Make Me Scream. P.J. Mellor

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To Emily Suzanne Mellor. See you later, baby gator!

      As always, special thanks to my wonderful editor, John Scognamiglio—it’s taken me a while, but I can now not only pronounce his last name, I can actually spell it!

      Thanks, too, to my husband, Michael, for taking on laundry duty while I write. Good job, babe!

      And thanks to my martini lunch bunch—you know who you are!—for listening to me whine and helping me brainstorm, even if sometimes it was more like only a drizzle.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      1

      Hip deep in drug dealers, rogue cops, prostitutes and assorted bad guys, aspiring mystery writer Devon McCloud frowned and tried to recapture his train of thought.

      The PI hero of Devon’s book had just discovered the lead witness for the crime family hiding naked in his bed.

      The woman stroked my impressive erection.

      “Are you going to kick me out?” the buxom blonde asked with a sultry pout.

      “Something just came up,” I replied.

      “I can help you with that,” she whispered, stroking my length.

      “Put your mouth where your money is,” I hissed in a breath when she took my advice. Her mouth closed over me, practically swallowing me whole.

      Okay…now what? The flashing cursor on the screen of his laptop mocked him.

      Out in the courtyard of the little beachfront apartment community he managed as his day job, voices rumbled. His fellow tenants were starting their nightly celebration early.

      Above the laughter and conversations, a deep bark sounded, followed by the shrill voice of his neighbor, Francyne Anderson. Devon’s mouth quirked. Petunia, Francyne’s one-hundred-and-fifty-pound rottweiler, must be joining the party tonight.

      Deliberately shutting out the noise in the courtyard, Devon narrowed his gaze at the flashing cursor.

      “C’mon, Mac, be brilliant. What would Trent say?” Trent was the hero of his work-in-progress, Darkness Becomes Her. A PI with the prerequisite heart of gold, Trent not only got all the bad guys, he got all the girls.

      Devon sighed and rocked back in his desk chair. Maybe that was the problem with finishing the book. Trent had scored approximately every five to seven pages. He, Devon, hadn’t been laid in months. Heading way too close to being a year. He didn’t have the time, which made him an even more pathetic loser. Who doesn’t have time for sex?

      Voices rose in the courtyard.

      Him, that’s who didn’t have time for sex. Devon Edward McCloud. With working on his novels by night, writing catalog copy for sex toys by day—which oddly did not help his lack-of-sex problem—while attempting to maintain some sense of normalcy with the rowdy tenants of the Surfside Villas apartment complex, who had the time or energy for sex?

      Male laughter vibrated his walls. Opportunity wouldn’t hurt either. Of the eight apartments in the old complex, five were occupied by men (six, counting himself), the seventh occupied by a female at least eighty if she was a day. And one vacant unit. Not a lot of opportunity.

      He’d just returned to the seedier side of his imagination when a knock sounded on his door. Judging by the lightness of it, his deductive reasoning told him, it was a female knock. Since Francyne never knocked, it could mean only one thing: someone inquiring about the vacancy.

      He growled and saved his work before closing his computer. Obviously the intruder could not tell time. The sign on his door clearly stated office hours. Said hours ended—he glanced at the old school clock on his wall—almost two hours ago.

      He threw open his door.

      The short, blond woman in a denim miniskirt and yellow tank top hopped back with a squeak.

      “Yes?” No point in being polite. Once Blondie got a look at the group sitting around the fire pit in the courtyard, she’d realize this was not the place for her.

      She swallowed and licked soft-looking pink lips. “Is—is…I mean, are you the manager, the person I need to see about renting an apartment?”

      He turned to look meaningfully at the manager sign on his door. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” He tapped the posted hours. “But I’m closed. Office hours don’t start again until nine tomorrow morning. Come back then, if you’re still interested.”

      “But I need a place tonight!”

      He paused midslam. “Try a motel.”

      “They’re all full. At least, all the close ones.” She looked down at her painted toenails peeking out from a pair of ridiculously high-heeled sandals.

      He tried not to speculate how short she would be without the heels. He tried not to notice her Barbie-doll build. He also tried not to appreciate the way the firelight from the courtyard played in the silky strands of her blond hair.