Dirty Dealer: A Hero Club Novel Read online

  Dirty Dealer

  Kacey Shea

  Dirty Dealer

  Kacey Shea

  Copyright © 2020 by Kacey Shea Books LLC & Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Recognition

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs

  Editing: Brenda Letendre, Write Girl Editing Services

  Proofreading: Christina Weston, Erin Toland, & Melissa Hake

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  For my dedicated proofreading team:

  Erin, Chrissy, and Melissa.

  I would be lost without you! Thank you for making my books shine!

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Jude

  2. Rachel

  3. Jude

  4. Rachel

  5. Jude

  6. Rachel

  7. Jude

  8. Rachel

  9. Rachel

  10. Jude

  11. Rachel

  12. Jude

  13. Rachel

  14. Jude

  15. Rachel

  16. Jude

  17. Rachel

  18. Jude

  19. Rachel

  20. Jude

  21. Rachel

  22. Jude

  23. Rachel

  24. Jude

  25. Rachel

  26. Jude

  27. Rachel

  28. Jude

  29. Rachel

  30. Jude

  31. Rachel

  32. Jude

  33. Jude

  34. Rachel

  35. Jude

  36. Rachel

  37. Jude

  38. Rachel

  39. Jude

  40. Rachel

  41. Jude

  42. Rachel

  43. Jude

  44. Rachel

  45. Jude

  46. Rachel

  47. Jude

  48. Rachel

  49. Jude

  50. Rachel

  51. Jude

  52. Rachel

  Also by Kacey Shea

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Dirty Dealer is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Bastard. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  1

  Jude

  “You’re the best.” My client says, signing with a mixture of relief and awe. He’s not stroking my ego or sucking up either.

  I am the best. It’s a fact, and people don’t pay me for my humility. “Did you doubt me for a second?” I say toward the Bluetooth mic and signal before maneuvering my car around a truck. It’s too beautiful of a morning to be stuck staring at a back bumper for the next mile.

  “Maybe, but I shouldn’t have. Seriously. Saved my ass on this one.” He swears under his breath before his deep chuckle fills the line. Satisfaction. Joy. It’s as clear in his laughter as it is his next words. “I don’t know how you do it, man, but damn am I grateful. I called everywhere. I had my assistant calling every single breeder in the state of California.”

  “You know I take care of you.” A genuine smile works its way on my lips, and regardless of what a total pain it was to track down his thirteen-year-old’s only birthday wish list item—a pair of teacup terrier puppies, available and ready to leave their mother in a matter of days—I’m happy I could come through. After all, it’s how I’ve built my business.

  “And they’ll be here Wednesday? I want to surprise her the moment she walks in after school.”

  “I’m delivering the little rascals myself. Pups will be there in time. Promise.”

  “I’ll be working from my home office all day. She leaves for school at eight, so any time after is fine.” We’ve already worked out the details, but clients tend to reiterate them, and I get it. This is important to him. It’s personal.

  “They’ll be there. You have my word.”

  After ending the call, I lower the windows and inhale the cool, salty air. This mid-morning hour provides a rare and peaceful moment to cruise down the coast without weekend beachgoers clogging the road. I’m on the way to one of my favorite suppliers, at the request of a client, but this doesn’t feel like work at all. In fact, the only thing that could make it better would be someone to share this moment. I glance at the empty passenger seat—the perpetually empty seat—then shake off the idiotic longing. I’m where I am right now because of my tenacity for business and my sheer stubbornness to prove everyone wrong.

  Maybe not everyone. No, I’ll never live up to my father’s standards.

  Not that I care what he thinks.

  I am living my best life. This is my dream. I enjoy the challenge of waking up each day to hunt down the next treasure to suit a client’s need. To some I may resemble an overpaid errand boy, but they have no idea how difficult it is to find a signed first edition of Dracula someone is willing to part with.

  I’m the dealer my rich and famous friends call when they need . . . anything. Antique set of vintage China your great-grandmother used to serve Sunday dinner with? I’ve got it. A ’56 Aston Martin? I’ll find it. Original display art made one hundred percent from repurposed and recycled items. I know a guy. In fact, that’s exactly what has me headed to Hermosa Beach.

  One of my best clients likes to commission artwork for her high-end hotels, designed specifically to fit each décor, and after she explained what she wanted for her new Malibu location, I knew a Chance Bateman original would be the perfect fit. He’s about halfway through the finished product, and since Darlene Sheehan asked for an update, I thought I’d drive to see it for myself. That, and after working with Chance on over a dozen projects this last year, I consider him as much a friend as colleague.

  I pull up to the curb of his bungalow, a view of the beach in the near distance. Chance enjoys gardening—hence the immaculate yard—and I find him outside digging through dirt and flowers. I step from my Bugatti and shut the door before making my way up the drive.

  Chance notices my approach, pulls the gloves from his hands, and meets me halfway. “Hey, Jude.” He lifts a hand and sings his greeting in tune to the iconic song.

  It’s only the thousandth time someone’s said hello this way, but because Chance Bateman is a friend, I don’t have to play polite. I flash a sarcastic smirk. “Never heard that one before.”

  He chuckles and clasps me across the back. “How the hell are you, mate?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  He nods toward the house. “Beer? I have a few growlers from that brewery I told you about last time you drove down.”

  “You know I can’t say no to that.” I follow him inside to the kitchen. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  “I grew up in Oz, so your rules of propriety don’t apply.” Chance spent so many years in Australia his accent stuck, along with the belief that any time is a good time for drinks. He pulls the beer from the fridge, filling two glasses before handing one over. He nods for me to follow him out back to his studio—a converted detached garage that allows him space to make a mess—or art, as he calls it. Right no
w the object in question looks more like a hunk of junk, but I’ve no doubt in a matter of weeks it’ll be show-stopping.

  “So what do you think?”

  Before me is the bones of what looks to be three headless mermaids—sunning themselves on the hood of an old Impala. At least that’s the only item of value I spot amongst the art piece as it stands. “Why don’t they have heads?”

  “They will.” Chance points to one of the headless creatures. “I decided to use plastic water bottles for the hair. It’s a process melting them down and then shredding the material to resemble hair, but I think I’m on the right path. That, and collecting enough cans and metal bottle caps to get the scales right.”

  I nod, noticing now how the mermaid tails will glint and shine in the full light. Chance is brilliant, though I don’t inflate his ego by telling him so. Only an artist would be able to take all this trash and turn it into something beautiful.

  “Aubrey and I walk the beach in the morning and collect what’s washed up, but it’s slow going.”

  “If scheduling is a problem, get a few cases of water and soda from the store and empty them down the drain?”

  “That’d kind of defeat the point of it being made from repurposed materials, yeah?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but before I can, a loud bleat sounds from behind. I practically jump out of my shoes and beer sloshes from my glass. “Jesus, Pixy.”

  The pet wanders by as if he didn’t take a few years off my life.

  I wipe my hand on the rag Chance offers. “Your goat scared the shit out of me.”

  “That’s what, a dozen times now?” Chance laughs and rubs the animal behind his ear. “He’s better than any guard dog.”

  “Then get a pup. Should be easy enough with your wife’s job.” Aubrey runs a local animal shelter, and you’d think they’d be a normal couple and adopt dogs and cats. Goats scare the shit out of me. It’s the eyes. Wide, giant, glassy things that might as well be possessed.

  “Aren’t you an animal lover?”

  I eye Pixy warily, and take a step out of the goat’s view. “I’m more a dog guy.”

  “You aren’t scared of ol’ Pix, here?”

  “What? No!”

  “Sure, mate.” Chance chuckles and stands, retrieving his beer to take a long sip and propping his back against the doorway.

  Aubrey enters the studio doorway and hands the baby monitor to Chance, her yoga mat tucked under her other arm. “Baby’s asleep. I’m heading out.” Her gaze finds mine, and her smile brightens. “Hi, Jude. I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

  “Had to get a preview of your husband’s next masterpiece.”

  “It’s brilliant.” She beams at Chance as if he painted the Sistine Chapel. Or holds the stars. He looks back with the same devotion and desire. Completely, totally in love. That. That, right there is something I wouldn’t mind at all. There’s nothing fake or fabricated about the affection these two share.

  “But you already know my husband is always right on schedule.” Aubrey lifts her brow when I bring my beer to my lips for a sip. “You aren’t fooling me, Jude. You stop by to shoot the shit. And for the free beer.”

  Busted. Fuck, am I that obvious? Does she think it’s pathetic I resort to unnecessary vendor meetings when I get too bored or restless? More importantly, is that what Chance thinks?

  “Princess, you’re the one telling me I need more friends. Don’t chase this one off.” Chance loops his arm around her waist, dropping a kiss to her lips and whispering something in her ear to make her eyes light. Knowing Chance, probably something filthy. I tip back my beer to give them a tiny thread of privacy.

  “Enough of that. I’ll be late.” Aubrey giggles and shoves Chance away with a grin. She lifts her hand to wave. “Jude, always good seeing you. Next time you pop by, why don’t you stay for dinner? Bring a lady friend, or let me set you up with someone.” She waggles her brows suggestively.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off with a chuckle, but I don’t want to be set up with one of Aubrey’s friends. I’ve had enough awkward blind dates to last a lifetime. Unless . . . “Do you have a sister?”

  “No.” Chance glares, his brow creased with irritation. “And find your own princess, my wife is taken.”

  “Not moving in on your woman.” I hold my hands up. I am not a cheater, despite what some might think. “Just searching for someone as beautiful and smart as her.”

  He shakes his head, but a chuckle escapes his mouth. “I should hit you for that, but she’s the best thing to happen to me, so I get it.” Their road to happily ever after wasn’t an easy one, but it was paved with fate. He’s told me the story so many times, and I’d be lying if I didn’t wish for the same instant connection. A sign from the universe to make things clear.

  “Wait.” My brows shoot up. “Don’t you have a sister? Is she single?”

  “No.” He really does punch me this time, his fist making contact with my shoulder with enough momentum it stings. “Hands off Adele. She’s finally happy, and you’re a player.”

  He’s not wrong. “Maybe I’ll become a reformed ladies’ man, like you.”

  “No doubt you’re capable, but it takes more than a whim, mate. When you meet the right woman, you’ll know.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, but what if I never meet the right woman? How will I know if she’s the one when I do? I don’t even know where to go looking. It’s not that I have problems attracting the female population. Quite the opposite. I have no trouble finding a woman to warm my bed, or suck my dick. The issue is, I never know whether they’re only after a piece of my fortune. Call them what you will. Gold diggers. Advantageous hustlers. But I want a woman who’d be satisfied with my companionship even if I were dirt poor. I release a sigh and take another sip of my beer. “We all can’t pick out a girl from a rest stop and marry her like you did.”

  “Not really that simple.”

  “Too bad.” I sigh into my beer glass. I wish it worked that way. “It’d be easier. Sometimes I think I’m getting too old for the LA scene.”

  “Must be a real trial. All those willing and wanting women, following you home each night like puppies for a roll in the sack. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Okay, so yeah. It’s not all that horrible. I fight back a grin, but it quickly spreads across my lips. “They’re more like tigers. A few cougars.”

  “Might want to take a break from playing the field if it’s true love you’re in search of.”

  “That your master advice?”

  “Nah, mate.” He laughs, heartily and loud. “Fuck, it’s common sense. Can’t meet your princess if all your nights are spent in the brothel.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, let’s get some photos of this monstrosity for Mrs. Sheehan.”

  “You mean masterpiece?”

  “Hunk of junk.”

  He presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

  “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. That’s all that matters, Chance, and to Darlene Sheehan you’re a mad genius.”

  “Mad?”

  “You play with goats, man.”

  “Goat. One goat. I’m an artist, mate, but I have a heart. Go easy on me.”

  “Next time I’ll bring lube. Now, smile.” I hold up my phone and back up to get him in the frame. “Or don’t. A tortured artist sells better than a happy one.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” Chance chuckles, then sobers for me to take another photo.

  “Aren’t we all?” I lift my brows over the screen of my phone and grin, because yeah, we all do what we gotta do to make the money.

  2

  Rachel

  There is nothing worse than listening to running water on a full bladder. I know this because it’s a regular experience in my current living situation. Today is my fault though, and I mentally slap myself for sleeping through my first alarm—that and downing a protein shake after getting dressed. My half of the bedroom shares a wall with our apartment’
s only bathroom and I’ve had to pee for a good thirty minutes—the last fifteen of them pure torture as one of my roommates steals the last of the hot water.

  Squeezing my thighs together, I lean forward to stare at my magnified reflection. With a steady hand I swipe another line of black across my eyelid. My ears perk at the cut of the shower. I cap my eyeliner and race to wait for my roommate to exit the bathroom before anyone else cuts the line. My roommates have a very strict bathroom schedule—it’s the only way five women can co-exist with one bathroom and all get to work on time—but Kari Ann is going way over her allotment this morning.

  I knock on the door. “Can I get in there, please? I have to pee.” She doesn’t respond, or even acknowledge my interruption. Not that I expect her to. Hell, if I didn’t have to go so badly, I’d just stop at a gas station on the way to Americana Studios. But I don’t have time, and a few more minutes and I really might piss myself. I knock at the door again.

  “Jesus.” The door cracks open and with it comes a staggering fog of steam. I step back as Kari Ann pushes past with her shower caddy in hand and a towel wrapped around her. She gives me a disapproving glare. Because I’m the asshole here.