A deadly romantic comedy
All Mitzi Winston wants is enough money to pay this month’s mortgage payment. That’s the only reason she even considers the phone sex job. Ever since her husband’s disappearance, she’s held things together quite nicely—until recently. And now, well, she just needs the money.
So, she bites the bullet and goes for the interview, only to find that the phone sex job isn’t real and she’s too late—not for the interview, but to save her husband. For there he is, dead on the floor, a bullet to the back of the head. To make matters worse, his ghost is hovering around and chiding her for being late. Not to mention he’s horny as hell and trying to cop a feel. Which only begs the question, “Do dead men still want it?”
“What do you mean I can’t? I can do anything I damn well please.” Mitzi Winston slammed her purse on the counter and twisted to look at her sister.
“It’s illegal. You can’t.”
“Oh hell. Who would know? Besides, I need the money.”
“I don’t need sarcasm, little Miss Rich Sister. I need dollars. The mortgage is due. Final notice. I’m not losing my house.”
An understatement. She stared out the kitchen window to look at the garden. The house was the only good thing she’d done in years. Finally, she’d finagled a loan, scraped up the down payment, and became a homeowner. She wasn’t about to stoop to renter ranks. Again.
“I’ll give you the money.”
“I. Said. No.” She didn’t need handouts. Ever since Ken disappeared, she’d made it just fine—until the bottom fell out of her freelance public relations business.
Suddenly, her clients all started dropping like flies, leaving her in a lurch. And she couldn’t get a contract job, even a small one, for anything.
Just like Ken.
“It’s just phone sex, Molly. It’s not like I’m going to catch a disease. No one will know me. I’ll be tucked into my little bed and just talk guys into getting their jollies off. I’ll be a hundred bucks richer every fifteen minutes. That’s four hundred dollars an hour. If I get them off sooner, my income goes up. Piece of cake.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“I’d have to be dead to do that.”
Mitzi figured that Molly, after birthing three children, and putting up with that husband of hers, was pretty much dead tired when it came to sex, anyway. “We’ll, you’re not me.”
“The cops listen in on those things, you know.”
“What two consenting adults do on the phone is of no concern to anyone.”
“They try to catch johns and hookers.”
“I’m not a hooker.”
Molly raised a brow. “What would you call it then? A guy creaming in his jeans. You get money. Hooker. You.”
“I wouldn’t even touch them!”
“Mitzi! Listen to yourself!”
“And sometimes it’s not guys. Women do it, too. Talk to other women.”
Molly clapped her hands over her ears. “Lalalalala! I do not want to hear anymore!” She grabbed her Gucci purse, the turquoise one that Mitzi had coveted for a month.
In two seconds flat Molly whipped out a credit card. “Here. Or I won’t be able to live with myself.”
Mitzi swallowed her gumption. Probably thousands of dollars on that thing. Enough for the payment. Get her through until next month.
“I can’t.” There. She said it.
Molly rolled her eyes. “I’m leaving.”
She reached for Mitzi’s hand, slapped the card down in it, and held her gaze long. And, believe you me, Southern girl Steel Magnolias could hold a stern gaze like, forever.
It was damned uncomfortable but Mitzi held her own.
Then Molly left.
Her shoulders slumped. Damn that card felt good in her hand. But she would not use it.