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Books by Sheila Roy
A female assassin with banana curls. Who could look more innocent? Miranda returns in this sequel to Just Deserts: An Assassin's Tale. This novel can be read individually or as part of the Just Deserts Series by Sheila Roy.
In this sequel to Just Deserts: An Assassin’s Tale, the secret society Miranda works for is threatened. Assassins from the Florida circuit have transferred to New Hampshire to help defend the Judge from attack and present a united front. For reasons unknown, Miranda seems to be at the heart of the attacks. Perhaps the fact that she is a petite female with auburn, banana curls marks her as an easy target. However, those who underestimate Miranda usually end up learning a fatal lesson.
The action shifts into full throttle the minute Lincoln Shapiro is kidnapped. Can Miranda and the others find him before his time runs out? Does Miranda’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Nash, want his brother found? Romance winds along a bumpy road, and action builds until the exciting climax of Just Deserts 2: Miranda’s Laws.
This novel is literary justice for victims of hard-core criminals. Thousands of criminals go free on technicalities, and others are never caught. Most of us secretly wish for vigilante justice, even if only for a fleeting moment. Miranda and the society she works for deliver when the courts fall short. Join in the literary justice being delivered…one book at a time.
I switched on the spotlight outside and grabbed my keys off the table where I’d left them. I slipped into my Sketchers, opened the front door, and then unlocked the truck. I went back into the kitchen and clasped one of the dead guy’s ankles in each hand. I slowly dragged him out of my kitchen and outside onto the driveway.
This was the hardest part yet. I hoisted him, best I could, until his upper torso was sprawled across the passenger’s side of the truck. After a short break I lifted the rest of him in, and then I got inside and straddled him. I heaved on his upper body one more time until he was in a sitting position on the seat. I strapped the seatbelt around him, and then I jumped down and slammed the door shut.
I went back inside and shut the door. I needed another rest from the physical labor. I wasn’t used to exerting myself like that anymore. These days, one of the guys was always around to dispose of bodies if we had bodies to dispose of. Usually we leave them where we kill them, but I obviously couldn’t do that this time.
I opened another beer. The last one, too. I’d have to remember to get more tomorrow, when the stores opened. I smoked another Marlboro Light and drank down half the beer.
I went to relax on the couch for a few minutes and consider my options. I’d strapped the dead guy to the seat in plain sight for a reason. I figured if there were any more of these guys out there, they would think I had someone with me in the truck and they’d be less likely to try something.
My cell phone sounded next to me and I practically jumped to my feet. I picked it up, opened it, and then snapped it shut again. I slid the damn thing into my pocket and drank the rest of my beer.
I threw the bottle in the container with the others and locked the front door on the way out to the truck. I was about to climb into the truck when I saw headlights approaching. I banged the door shut, crept around the front of the truck, and hunkered down to wait.
The vehicle came to a stop next to mine. I wrapped my right hand around the hilt of the Bowie knife strapped to my arm. I heard someone get out of the vehicle, but there was no feet scuffling afterward to indicate that they were intent on getting into the cabin.
My cell phone chose that moment to ring again. I decided I was going to have to punch Nash for this when and if I ever saw him again.
“What the fuck?” I heard.
I knew the voice. I stood up from my hiding place and faced Nash, who had his cell phone out in midair and was trying to peer over the hood of the truck to see where the music had come from.
“What the hell are you doing here, Nash?” I demanded to know.
He shut his phone and put it in his pocket. “What are you doing, Shorty? And who the fuck is in your truck?” he barked, pointing at the rental. “Another God-damn guy? No wonder you haven’t been answering my calls.”
He reached for the truck door to open it, but I pushed the lock button on the keyless remote. He yanked on the door several more times before glaring at me stubbornly.
“Who is he, Short Stuff? Another boyfriend I don’t know about?” he asked jealously, coming at me.
“None of your fucking business, Nash. I’d like you to leave now,” I slurred, standing my ground.
He walked over to me confidently and asked, “What did you say?”
“You fucking heard me!” I yelled, still feeling hurt by his betrayal. “Get out of here and don’t come back!”
“Have you been drinking, Miranda?”
“None of your business. Leave or I’m going to stab you with my Bowie knife,” I warned him angrily.
“Not until I find out who the motherfucker in your truck is,” he said, striding over to the passenger side. He rapped on the window and yelled, “Come out of there you fucking coward. You picked the wrong girl to go home with!”
I laughed and approached Nash. I pulled on the sleeve of his jacket and told him to beat it.
“What’s so funny?” Nash wanted to know. “How much have you had to drink, Shorty?”
“I’ll drink what I want, when I want, and with whom I want. Now get in your fucking truck and hit the road,” I told him icily.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m not leaving until he comes out of there,” Nash said, pointing to the dead guy.
I couldn’t help but laugh again. Nash would grow old and die before that dead guy made a move to unlock the door!
Nash grabbed me by the waist with both hands and lifted me in the air, dangling me before him. “What is so God-damn funny, Shorty?”
I kicked Nash in the thigh. His eyes blazed with pain, but he didn’t release me. I kicked him again in the same spot, but it still didn’t get him to drop me. Instead, he threw me up and over his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m taking you inside.”
When I heard that, I rose up on his shoulder and wrapped my right arm around his throat. I applied pressure as my left hand swung around to reinforce my hold. Nash coughed and sputtered but managed to wrench my grip away from his neck. He set me down on my feet and took a step back.
I clasped the Bowie knife and shook it at him, threatening, “Touch me again, Nash!”
“What is the matter with you, Miranda?” he asked incredulously, never having seen me this angry.
“Get back in your truck and get the fuck off my property, or I’ll slice you,” I commanded.
“You’re drunk,” he commented, laughing at me. “Give me that knife.”
I swished the knife quickly through the air to let him know I meant business.
“Miranda…what the fuck is wrong with you? Give me the God-damn knife, or I’ll fucking take it from you,” he warned me confidently.
“You can try,” I told him courageously, under the influence of too many Budweiser Lights.
He turned serious now, saying, “You know you’re no match for me, Miranda. We’ve had this fucking conversation before. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Too late!” I roared, brimming with tears.
“Is that what this is about? You’re going to kill me cuz I fucked that stupid bitch? Cuz I did my job? You fucked my little brother, Miranda! He’s been throwing it in my face ever since it happened!” he raged back at me emotionally.
“I just want you to leave, Nash! For once in your fucking life, listen to me and do what I say! Respect how I feel! I don’t want you here, and I don’t want to see you anymore!” My voice echoed, competing with the crickets hiding in the dark.
“Who’s in the truck, Miranda?” Nash asked, ignoring my demands.
I didn’t answer him. I just stood there with my knife pointed at him.
He walked back to the passenger’s side with determination and punched the window. It shattered, raining dangerous bits in nearly every direction. He shook a few snowflake-sized pieces off his jacket, and then he tried to shake the sting out of his hand from the blow. I ran over to stop him, but he reached out and grabbed my wrist. Then he twisted the knife away from me and threw it into the night.
He turned his attention back to the occupant in the truck. He inserted his hand through the shattered window carefully and unlocked the door. He pulled the door open and seized the passenger by a handful of shirt and jacket. Then he shook him severely. When he got no reaction from the man, he looked questioningly at me. “Is he drunk, too?”
“No,” I informed him. “He’s dead.”
Nash quickly released the intruder and wiped his hands on his jeans as though he was afraid of catching the plague. “Are you hurt?” he asked me, trying to grab me around the waist.
“As you can see, the situation is under control. I was just leaving,” I said through gritted teeth, jumping away from him to walk around the truck. “So, if you don’t mind…”
He coiled an arm around my waist and lifted me, striding toward my front door. “You’re not driving anywhere in this kind of shape, Miranda. You’re fucking drunk.”
He stopped at the front door and fished in his pocket. He drew a key out of his jeans pocket and jammed it into the lock. He turned the key and pushed the door open with his foot, carrying me inside despite my wriggling.
He brought me straight to the living room and plopped me down on the couch. Then he dialed a number on his cell phone and simply said, “I need you here,” to the person on the line. He clicked his phone shut and then looked me over with his intrusive blues. “What happened?” he asked me.
I refused to answer him. I just sat there, staring into space. He shook me gently, but I ignored him. He left the room and came back a few minutes later.
“Did you drink all those beers?” he asked incredulously with his palms up.
“No,” I said sarcastically. “I shared them with my intruder before I killed him. If there is one thing I’ve learned from you Nash, it’s that there’s nothing wrong with a little bump and grind before you kill someone.”
He let out a frustrated sigh and looked away from me. Shame colored his face, but I could see that my comment had his temper simmering again. “It’s never going to happen again, Miranda. I should have walked away like Colin said. I should have told my mother to find another way. Obviously, by taking Marcy to bed, I didn’t change a God-damn thing if someone tried to kill you here tonight.”
I couldn’t believe he was admitting to being wrong about it finally. I suddenly felt horrible about sleeping with Lincoln. I’d hurt Nash more than he’d hurt me, and I’d enjoyed hurting him, too; I’d enjoyed being with Lincoln, truth be told. I couldn’t believe Nash still wanted to be with me.
I decided not to let him back into my life. I’d ripped apart his heart and his relationship with his brother all in one night. I got up and left the room, climbing the stairs as quickly as I could manage considering my currently-impaired condition. I heard him call after me, but I kept going and locked myself in my bedroom.
When he knocked on the door, I cried out, “Go away, Nash! I’m not coming out until you’re gone! Leave your key on the table on your way out!”
He didn’t knock again. Before I fell asleep, I cried away some of the pain. Then I prayed that Nash wouldn’t haunt my dreams.