Cash Braddock Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  What Reviewers Say About Ashley Bartlett’s Work

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  About the Author

  Other Ashley Bartlett Titles Available via Amazon

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Cash Braddock is a drug dealer. But the classy kind. Pills. She really doesn’t get why people are so uptight about that sort of thing. She has a decent operation, a little business to launder money through, and only a few Mommy issues.

  Laurel Collins is the perfect girl for Cash. She wears vintage ties and is totally chill. She doesn’t mind the dealing or Cash’s cat. It’s almost like she’s Cash’s dream girl. Sometimes she’s a little closed off about, you know, life. But who isn’t?

  Sadly, the drug game doesn’t always run smoothly. There are dealers who don’t respect boundaries and unreliable customers. And, of course, dealers don’t fly under the cops’ radar forever. Even when they work with dirty cops. Which is a damn shame. It’s not like they’re hurting anybody, right?

  What Reviewers Say About Ashley Bartlett’s Work

  Dirty Sex

  “A young, new author, Ashley Bartlett definitely should be on your radar. She’s a really fresh, unique voice in a sea of good authors. …I found [Dirty Sex] to be flawless. The characters are deep and the action fast-paced. The romance feels real, not contrived. There are no fat, padded scenes, but no skimpy ones either. It’s told in a strong first-person voice that speaks of the author’s and her character’s youth, but serves up surprisingly mature revelations.”—Out in Print

  Dirty Money

  “Bartlett has exquisite taste when it comes to selecting the right detail. And no matter how much plot she has to get through, she never rushes the game. Her writing is so well-paced and so self-assured, she should be twice as old as she really is. That self-assuredness also mirrors through to her characters, who are fully realized and totally believable.”—Out in Print

  “Bartlett has succeeded in giving us a mad-cap story that will keep the reader turning page after page to see what happens next.”—Lambda Literary

  Dirty Power

  “Bartlett’s talents are many. She knows her way around an action scene, she writes memorably hot sex, her plots are seamless, and her characters are true and deep. And if that wasn’t enough, Coop’s voice is so genuine, so world-weary, jaded, and outrageously sarcastic that if Bartlett had none of the aforementioned attributes, the read would still be entertaining enough to stretch over three books.”—Out in Print

  Cash Braddock

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Cash Braddock

  © 2016 By Ashley Bartlett. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-707-1

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: November 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Megan Tillman

  By the Author

  Sex & Skateboards

  Dirty Trilogy

  Dirty Sex

  Dirty Money

  Dirty Power

  Cash Braddock Series

  Cash Braddock

  Acknowledgments

  I’m still probably not a grown-up. But maybe I’m getting closer. Cash Braddock is totally a grown-up. She just happens to be a drug dealer. But Cash and I have one big trait in common. We are done with social niceties.

  My mother always said that the only thing she wanted was for me to be healthy and happy. I spent the better part of my twenties cultivating personal health and happiness. It went well. But now I realize that the external, the social, the constructs are relevant. I have always disregarded the rules, but I also let it slide when other people followed them. Even when the rules were wrong or hateful or built on lies. This book is my first salvo. I don’t always agree with Cash. She may have given up on too many rules. But maybe the rest of us can be a little less abiding.

  As always, I couldn’t have finished this book without some help. A massive thank you to Sydney Stigerts for the gift of legitimacy. You answered some very strange questions in intricate detail. And you frequently did so at all hours of the night.

  Carsen Taite, you have been many things to me: pal, mentor, bro, cheerleader, mother? But you have consistently been my hero. Thanks again for guiding me through the last month of blind panic that comes with finishing a novel.

  Everyone at Bold Strokes Books, but especially Radclyffe and Sandy Lowe for never shutting me down. Even when they probably should. And thanks to Cindy Cresap for always shutting me down. Like a champ.

  Finally, thanks to you, my readers. Without an audience this would be another exercise in arrogance. It still probably is, but I appreciate the indulgence anyway. I hope you will stick around for the rest of the series. Cash and I are just getting started.

  Dedication

  For my wife.

  If I ever go to jail, I know you’ll be right there with me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There were two wedding invitations in my mailbox. That was when I realized I was getting old. It wasn’t the way my back hurt when I got up at noon. Or my mutual funds maturing. Hell, it wasn’t even the way that teenagers looked liked children. It was the fucking wedding invitations. Three this week.

  I had to blame Prop 8 and DOMA a little. Most of my buddies from college had been married for years. They were just making it official. But half of them were terrified back in the summer of ’08 when their significant others started eyeing wedding bands. Prop 8 was pretty much a relief. Not that they—in their queer activist twenties—would admit it. And now it was legal for real. Even the non-activist kids were signing up.

  But it wasn’t even the gaymos. It was the straight kids too. Not that I knew a lot of straight people. Still, my little cousin was marrying her boyfriend. And my old roommate was marrying his girlfriend. I couldn’t even feign insult anymore at being sent invitations when I wasn’t allowed the privilege of marriage. That trick had gotten me out of quite a few wedd
ings.

  I fucking hated weddings. Not for some sad, lonely reason. And not because of the expense or the pain in my ass that it was to attend. I just didn’t like pretending I gave a fuck. I didn’t mind dressing up. I didn’t enjoy it, but I didn’t mind it. I simply didn’t want to bother filling out the damn R.S.V.P. and putting it in the mail. I didn’t want to show up and smile and tell people they looked pretty or handsome or happy or lucky. I didn’t begrudge my friends their happiness. But sitting there and watching a ceremony that I was supposed to be emotionally invested in was draining. I didn’t do well with shit that was socially obligatory.

  Maybe my uncle was right and I really was a cynical asshole.

  The rest of my mail was crap. I tossed it all on the table inside my front door and hoped the invitations would miraculously fall and disappear. I stretched out on my couch, thanked myself for remembering the AC before I left the house earlier, and picked up the book I was reading.

  I woke up to the obnoxious chirp of my cell phone and my cat kneading my stomach. Her claws went right through the cotton of my T-shirt and into my skin.

  “That hurts.” Nickels seemed okay with it. I disentangled the cat’s claws and looked at my phone. I had three new deliveries in addition to the six already on my schedule. The last was a party, which was probably good, but also sucked. Damn social niceties. Even college boys had social standards. I hated playing into them.

  I sorted through the fresh cut herbs stored in my pantry. I arranged a couple bunches in two low, flat boxes. They looked a little sparse so I added a few organic tomatoes into a corner of each box. They were passable. I pulled the basil back out, tucked a bag of white pills into one, light orange into the other. None of my other deliveries required me to keep up appearances.

  As I was leaving, I glanced in the mirror by the door. My accidental nap had done terrible things to my hair. I set the boxes back on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom. It took five minutes of careful straight iron application to make my pompadour stand up the way it was supposed to. I smoothed the sides and part with paste. It would do. I went back out to the kitchen. Nickels was staring at the boxes like she knew I was abandoning her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. She was unmoved. “I’ll be back later.” She meowed. “Yeah, I love you too.”

  I grabbed my keys and bag, glared at the wedding invitations, and took off. My first two deliveries were easy. Fab Forties. I turned off Folsom Boulevard and marveled at the way the trees dropped the temp a couple degrees. Wealth had its perks. Even nature helped with the imbalance. At the first house, I parked on the street. Visibility was one of my greatest services. Brant opened the door about two seconds after slight bells echoed through the house.

  “Honey, you’re just in time. I’m doing a lime cilantro vinaigrette, and it needs time for the flavors to fully absorb.”

  If he was bothering to tell me what he was cooking, that meant he had company. I glanced at the garage. No luxury sedan visible through the leaded glass. The husband wasn’t home. That meant one of Brant’s walking friends.

  “Then you’re lucky I brought lime leaves. I’m almost out this week.”

  “No.” Brant looked shocked.

  “One of my customers decided they were divine in cocktails. She cleaned me out. But I saved some for you,” I said.

  “That’s tragic. Why would anyone do that to a cocktail? Come inside. You have to see the new curtains.”

  As if I gave a fuck about curtains. “The ones you were telling me about? I thought they wouldn’t be here until next week.”

  Brant winked. He knew how painful this conversation was for me. “You’ll love them.” He spun and led me through the house. We stopped on the way to the kitchen so I could admire the curtains in the white room. I didn’t think people called them that anymore. Maybe people never called them that. But I had too many friends growing up with mothers who maintained a perfect room that no one was allowed in. White couches weren’t meant for dirty teenagers. Brant had chosen a rich cream for the curtains. Something warm enough to lighten the room without being too heavy for a Sacramento summer. I said appropriate things.

  “Have you met Janice? She’s Chuck’s baby sister,” Brant said as we stepped into the kitchen. “Janice, this is Cash.”

  Janice looked up at me from the breakfast nook. She took in my worn designer jeans, plain white T-shirt, and dirty Converse. She smiled at me. The smile was strained in the way that was reserved for the help. I guess I wasn’t hiding my status well enough. What a shame.

  “Pleased to meet you.” I gave her the smile she was expecting. The one that said I respect that your husband’s bank account is bigger than mine.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Wasn’t it my fucking honor.

  “Let me take that.” Brant held out his hands. I gave him the box. He took it into the oversized pantry and unloaded a few items. The bag of pills went into a container of rice. He was lucky I knew to double bag for him. Janice didn’t look up from her iPhone.

  I took out my phone. It was the same generation as hers. Brant watched me punch in items arbitrarily until we reached the magic number. He handed me his credit card. I swiped it through the reader and handed the phone to him for a signature.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Brant winked at me. His stash must have been low. Boy was abusing the product. I’d have to watch his intake. An overdose led to a lot of nasty questions.

  “I bet you say that to all the boys,” I said.

  Brant laughed. Janice scowled. Queers weren’t supposed to be so casually queer. Even when your brother was in the club. Though Chuck did very well at the whole gender conformity thing.

  “Only the dirty farm boys,” Brant said. “Janice, I’d let you use Cash too, but her supplies are regulated. I can’t have you cutting into my source of organics.”

  Janice’s curiosity won over her disdain. “Is that really your name?”

  “Only since infancy,” I said. She looked skeptical. “I think my mother was high when she named me.”

  Brant laughed. Everyone always did. It was a great joke. Except for the part where it was true.

  “Thanks for the produce, honey.” We walked back to the front door.

  “Of course. I’ll see you next week?”

  Brant nodded. “I’ll text you with my order.”

  The rest of my afternoon was easy. Peggy, the straight version of Brant plus twenty years, didn’t have company. I gave her the box of produce and swiped her card.

  Four of my deliveries were in the various apartment complexes around Sacramento State University. Most of my business at the college dropped off in May, but there were still a few stragglers. Plus, summer session kept the campus limping along.

  One of my deliveries was in Land Park. It was another housewife, but she didn’t bother hiding from her husband. No sweating, wasted produce there. The final kid was a City dropout. He enrolled in classes twice a year, collected financial aid, then dropped all the classes. The school or the government was going to catch on at some point, but until then he enjoyed Oxy and I enjoyed money.

  The college boys having a party texted to up their order so I called Nate, my weekend help, and enlisted him. He agreed to meet at my place at nine, which left enough time for me to inhale a burrito and a beer. Not bad for a Friday.

  I was two bites of salsa and a swig of beer in when there was a knock on my door. Nate wasn’t the type to be early. I swung the door open and leaned against the jamb.

  “You ever heard of Natasha Lyonne? She’s that dyke chick on Orange is the New Black. Like hot, but in a real way.” My fifteen-year-old neighbor pushed past me and went straight to the DVD shelf.

  “I have a pulse, tiger.”

  “What’s that mean?” Andy flipped her honey brown hair out of her face. She was rocking an Ellen Page post coming out cut. This week.

  “She’s hot. Yes, I know who she is. Does your mother know you’re over here?”

  Andy traced
her fingertips along the shelves and mouthed the alphabet. Nickels decided to grace us with her presence. She must have heard Andy’s voice. “Hey, Nick, Nick, Nickie.” Andy picked her up and continued with the alphabet. The cat started to purr. “Mom’s working. I texted. But I’m not staying.”

  “I hope not. You haven’t been invited to stay.” I almost managed arch, but then I remembered I didn’t have quite enough class to be arch.

  “So Nicky, Lyonne, whatever, is in this cheerleading movie. I’m totally into her right now.”

  “Top shelf. But I’m a Cheerleader. Grab Girl, Interrupted too. Once you watch But I’m a Cheerleader, you’re going to be madly in love with Clea Duvall. Trust me. She’s a freak show in Girl, Interrupted, but a hot freak show.”

  “How do you have so many old movies?”

  “If you keep making cracks about how old I am, you won’t have access any more.”

  Andy looked up from her task. She managed to look confused and guilty all at once. “I didn’t…I’m not saying…Sorry.”

  “I’m giving you shit.”

  “I just mean, your collection is like better than Netflix sometimes.”

  “Netflix has the worst lesbian movies. And they were all made the year you were born. And the lesbians are represented by thin metaphors instead of actual lesbians.”

  “I think that was an insult. Pretty sure, actually. But you like Netflix so shut your face. Also, I like Netflix so shut your face. I’m just saying, you’ve got better lesbian movies than they do.” For her generation, that was a huge compliment. I think.

  She tucked both DVDs under her arm. Nickels batted at them.