Drive Me Crazy
Eric Jerome Dickey
Language: English
Pages: 384
ISBN: 0451215192
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The New York Times bestseller-now in trade paperback.
Praised for his storytelling, New York Times bestselling author Eric Jerome Dickey turns up the heat in his explosive new novel of the reckless desires that bind an irresistible woman to a desperate man-and the one wrong move that could destroy them both.
was next to that cave in his head, a cavern created by a hollow point. The prongs were extended. He was the one who had shot me. Maybe we shot each other at the same time. Looked like his fingers were moving, like he was typing a farewell e-mail to his children. Then he stopped typing. Guess he had hit the send button. My legs had been tied with Lisa’s Egyptian shawl, the knot was pretty good. I got free, stumbled away from him. Bile rose in my throat. My reaction to all the abuse my body had
“Good. That’s. Good.” I told her where to meet me, hung up, walked my agony across the street. The jackal was still there. He looked like one of L.A.’s homeless, a man down and out on his luck and taking a break from life’s struggle by napping on the concrete. I had planned to take the .380, plant it in his right hand, make sure it had his prints. I had wiped down the stun gun, had thought about sticking those prongs in his flesh. Pushing them deep enough to get covered with his DNA. I
who looked any way could be anything. Pedro smiled and talked to her while he made our poison, kept talking in Spanish, while he glanced at her cleavage. Then he was gone. I asked Arizona, “You’re part Mexican?” “Filipina and black. Not necessarily in that order.” “Filipinas speak Tagalog, not Spanish.” “I speak five languages. English. Spanish. Tagalog. French. Ebonics.” She was curvy but small. The Jack she’d sipped had her light-headed. It showed in her tone, in how her eyes went in and
I said, “Didn’t mean to bother you about the book thing. I’m still pretty new to the job. Six months in. Never picked up a writer before. So I guess it was like this when you were out there doing the book-hustle thing. But you make it sound like your experience was pretty bad.” “Horrible. I stood in a mall all day like some sort of a homeless person, at a table, begging strangers to buy my book. You think you do a book about something important, something not laced with flapdoodle and sex, and
same. Checkmate. I asked, “It’s still early. Barely after midnight. What time you have to get up?” “Hustlers set their own hours, you should know that.” “That’s bull. I’m a hustler.” “You’re a working man. True hustlers don’t have a nine-to-five. Real hustlers never think about getting a nine-to-five. We’re too busy trying to take a nine-to-fiver’s money.” She pulled out a bar napkin from her cute little purse, wrote down a phone number in red ink and handed it to me. Area code 818.