Page 1 of Fast and Dirty

PROLOGUE

KIRA

At least I got a killer manicure out of it.

I admire my freshly done French tips against the steering wheel. I would mention the amazing blowout my hair got, except for that’s shot to shit now that I’ve been driving two hours with the top down. It wasn’t by choice. I was in a bit of a hurry and couldn’t figure out how to get the top of the Rolls Royce up. So my dark tresses are a tangled mess, with the country breeze whipping them about and my scalp is starting to sting as the pins holding my veil in place are losing their fight against the wind. But I’m more worried about when I have to eventually stop for gas. That’s going to be awkward. Pumping gas into an ivory Rolls adorned with pink and white paper mâché flowers, streamers, and theJust Marriedsign adhered to the trunk - although that’s nearing its life expectancy, flapping and flailing by one flimsy corner at this point. It’s likely to go flying off in the next twenty miles. Now if those annoying rattling cans would just shut up.

I’m so pissed. At my father, my miserable mother, my older sister, and at my common lying, sleazy, cheating, stuck up, and not to mention boringEX-fiance.

On my wedding day, which I was only mildly thrilled aboutto begin with, they all just had to do something to take a steaming dump on me, but Preston taking one of my bridesmaids to pound town definitely took the wedding cake.

In the span of five minutes, I’d disgraced my wealthy, aristocratic Chicago family, and I couldn’t be happier - well, except for the fact that I’m lividly pissed of course. It makes me want to do something bad - I mean other than sneaking out of my wedding, through the bathroom window and stealing an expensive-ass car, and speeding down the highway at well above the limit.

I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, exactly. Justaway.

I made the right choice, I tell myself, but I don’t need to. I don’t feel even a little bit bad. It only took my mother’s sixth bellini in the bridal suite before she spilled what these arranged marriages in the family really mean, while my sister chimed in - just as drunk, if not more so - about how she’s in the throes of her own miserable marriage, complete with cheating husband, forced to stay home with two screaming children and only taken out of her little box for gala events.

And then, when I went to get some air, what did I find? Preston! With his tux pants around his ankles and the conniving daughter of one of my father’s business partners splayed out on the table in front of him.

But the biggestahamoment? The fact that I wasn’t actually pissed about the cheating. It was how they weredoingit that really got me burned like a thousand suns.

Speaking of the dickwad, my phone lights up on the passenger seat for the thousandth time, displaying his name and the god-awful picture he set as his contact photo.

Get fucked in hell.

I should probably turn the phone off and toss it out of the car into one of the nearby fields I’m cruising past, but since I don’t know my next move, I should probably keep it close by.

Where am I going? I just got on the southbound highway and kept on going, and somehow it’s transitioned into this two-lane road in bumfucknowhere.

It’s okay. It’s fine.

With my honeymoon luggage already packed in the trunk, I’ll just find a nice hotel, ditch this wedding dress and catch my breath. Then I’ll book a flight somewhere. Maybe go on my Venetian honeymoon by myself and meet a hot Italian named Antonio who will tell me I’m irresistibly hot in a sexy accent while he feasts on my pussy like it’s his last cannoli.

Or whatever.

The point is, the sky is the limit. The possibilities are endless. I can - wait.

Something’s not right. The wind is weakening, and the annoying sound of the cans is getting louder and more pronounced. The car is slowing, despite my pearly white Jimmy Choo pressing the pedal to the floor.

No… no, no, no, no, no, no…..

1

WEST

Iblow out a breath as I put the tow truck in gear. A Rolls Royce broken down on the side of the highway about fifteen miles from town. Whatever rich twat called for roadside assistance has no idea what they’re in for when they get towed to my humble auto repair shop.

Now, I know cars. All of them. Inside and out. But having the necessary tools, parts and resources to fix whatever the fuck is wrong with a Rolls? That’s another story.

Good thing I like a challenge.

I pull out of the garage, just far enough to clear the opening before pausing to hit the remote for the door to come down behind me. And good thing I instated hours on Sundays. While the ready-made crew that came with the shop when I bought it weren’t initially too thrilled with that prospect, they relaxed when they found out it would be only one Sunday every six weeks as they rotated out and I took all the rest. And besides, it’s only for on call situations like this, and it’s brought in enough extra revenue to make their work lives easier.

In the past two years, I’ve been ableto give them raises, vacations, and a couple more mechanics to take the heat off those that were pulling overtime. Jackson, in particular, who was just barely holding down the fort, putting in sixty-plus hours a week with a bunch of screaming kids at home.

The sun is strong enough for me to pull down the visor and retrieve my trusty pair of aviators, and the temperature outside is just begging me to put my window down and rest my arm on the door. Hell, picking up some rich putz in a Rolls might not be so bad. It might end up being a cash cow, and I can replace the fridge in the break room.

And I actually enjoy working these low-key Sundays. I have no interest in weekend adventuring or running off to Indianapolis and whooping it up. I prefer to lay low, given my past.

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