AMERICAN BEAUTY
An Ellora’s Cave publication written by
ASHLEY LADD
MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-640-2
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
© Copyright ASHLEY LADD, 2003.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. USA
Ellora’s Cave Ltd, UK
Edited by BRIANA ST. JAMES
Cover Art by SCOTT CARPENTER
Chapter One
Police Lieutenant Brad Mueller paused outside his Captain’s door wondering why he was being summoned this time. Captain Crowe was still pissed about how blind he and his partner, Cole Fischer, had been and about how they’d blown the stakeout when they’d let a mere wisp of a girl jump a motorcycle over their police car and escape. Because of that, the entire department had been made into a laughing stock by the local media.
“Stop flirting with my secretary, and get your butt in here, Mueller. Leave the poor woman some clothes on.” Crowe sounded too cheerful, too devious. He wasn’t to be trusted when he sounded so giddy. He wasn’t happy unless he was making someone miserable.
That someone was probably him.
Brad winked at the pretty redhead stationed outside Crowe’s office and wondered what Machiavellian plan the Captain had in store for him this time and why his partner had been excluded. Odd. He and Cole had been a team for several years, and this was the first time they’d been split up.
“Good luck, stud.” Crowe’s assistant tossed him a saucy grin. She straightened her silky hose showing a long expanse of curvy, seductive leg.
“Today, stud.” Crowe hovered in his doorway. A mixture of amusement and annoyance flickered across his black devil eyes.
Brad entered the lair, waiting for the proverbial dragon to strike. He stopped in front of the Captain’s cluttered desk and stood at attention.
“I’m sending you on an undercover stakeout, Mueller. You’ll start today. You don’t have plans for the next month or three, do you?”
Brad thought about the big softball tournament coming up and grimaced. Stakeouts had seemed so exciting in the movies when he was a kid. Now he had to stifle the groan that rose in his throat. But he did an important job that he loved, so he had to take the good with the bad. “What is the mission, sir?”
“We want you to break up a chop shop operation. You can act gay, can’t you? You’ll need to dress in drag.”
“You want me to dress how?” Brad shook his head to get the cobwebs out. Maybe he should get his hearing tested. The Ft. Lauderdale criminal element had been using him as target practice a lot lately. Perhaps the ear-shattering gunfire had affected his eardrums more than he’d realized. He certainly couldn’t have heard what he thought he’d just heard.
Captain Crowe leaned forward, his hands clasped together, his onyx gaze squinty but unwavering. Early afternoon sun glinted off the shiny, bald spot at the top of his head. He had dressed in another cheap suit that looked as if he had slept in it again, and he loosened his tie as he stretched his squat neck. “You’re going undercover and that’s final. Get used to it. So you’ll dress a little…flamboyantly for a few weeks. How hard can it be to pretend to be a gay in Ft. Lauderdale?”
Brad gazed steadily at his captain, refusing to let the man’s gaze squirm away. How hard could it be? If it was so easy, why didn’t the captain do it himself? “Why me?”
The captain dropped his gaze, denoting his power position in this conversation. “Why not you? You’re a mechanical whiz, you speak several languages, and you’re single. You know every make and model of car ever made. We’re trying to break up this car ring and we need someone with your knowledge and expertise.” The captain tossed a report at him, the pages fluttering as the report flew through the air.
Brad caught the folder and scanned the small print, his brows pinching together as he read that more than two hundred cars had been stolen in the past year. He whistled under his breath. “We certainly got a problem on our hands.” He lifted his gaze and pinned it on his captain. “So why do I have to go that far undercover?”
“Because there’s a place for rent next door, but the woman won’t rent to a straight guy, and we don’t have any female grease monkeys in the precinct.” Crowe rubbed his head, polishing it, and rocked back in his squeaky swivel chair.
“Fischer knows more about cars than me. Why not him?” Brad dropped the report on the captain’s mahogany desk, scattering papers to the floor. He stuck his hands deep into his pockets, his fingers flexing and unflexing in agitation. He knew his partner wouldn’t thank him for the recommendation but he had to know why he was the only one up for the job.
“You kidding? His wife would kill me if I sent him to live with a young single woman.” Crowe released a long sigh, his gaze narrowing up at Brad. “Besides, Fischer can’t speak a lick of Spanish and your talent with languages just might save your neck on this case. Besides, with your reputation as a lady’s man, I need some reassurance you won’t blow the case sweet talking your pretty landlady.”
“Does this mean I can’t have any babes till the case is over?” He didn’t know if he could make it more than a couple of weeks without a woman. He hoped the shower at his temporary digs had a plentiful supply of ice-cold water and that it wouldn’t give him a heart attack.
“Not till the case is sewn up tight. The sooner you wrap it up, the sooner you can get back to your lady friends.” The smug smile on the captain’s face told Brad that might just be his main motive in putting this little condition on this case.
Brad stared at the window at the shimmering sunshiny day where a particularly tempting duo of breathtaking young ladies strolled by in bikini tops and short shorts on their way to the beach. He wasn’t surprised when his slacks suddenly stretched uncomfortably tight across his hips.
The captain followed his gaze and shook his head, a knowing smile playing around his lips. His mustache twitched. “Down boy.”
Brad tore his gaze from the luscious view with much effort. It swept across Crowe’s trophy cased baseball on its way back to his boss. At least he could play ball. Couldn’t he? “I can still play softball, can’t I?”
Crowe looked away, cleared his throat, and loosened his tie. An unhealthy purplish-red color stole up his neck and into his pudgy cheeks. “Well, uh, that’s out, too. At least not on the police league or anywhere near it. But you’re pretty well known at the ball fields so you’d best stay away from the game totally. We can’t have anyone recognizing you and blowing your cover.”
No baseball! This was inhumane! Brad swore under his breath, feeling as if his world had just screeched to an explosive stop. “No baseball? I won’t do it, sir. Find someone else.”
Crowe drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and narrowed his eyes at Brad. “I’m not going to argue this with you, Mueller. Do it or hand in your resignation.”
Brad swore silently, his gaze dead ahead on his superior. The captain knew he was bucking for a promotion and was a career man. “That’s blackmail.”
“What am I supposed to do on my off-duty hours?” No women? No baseball? No life?
“I don’t know. I’m not your mama. Try reading a book. Go work out at the gym.” Crowe hitched up his slacks, crossed to the door, and wagged his finger to someone on the outside. “We’re ready.”
Ready for what? Brad gazed at the Captain and the open door beside him suspiciously.
A man decked in a royal purple silk leisure suit adorned with epaulets that widened his narrow shoulders waltzed into the office. Long blonde hair flowed down to his waist. None of Brad’s lady friends possessed such gorgeous hair or eyelashes.
Brad stood stoic at parade rest, unsure what to make of the man who entered, winked, and blew a kiss his way. “I’m here to save the day, sweetie.” The longhaired man tweaked Brad’s chin and puckered his lips. “You have such a cute baby face. No wonder all the girls swoon over you, Cupcake, myself included.” He pinched Brad on the thigh without warning.
“Don’t do that again.” Brad backed up and narrowed his gaze at the man, assessing him.
“Mueller meet Mario Sabotini. He and his crew are going to outfit you and give you some tips to help you on your assignment. Give him your total cooperation, hear?” Crowe picked up his baseball and tossed it absently in the air a few times, torturing Brad.
“This is unnecessary, sir, and you know it.” Seething, mesmerized by the forbidden ball and all it represented, Brad couldn’t take his eyes from the image.
“Lucky boy. I’m going to teach you to strut on the wild side. You just may find you like it.” Mario opened the door and clapped his hands. “Chop chop. We don’t have all day girlfriends,” he said in a singsong voice as he flounced up to Brad again. The tassels on his epaulets danced and twirled in rhythm with his gait. His flaxen locks captured the sun’s rays, glistening almost silver.
A troupe of fashion experts paraded into the office wheeling in trunks of clothes, make-up and hair dryers. They turned and examined Brad, shaking their heads. “Our work’s cut out for us,” Mario said with a hint of annoyance as he approached with a measuring tape that dangled from his fingers.
“Hurry up and get this over with,” Brad said, holding out his arms so he could be measured for his new wardrobe. With all this poking, prodding, and fluffing, he felt like a damn mannequin.
Mario ignored him and tossed a dazzling smile at the captain. Pulling up a piece of Brad’s hair, he said, “This will look very in if we spike it and dye it white. Of course we’ll have to lose the sideburns and shave around the ears.” He tapped his chin with French tipped manicured nails. ”We’ll tweeze those thick brows and pierce his ear, too.”
“The only holes I want in my body come from bonafide criminals. No body piercing.” That hadn’t come out right, but the captain ought to know what he meant. Brad looked down on the much shorter, thinner man. It was a shame all that hair was wasted on a man. He knew women that would kill for such a glorious head of hair.
Unabashed, Mario tossed him a kiss and flipped his hair over his shoulder, still advancing with the needle. “You don’t mean that, Cupcake.”
“This is the last warning I’m giving you. Get with the program or hand in that resignation. Hear me?” Crowe roared so loudly the windows rattled.
Brad called upon his courage and every thespian cell in his body. Scowling, his Adam’s apple worked overtime, and his pulse raced. “I’d better get a dandy review for this, sir.”
Crowe marched to the door and paused. “Make him gorgeous.” He laughed heartily, shaking his head.
Mario snorted and jutted his chin out. “It’ll take more than clothes and make-up to transform him.” He shook his head as if that were a crime and he turned to his assistants. “This is going to take some serious overtime.”
A snort rose in Brad’s throat too fast to bite back. What if he didn’t want to be transformed? That was supposed to be an insult?
Mario tsk-tsked and stuck his head out the door. Dust mites danced like magical fairies around the silvery locks that fanned out. “Captain, dearest! He’s growling at us again. Are his rabies shots up to date?”
Snickers erupted in the outer room and Brad couldn’t wait for this day to end.
Lieutenant Cole Fischer stuck his head around the door and grinned from ear to ear at Brad. “I just heard you’re deserting me for a few weeks, pardner.”
“Not by my choice.” Brad grimaced. “Can you take over as team captain while I’m gone?”
“You’re backing out of baseball? They must be sending you to Siberia.” Cole shook his head and rubbed his chin as he backed out. “Will do, Buddy. By the way, Haley sends a dinner invite. Let us know when you get back.”
Mario’s crew advanced on Brad as a mob, combs, hair spray, curling irons, and blow dryers held high in their hands. Mischief danced in Mario’s eyes as a boyish dimple popped out on his left cheek.
“If I survive,” Brad muttered under his breath, submitting to his sworn duty with as much aplomb as he could muster.
* * * * *
Kirsten Engel frowned when her doorbell chimed the National Anthem. She wasn’t expecting anybody. No one had made an appointment to see the room for rent. Her best friends, Gigi and Marshall always barged in the back door. They never rang the bell. Her ex-fiancé Frank hadn’t relinquished his key yet and wouldn’t ring the bell at a place he still considered half his.
The bell chimed again before she could reach it. “Coming!”
Maybe Frank had sent a moving company to get his things. Good. She was about to throw his things in the canal out back if he didn’t hurry and get his stuff out of her house. The alligators seemed to be particularly hungry this year. Or maybe she’d have a yard sale and sell his stuff for the money he owed her. He hadn’t paid a penny toward the mortgage in months.
Or maybe Alvarez, her spooky neighbor, wanted to borrow something again.
She opened the door cautiously, the chain still attached and straining. Shocked, she almost swallowed her tongue. Bizarre. What was it?
A tall muscular man wearing satin, lace, and high heels posed on her doorstep. White blonde hair spiked up and a beauty mark decorated his upper lip. A large golden hoop earring that almost touched his shoulder and a macramé handbag that swung at his side accentuated the outrageous outfit. “I’ve come to rent the room advertised in the Sun Sentinel.”
“Y-you want to rent my spare room?” She unlatched the chain and opened the door wider. Her mind spun dizzily as she let her gaze sweep over the apparition. Her boss was gay, but he’d never worn anything like this costume. At least, not in front of her.
He didn’t wait for an invitation, just sashayed in, his heels clicking on her hard wood entryway.
Staggered, she almost choked on her words. “My ad said strictly females.”
The blond man, if that’s what he was, stuck out his hip and anchored his free, manicured hand on it, chuckling. “Honey, I’m as feminine as a female can get.”
If he was feminine, mankind was in danger of extinction. She mourned the future of her race. He was the best physical specimen she’d ever seen. Discounting his clothes and make-up.
“I-I don’t know.” Her temples throbbed but she resisted the urge to massage them. She didn’t have an answer prepared for this possibility. Why was he trying to complicate her already abysmal life?
When he fished in his bag and pulled out a baby pink change purse sprayed with seed pearls, she tried not to gape. “I’m prepared to pay cash up front.” He withdrew ten crisp, shiny hundred-dollar bills and waved them under her nose.
But then, maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible after all?
Intoxicating, newly minted currency mingled with White Shoulders perfume and overpowered her. Or maybe it was the sight of all the lovely green currency that she needed so desperately to save her home. Her mouth watered, her fingers itched to touch it, and her resolve wavered.
Salivating, she tore her gaze away from the money and assessed him again, chewing her lower lip. Polite and pleasant, he didn’t act like Jack the Ripper. He was more a mixture of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Boy George, with Boy George tipping the scales. What a waste. Why couldn’t the straight guys she met be half so gorgeous? “Are you sure you’re gay?”
Yikes! Talk about being politically incorrect. She wished she had swallowed her tongue. It’d be better than slow death from embarrassment. “I-I’m so sorry. That didn’t come out right. I only meant, I don’t have to worry about you coming onto me?” Grimacing, she glanced down at her large body with the curves in all the wrong places. She crossed her arms over her stomach in a delayed attempt to hide her barrel waist. She didn’t have to worry about straight men coming onto an elephant like herself so why was she worried about her prospective tenant?
Mischief danced in the sky blue eyes made bluer yet by creamy turquoise eye shadow. He waved the feather boa draped around his neck, at her. ”Gayer than a three dollar bill, sweetie. You have absolutely no worries from me. We’ll be best girlfriends before the night is out and gossip about men all night.”
If there were any straight, available men over twenty-five left. Wasn’t the breed extinct? Except for that awful ladies man, Brad Miller that ordered scads of American Beauty roses from her flower shop, and he was worse, juggling at least a dozen women at any given time.
The scent of all that lovely money tickled her nose. What a gift – but was it from heaven or hell? If she accepted it, would she be selling her soul? She hoped not, but the fear niggled at her mind. Still, the bank wouldn’t wait much longer for their money before foreclosing on the house.
Homeless. She shuddered, envisioning herself camping out under the I-95 overpass with killer mosquitoes and alligators. Or worse, she’d have to admit defeat, move home with her parents, and share her old room with her snoring grandmother. No! Mr. Feather Boa had to be far preferable to the dismal alternatives.
She stuck out her hand to seal the deal. “You’ve got yourself a room.” Her hand fit perfectly inside, as if they matched. She mourned the loss of such male possibility.
“I’ll sweeten the deal. I’ll split half the cooking and housework with you.” His gaze raked over the paneled walls and white carpet peeking out of the living room.
“How can I refuse such a deal? Done!” A man willing to do domestic chores? Frank would rather have died than help her with women’s work. What a delicious offer. “We’ll give it a try, then, Mr. …”
He shook her hand, his grip limp but warm. “Bradley. Bradley Miller. And you’re Kirsten Engel?” His manicured fingers curled around hers sending a lightning bolt up her arm.
She snatched her hand away, hiding her ragged nails beneath her arms, vowing to clip and paint them before night’s end. It wouldn’t do to let her male roommate display prettier hands than her. Nor did she want to feel thrills or chills for such an off-limits person and couldn’t begin to understand how she could. “My friends call me Kirsty.”
He grinned, displaying perfect, glistening teeth. “Kirsty, then.”
The way he uttered her name, so warm and husky sounded positively decadent and she had to shake herself again for fantasizing over the impossible. He sounded almost flirtatious and she did a doubletake, her stomach clenching. She must be losing it.
He held out the money to her forcing her to drag a hand out for it. She was careful to keep her palm up and her nails hidden. He counted the crisp bills aloud and laid them in her hand. “My things are in my car. Do you mind if I move in now?”
Her thoughts swam. “Now? This minute?” She gulped, puzzled how he could be so ready to move in. She thought she would have a little time to get used to this unexpected complication but apparently not. “You’ve been homeless?”
“Oh, no, no, no, dear heart.” He flung the boa again, tickling her nose with the downy feathers. “I just had a monstrous fight with my ex-boyfriend, Mario. What an absolute bitch!” He sniffled, dabbing at tears with a lacy handkerchief. “He said I have fat thighs.” He thrust out his hip and pinched non-existent cellulite. If only her thighs were half so thin she could die happy. “ I challenge you to find an ounce of fat on these thighs. He says I binge day and night and night and day and drop disgusting donut crumbs in the bed.” He punctuated his plight with a huge pout. “I do not drop donut crumbs in bed.”
She didn’t want to ogle the man’s thighs and she definitely didn’t want to think about him sharing a bed with this Mario person. She did her best to blank it from her mind and focus instead on saving her home. The money felt like security, warm and solid in her hands. “Do you need help with your stuff?” “What a lovely offer. That spoiled princess Mario would never lift a finger to help me. He thought he was queen of the world. I don’t need him or his honeyed lips. I’ll show him I can make it on my own.” He flounced through the front door, leaving her to follow.
Her heart ached for Bradley. That Mario person should be horse whipped. A strong urge to bake cookies for him washed over her but then she remembered he was in this mess because of his fat thighs so she put food on the taboo list. What else would lift a gay man’s spirits? Shopping? Barbara Streisand music? A new love interest?
Bingo! Marshall would know what to do. Maybe Marshall could even take him out and show him a good time and introduce Bradley to his friends. She’d call him as soon as she returned to the house.
The incessant revving of the engine and tinkering sounds from the adjoining yard made her wince as she made her way down her cobblestone path to her driveway where Bradley’s car sat. Alvarez, her next-door neighbor, was in love with his car. With all cars it seemed. He spent all his time fixing his friend’s vehicles. What a blessing her house was soundproof or the noise would drive her insane.
“Noisy neighbors?” Bradley turned and stared unabashedly at the semi-open garage door next door.
Kirsty scrunched her nose, shrugged her shoulders, and tucked her hair behind her ear. She prayed it wouldn’t scare away her new paying tenant. “He’s the neighborhood grease monkey. He’s always tinkering with someone’s car. Don’t worry. He’s usually much quieter than this.” She squelched an urge to glare at her neighbor and prayed he wouldn’t make a liar out of her by being grossly loud today.
Bradley chuckled. “I’ll have to introduce myself and see ...
nonie.sungkono