading up Dylan’s investigation, and he’s a good friend. He’ll take care of you.”

  And if that wasn’t a loaded statement. Before I could ask Asher exactly what this “taking care of” me entailed, Jake Parker thrust his hand my direction and his lips spread into a delicious smile. I nearly lost my undies, but I squared my shoulders and met his eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Allen.”

  I slid my hand in his and warmth spread up my arm. I jerked away and jammed my hand into my jeans pocket. “Ah, you too.” I shook myself, coming to my senses. “Or it would be, under different circumstances.”

  Asher chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away. I opened my mouth to ask him how he knew the detective, but I wasn’t fast enough. So I turned back to Sexy McSexerson.

  “Your brother said you wouldn’t be opposed to answering a few questions,” he said.

  “Of course. Dylan and I have been best friends since sixth grade. I know her better than I know myself and I can assure you she wouldn’t kill anyone. We have nothing to hide.”

  “Excellent.”

  “What does ‘caught this’ mean?”

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “Asher said you ‘caught this.’”

 
“I caught the case, meaning I was assigned to it.”

  “Oh, right.”

  He smiled again and I melted a little. Lordy, he was pretty.

  “Follow me please,” he said.

  He led me down a long hallway lit with those God-awful luminescent tubes. Just like in every corny cop show, one flickered as we walked under it. I rolled my eyes.

  “Do police stations pay extra for the flickering light effect?” I asked.

  Detective Parker’s lips quirked as he stepped into a room, pulled out a chair, and invited me to take a seat. A second man joined us, introducing himself as Detective Pike. Older than Sexy by at least twenty years, he was obviously the one eating all the doughnuts, but he had kind eyes and a genuine smile.

  Detective Parker pulled out a notepad and pen and sat across the table from me. “Why don’t we start with what you and Ms. James did yesterday?”

  The air was almost as tense as one of Daddy’s board meetings, and it instantly tied my neck in knots. I made a mental note to schedule a massage and did my best to dispel the tension with a smile. Keeping my tone light, I replied, “Well, we certainly didn’t kill anyone.”

  They didn’t react, but my shoulders loosened a bit.

  Detective Parker wrote something on his pad before glancing up at me. “I’m going to need you to be a little more specific, Ms. Allen. Please start from the beginning and include timeframes and any possible witnesses.”

  “Well, after Dylan was fired by her boss—who, by the way, she should have filed a sexual harassment charge against, but she’s peaceful and refused to stir the pot at work—we spent the day at my house. She was pretty upset.”

  Detective Parker paused in his scribbling. “Upset?”

  “Yes. Dylan is a rare breed. She had a crappy childhood, and her family is Deliverance-breed kind of crazy, but she still insists on seeing the good in people. It actually disappoints her when they turn out to be asshats.”

  “Disappoints her enough to kill them?”

  “Um, no. She handles her disappointment like any other highly functioning adult.” I didn’t like his tone, so I took my own back to professional. “She arrived shortly after ten, and we spent the day eating and drinking away our frustrations. We started with mimosas for breakfast and called for takeout from the VQ for lunch. We left the house around six or so. My building has security cameras, so you can verify that information. My driver, Jimmy, took us to Rialto’s for dinner.”