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    Wicked Ride
    Wicked Ride
    Wicked Ride
    Ebook99 pages1 hour

    Wicked Ride

    By Elise Sax

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    “Elise Sax will win your heart.”—NYT bestelling author Jill Shalvis
    “Fans of laugh-out-loud romantic suspense will enjoy this new author as she joins the ranks of Janet Evanovich, Katie MacAllister, and Jennifer Crusie.”—Booklist

    “A fun read sure to entertain.”—RT Book Reviews

    Fiona Jones has never killed anyone, but there’s a first for everything. Still, maybe she shouldn't have hired Ronin—a sexy killer with a wicked motorcycle-- who’s giving her more than her share of attention.

    The Five Wishes Series: Five hot and hilarious novellas about wishes that go terribly wrong...fortunately. Five Wishes...A happy ending is just a coin toss away. Each novella is approximately 100 pages with NO cliffhanger.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherElise Sax
    Release dateOct 19, 2016
    ISBN9781370818600
    Wicked Ride
    Author

    Elise Sax

    USA Today bestselling author Elise Sax writes hilarious happy endings. She worked as a journalist, mostly in Paris, France for many years but always wanted to write fiction. Finally, she decided to go for her dream and write a novel. She was thrilled when An Affair to Dismember, the first in the Matchmaker Series, was sold at auction to Ballantine.Elise is an overwhelmed single mother of two boys in Southern California. She's an avid traveler, a beginner dancer, an occasional piano player, and an online shopping junkie.Like her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/theelisesax?ref=hlFriend her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ei.sax.9Or just send her an email: [email protected] can also visit her website and get a free novella: elisesax.com

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      Book preview

      Wicked Ride - Elise Sax

      CHAPTER 1

      Fiona Jones, get your head out of the toilet.

      My voice echoes in the empty bathroom, reverberating off the porcelain commode. I’ve been sitting on my knees, staring at the water forever. If I don’t get up, I’m going to miss my appointment, and how will I ever find another killer to hire?

      Killer.

      My stomach clenches, and I get another rush of nausea. But I can’t throw up, again. I’m tapped out. You’re such a coward, I tell myself. Get up and get going.

      It’s not the first time that I’ve spoken to myself, but I’m not crazy. It’s just nerves. Anybody would be a little nervous to be doing what I’m about to be doing. Not that I have a choice.

      My family has tried every legal means possible to stop an evil man from stealing our land, robbing us of our livelihood, and now killing my father. Almost killing my father. And almost is too close.

      Somehow, I have to make things right.

      I finally work up the courage to stand up, and I let myself out of the bathroom stall. I check myself in the mirror. Not too bad. My curly hair isn’t very frizzy. And you couldn’t tell that I just finished throwing up my insides. I open my purse and take out a travel-size toothbrush and tube of toothpaste and brush my teeth.

      Even though I’m about to hire a killer, I’m not going let my oral hygiene slide. One root canal three months ago has turned me into a maniacal toothbrusher. And don’t get me started on dental floss and the all-mighty Water Pik. It’s a religion based on fear, but I haven’t had a cavity since I converted.

      I take a piece of lint off of my long floral print dress and slip my purse over my shoulder.

      All right then, I say to myself. You got this.

      I open the bathroom door and step back into the truck stop’s restaurant. This is my first visit to a truck stop. I bake for a living, selling my muffins, cakes, and cookies around the small town of Esperanza. But this is out of the town’s limits. Way out.

      I’m the only woman in the large restaurant, besides the overworked waitresses. Truckers from all over the country are seated at red booths with linoleum covered tables, eating pancakes, chicken fried steak, and other artery-clogging delicacies, taking a breather before they head back on the road.

      The truck stop is a sprawling set up, comprised of much more than just the restaurant. There’s a barbershop, bank, mini motel, and a gun store. I try to swallow. I’m completely out of my depth. Oversized men ogle me as I pass, looking for my killer.

      All I know is that he has a regular table here, which he uses as his office. Vinny, the custodian at the University where I sell a lot of chocolate chip cookies, suggested I look up the killer when I told him about my problem.

      But which one of these cap-wearing, goateed guys is the one? I don’t have a name. And I don’t know what he looks like.

      This is crazy. I’m crazy. Hiring a killer is crazy. What am I doing? I’m a pacifist. I was a vegetarian for three full months in high school. I don’t kill people, no matter how evil, soul-sucking, thieving and murderous they are.

      I kill spiders. That’s about it.

      I have a change of heart. Just as I’m about to turn around and forget the whole killer-for-hire thing, I spot him. He’s sitting with another man at a corner booth. He’s about fifty years old with a long beard and a scar down the left side of his face. He’s fearsome, just like the killer that he is. He senses that I’m staring at him, and we lock eyes. There’s no turning back now. No running away. I have to make this happen. I owe it to my father. To my whole family.

      I approach the table, my gold flats click-clacking on the floor as I walk. My hand reaches for my purse, and I tap it, making sure it’s still there. I’m carrying a lot of money. All the money I’ve earned during the summer.

      Are you him? I ask the man. He’s even scarier up close, unwashed and dressed in a flannel shirt. He looks me up and down from my shoes to the top of my head.

      I can be anybody you want, he says, his voice rough and gravelly, sending shivers up my spine in fear.

      Yes, I know. I’ve heard that about you. I’ve heard that you’re a man who can get the job done.

      The other man at the table laughs. He can get the job done if you have a blue pill, he shouts.

      The men at the surrounding tables laugh. I never expected that this was the way hiring a killer went, but I try to laugh with him, as if I’m cool and in on the joke.

      Then, the laughter ends just as quickly as it began, and they stare with open fear at something above my head. What is it? I ask.

      But I feel the presence behind me, and I turn around. A tall man--very tall, around six-foot-five--is hovering over me. He’s wearing jeans, black boots, a tight T-shirt, and a leather jacket. He has short brown hair and big brown eyes, and he could be a model on any billboard in Times Square. Not that I’ve ever been to New York.

      I’m sorry, I say to the good-looking, tall man. But I’m doing business here, and it’s confidential. Top secret. So if you’ll excuse us …

      He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side. You’re talking business, he says, slowly as he’s thought out each word carefully. As if he’s reluctant to speak at all, but he’s required to do so. But you’re talking business at the wrong table with the wrong man. Fiona?

      Zing! A lightning bolt hits me, knocking the stupid right out of my head. I look from the scary bearded man at the table to the tall good-looking man

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