Between Tricks - A Dixie Tricks Novel

CHAPTER ONE

This never happened. When royalty tells you something along those lines, or even something that sounds like it between the lines, they really mean it.

I’m not royalty, so far as I know, but some of the people mentioned between these pages are. So, if you’re stumbling across this journal, and plan to publish, remember to stick in a disclaimer that this is all fiction. You might also want to change all the names to protect the innocent i.e., yourself.

Trust me, life plays out better that way.

“Dixie,” Prince Cawley said, because that is the name I use. It wasn’t on my birth certificate, but honey, don’t bother looking because you’ll never find my childhood name. I buried it a long time ago. There it will stay, six feet under, and happily so. I’ve certainly never looked back. “Dixie, I was never here.”

I nodded from where I lay in the bed, not bothering to cover my modesty because it was a sweltering morning already and Prince Cawley had detailed knowledge of my anatomy anyway.

Cawley Reginald Cynric the Seventh was low in the ranks of the blue-blooded hierarchy. He was a prince without a throne or a country to call his own, but the immortal Empress Cassandra liked him. He was a many time great descendant, but she called him her great nephew. Like it was a special title. She tended to pay his bills and have him round for tea regularly, which made him the must have accessory at all the best parties in town.

It also meant that HRH Cawley had the ear of every wealthy person of note within the tri-state area, so giving the prince freebies in exchange for advertising was simply good business. A girl’s gotta eat. Besides, Cawley was rather dashing and absolutely the right side of forty.

He had a toned body that didn’t look pampered at all but would put any wrong-side-of-thirty chain ganger to shame. His eyes were like a winter sky; clear blue leaning towards turquoise, and his shoulders were something of a marvel for a girl to cling to. Or a guy because His Royal Highness swings both ways…but I never said that. His only failing, in my opinion, was the coiffed wig that hid his balding pate from the world.

I thought Cawley looked hot without it, but I’d never seen a tabloid picture of him with a naked head. The family jewels, however, the world had seen two or three years back. Not quite in high definition. Trust me, it’s more impressive in HD.

Royal wieners weren’t the scandal they were once upon a time. It hadn’t really stopped the world turning, or even made the Empress blush. Perhaps the sight of his naked scalp might. Whatever their reason the paparazzi had never broken the naked brow taboo.

Everybody loved Cawley. I imagine even the paparazzi turned a blind eye when it came to the Prince of Nowhere’s lack of real hair. It was perhaps the man’s only Achilles heel. The entire world preserved his ego by not mentioning it. Still, I liked that he no longer felt the need to wear it to bed when he came to visit me.

The wig was the last item of wardrobe to be fitted. Cawley took his time with it, using my combs and brushes to lavish extra care on getting every strand to fall exactly right.

I wasn’t jealous.

Cawley had been as considerate in getting me through the night. It was almost like I had been the client, which was possibly another reason why Cawley got freebies.

I don’t have time for dates, but my Prince had come. In fact, several times last night. I think that is medically or magically assured, those multiple Ohs, although I wasn’t going to complain about it.

“Next month?” I nodded again and blew him a juicy kiss. He gave me a cordial bow and a lascivious wink before letting himself out of my boudoir. The door hadn’t completely shut when he peeked around the corner and said, “Let’s invite Jesper again.”

Then he really was gone.

I released a little sigh of discontentment.

It’s not that I minded sharing the Prince, it was just frustrating getting that close to something a girl wants but can’t have.

Jesper Wintle was determined to rise to minor celebrity by becoming a star in a soap commercial or a soap opera—he wasn’t too picky—but until then he made ends meet in quite the same manner as I did, playing with wealthy men in the sack.

We were also housemates, as it helped keep me in the style to which I have become accustomed. Sharing the rent on my fabulous apartment had not only made sense financially, but it also made sense emotionally. We were the perfect modern couple. We completed one another. We had sex with other people, sometimes even the same other people, but no relationship is perfect.

Let’s get it straight right off the bat; we’re not cheap dates, we’re high class and way out of pretty woman’s league. I so heart that movie, even though at my least cynical I don’t believe a single line of dialogue in it, but life’s contradictory and so am I.

That is a digression on the point of the moment, which is that Jes and I are escorts of the Ke$ha variety, you know, e$cort$. Jes didn’t start out high class mind you. When I found him on the street corner five years ago, I had to keep him. He has such soulful eyes and a cuteness to die for, which incidentally I almost did, but that’s a story for a different journal entry.

This entry is all about Cawley and what happened to the world’s best loved blue blood, the Prince of Nowhere. Despite what I said before, this is the truth, the real truth, and absolutely nothing but the truth, so help me Judge Judy. Only…this never happened.

You get that right? No…really, I’m not winking or nudging.

You may want to edit that bit out.

CHAPTER TWO

After his royal hotness had left the building I grudgingly got up pulling on a t-shirt that sported the phrase ‘slept my way to the top’.

It’s not Dolce & Gabbana, it’s Dixie Tricks. You won’t find it on the shelves down your local main street, or even at the Kmart. It’s strictly homemade couture. Yes, I’m handy with the sewing needle and thread. It’s not all stitching up open wounds for moi. Sometimes a girl likes more than just working in shades of red and skin tones.

I’m handy with a lot of pointy things, as no doubt, should you continue reading, you’ll find out. I’m also handy with a credit card and my wardrobe does have space for haute couture.

I muttered a prayer to the Archangel Michael as I picked up my mobile phone, turned off secure mode and connected to the network to download. Then scrolled through my messages and emails. There was a notice from my contact at the 12th Precinct. Someone had gone missing, which wasn’t that unusual in a city of nearly three million souls, but the missing person fitted a few other criteria that matched my current open case.

Ethan Westergaard, single, as near to orphan as one could get without growing up in a Lords of Charity children’s home, had vanished overnight. Something that would have gone completely unnoticed but for the bad check he’d used to pay his rent. Landlords don’t tend to overlook things like that. There was a warrant on Ethan, which made him technically wanted and not missing, but my contact had enough brain matter to make the link.

It was shocking they were still only filing paperwork, but the station’s loss was definitely all my gain. I made a mental note to put a little extra in their stocking this Christmas.

Setting the phone aside—secure mode reenabled because who wants demon prank calls—I stretched, wondering if Jes was up yet.

Sometimes he could sleep well through noon, but then he didn’t complain when I stretched even that and slept whole days away. I won’t even pretend that it’s all about my beauty routine. I just love snuggling up into soft Gyptian cotton, being a bed potato. It is hard work being sexy all-night laying on your back. Not that it’s ever strictly missionary.

Not dressing up any further than t-shirt, I left my room yawning like a bear pulled out of hibernation way too early. I blamed a randy prince for that.

My roommate and the luscious object of my affections was making coffee in the kitchen, wearing only his briefs, which did nothing to hide his physical attributes. Jesper had one handsome behind, not that handsome stopped there for him.

“Morning Sweetie,” I said.

He turned, giving me a frontal view of the body clients paid to get a glimpse of. Ladies, I've seen me that full frontal and reartal naked several times and it's a damn shame there's not some serious back story behind that. There’s not even a whiff of future love affair in the air—let's get that one cleared up now—because this one is strictly the boys gain and totally our loss.

I've copped a feel, girl's gotta get her kicks now and then, but that's only made me take more cold showers than a gal-meets-gay-guy scenario should bring up in one lifetime.

The closest I get to sleeping with Jes is when it comes to clients like Cawley, the bi-guys, and the curious kinky guys. Or the guys who just don't want to use the g-word, because it's freaking scarier than monsters in the closet. That made me the beard between the sheets. It also seriously heated up my bedding while leaving me gravely horny after.

Wait, that’s not the kind of memoirs I’m writing here. This whore ain’t no prude, but we’re sticking to the cliff notes on the sexy bits—mostly—because these journals are all about the drama.

When you’re a demon exorcising, vampire slaying, witch hunting professional, you don’t really have time for a nine to five job. I don’t know how Buffy did it. If you see her around, please ask her to show me how.

“Saw his royal bunniness exiting on the sly this morning,” Jesper said, pulling a second mug off the row of hooks just next to the coffee brewer and setting it down beside his own. He filled both halfway. We take our coffees very latte—just so you know if you ever have the cash for a date.

Between us we’d started referring to Cawley as the Royal Energiser Bunny because…well you finish that sentence in your head. Be sure to get all the right pictures rolling across your inner eye, because it’s really that kind of high-definition content. There’s nothing 2D about the Prince of Nowhere.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” I replied with a wink and a huge smile. “He’d put us both to shame if he ever went on the market.”

“And to think he gives it all away for free.”

Jes removed a jug of milk from the microwave after saying, sotto voice, a little prayer to Saint Maxwell to ward off any malevolent entities that might have popped into the electronics in the minutes of instant heating.

I sang out the theme to Ghostbusters anyway, though I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had anything come out of the microwave with our hot milk or instant dinners. There are not many demons desperate enough to ride in on small low powered kitchen appliances. Getting in is easy, getting out not so much.

“Not with me, Jes,” I said when two coffees were finally ready for the taking. I didn’t bother with finishing school etiquette, swiping a cup before Jesper could hand it to me. “I’ve never had better marketing.”

My roommate said absolutely nothing to that. He’d decided to start the morning polite, I guessed, like some polished upper crust society man. He plays the role perfectly, but he can go rogue. Trust me, he can whisper sweet, dirty erotica into your ear as easily as yes please and thank you very kindly. With that deep, vibrating bedroom voice, he doesn’t even have to work hard to get anyone to… I’m sure you get the picture. The man is beautiful and a well-rounded lover for hire. If you have a penis, don’t just take my word for it. But you can only have him if you can afford him…the rest of the time he’s mine. In every way bar one. Saint Jude, are you there? It’s me, Dixie, here with a lost cause…

Halfway through our coffee and Jesper is still pulling off very refined. I don’t know where he picked up his excellent faux manners because I found him on the street. He certainly didn’t learn them from me.

What life was like for Jes before he ended up homeless I don’t know, and I never ask. He doesn’t ask about my past either. It’s a secret pact between us.

“So, what is on the agenda for today?” I say.

Jes manages to juggle that work/life balance thing I find a little tougher, so I live vicariously through him of course. Thankfully, he was willing to not spare me the itty-bitty details, however shocking they might have been to a Father of Confession or overheard at a ladies’ finishing school.

He even sketched it for me once when the facts and figures overwhelmed me. We had to burn the drawing after because otherwise it was smut that might have been used against a whole lot of important people.

“I’ve got an art class at ten, then a two o’clock at Our Lady of Chambers,” he replied, smothering a yawn with a manicured hand.

I couldn’t help but compare them in memory to the first time I’d stumbled across the angel of the gutters as I’d affectionately called him. They’d been filthy, grubby hands then, but still hand model calibre under the grime and neglect. I forced myself back into the conversation before I got all maudlin about my unrequited crush on my very gay roommate.

When Jes said art class you might be tempted to think he’s learning to draw or paint, but he’s good enough to impress already.

He hasn’t the interest in becoming some stuffy old master, because he’s more a good time boy than the striving for mastery kind. His deep desire to become famous shouldn’t be confused with having a strong work ethic. Jesper Wintle hopes to fall into bed with fame one day just by gazing deeply into its empty soul with his undoubtedly sexy bedroom eyes. Sometimes they get so dark it’s like mahogany and midnight.

No, Jes would be the nude model at the art class.

I couldn’t believe what those rich stuck-up snobs were prepared to pay him for the privilege of seeing the rock-hard abs and tight derriere up close and personal. Perhaps getting to see that all for free had jaded me on the going price for look but don’t touch.

The two o’clock was clearer cut. Jes was meeting a client at the local five-star hotel, whose staff were particularly good at turning a blind eye when it came to what their exclusive clientele got up to.

I wondered if it was one of Jes’ regulars, but I didn’t ask. It was one of the first things I’d taught my little angel of the gutter; don’t blab kid. You don’t get the big bucks for just putting on a show; you get it for unzipping your pants and zipping your lips. Before you get your knickers in a twist, I didn’t introduce Jesper to prostitution, I just made sure he got paid what he was worth, no more nickel and dime blow jobs in grimy alleys for the dark-haired angel of the gutters. Oh yes, and FYI, oldest profession in the world…note the emphasis on profession, bitch.

“You?”

Jesper put four slices of bread into the toaster, murmuring a blessing courtesy of a Saint.

I didn’t catch the name but assumed he’d fallen to calling on an old favourite when it came to cooking, Saint Pascal Baylon. The toaster didn’t ooze slime, shimmy, or shake, and we both relaxed.

Sometimes I don’t blame people for sticking with a coal stove. It’s at least completely demon and spirit free. I’ve never heard of a haunted coal stove; have you?

“I’ve got to track down some missings, probably mouldering in a vamp lair,” I said.

Jes wrinkled his nose.

Whether it was the clinical tone I used that summoned up his disgust, the concept of stumbling across decaying bodies, or the invariable fact that lairs were just fancy names for cesspools and sewer chambers, I wasn’t sure. Angel of the gutters or not, Jesper had led a remarkably sheltered life when not stuffing himself on frankfurters and wieners.

I shrugged his distaste off like it didn’t still bother me.

Not all vampires dwell in filth, but the ones I get to deal with all too often do. I guess the wealthy vampires compensate families for their loss, or were exceedingly heartfelt and apologetic about it, because those people didn’t come knocking on my door for blood and vengeance. I get to take out the trash. Somebody must, and around here that somebody is me.

“You really don’t need a second job,” Jesper had told me when I’d first explained what it was that I did.

He’d entered my world of silk sheets and chandeliers with wide eyes. Also, an unfortunate habit of nimble fingers that I’d never really been able to fully wean him of. He’d been completely shocked that most of my time was taken up with helping people for a pittance, which sometimes—okay most times—equalled free.

He was wrong. Playing courtesan was my second job and I really needed it.