Dead Ringer (The Journals of Octavia Hollows #5) Read online

  Dead Ringer

  The Journals of Octavia Hollows

  Book 5

  Written by

  Stacey Rourke

  Copyright 2019. All rights reserved. Published by Anchor Group Publishing. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Special Thanks To:

  Hell Yes Designs

  Cheree Castellanos

  Bam Shepherd

  &

  Stacy Sanford

  Find the full catalog of Stacey Rourke books at: https://bit.ly/2SIbPLz

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  Chapter One

  Something nudged my leg. Once, then again with a bit more force. Head lolling to the side, I swatted at whatever it was. “Not now, Bacon,” I murmured, sleepily smacking my lips.

  “Bacon? Is that a cop joke, young lady?” a gruff voice asked as my leg was given yet another shove.

  Eyes snapping open, I peered up at a stern looking police officer with a full beard and deep-set scowl. “Ah, hell.” Combing my fingers through my hair, I tried to rapidly blink myself awake. “Nope! No offense intended; I was actually talking to my pig.”

  Bushy salt and pepper eyebrows darting into his hairline, he looked equal parts offended and intrigued. “Your pig? Not quite sure how we reached such a possessive point in our short time together.”

  Having thrown my Treasure Island hoodie over myself like a blanket, I tossed it aside to uncover the sleepy little piglet curled up at my side. Stretching out his front hooves, Bacon arched his back and yawned.

  “You… meant an actual pig,” he stammered with a light trill of laughter. “I did not see that coming.” Rocking back on his heels, the officer hooked his thumbs in his beltloops. “What exactly is the relationship here? Pet? Life partner? I wouldn’t even presume to guess in this weird-ass city.”

  Bored by the conversation, Bacon flopped to his side and stretched out his little legs.

  Scratching my boy behind the ears, I leaned forward only to have hair snag against the brick wall behind me. “We realized early on that we were better off if we kept things purely platonic.”

  Pinching the brim of his hat between his thumb and index finger, Officer Sourpuss pushed it further back on his head to reveal sweat soaked curls. “As much as I’m relieved to hear that, you have to know I can’t let you and your little friend sleep here.”

  Inhaling through my nose, I squinted into the brightening glow of daybreak. After a long night of driving, I made it to Belle Chasse, Louisiana. Eventually. My plan when arriving in the quaint little suburb of New Orleans was to get a hotel room, then close out the night with a hot shower and pizza delivery.

  That’s not how it went down. I got as far as the town line… and froze. My stomach churned in queasy knots. Beads of sweat streaked down my spine. You know that feeling when you splurge on one particular liquor to the point where after the fact, even the smell of it makes you want to hurl? That’s a similar sensation to what I felt the second I drove into town. I’d like to say it was haunting memories of the partying I’d done here that made me stop short. But that was a lie even I wasn’t buying.

  By the time I convinced myself to finish the last leg of the trip, it was too late to get a room anywhere in Belle Chasse. Not new to the ins and outs of sleeping on the streets, I knew the proper ways to do it to stay safe and hidden: find a spot off the beaten path, nestle into a corner where you can’t be seen, make sure you’re within running distance of civilization, keep a pocketknife in hand, and be ready to use it.

  Despite knowing all the rules, I’d broken every one.

  Much to Bacon’s annoyance, I pushed off the sidewalk and rose to my feet. “I used to work across the street.”

  Officer Bushy Beard glanced over his shoulder. “At the Pepper Palace?”

  The morning breeze had enough chill to it to cause a rash of goose bumps to spread down my arms. I fought them off by rubbing my hands over my forearms. “Next to that. The Silver Back Boxing Club. I answered phones and scheduled ring times. I thought I could stay awake until they opened, in hopes they’d give me my old job back. But my heavy eyes had other ideas.”

  “You,” he uttered the word like it was a derogatory term, “used to work there? Where titled boxers like Lightning Rodriguez and Orlando the Renegade trained? Nice try, missy.”

  “As much as I fear arguing with a cop will get me tazed,” sideways glance to the sparky little device on his hip, “it’s true. When I wasn’t so hungover I was laying on the floor of the locker room showers wishing for the sweet relief of death, I really did work there. Don’t believe me? Wait until they flip that closed sign and ask for yourself.”

  Sitting up with a perturbed grunt, Bacon scratched his ear with his back foot and farted his annoyance at being awakened.

  The officer lifted one eyebrow; his lips screwed to the side with a critical smirk. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. They won’t be flipping that sign any time soon. What would you have me do with you until—”

  His statement was cut off by shouts from across the street. As if cued by our conversation, a bull of a man and a bleached-blonde with fake tits and a spray tan came storming out of the boxing club.

  “I’m not doing it anymore, Jack! You hear me? It’s stupid, and someone is going to get killed! Find someone else to manage this twisted shit, because I am done!”

  “I see how it is! You’re fine with me bringing home the money for that whatever-the-fuck concoction you inject in your face, and that coldsculpting bullshit, but the second you see how I really bring home the bacon, you sashay your ass out of here!”

  Noticing how Bacon’s ears perked at his name, I scooped him up under my arm in a football hold. “Not you, bud.” Taking full advantage of the couple’s tiff, I nodded in their direction. “That big guy is Jack, he owns the club and makes swearing an artform. The blonde is his wife, Stormie. I’m pretty sure that’s a stage name, but was never brave enough to ask for confirmation. Maybe she was a stripper. Maybe she was a clown who specialized in making cloud-shaped balloon animals for kids. I have no idea. What I do know is that right about now would be a stellar time to try and line up gainful employment… if a certain officer of the law would allow me to awkwardly inject myself into their marital discord.”

  “Well, let’s go have a talk to them together.” Officer Bushy Beard led the way, his expression clearly calling what he believed to be my bluff. “Let’s make sure we’re all good and friendly before I leave you here.”

  Seeing the cop before me—which was to be expected—Jack jabbed a hand in the officer’s direction. “Look at that! Ya got the cops called on us before six a.m. That’s gotta be a personal fuckin’ best!”

  Hands on her Lycra clad hips, Stormie flipped bleached blonde hair over her shoulder with a huff. Age meant nothing to her, and I respected the hell out of her for that. She liked her clothes tight, her hair big, and her drinks strong. Anyone who didn’t like it could go to hell. Goddess, I missed her.

  Red-glossed lips pursed in challenge, Stormie glared her husband down. “I am proud. In fact, I think we should bring the cop into this. Maybe he can convince you that making dumbass decisions is going to get you killed!” Chin lifting towards Bushy Beard, her voice cranked up an octave. “Officer, could you please tell my idiot husband that making dumbass decisions are going to get him killed?”

  Stepping up onto the curb, Bushy
Beard cleared his throat and tried to hide his confusion behind an authoritative tone. “Well… ahem… I’m not entirely sure what we’re discussing, but yes, in many situations, making dangerous decisions can have deadly consequences.”

  “See!” Stormie erupted, cheeks blooming with a victorious, rosy pink blush. “I, for one, am not going to stand around and watch—”

  That’s when she saw me, and her jaw swung slack.

  “Holy shit. Octavia Hollows. I absolutely believed you died in a ditch somewhere.” Turning one expertly manicured hand palm up, she gestured to her husband. “Didn’t I say that poor girl was probably rotting in a ditch?”

  “After one too many hurricanes,” Jack finished for her, nodding his agreement at what he thought to be my untimely demise.

  “Shows what they know,” I mumbled under my breath. “I don’t even like hurricanes. They’re way too fruity.”

  Adjusting her cheetah print purse strap on her shoulder, Stormie straightened her spine. “It’s a good thing she showed back up when she did. Let her answer your phones. I’m going home.”

  With those as her parting words, she sashayed off.

  All four of us—Bacon included—watched her dramatic exit in dumbstruck silence.

  Physically shaking off his confusion, Bushy Beard steered the conversation back to a track he could follow. “Found this girl sleeping on the street. If I’m going to leave her here, I need your assurance I won’t find her there again.”

  Dragging a hand over the stubble of his chin, Jack peered my way, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. “She’s a good kid, even though I’ve known her to make some truly shit-tastic decisions. That said, the job is hers if she wants it. There’s a cot in the office she can sleep on, and showers in the locker room.”

  Chin to his shoulder, Bushy Beard glanced my way. “That work for you?”

  In place of a response, I held up Bacon for all to see. “I have a pig.” Not my most eloquent rebuttal, but in my defense, I’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep on a public street.

  A befuddled grimace creasing his features, Jack let one shoulder rise and fall in a dismissive shrug. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened in this club. Just make sure I don’t step in pig shit.” Turning on his heel, Jack stalked back inside.

  “Damn,” Bushy Beard marveled after a beat of silence. “How much did you drink when you were here that they both assumed you were dead?”

  Filling my lungs to capacity, I offered him a tight-lipped smile. “That Hand Grenade cocktail over at Tropical Isle is an enchanting mistress I succumbed to more times than I care to admit.”

  Pulling a business card from his breast pocket, he passed it to me with a look that resembled genuine concern. “Try to avoid the Hand Grenades. And if, for any reason, this doesn’t work out… call me. Because if you don’t, and I catch you sleeping on the streets again, I’ll haul you in for your own good. I can guarantee they won’t be as understanding about the pig in lock up.”

  Chapter Two

  After a much needed nap, I sat on the edge of the cot and dialed Dina’s number for what felt like the millionth time. My teeth ground in frustration when it went straight to voicemail yet again. Hanging up, I tried the number of Tralynn, the youngest member of the coven. Fun fact: she’s also the one who once gave me a weed-laced brownie so potent, I spent the three hours that followed believing I could communicate with crickets.

  Fate finally granted me the small mercy of getting her voicemail. “Blessed be, friend! I’m so sorry I missed your call. Chances are I’m either busy, or can’t find my phone. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. May the goddess smile on your day!”

  Beep.

  “Tralynn, it’s Octavia. I’ve been trying to get ahold of anyone from the coven since yesterday. It’s about your new traveling companion. He’s not who he says he is. I don’t know the guy, but he’s been following me. I think it has something to do with Elba’s death. Whatever he’s said, whatever he’s told you, you can’t trust him. First chance you get, gather the coven and run. Do you hear me? Tralynn, I mean it, you need to—”

  Beep. “If you are satisfied with your message, hang up or press one. To re-record, press two.”

  Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I disconnected the call. If anything happened to them, it was one hundred percent on me. I was the one that psycho was after; they were just the tool he was using to lure me in.

  Tuning into my emotions with wise, piggy empathy, Bacon nudged his way under my arm to nose at my chin with his snout.

  “Thanks, buddy.” Despite my heavy heart, I gave him a scratch between the shoulder blades. Things might be spiraling, but at least I managed to save my Bacon… literally.

  A sharp rap shook the flimsy office door. “Octavia?”

  “Yeah, Jack, I’m up. Come on in.”

  “No need for that. We open in fifteen. Lace on a pair of gloves and meet me on the mats.”

  That was our routine before I left. A comforting memory from a time I wished I could erase.

  Easing Bacon off my lap, I watched him turn in three circles before flopping down with his butt on my borrowed pillow. Grabbing a pair of women’s 12-ounce gloves from the hook on the wall, I stuffed my hands in them and found them just as awkward and clumsy on me as they were before.

  Jack waited behind the punching bag, holding it in place for me. “Warm up with jab-cross combos. Left side, then right.”

  Chin dipping in a brief nod, my glove connected with the bag in a dusty cloud of chalk.

  “The fuck was that?” One corner of his mouth twisted in a mocking smirk. “You trying to bust your elbow? Because that was a great way to do it. Throw from your shoulder and follow through. Now, show me the right way to punch like a girl.”

  Pulling back, I threw my weight into it, rattling the bag on its chain.

  “Thatta girl! I saw those swords you brought in. You won’t always be able to rely on those.”

  “Yeah.” Jab. “Sometimes,” cross, “they get taken away,” double jab, “by a vindictive siren.” Uppercut.

  “Bitches, am I right? Which brings me to what I need to talk to you about.”

  After another hook and uppercut combo, I caught the bag and steadied it. “You better not be using that as a lead into a conversation about your wife. She would straight-up cut you for referring to her like that.”

  “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I told her once that her meatloaf was dry, and she stabbed me in the thigh with a fork. That said,” chewing on the inside of his cheek, Jack chose his next words carefully, “she was pissed for good reason this morning. The club fell on hard times a while back. One of our guys got invited to join an underground fighting ring. I’m not proud of what’s followed.”

  Wiping my forehead on the back of my hand, I fought to steady my breathing. “So, Stormie was right. You got mixed up in something that could get you hurt?”

  Jack’s flattened nose crinkled. “It physically pains me to admit when that devil woman is right. But yes, on this and most things, she’s one hundred percent correct. While this little endeavor has been lucrative, it’s come with a high level of risk.” Leaning on the bag, he caught my stare and held it. “I’m fine with you crashing here. Far as I’m concerned, you’re family. But before you start getting mixed up in the business side of things again, I need you to be aware of all this. I don’t want to see you mixed up in my bullshit. You choose to take the job, you answer the phones, schedule ring time, and steer clear of anything else.”

  Gloves on my hips, I hitched one brow in his direction. “I’m not a big fan of being told what to do. I’m here—for a while, at least—and I’m all in for whatever shit comes with the club.”

  Chest expanding, Jack filled his lungs and exhaled a resigned sigh. “Then we might as well make sure you’re prepared. Women hold more of their power where?”

  “Lower body.”

  “Then quit wasting our fucking time and show
me what an effective attack actually looks like.”

  In place of a response, I shifted my weight onto my left leg and lashed out in a side kick. In my head it looked full-on Swayze in Roadhouse. Reality fell far short.

  Biting his lower lip was all Jack could do to stifle a laugh. “You… uh… didn’t even kick above the knee.”

  Hands on my knees, I did a quick assessment of how many muscles I just pulled. “Shut up. A lot of damage can be done to the shin area.”

  The door to the club dinged, signaling the arrival of the first customer of the day. Jack skirted around the bag and strode towards the front desk without glancing back. “Yeah, you’re a regular badass.”

  An hour later I was behind the front desk, struggling to refamiliarize myself with the job I held what felt like a lifetime ago. The new addition to this scene was the piglet at my feet munching on a protein bar I snagged for him from the vending machine. I was already dreading the piggy reflux I’d be suffering through for the rest of the day.

  I was nestling the phone back in its cradle when a familiar voice shrieked from the door. “Dost my eyes deceive me? Is that the one and only Octavia Hollows? The hot piece of ass I missed so much, I may have to show her my O face?” Muscular shoulders curled in as the beautiful black man pantomimed a leg shaking orgasm. “Oh. Oh! OH! Occccctavvviaa! How the hell is your fine ass, girl?”

  An easy smile spread across my face. “Tyrese! I never did get that joke. I mean, really, it would only work if my name was Oh-ctavia. Which it is… not.”

  “Don’t overthink! Appreciate!” he corrected, catching me in a big bear hug that was noticeably meatier than the last time I saw him.

  “Damn, dude, you’ve filled out.” Pulling back, I peered up at his dark, flawless skin and beaming smile.

  “Girl, I had to get ripped!” He followed up his wink with a sassy snap of his fingers. “Have to keep proving myself as a bad motherfucker so these sexy-ass boys will let me do unspeakable things to them.” Glancing up, he jerked his chin in the direction of a buff dude with a man-bun. “Still holding out hope for that one.”