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- Herausgeber: Sand Dune Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A southern-fried comedy with a touch of romance, a side of mystery, a smattering of paranormal, and three crazy sisters….
All Mitzi Winston wants is enough money to pay this month’s mortgage payment. That is the only reason she even considers the phone sex job. Ever since her husband’s disappearance, she has held things together nicely—until recently. And now, well, she just needs the money.
Biting the bullet, she goes for the interview, only to find that the phone sex job isn’t real and she’s too late—not for the interview, but to save her husband. For there he is, dead on the floor, a bullet to the back of the head. To make matters worse, his ghost is hovering around and chiding her for being late. Not to mention he is horny as hell and trying to cop a feel.
Which only begs the question, “Do dead men still want it?”
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Freshly Dead
Ghosts of Carrington
Book 1
Maddie James
Sand Dune Books
Contents
FRESHLY DEAD
Maddie’s VIP Insider News
Freshly Dead
CLASSIFIED ADS:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Chapter One—Seriously Dead
SERIOUSLY DEAD, BOOK 2
Do you get Maddie’s VIP Insider News?
FRESHLY DEAD
Ghosts of Carrington, Book 1
Maddie James
Freshly Dead
Copyright © 2011, Maddie James
ISBN: 978-1-937389-66-6
Editor, Wendy Williams
Cover Art Design by Jacobs Inc, LLC.
Digital Release, First Edition, December 2011
2nd Edition March 2016
3rd Edition May 2023
All rights reserved.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
Published by Maddie James, Turquoise Morning, LLC, DBA Jacobs Ink, LLC. P.O. Box 20, New Holland, Ohio
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Freshly Dead
A southern-fried comedy with a touch of romance, a side of mystery, a smattering of paranormal, and three crazy sisters….
All Mitzi Winston wants is enough money to pay this month’s mortgage payment. That is the only reason she even considers the phone sex job. Ever since her husband’s disappearance, she has held things together nicely—until recently. And now, well, she just needs the money.
Biting the bullet, she goes for the interview, only to find that the phone sex job isn’t real and she’s too late—not for the interview, but to save her husband. For there he is, dead on the floor, a bullet to the back of the head. To make matters worse, his ghost is hovering around and chiding her for being late. Not to mention he is horny as hell and trying to cop a feel.
Which only begs the question, “Do dead men still want it?”
CLASSIFIED ADS:
Employment Wanted
SEX.
Now that I have your attention, I am looking for employment. Outstanding background in sales and marketing. College degree. Open to anything short of murder. Call Mitzi. 555-236-9435
ChapterOne
“What do you mean I can’t? I can do anything I damn well please.” Mitzi Winston slammed her purse on the counter and twisted to look at her sister.
“It’s illegal. You can’t.”
“Oh hell. Who would know? Besides, I need the money.”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t need sarcasm, little Miss Rich Sister. I need dollars. The mortgage is due. Final notice. I’m not about to lose my house.”
That was an understatement, to be sure. She stared out the kitchen window to look at the garden. The house was the only good thing she’d done in years. Finally, she had finagled a loan, scraped up the down payment, and became a homeowner. She wasn’t about to stoop to renter ranks. Again.
“I’ll give you the money.”
“No.”
“But—”
“I. Said. No.” She didn’t need handouts. Ever since Ken disappeared, she’d made it just fine—until the bottom fell out of her freelance public relations business.
Suddenly, her clients started dropping like flies, leaving her in a lurch. And she couldn’t get a contract job, even a small one, for anything.
Everything. Gone.
Just like Ken.
“It’s just phone sex, Molly. It’s not like I’m going to catch a disease. No one will know me. I’ll tuck myself into my little bed and just talk guys into getting their jollies off. I’ll be a hundred bucks richer every fifteen minutes. That’s four hundred dollars an hour. If I get them off sooner, my income goes up. Piece of cake.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“I’d have to be dead to do that.”
Mitzi figured that Molly, after birthing three children, and putting up with that husband of hers, was pretty much dead tired when it came to sex anyway. “We’ll, you’re not me.”
“The cops listen in on those things, you know.”
“What two consenting adults do on the phone is of no concern to anyone.”
“They try to catch johns and hookers.”
“I’m not a hooker.”
Molly raised a brow. “What would you call it then? A guy creaming in his jeans. You get money. Hooker. You.”
“I wouldn’t even touch them!”
“Mitzi! Listen to yourself!”
“And sometimes it’s not guys. Women do it, too. Talk to other women.”
Molly clapped her hands over her ears. “Lalalalala! I do not want to hear anymore.” She grabbed her Gucci purse, the turquoise one that Mitzi had coveted for a month.
Damn her.
In two seconds flat, Molly whipped out a credit card. “Here. Or I won’t be able to live with myself.”
Mitzi swallowed her gumption. Probably thousands of dollars on that thing. Enough for the payment. Get her through until next month.
Damn.
“I can’t.” There. She said it.
Molly rolled her eyes. “I’m leaving.”
She reached for Mitzi’s hand, slapped the card down in it, and held her gaze long. And, believe you me, Southern girl steel magnolias could hold a stern gaze like, forever.
It was damned uncomfortable, but Mitzi held her own.
Then Molly left.
Her shoulders slumped. Damn that card felt good in her hand. But she would not use it.
* * *
The message on her answering machine said to show up at eight o’clock the next evening in the upstairs office at 3245 Halifax Street in the Juniper Hills area of Carrington, which was fortunate for Mitzi, since that was her hometown. No sign, he said, just walk on up and knock on the door at the top of the stairs. The one on the left.
Someone would be there.
Yeah.
It seemed a bit late for a job interview on a Friday night, but she figured the phone sex business was hopping around that time of day. She brushed away any niggling doubts.
The area was familiar, but she couldn’t say she’d frequented it much in her lifetime. Suffice it to say Juniper Hills represented the seedier side of town, was mostly industrial, and sat on the wrong side of the tracks of this small Southern city in the heart of Louisiana.
Her daddy—even though she was well into her thirties—would go after her with a switch should he find out she was contemplating working over there. The Newberry men were just protective like that of their daughters.
It felt a bit creepy, but Mitzi swallowed her spookies, peered up into the dark stairwell, and stepped inside.
No light?
She propped the door open with her hip and searched for something to keep it cracked while she took the stairs.
There. Half a brick.
She glanced at her watch. Late. Shit.
She wedged the brick between the door and frame, making sure it would not pop out. Getting locked in on the inside of this door was not an appealing thought. Turning, she looked up dark the stairwell. A rectangle of light lit the way up.
Problem solved.
Would this company consider her problem solving an asset? Or would they just consider her “assets.”
Time would tell.
She took the stairs, stepped on something crunchy at the top, rapped on the door and glanced behind her. Dark corners. A shiver tripped up her spine. Would she really want to work here?
The door creaked open. Slowly.
Wait.
Mitzi took in the silence.
Wait longer. Silence.
No one said, “Hello?” or “May I help you?” or “Kiss my ass,” or anything. Swallowing the spookies again, she pushed the door inward.
“Hello?”
Venetian blinds, mostly askew, were pulled down on the window opposite the door. No, wait. Jerked down? Torn. A triangle of light from the streetlight poked through.
Wrong place. Had to be in the wrong place.
Retreat.
Out the door. Down. Two steps. Get out.
Turn around. Please. Come back.
What? Was that a voice?
Turning, she saw that triangle of light penetrate the hallway onto the stuff she’d crunched earlier. Light bulb. Smashed.
Oh dear. Not good.
Come back, please.
Crap.
She climbed the two steps, swallowed, and pushed forward into the room.
Holy shit!
There was a dead guy on the floor.
A. Dead. Guy. On. The. Floor.
And… And his ghost was sitting in the chair next to him.
Ghost?
“Hello, Mitzi. Par for the course. You’re late, sweetheart. And now I’m dead.”
Ken?
Mitzi stumbled, catching her backside on the open door. “Ouch! Dammit.” She rubbed her left hip.
“You always were a clumsy little tart.”
She widened her eyes and bore straight through the form that used to be her husband. Yes, straight through. He was rather, um, translucent.
“Oh, freaking shit! What the hell is going on here?”
Ken rose. Like, levitated.
She scrambled a few more steps in reverse. “Don’t come any closer, Ken. Uh, you are Ken, right?”
He snorted. “Of course, baby. Come here and give me a little smooch. Been a while, huh?”
“Like hell.” She bolted toward the window with the torn blinds. “You keep your dead lips off me.” Panic raced up through her, from gut to throat. What the friggin’ kind of trick was this?
“I don’t have cooties, Mitzi. I’m just dead. Freshly so, it appears. And it’s all your fault, my dear, so you owe me.”
The gall of that man. Dead or alive, he always thought she owed him.
“Not my fault you went and got yourself killed, Ken.” She glared at him for a second or two. “How come you’re talking to me for real now, when a moment ago you were sort of like a voice in my head?”
