Fast and Dirty (Dirty Jobs of Coyote Creek #1)

Prologue

KIRA

A t 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 maché flowers, streamers, and the Just Married sign 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 boring EX -fiance.

On my wedding day, which I was only mildly thrilled about to 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. Just away .

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 biggest aha moment? The fact that I wasn’t actually pissed about the cheating. It was how they were doing it 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 bumfuck nowhere.

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…..