Page 19 of Shameless

“Another book?”

“This one is an article for a startup true-crime website. They read my last book and contacted me. I don’t usually do short pieces, but they offered me a nice retainer, and the check actually cleared. I’ll be gone for the next couple of weeks.”

“I know how you are when you start a new story. You disappear for days on end. Thanks for letting me know this time. At least I won’t worry when I don’t see or hear from you.”

Cass finished her drink and sat the glass down with a thunk.

“Gotta make it an early night. I still have to do the final edit on the last three chapters of my latest manuscript and send it off before I leave.” She stood and gave Brittley a hug. “See you soon.”

“Be careful, sweetie. And don’t go falling for one of your bad boys!”

Five hours later, Cass hit “send,” then stood up, stifling a groan as she stretched her cramped muscles. Once again, she vowed to make time in her schedule for visits to the gym. She’d had so much more energy, slept better, felt calmer when she’d lifted weights with Marco. But that was a long time ago. She’d quit seeing him when she and Trent split up. It made her too uncomfortable to work out with her ex-husband’s best friend.

She always planned to find another trainer, even tried working out with a few females. But no one drove her as hard as Marco had. He treated her like a serious weightlifter, not some babe hanging around the gym to pick up a hot hunk. She missed the sweat, the burn. Missed the endorphin-induced high.

With a shock, she realized it had been four years since she quit.No wonder my clothes don’t fit as well as they used to.I’m thirty-five years old. I’m already losing muscle.If I don’t do something soon, it’s only going to get worse. When I get back, I’m going to call that new gym in town and make an appointment. Maybe instead of setting me up with a twenty-something ex-cheerleader like the last place did, they’ll have a twenty-something hunky male trainer available. One who isn’t gay.

Cass pictured a testosterone-laden figure with rock-hard muscles and gorgeous sculpted abs bending her sweat-soaked body over the weight bench after hours when the gym was deserted. With a sigh, she headed for the bedroom to pack.If I don’t have sex soon, I’m gonna explode.

Packing didn’t take long. Cass threw her work clothes into a small suitcase. Two blazers – one black, one vanilla cream. Half a dozen casual T-shirts in tan and white and black and soft gray. V-neck, so she could unbutton her blazer and give her subject a glimpse of the curves of her breasts before posing a crucial question. Not so low that she’d look like a slut. Sexy, but with class. She added jeans, a pair of black pants. She’d learned the hard way that wearing bright colors into a prison interview room made her even more of a target for unwanted attention from the inmates she passed along the way. Like waving the proverbial red flag in an arena packed with horny bulls.

She got out her favorite sky-high black heels and a pair of platform sandals. Cass didn’t own a pair of flat shoes. Heels added a welcome few inches to her five-foot-five frame. Last but definitely not least, her signature piece – a gorgeous silk scarf that had cost her every dime of the check she’d gotten for the first story she ever sold. The designer’s name meant nothing to her. She hadn’t bought it to impress anyone. She’d simply fallen in love with the swirling riot of color.

Even after all these years, looking at it still made her happy. Eye candy to make up for the conservative black and white and beige she wore while working. As soon as she was through for the day, she’d toss it around her neck or, if the weather was hot, tie it to the handle of her purse. She stroked the baby-soft silk, rolled it up tight so it wouldn’t wrinkle then tucked it into a corner of the leather shoulder bag she toted everywhere she went.

Cass grabbed the woven market basket she used to carry her makeup and toiletries and set it on the bathroom counter to fill as she got ready in the morning. Then she brushed her teeth, turned out the lights, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up with a sigh. Another night – alone.

She let her mind drift back to her latest fantasy. The faceless trainer had her bent over the weight bench again, gym shorts bunched around her knees, spanking her bare ass good and hard for not finishing that last set of biceps curls. He yanked her shorts all the way off and shoved her legs apart. Cass’s fingers slid between her legs as she imagined the sting of his hard palm. She ached to feel a real bare-bottom spanking.Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to confess my shameful secret desire to another man.

The memories that thought evoked ruined her hot little fantasy. Cass sighed and rolled over. She tried to empty her mind, but sleep was long in coming.

* * *

The soft pink line of dawn peeked over the horizon as she barreled down the highway. She’d be in Atlanta long before noon – time to check into her hotel before meeting the marshals who would escort her to the interview.

This guy wasn’t one of her usual subjects – men who committed horrific crimes while leading an outwardly normal life, sometimes with an unsuspecting wife and kids at home. She’d done her homework. Zander Cole was the guy the mob called in when it was time to break legs or smash ribs. He’d agreed to testify against Big Tony Abruzzi, giving up a list of people he’d threatened and beaten up on Tony’s orders. A dozen of those people later disappeared. Zander swore he knew nothing about that. Smart of him, since the Feds frowned on granting immunity to someone who admitted committing murder for hire.

As she drove, Cass wondered why she’d ever agreed to this assignment. Exploring the mind of a mafia-type thug didn’t excite her. The guy probably wasn’t capable of any thought deeper than whether to have pepperoni or sausage on his pizza. She loved the challenge of delving into a complex character, making her readers see how a woman could fall in love with someone inherently evil or why a young man would look up to a serial killer as a heroic father figure.

But money was money, and these small jobs helped pay the bills. She was saving up so she could devote six straight months to finishing the thriller currently lingering on her back burner. She’d come up with a great twist for a female serial killer. Her lead character was the daughter of a hooker who’d been strangled, one of dozens of victims of a criminal who’d never been caught. Bent on her warped need for revenge, the character Cass created murdered every man who tried to bed her.

She’d based the story on a real serial killer case she found while doing research for one of her true-crime books. Eight prostitutes had been strangled in Grand Rapids, Michigan in a single year back in the 1980s, their bodies tossed into downtown trash dumpsters. The case got very little press coverage by the local newspaper and never made the national news. No one in a position of authority wanted to publicize the fact that strait-laced Grand Rapids had hookers, let alone a morgue full of dead ones. Eventually, the murders stopped. But the killer was never found.

Cass had learned so much about the mentality of mass murderers over the last few years, she knew she could make one come alive. She lay in bed at night planning the subtle clues she’d drop for discerning readers to discover, the tiny quirks she’d build into her killer’s personality.

Sometimes, she’d amuse herself casting the lead roles in the blockbuster movie they’d make from her book. Angelina Jolie? The audience would have no problem accepting her as a sinister character with murder in her heart. No, she needed someone outwardly sweet, someone they’d never suspect as a stone-cold killer. Maybe Sandra Bullock. Or she could draw in a younger audience with Zendaya.

She pulled into a rest stop, dug her laptop out of the carryall on the seat beside her, and made a few notes for her next chapter. Putting it aside, she hopped out of the car to stretch her legs.

Trees covered with candy-colored blossoms dotted the landscape, coaxed into bloom by the April sun. Cass had abandoned the gray skies and slushy snow-covered streets that Chicago called early spring long ago. She’d moved to Charlotte when she and Trent got married. He left, she stayed. One decision she’d never regretted. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, breathed in the sweetly scented air. Life in the South suited her just fine.

Two hours later, she pulled into the parking garage next door to the federal building in downtown Atlanta. Slipping on the black blazer, she grabbed her shoulder bag and headed for the elevator, mentally preparing herself for the ordeal ahead.

An armed security guard stopped her in the lobby of the sixth-floor suite of offices for the North Georgia district of the US Marshals Service.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“My name is Cass Newcombe. I’m here to interview Zander Cole.”

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