For Detective Cash Cantrell, hunting down a University serial killer is as routine as strapping on his gun each morning. Until he comes face to face with meddlesome coed, Rebel Yell Culpepper. He doesn't know if he should arrest her or kiss her, but one thing Cash knows for sure, Rebel is key to finding the murderer, and the killer knows it too...
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Holy hell, Rebel thought. Her head pounded worse than a handful of M-80’s on the Fourth of July and she was feelin’ sicker than a goat full of peppers. Somewhere, in the periphery of her alcohol-soaked brain, she knew she was sprawled out in a most unladylike position and her cell phone was ringing. She couldn’t see it, and even if she could, she was too darn sick to her stomach to give a care. She just wanted to crawl back into that dark hole she just rolled out of and go back to sleep.
Slowly, it dawned on her that the Dixie ring tone was Jami’s. Jami. She’d been looking for that flighty girl last night. Jami had been real upset, but why? Rebel couldn’t remember.
Blindly, Rebel felt around the smelly damp carpet for her phone. As her fingertips brushed against it she snatched it up. Fumbling around, she hoped she hit the answer button, and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hull-oh—” Her voice came out like a croak and Rebel swallowed back the bile rushing up her throat. “Jami? You there, girl?”
“Who is this?” a deep husky voice demanded from the other end. His booming voice reverberated around her. Goosebumps skittered across her skin. It sure as heck wasn’t Jami, and didn’t sound at all like Drew, her boyfriend.
Rebel struggled to open her eyes, but just the slightest bit of sunlight made her stomach roil. She squeezed them shut to block out even the slightest sliver. “Who is this?” she hissed even as she tried not to inhale the nasty scents wafting off the carpet. She swallowed again, harder this time.
“Don’t answer a question with a question,” that ornery male voice said.
Her stomach lurched hard when she opened her eyes. “Hold on,” she gasped. “I’m gonna—” Jose Cuervo and his friend, Goldschlager, came rushing back for an encore. Her belly seized and twisted as she puked up last night’s party. She kept puking until the dry heaves were heaving on dry heaves. She rolled over onto her back to get her nose out of the stench of her puke and the gnarly crap imbedded into the carpet. Dragging the back of her hand across her mouth, ever so slowly, and most reluctantly, Rebel opened her eyes and looked directly up into two furious hazel ones.
The cell phone still in her hand, she raised it to her ear and said, “Jami, I gotta call you back.” She set the phone down and smiled what she imagined was a sly seductive smile. ‘Coz truth be told, even in her incapacitated state, she couldn’t ever recall seeing such a beautiful man in all her twenty-two years on earth. Even if he was pissed as hell that she’d just puked all over his shoes.
He had one of those fallen angel kind of faces: all moody and sexy. The features almost too much, but not quite so much that they didn’t blend all nice and sensual-like. His skin was lighter than milk chocolate, more like the color of the café au lait gran liked to drink. His full lips were pulled tight, and those hazel eyes were blazing like an angry cat’s. Speakin’ of cats—her smile deepened as she sat up and smoothed back her hair. “Well, ain’t you just the Tom cat’s kitten.”