4. Don’t crush my dreams. I’ve always wanted to be a stripper.
FOUR
Don’t crush my dreams. I’ve always wanted to be a stripper.
Bailey
The next time I agreed to go anywhere with Perkette, I’d get drunk before leaving the house. Within five minutes of arriving at the strip club, the bouncers called the cops, and for once in my life, I bore zero responsibility for the turn of events.
“It’s a strip club,” Perkette protested. “I’m stripping.”
To make it clear she wasn’t stripping but had successfully stripped, she waved her shirt over her head.
I considered popping a transformative and braving the snow. “Perkette.”
“What, Bailey? Don’t crush my dreams. I’ve always wanted to be a stripper.”
“Ma’am, would you please put your top back on?”
I gave the bouncer credit; he kept his tone professional and didn’t stare at Perkette’s lace-covered breasts. “Hey, Perkette?”
“What?”
“Where did you get that bra?”
“Victoria’s Secret. And don’t you even think about cracking that stupid joke. Can’t you see I’m busy adding indecent exposure to my rap sheet?”
I’d have to pay bail, which would notify Quinn of our misdeeds in Atlantic City. “If this trip ends with my divorce, I’m taking you out with me in a blaze of glory.”
“Burn, baby, burn!” Perkette whipped her shirt over her head again. “Live a little, Bailey.”
“I haven’t had enough alcohol for this.” Or napalm. At the rate my night was going, only both would do.
“I need a count of indecent exposure. I already told you this.”
“And I have to witness this why?”
“You’ll take pictures and pay my bill.”
The pictures would make good ammunition later, so I snapped a few with my new phone. “Why am I paying your bail?”
“You adore me. You’re just too shy to admit it. I also take you out for good coffee. As your husband foolishly trusts me, he doesn’t worry about you during our outings.”
“You’re a terrible, manipulative bitch.”
A pair of cops strode in through the front doors, and Perkette tossed her shirt at me. Moments later, her bra landed on my head. “Good evening, gentlemen!”
The next time I needed sleep, I’d go to the doctor and request pills. It’d be more effective, a lot saner, and far cheaper than going on a road trip with Perkette.
I sighed. “I’m so sorry for her.”
The bouncer laughed. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am. This happens every few weeks, and it’s usually an officer’s wife left alone for a little too long.”
“Her officer works in Manhattan.”
“The rush of freedom got to her, obviously.” The bouncer stared at Perkette’s breasts. “I think I need to get that bra for my wife.”
I removed Perkette’s bra from my head and read off the model number. “My suggestion? Get two or three and wait for a good sale.”
“Are you going to snap and strip, too?”
“I haven’t had enough alcohol for that.” I wrinkled my nose. I hadn’t had any alcohol at all.
“That’s a pity. She’s pretty, but you’re in a league of your own.”
I worried the poor bouncer had been dropped on his head as a baby. I still had a lot of scars on my face from a cell phone bomb, though they mostly resembled freckles. Quinn liked them. Then again, Quinn liked every part of me, and he wasn’t afraid of proving it. “My officer is her officer’s boss.”
“Should you decide to snap, please come here.”
Yippee. I had the attention of a man, and he wasn’t my husband.
Since popping a transformative and lighting the place on fire would cause everyone, especially Quinn, trouble, I kept my irritation to myself.
I had to somehow deal with Perkette and her misdemeanor-collecting ways, which meant I needed to deal with the cops.
Again.
“Excuse me, officers?”
“Wow, Bailey. That’s so polite.”
“I hate you, Perkette.”
The cops stared at me, exchanged glances, and the younger one, who reminded me of the cadets who’d just gotten their badges, asked, “Ma’am?”
“Where’s the station so I can bail her skank ass out?”
They humored me with smiles, and the young one said, “Would you like to follow us to the station, ma’am?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
I needed a gold star. A few months of marriage to Quinn had transformed me into a functional adult. Miracles could happen, and with some investigative work, I could likely figure out which one of Quinn’s relatives held responsibility.
Quinn
The house was dark and quiet, and the instant I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the lack of warmth I associated with Bailey’s presence. “She’s not here.”
Perkins, who’d offered to help me settle the puppy, frowned, fetched his phone, and tapped on the screen. “Huh. Tiffany isn’t home, either. Give me a sec. I’ll check the garage. She said she wanted the car for something today.”
“I really need to monitor the house,” I muttered.
“An alarm system might do Bailey some—” Perkins blinked. “Oh, shit.”
“That’s not what I want to hear, Perkins.”
“Why is your car parked in my garage?”
My eyes widened. “You have got to be kidding me.”
When Tiffany Perkins took my wife anywhere, trouble happened.
Alone, my Calamity Queen could terrify years off my life.
Tiffany collected misdemeanors for the fun of it, viewing community service hours as a way of getting out of the house for a good cause when she wasn’t playing a mad scientist with a research fetish.
“Please tell me Tiffany is still working on her book.”
When Tiffany worked on a book, she took my wife out for coffee, which made everyone happy. She also limited her misdemeanors to minor mischief that made for good stories at the station.
“All three are with her publisher, her latest paper is out for peer review, and her next lecture isn’t until late January.”
Oh no. “If my car is in your garage, and our wives are not where we expect, what do you think that means?”
Perkins laughed, and it was a strained, tired sound. “We’ve been had, Sam. Your vixen of a wife tricked us both with her texts to keep us busy, and then they bailed out of town in my car.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. Tiffany’s too smart for that.
She ditched your car somewhere safe but hidden, likely with a neighbor.
But, seeing as she’s Tiffany, she forgot you have cameras in your garage.
” My wife playing me like a piano stunned me into silence.
Anxious, blurt-things Bailey tiptoed around always afraid the tides of her good fortune would change. “Why did our wives skip town?”
“Why would two women skip town?”
We spent a long time thinking about it.
“Snow sucks?” I suggested.
“It’s fucking cold,” he agreed.
“Boredom.”
Perkins’s expression turned thoughtful. “Burnout or exhaustion.”
I grimaced at that one. “Bailey’s been really tired lately.”
“Tiffany is easily bored, and she really likes Bailey. If Bailey’s been tired, she’d want to cheer her up. Tiffany knows about the promotion, and she understands Bailey is going to be up to her eyeballs learning how to be a cop.”
“And then add in that she’s being dumped into a vat of boiling oil being partnered with me, and it’s a recipe for disaster. And more exhaustion.”
“There’s the motive,” Perkins announced.
“The list sent this morning. Do you think it’s a distraction ploy, clues, or what?”
“Distraction ploy.”
I thought about it, and I also thought about Bailey’s insecurities, which left her incapable of doing something without her seeking my approval. “Clues,” I countered. “Where in the United States would you get a monster margarita?”
I smiled at the most obvious answer.
“They ran to fucking Las Vegas?” Perkins groaned and bowed his head, running his hands through his hair. “This is a nightmare. Obviously, I was petrified by your cousin, and I’m trapped in a petrification-induced nightmare.”
“Bailey’s going to arrive at the strip, see the showgirls, and faint from mortification,” I predicted. When she did, I’d be in position to catch her, and I’d enjoy carrying her off to do with as I pleased.
“They’re not going to make it to Vegas because my idiot wife is going to realize how fucking innocent Bailey is, take her to the nearest dive, and get her ass arrested again.
Again, Sam. You hear me? Again.” Perkins groaned.
“Last time, she put a full box of chocolates down her shirt and told the cashier to call her S’mores. ”
Coughing so I wouldn’t laugh, I twisted in my seat to check on Sunny.
Bailey’s puppy slept on the back seat without a care in the world.
“Bailey called me from the station in tears, Perkins. It took her twenty minutes to stop laughing long enough to explain she was paying Tiffany’s bail.
I still don’t know if she had hysterics, found the whole thing funny, or didn’t know how to handle the situation, thus becoming so frustrated she cried because killing people is illegal. ”
“There’s no way Bailey would cry at a station unless she’s laughing.”
“Get her angry or frustrated enough, and she sobs.” It made me a terrible husband, but I adored when her emotions got the better of her, good or bad. “But you’re likely right. Tiffany would’ve been busy begging them not to let her off too lightly. That would make Bailey laugh.”
“Chocolate was involved, too.”
“The last thing Bailey needs is extra sugar. I’ve finally gotten her diet somewhat healthy.”
“Monster margaritas have a lot of sugar. She’s going to be a sight to behold.”
“Where do you think our wives went first?”
Perkins snickered. “If Bailey is driving, nowhere fast.”
“As I haven’t gotten any calls about homicides, pyromaniac unicorns, or mass destruction, let’s assume your wife is driving.”
Perkins sucked in a breath, and he jerked his head up. “Oh, God. No. This can’t be happening.”
“Spill,” I ordered.
He groaned. “Atlantic City. Tiffany would want to warm Bailey up for the insanity of Vegas. Bailey turns red if you’re shirtless in public. Tiffany would take Bailey to Atlantic City to acclimate her and score a new misdemeanor on her rap sheet.”