RealLife Rum Read online

  Table of Contents

  RealLife Rum

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Thank you for purchasing this

  RealLife Rum

  by

  Mickey J. Corrigan

  The Hard Stuff, Book Four

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

  RealLife Rum

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Mickey J. Corrigan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2015

  Parts of RealLife Rum were originally published in an altered version in BabyShares (Secret Cravings Publishing, 2013)

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-720-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Here's to my talented editor Diana Carlile,

  who has guided me through The Hard Stuff series.

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Mickey J. Corrigan

  “I’ve only read three of her books and she is HILARIOUS! I know I will be highly entertained by her shenanigans.”

  ~Smardy Pants Book Blog

  “There is nothing more thrilling to me than finding a writer whose work I can instantly fall in love with. Mickey J. Corrigan is one of those authors for me.”

  ~Romance Junkies

  “I’ll read anything by Ms. Corrigan. All her short pieces I have read were vastly different, but no less entertaining.”

  ~Hearts on Fire Reviews

  “Mickey J. Corrigan has a fabulous writing style that keeps the reader wanting more...”

  ~Turner’s Antics

  “(Her book) reminded me a lot of Jackie Collin’s earlier works, which I found quite enjoyable.”

  ~Primrose Musings

  “Mickey J. Corrigan’s work isn’t so much a contemporary romance as a sexy thriller…her characters tend to walk on the wild side and on the darker side of romance. But her stories are oh-so-compulsive all the same. Judging by her name, the author seems to be Irish American…she’s definitely inherited the Irish trait for telling a rattling good yarn.”

  ~Contemporary Romance Reviews

  “Mickey is one of my favourite authors and I can’t wait to read more of her books.”

  ~Geeky Girl Reviews

  Chapter One

  The police officer was really good looking. Tall and beefy, prematurely gray. Sexy, stern, quietly in charge. My kind of hero. Especially when I was in the kind of trouble it appeared I was in.

  I gave him a sweet little smile. I tried tossing my head so my long blonde hair would catch his eye. I hummed softly, shifted around in my seat. Yawned and stretched like a sleek cat.

  He didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance my way. Instead, he kept studying whatever he had up on his computer screen. Frowning at it, clicking through it. Not looking at me. In fact, he’d been ignoring me for like fifteen minutes.

  Well.

  Maybe the green-tint fluorescent light coming from the saggy plastic strips over our heads was unflattering. You think? One of them was buzzing. So annoying.

  I hummed a tiny bit louder. No reaction from the cop. Maybe I looked hideous, all pale and wishy-washy. Drained of sex appeal. That would suck.

  Or maybe he thought I was a mental wreck. Totally freaked out. Which I was. But I had good reason to be. Watching a man get killed was not something I was used to doing. Even though I was from Los Angeles. Home of the everyday gore murder.

  So yes, I was shaken up. Plus, I was bored, tired, and not sure what was coming my way next. This particular brand of craziness had not been on my agenda for this two-day trip, my first to the east coast. No wonder I felt like going straight to a dive bar and ordering a big slushy daiquiri. But I couldn’t. I had no choice. I had to sit there, in the joke of a police station, in a boxy office, directly across a cluttery desk from Mr. Serious Law Officer. So that’s what I was doing.

  The least he could do was look at me.

  Nope. Hot Cop kept his head down, studying his paperwork. And was he ever hot! Tanned face, strong features, great cheekbones. Wow, I could just eat this man hunk right up, was what I was thinking. A strawberry daiquiri and this guy in a bouncy hotel bed? Dream concoction. Lusty images filled my head.

  When I wasn’t obsessing about what had just gone down only a few hours earlier, that is.

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs. It was totally uncomfortable, being stuck in a metal chair in a windowless room. The shabby little office reeked of old French fries and cigar smoke. A crappy paddle fan pushed the humidity into my face, and I could feel the sweat gathering under my arms and on the backs of my thighs. We didn’t have this kind of humidity in L.A. But we didn’t have this kind of cop, either.

  I’d come to Florida to meet the man who was paying for my education, but I’d ended up walking into a mess. A security guard had gone and got himself shot to death by some insane bitch with a pink gun. Right in front of my eyes. I mean, jeezus. I had no idea what was going on.

  Harry, the security guard at the place where I was supposed to have my first meeting with this mysterious benefactor, had seemed like an okay guy. Kind of nervous, though. Big round face and one of those hard fat bodies. Tough man, but not mean.

  I’d taken a cab from the airport in West Palm Beach as instructed. Harry met me at the other end of a dull drive on a clogged freeway. He stood at the top of a set of blindingly white steps in front of a tall glass building. On this tiny island. My benefactor’s own private island.

  I was hoping this person, this wealthy stranger who was paying for my education for reasons as yet unknown to me, would turn out to be Johnny Depp. Or some other hunky celeb. I can be so naïve sometimes.

  The island itself was lovely. An old-fashioned bridge arced over a narrow waterway and led to bunches of colorful landscaping. Unfortunately, the view was crapped on by a big fuck off building. A multi-storied blue-windowed tower. What was that doing on this pretty piece of sculpted land? So weird. It was futuristic and a throwback at the same time.

  The cab pulled up to a showy fountain. You’d think we were at Epcot. But the nearest city was Dusky Beach. Which is like being near to no-man’s land. An hour-plus north of Miami and way too many miles south of civilization, that kind of no-man’s land. Nowheresville, U.S.A.

  Harry came down the steps and took my suitcase, then led me inside the glass tower. The lobby was all sunlit space with tints of blue light. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the high-ceilinged atrium to the elevator. Everything was high-end, from the black marble flooring to the teardrop chandeliers.

  Harry was considerate. We chatted a little, how was the flight, beautiful day, that sort of nothing, until the elevator arrived. He pushed the button for the top floor, and we glided up silently. What a luxe place.
Even the elevator was cush. Who was this rich private island person, and why was he interested in me?

  I wanted to pump Harry for juice, but of course he wouldn’t know. That’s what I thought then, anyway.

  Polite and dutiful, Harry ushered me down a sparkling hallway lined with oil paintings—was that a real Warhol?—into a sunny conference room with one glass wall. Nice. Somebody had spent extravagant amounts of dough on this décor. Original art. Hardwood table. Persian rug. OMG.

  But the best part of that place was the view. I was mesmerized. Wow. I kept checking out the ocean far below, blue on turquoise on aqua. Breathtaking from that high up. It was like being in a lighthouse. A big, fancy lighthouse.

  So I wasn’t paying too much attention when Harry started introducing me to all the old people sitting around the polished table. There was no sign of Johnny Depp, either. Bummer.

  “And this is Marina Winston,” Harry said, his thick hand on my shoulder, his voice quivering.

  Before I could say hello properly to the strange faces turned my way, everything fell apart. Everyone in the room went nuts. Screaming and yelling. Standing up, tipping over chairs. Then came the gunfire. Out of nowhere! People were shrieking, fainting, falling over, and getting up again. One really old guy in a wheelchair jumped up and ran out of the room. Like at a religious revival, where the sick are cured and the lame can walk.

  Who were these people? I had no idea.

  The chaos continued for what seemed like forever. Blood, screams, cell phones whipped out, everyone either yelling dial 911 or pressing 911. One guy tried CPR on Harry. Someone else tossed a Hermes scarf over his gushing chest wound. The guy was dead, though. Even I knew that.

  So yes, it was traumatic. And scary nuts. One big messy mess until I got hustled out of the building by some not-hot cops. And driven over here to this funky little police station in the middle of dirt-lot-nowhere. The ride over here was a blur of blue uniforms, overloud sirens, and stiff upper lips.

  Officer Handsome, on the other hand, had a sweet set of lips. I couldn’t help but admire their smooth peachy beauty as he leaned forward in his vinyl office chair. A mere four feet away from me, maybe less. His suit was standard issue brown, but he filled it out perfectly. The tie was a buttery yellow. Men like him came to my part of the world to model or break into film. Not to arrest maniacs who murder hapless security guards.

  When the studious policeman looked at me—finally—it was only to show me something. He held it up. A memory card. I stared at him. His eyes were the kind of blue you see in certain breeds of Alaskan dogs. Crystal clear and light enough to gaze through blizzards. “Miss Winston, I think you should hear this.”

  “Marina,” I said. “Call me Marina.”

  He didn’t respond. I stretched out my legs and hoped he’d take a quick peek. I have really long limbs, cheerleader thighs, and an allover tan. He didn’t seem to notice.

  Okay.

  After he popped the memory card into his clunky old computer from like 2002, we listened together to the crackling whirr of a lousy audio recording. The minute the voice started in, I recognized it. It was his voice. Harry. The security guard, the guy who got shot in the conference room.

  Ick. How creepy. It was strange and unsettling to listen to a dead man’s disembodied words. I pictured Harry’s lifeless torso, cold and white, laid out on a slab in a freezer-like room somewhere below us. Was the morgue even located in the basement of the police station, or was that only on TV? I wasn’t sure, but I shivered anyway.

  Officer Handsome paused the recording. “Do you know who’s speaking?”

  I nodded. “Harry. The dead guy.” I shivered again.

  Officer Handsome asked me a set of questions. The same questions a bunch of other officers had asked me at the scene and again when I arrived at the station. Yeah, I was totally sick of that discussion. Plus, I didn’t know anything about anything.

  But this time around, I didn’t mind so much. I liked looking in those cool blue eyes. I liked talking to a good-looking man who was considerably older than me, super authoritative, and in control. His body was excellent to look at, too—the broad shoulders, wide chest, meaty but not fat. The kind of body a girl can curl up next to and purr.

  Do I sound like a horny slut? Well, normally I’m not. Maybe I was all exposed nerves because of being in shock. Post-traumatic sexual obsession. Or maybe his cop chemistry was irresistible. Who knows? But Hot Cop was definitely making me leak juices. And he remained totally chill while doing it.

  “So you’d never met anyone in the room before today?” he asked me. I shook my head. “Never seen any of them. Photos, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea why someone started shooting right after you arrived?” He raised his limber brows, his keen eyes glittery.

  Cute.

  I would have been annoyed at being treated with suspicion, but for some reason, the idea of being thought of as bad was really turning me on.

  The cop turned away, jotted a few notes on a legal pad. Then he looked at me again but not like he was interested in me.

  Damn.

  “Please listen carefully to the audio. After, I’ll get you a cup of coffee and we can talk.”

  I nodded. What I was thinking was, There’s better things we could do together. I had to hide my smile with a small cough.

  He waited until I was done fake coughing, then clicked on the audio.

  Chapter Two

  If you are listening to this, I am dead. My name is Harold Daniels, and this is my story.

  Let me explain. You are listening to an oral record of what happened today, September first, on Free Island, off the southeast coast of the state of Florida. Two miles from the heart of the quiet little city of Dusky Beach. This recording has been discovered on my person, tucked in my shirt pocket, when my body was searched for evidence. Hopefully, it is the proper authorities who found this recording, not Mr. X himself.

  Are you the proper authorities?

  If so, this recording was made for you. And everyone else who deserves to know. So please inform everyone about what I’m sharing with you today. Print my words in the form of an official report. Tell the journalists, get them to write news articles. Spread the word, make sure there are blog posts. Go global with this. Upload it to YouTube, go viral with what I’m telling you here. About Mr. X and RealLife Shares. I want the rest of the world to be informed. I want to show you, and everyone else, what history looks like.

  Of course, you’ve never heard of Mr. X. Or RealLife Shares. What is RealLife Shares? It’s not what you might think. RealLife Shares is a rich man’s game, but it’s also a metaphor for something larger, something greater than what it appears to be. RealLife Shares is a game rich people are playing—with our lives.

  Today could be the last one of my life, but it is absolutely perfect. A beautiful Florida day, the morning sky a flood of bourbon light. I watch the gold pouring, spreading, beckoning from an unimaginable distance. Today is my last day at the job I love. I’m committing the ultimate terrorist act against the person in the world I most admire.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  As the sun burns through the early morning mist, it creates a strawberry hue. The pink overstuffed clouds are accumulating in a soft blue sky. I can see that today will be picture postcard lovely. The kind of day you feel everything more acutely. The kind of day you could get to thinking about what the hell you are doing with your life. Making it the kind of day you might just decide to put an end to things.

  Like I’m about to do.

  The tropics. South Florida. I’m used to the fatal beauty of the this part of the world, although not immune. The sun, the sky, the lush greenery—it still gets to me.

  I grew up a few miles from here in west Dusky. Back then, the land was wooded west of Dixie Highway. I went hunting for fat Indigo snakes and possums in thick trees and brush, the marshland that stretched for miles and miles. All just a block from my house. Now the Evergl
ades have shrunk to an afterthought. A remnant of nature left to rot alongside a paved road, a highway. Just another way to amuse flocks of tourists with their disposable cameras and plastic water bottles.

  I was just a kid when Mr. X hired me as a security guard for the back gate. That was more than twenty years ago, and he paid me eight bucks an hour to start. For me, a community college dropout, the only son of a single mother with an ugly habit of drinking up her Winn-Dixie checks, eight bucks an hour was big money. I worked hard. I came in early, left late, spoke real polite, walked and talked as military as I could.

  Mr. X took note. He approved of me. I rarely saw him in the early years, but he awarded me with periodic raises and promotions.

  I was lucky, you say? Mr. X chose me randomly, right? Working here, on the richest piece of land in the state, this was just a matter of fate. Mr. X and RealLife Shares, that must have been my destiny. Right?

  Yeah, right. That’s what I believed, too. The American creed, the work-hard-and-hope-for-a-break we all choose to believe in. We pray for the lucky hand. We hope so hard our teeth hurt. We rely on our fate to carry us through our lives. Like we’re traveling on some primitive raft without a rudder. Destiny is good, a kind uncle with deep pockets, a soft landing up ahead, just around the next bend.

  There’s such freedom in the surrender to the inevitable.

  I was so clean back then my hair squeaked when I ran a comb through my stubbly buzz cut. My black shoes were spit-shined, my dark slacks pressed to emphasize the creases. I wore a crisp short-sleeved white shirt, and by ten a.m. every day it was drenched in sweat. The guard box wasn’t air conditioned. All it had was a couple of fans. And I had to leave the booth regularly to check IDs and question visitors.

  Mr. X has always been adamant about his security. Over the many years I’ve worked for him, Mr. X has remained elusive. And fully guarded.

  When I look back on the 1990s, my job seems almost quaint. I didn’t carry a gun. I had no police training. The video surveillance system was simple—cameras all over the estate, a central guard post inside, and a juvenile guard at the gate. The booth was manned twenty-four/seven by kids like me, poor west Dusky boys who got a kick out of holding up sweaty maintenance men in beat-up trucks, cute maids, snooty interior designers. What a power trip to make them all wait. Especially the wealthy guests who arrived in sleek, tinted limos.