Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"David said these are on the house. It's a bottle he got from a new distributor. Give him a thumbs-up or down and he'll call it payment."

"What did I tell you?" Joy says, clinking our glasses even though mine's still on the table. "Here's to good friends and free drinks."

"He also said that Carla can't come in tomorrow. If you ask him, maybe he'll let you--"

"On it." I'm out of my seat before she even gets to the end of the sentence, and I wave to the regulars as I hurry toward the back.

The inside of the bar is jam-packed with an eclectic mix of bikers, cops, locals, and buttoned-up business types. Venice Beach is colorful, and Blacklist is pretty much a mirror of the community.

David's not behind the bar like he usually is on a Friday night, but Jerry, the bartender, tells me that he went to his office to take a call. I don't want to interrupt, but I also don't want to blow this chance, so I push through the swinging doors into the kitchen, then hover in the doorway of David's cramped office.

He looks up, sees me, and gestures to the black metal folding chair that sits across from his battered wooden desk.

I plunk myself down, and although I don't want to eavesdrop, I can't help but tune in when he starts talking about plumbing and wood rot. Those two are the main culprits in my current loan fiasco. About four years ago, not long after I met Joy, I had to deal with some serious repairs on the house or risk the city condemning it. Now I have to pay back the loan I took out to pay for the repairs to save my house ... or risk the bank foreclosing on it.

"Bad news?" I ask when David hangs up. He's a former cop who looks like he stepped out of Central Casting. A burly, bear of a man with a shaved head and the kind of eyes that belie his take-no-prisoners attitude.

"Damn restroom is a shit hole, no pun intended." He shakes his head. "I love this place, but it's held together with spit, Band-Aids, and chewing gum."

He leans back in his chair, then kicks his feet up on his desk. "But you're not here to listen to me gripe. I'm guessing Nessie told you about Carla?"

"I was hoping I could pick up her shift. I need it. The Band-Aids and chewing gum that are holding my place together were expensive."

"I am sorry for that, Lainey. Damn banks. And yeah. She's only on the schedule from ten to two, but if you want it, you got it."

I stand, relieved. "You are absolutely the best."

He shakes his head. "Saturday night, and me short one waitress? Trust me, you're doing me a favor, too."

"Either way, I owe you one." I almost put my arms around him--David acts gruff, but he's all Teddy bear--but I fight the urge. Instead, I say thank you about a half dozen more times, then practically skip back to Joy.

"He said yes," she guesses.

"Four hours on the clock on a Saturday night. That's prime tip time. It won't get me there--but it's something."

"Won't

get you there? It won't even get you close."

"Thanks so much for the reminder." I scowl at her. "You know, if you're going to pop my happy bubble, at least tell me your idea. That's why you dragged me here, right?"

Her eyes dip to my wine, and I sigh, then swallow the rest in two big gulps.

"There," I say. "And I don't want a second glass, so tell me now."

She hesitates, but then speaks. "Okay, you remember the foot guy?"

"That blind date from a couple of weekends ago? The one your cousin hooked you up with?"

"Right." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Well, it wasn't exactly a blind date."

"What was it?"

"An easy grand, actually."

"Okay, you're going to have to run that by me again, because you can't mean what I think you mean." Except, maybe she can. Because right now, she's looking more than a little abashed, and Joy's not the kind of girl who gets embarrassed about, well, anything.

I do a mental rewind and regroup. "You're telling me you got paid a thousand dollars for him to do ... stuff to your feet?"