NC-17 Read online

  NC-17

  Maizie Albright Star Detective #3

  Larissa Reinhart

  Contents

  Claim Your Free Story!

  Books by Larissa Reinhart

  Preface

  1. #MeTwont #HesDaBomb

  2. #NoExcuses #YetAgain

  3. #PresumedNotMissing #BigFootBelievers

  4. #TridentGleam #TeenAgeMutantNinjas

  5. #NiceCream #ChickenDance

  6. #TheNotQuiteSecretGarden #RazorWhyre

  7. #McEverettsGarden #TheKidsAreNotAlRight

  8. #VisitingHours #ComaToast

  9. #YouTubeIn’ #BelieveTheBelievers

  10. #WhatIfs #ObiWannaDoIt

  11. #SelfieSolutions #DigTheKicks

  12. #NoBootAboutIt #FullOutFugitive

  13. #TalkDirtToMe #StalkingBigFootStalkers

  14. #TrapperKeeper #CainsNotAble

  15. #GoldishGirls #OnMyOwnAgain

  16. #Miseryable #Bikeaboom

  17. #CircularFile #AsGoodAsItGets

  18. #HashtagHealingRevolution #StupidIstTheNewDumb

  19. #MicroabrasedEmbrace #BookinIt

  20. #KidsTheseDays #MyPeopleAndYourPeople

  21. #GrizzlyTeddy #DetectiveDoGooder

  22. #ThePriceofthePrices #UnaBombaMomma

  23. #ThePriceIsNotRight #HighNoonAtSix

  24. #TakeDownDowner #OfferingSpite

  25. #Unglamping #HiddenHugging

  26. #DownAndOutAndNotInBeverlyHills #ToSleepPerchance

  27. #KeepingItTooReal #DonutDoIt

  28. #WhileYouWereSleepingWithTheEnemy #JoleneDontTakeMyMan

  29. #DowntonInTheDumps #ShineMoOnMe

  30. #HeartRemedies #NoBustBusted

  31. #Bambioozled #FreeFalling

  32. #BigfootStalker #MakeMeABeliever

  33. #ThePriceofThePrices #GamerOn

  34. #LittleRunAway #ExExploitation

  35. #Teensploitation #DeathDoesNotBecomeHer

  36. #TherapyWhamSlam #KeepingItInTheFamily

  37. #OtherWomaning #BedsideConfessions

  38. #TheOtherOtherWoman #HotShot

  39. #PeaShootin' #LoversAndMadMen

  40. #DisarminglyDisarmed #UnscriptedSkulking

  41. #SharedHerstory #OliverTwisted

  42. #HellaciousHookUp #Mothercopter

  43. #OvercomingHistory #HoldingHandsAndTakingNames

  44. #SilencingTheLamb #GirlsWhoMakeBoysCry

  45. #SlippingInASlip #Grrrling

  46. #LookAtMeImSandraDee #OliverYouForever

  47. #PhonePriveleges #ItsOffToWorkIGo

  48. #Tridont #KnightAgain

  49. #NoBootAboutIt #BigfootBounty

  50. #TreedAndCarated #AGirlsBestFriend

  51. #Backsliding #TheProposal

  52. #DéjàDump #NotHubbyMaterial

  53. #SelfieShipFix #BigfootBeliever

  54. #ByeByeBae #ReboundGirl

  Thanks for Reading NC-17

  A Sneak Peek of The Cupid Caper

  TV and Film in NC-17

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Larissa Reinhart

  About the Author

  Claim Your Free Story!

  Books by Larissa Reinhart

  A Cherry Tucker Mystery Series

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY (#1)

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW (#2)

  HIJACK IN ABSTRACT (#3)

  DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (#4)

  THE BODY IN THE LANDSCAPE (#5)

  A VIEW TO A CHILL (#6)

  A COMPOSITION IN MURDER (#7)

  Novellas

  A CHRISTMAS QUICK SKETCH in SLEIGH BELLS AND SLEUTHING (box set)

  THE VIGILANTE VIGNETTE

  Audio

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW

  Box Set

  CHERRY TUCKER MYSTERIES 1-3

  Maizie Albright Star Detective Series

  15 MINUTES

  16 MILLIMETERS

  A VIEW TO A CHILL

  NC-17 (2018)

  18 CALIBER (2019)

  A Finley Goodhart Crime Caper Series

  PIG’N A POKE (prequel, short story)

  THE CUPID CAPER

  To Sophie & Luci & Hailey & Lily

  Study hard but don’t forget life’s best mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.

  Preface

  The Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) film rating system is used in the United States and its territories to rate a film's suitability for certain audiences based on its content.

  NC-17 – Adults Only

  No One 17 and Under Admitted. Clearly adult. Children are not admitted.

  * * *

  Maizie Albright’s newest clients:

  Ages 15, 14.75, and 14.5.

  Grade 10 at Black Pine High School

  Home of the Tree Toppers

  in Black Pine, Georgia.

  Also home to Bigfoot.

  #Allegedly

  One

  #MeTwont #HesDaBomb

  Stakeouts are not all they’re cracked up to be. Unless you have a more realistic vision of a stakeout than I had. Or maybe a different mentor. One would think sitting in a truck together for hours on end might lead to scintillating conversations. An intimate bonding through shared experience, cold coffee, and stale donuts. Even a little nookie.

  Depending on your mentor, of course. But not Wyatt Nash of Nash Security Solutions.

  I had high hopes for such stakeouts. But I’ve had high hopes for many things in my life. With twenty-five years of life experiences that mostly didn’t meet expectations, I should’ve learned to lower the bar a bit. But with this man, hope —high or low— was all I had.

  Nash was not only my boss and mentor. Nash was my dream guy. He’s built like a demigod, with intense Paul Newman-blue eyes and a flash of dimple from his rare sexy smiles. A dry sense of humor. Loyal. Caring. Intelligent. Brave. Chivalrous to a fault.

  A really big fault. As long as he’s my boss, he won’t date me, let alone share intimate bonding. Or nookie. And I get it. As an ex-actress who’s had twenty years of Hollywooding, I’ve been #metoo’d beyond recognizing what’s normal for inappropriate behavior. When your personal self was a brand, “pimping” takes on meanings both literal and figurative. And thanks to my manager, my moral code included exception clauses.

  But with Nash and me, the situation’s different.

  I know you’ve heard that before, but it’s true.

  Our mutual (I hope mutual) desire was born from respect as much as an attraction. Granted, that desire has been barely mentioned and not really acted upon in the few months we’ve known each other. Nash put the brakes on anything romantic until my two-year mentorship ended and we can officially partner.

  That’s a long time for mutual desire without action. Particularly for a red-blooded twenty-five-year-old such as myself. Nash is thirty-two. Which is like twenty-five in man years. Maybe less.

  I believe, these brakes frustrate us equally.

  I know I shouldn’t be thinking about nookie during stakeouts. But I can tell Nash’s thinking about it, too. It’s in the way he grips his binoculars. Runs a finger in the neckline of his Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. Rolls down the window of his truck to gulp fresh air. And cuts me the occasional gaze so heated, I get flash burns on my cheeks.

  Also, because we live in Georgia and even though it’s fall the temperature still feels like July. I have skin pale enough to guide ships to safe harbor on moonless nights. Like literally. It happened at Black Pine Lake once when I wasn’t wearing bronzer.

  This was also probably why our conversations were not so scintillating. The blood our brains need for conversation had been diverted to other areas of our bodies.

  Like today, as we sat broiling in Nash’s Silverado pickup, waiting for cra
zy Roger Price to finish his shift so we could follow him around town. This week we’d followed him to a variety of fast food restaurants, Walmart, Tractor Supply, and thirteen gas stations. (Roger’s a scratch-off nut.) And I couldn’t come up with anything more scintillating than talking about my ex-manager’s (and still mother’s) stupid wedding.

  Stupid because she’s marrying my ex-costar on All is Albright. My ex-fiancé. Unbeknownst to me, he was hired for that role. And now was hired to marry my mother. For the show.

  Or so I keep telling myself.

  As you can tell, I have issues when it comes to men. Maybe more so than with carbs. And that’s saying something.

  “Roger Price at eleven o’clock,” said Nash.

  My phone chirped. I gave eleven o’clock a glance, confirming Roger Price’s quick stride from Radio Shack to his Nissan Sentra. Checked my phone. Another text from Vicki.

  “This wedding is going to kill me,” I said, my eyes back on Roger Price’s Sentra. “Now she wants assorted safari animals. Non-carnivorous.”

  “What does that mean? Giraffes?”

  “Maybe a zebra? Elephant? Her wedding planner is crazy. He already ordered the floral. The animals will eat her decorations.”

  “Better the decorations than the people. The guests are already at risk from Vicki’s fangs.”

  We shared a grin. My heart tripped. A rush of blood shot through my veins and smacked my cheeks.

  “Do you want to be my plus one? For the wedding?” I asked in a voice that I hoped sounded cool and not desperate. “I know it’s not your thing at all. It’ll be a zoo, regardless of the animals. All those photographers. Celebrity guests. And they’ll be filming for All Is Albright…But the food will be good. Unless an animal gets into…Never mind.”

  “It sounds like a nightmare. But if you really want me, I’ll go.”

  “Want you? Of course, I want you. To go. To the wedding. With me.”

  “Only for you, Miss Albright.” He shook his head, but the bare glimmer of a smile hovered on his lips.

  “For me?” I cut the excitement in my voice, tried to play it cool. “But you’ll have to wear a tux.”

  “Stop trying to sweeten the deal.”

  Nash cut his eyes from Roger Price’s car to me. Our gaze held. His pale blue meeting my sea glass green. His eyes warmed, like a glacier melting. Mine probably darkened to the color of a jungle spring, considering the heat rushing through my body.

  He leaned forward, placing his hand on the seat between us. My heart pounding, I adjusted my posture. Turned toward him with my knee on the seat. Licked my lips and tasted Rapture.

  My Urban Decay lip gloss. Thankfully, I wasn’t wearing Obsessed.

  Nash took a deep breath. Reached behind him and zipped down the window. A breeze swirled inside the cab. It carried the scent of hot asphalt and burger grease, but also a refreshing gust of hope.

  “Miss Albright,” said Nash. “Maizie.”

  A car’s motor started. Nash glanced out the windshield. Stiffened.

  “What?” Roger Price was ruining our moment. Of all times to start his car. “What were you going to say?”

  “He’s leaving.”

  That was not what he was going to say. Or if it was, my desperation was worse than I thought. If I only I could woman up, get a spine, and confront him about our imaginary relationship.

  Roger Price’s car puttered from the parking lot. Nash jerked the gear shift of the Silverado and pulled out of the lot.

  Instead of a spine, I searched for a non-scintillating conversation topic. Deflection was more in my wheelhouse. “I hope Roger goes to Chick-Fil-A again.” I flipped my ponytail off my neck and fanned. “I’m starving.”

  “You just ate a bag of donut holes.”

  “Donut holes are more of an appetizer than lunch. Besides, Lamar gave me day-olds. I think their potency declines with freshness.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Albright. But it’ll have to be drive-through.”

  My heart thumped. Both at Nash’s sweet acceptance of my food logic. And the thought of Chick-Fil-A.

  Roger Price sped past Chick-Fil-A. I held back my disappointment. This day was turning out to be one long letdown. But I held on to hope. For Roger to appease his hunger. Among other things.

  “Hinky,” said Nash. “Did you notice the Sentra doesn’t have plates? It had plates yesterday. Why would he take off the plates?”

  “Roger is a weird guy. If he wasn’t, his mother wouldn’t have him investigated.”

  An alarm shook my phone. I checked the time. “Shizzles. I have to go.”

  “You can’t go. We’re tailing a guy.”

  “It’s my probation volunteer work. I told them I’d be there at three. I got the sweetest volunteer position. Assisting at the community theater. I can’t tell you how many phone calls that took. They thought I wasn’t really Maizie Albright. And when they realized I was Maizie Albright, they couldn’t believe I didn’t want to get paid. It took a lot of womansplaining about judge’s orders, probation, and whatnot to convince them to let this be my charity work.”

  “I don’t think your probation community service hours count as charity.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Nash nodded, focused on pacing the Silverado at a fair distance from the Sentra. Black Pine wasn’t very large. Tailing someone in town was harder than you’d think. Unless you don’t mind appearing obvious.

  “Roger looks like he’s headed downtown,” I said. “You could drop me off at the office and I could walk to the theater.”

  “You need to schedule your volunteer hours after work.”

  “But—” My phone chirped. “Now Vicki wants a fitting at four.”

  “A fitting?”

  “Probably for my bridesmaid dress.”

  “You’re working,” said Nash. “We have a tail on Roger Price. You’re staying with me.”

  My toes curled at that declaration. I thumb-typed Vicki. Three texts popped onto the tiny screen of my flip phone before I could hit the send button. “Hells. She wants me to go to Giulio’s fitting. That’s totally awkward.”

  “Forget Vicki.” Nash gritted his teeth. “Price is slowing.”

  I looked up. Price had pulled into a bank. Parked in front of the sidewalk. And exited the running car wearing a cow mask. “He certainly loves Chick-Fil-A. But that’s a little strange, even for Roger. Wait, what is he carrying?”

  “Miss Albright, call the police.” Nash cut the wheel, blocking the drive into the bank’s parking lot. He reached across me to pop open his glove compartment. “Stay in the truck.”

  “What was Roger carrying? It looked like—”

  “A bomb.”

  “A bomb? For what? To rob the bank? Can you do that?”

  “Apparently.” He slipped his .38 Special from the glove compartment, checked the chamber, and opened his car door. “Wait for the police. Move the truck when they come. For now, don’t let anyone else into the parking lot.”

  “I could give you back up.”

  Sliding out his door, he leveled me with a glance. “No, Maizie. Stay here.”

  “But Nash—”

  “That’s an order.” The door slammed. Nash ran across the parking lot, slipping the .38 into his belt holster.

  Used to taking direction, I didn’t argue but dialed 9-1-1. Stayed on the line, as dictated by the dispatcher. Typed an answer to Vicki, as she demanded. Kept my eyes glued to the front door of the bank. Listened for sirens with my other ear. Checked my watch.

  I was late for my charity — I mean, community service — work. But wouldn’t a probation officer understand tardiness as the result of stopping a crazy bank robber? Even if I wasn’t actually stopping the robber myself. Just sitting in a truck, waiting for the police to show so I could move the truck. While my partner was inside a bank that might blow up.

  My gut tightened. Please don’t blow up the bank, Roger.

  Could you make a working bomb at Radio Shack? Roger Price
excelled at making robots. And playing video games until three or four in the morning with people from “foreign parts.” According to his mother. She had shown us a multitude of robots. His massive collection of gaming paraphernalia. His bedroom welding equipment.

  Hells.

  Roger’s recent interest in gardening really worried his mother. He wasn’t much of an outside guy. Or one to get his hands dirty, unless it was from model paint. But he’d been stockpiling fertilizer. Worried that her son was going to start a “drug farm,” she hired Nash to watch Roger. She thought he was meeting dealers in his off hours. Not scarfing chicken sandwiches and robbing banks.

  I hopped out of the truck to pace the parking lot. No one exited the bank. Wouldn’t customers flee upon seeing a man enter wearing a cow mask? I chewed my lip. What if the security guard saw Nash’s piece and thought him an accomplice? Except this was Black Pine, Georgia. The security guard was probably a distant relation of Nash’s. Or at least recognized him as Wyatt Nash of Nash Security Solutions. There was probably a security arm of the Rotary Club or something.

  Should I call Roger’s mother?