No More Mr. Nice Girl

By Nina Cordoba

How do you get revenge on a dead man?

In this laugh-out-loud romantic comedy, life-long good girl Paige Tipton learns what her dead husband was doing, for years, while she bent over backwards to try to please him. And she hopes Jeffrey is watching from hell when she finds some long-haired biker dude and does with him what Jeffrey did with all those hookers. Besides, a guy she finds at a creepy dive bar will never, ever pop up in her upscale real life. Now, if she can only get the biker to cooperate…

Dillon spots Country Club the moment she walks into the D.O.A. He's always had a weakness for these debutante types. The last time he gave in to it, at fifteen, he and his housekeeper mom lost everything. But this woman is cute as hell and really funny—especially when she offers him forty bucks for sex, considering he's a very rich man now. But her kind is the last thing he needs in his life. Tempting as she is, surely he's learned something in all these years. Right?

*About the author:

Award-winning author Nina Cordoba has penned five novels, including companion novels NOT DREAMING OF YOU and ALWAYS DREAMING OF YOU and her break-out novel DON'T MAKE ME MAKE YOU BROWNIES, as well as MIA LIKE CRAZY, and her latest--NO MORE MR. NICE GIRL.
She is currently working on a very funny mystery series.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nina Cordoba
• Release date: Jan 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507044377

Book preview

No More Mr. Nice Girl

Nina Cordoba

Copyright, Nina Cordoba 2014

This is a copyrighted work: With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author at www.ninacordoba.com.

This book is a work of fiction and the resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. All of these are productions of the author’s very active imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

Cover Design: Sierra Acy

Editor: Jennifer Bray-Weber

Acknowledgements

My first shout-out has to go to hypnotist Dan Perez who saved me from a debilitating, migraine condition. Thanks for getting me back to work and life. This book would never have been finished without you.

Big thanks to my wonderful beta readers who braved the manuscript before it was edited. Also to authors Tess St. John and Stacey Purcell. Your input was invaluable in making this book better. Sloppy smooches to my editor Jennifer Bray-Weber for working to make this story as readable as possible and to Terry Cotton for her formatting work.

To Mr. Nina: For years I wrote stories about brilliant, multi-talented men, then one walked right into my life. (Yes, I mean you.) Thank you for embracing my quirks and beeping enthusiastically every time I poke your nose. You make me feel loved every day.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

Don’t get mad, get even.

I’d never liked that expression, but since this morning, it had become my mantra. Of course, it wasn’t easy to figure out how I could possibly get revenge under these circumstances.

But now I knew.

Vaguely dizzy, I walked to Jeffrey’s nightstand.

In the last few hours, my life had become surreal, like watching myself in a movie.

Lifelong good girl Paige Tipton reached into the nightstand drawer, grabbed a fistful of condoms and threw them into her Louis Vuitton handbag.

Except I was Paige. And I was pissed.

I pulled the drawer out farther, ripped open a new box and dumped the Trojans into my purse. Anyone who knew what I was planning might have found this inappropriate, since my husband gave me the handbag for my birthday last year.

Poetic justice.

Tears formed in my eyes, as they did when he presented me with the gift. Why did he bother, considering how little he must have cared? Maybe he thought a two thousand dollar purse made up for what he’d done, somehow.

I tried to push away the sadness and humiliation as I glanced into Jeffrey’s drawer one last time. A few condoms remained scattered in the bottom. I laid my bag open on the bed, yanked the drawer from the nightstand and flipped it upside down.

The purse was so full of latex I could barely make room for my lipstick and cell phone. I mashed it all in and clicked the clasp shut, telling myself I was closing the door on my old life. That life was a lie, and as of today, I’d learned the truth.

If Jeffrey wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.

I marched to the dresser and jammed my diamond stud earrings—a Christmas gift from Jeffrey—into their holes. I hurried to the full-length mirror.

Was this really the hottest outfit I owned? Although it was a bright pink Stella McCartney that stopped at mid-thigh, the dress was basically a sheath with a Peter Pan collar. My mother gave it to me for my birthday.

I examined my prim-to-the-shoulder blonde hair, still cut the way Jeffrey insisted two years ago. What had I let these people do to me?

Your life wasn’t so hot in the first place, the cruel voice inside my head taunted. The voice was right, as usual. My life had been anything but hot.

I spent thirteen years in the best Houston private schools, trying to keep my permanent record clean. Then, on to SMU, where I’d made the dean’s list every semester, followed by the job my father suggested in a large accounting firm where his old friend was senior partner.

For two years, I designed marketing materials for accountants until I was sure I’d contracted a terminal case of boredom. Then Jeffrey entered my life and convinced me he was crazy about me, and I got swept up in the romance of it all.

The phone rang, jarring me out of my thoughts. I snatched the handbag from the bed and fished my cell out. Hello?

Paige? Why do you sound out of breath?

Mother? I was... I glanced at the pile of clothes on my bed. Cleaning out my closet.

Oh. Do you want me to send Marietta? Bunny Hadden never offered to help with manual labor personally, however, she was quite generous with her staff.

No. I’m almost done. The last thing I needed was Marietta snooping around. The one time I took a puff from a friend’s cigarette back in high school, she smelled it on me and ratted me out. I certainly didn’t want her to tell my mother what I was up to now.

I cradled the phone on my shoulder and opened one of the shoe boxes on the bed to reveal my kitten-heeled Jimmy Choos.

Okay, Mother said. I won’t keep you. I just called to remind you about the luncheon tomorrow.

Yes. I’ll be there, I replied automatically. I hated those luncheons. Why had I joined the Lone Star Ladies League? Oh, yeah, because it was good for Jeffery’s business.

What’s that sound? my mother asked.

I realized I’d been punctuating my thoughts by whacking myself in the head with one of my Choos.

I was killing a bug.

"A bug! I felt my mother shudder on the other end of the line. I’ll have Marietta call pest control."

No. It’s already taken care of. I looked for the car keys, afraid to lose my momentum. I had to get going before Good Girl Paige stepped in and changed my plans for the night.

Where’s my big boy?

Matthew’s at a sleepover.

Matthew. My six-year-old son. The one reason I didn’t regret every bit of the last eight years of my life.

Give him a hug from me when you see him tomorrow. The master delegator. She rarely hugged her grandson herself.

I will. Bye, Mother. I disconnected the call, clutched my purse and raced to the garage.

But to get to my minivan, I had to squeeze by my husband’s black Mercedes SUV—the scene of the crimes. I reminded myself to call the dealership in the morning and put it up for sale. In fact, if I could avoid the questions from friends and family, I’d take it out to Montgomery County and torch it myself. I certainly didn’t want to peer into its cold glass eyes ever again.

It looked like him. It smelled like him. It picked up cheap whores like him.

Tension buzzed up my spine, exploding into my head. I’d spent the year since he died feeling guilty and inadequate as a wife. Wondering if I’d tried hard enough. Wondering if there was one more thing I could have done to make him happy with me.

My mind flashed back to this morning, when I had to drop Matthew’s class yearbook pictures at a print shop near the Astrodome. My van was at the dealership getting serviced, so I had to take Jeffrey’s SUV. When I rolled to a stop at the traffic light, I double-checked the directions in my lap to be sure I was going the right way, since I didn’t know how to use the GPS in Jeffrey’s car.

Hey, you’re back, a feminine voice called through the crack in the passenger side window. Where’ve you b— I rolled down the window. "Oh, I thought you were the guy. I mean, a guy."

I took in the bad bleach job, cheap slutty clothes and high-heeled knee boots—in late May? In Houston?—as the words, Honey, I’ve got to work late again, reverberated in my brain.

Do you know this car? I asked. Jeffrey had gone on and on about the custom wheels when he’d bought it.

Oh, no. My mistake. The woman backed toward the curb.

I’ve got forty bucks on me. My heart pounded as I scrambled for my wallet. And he’s dead, so you’re not getting any more out of him.

The whore was a business woman, as it turned out. As soon as I showed her the money, she hopped nonchalantly into the passenger seat.

Shit, it’s only eighty-two? she said, noting the number on Jeffrey’s digital thermostat. I wish my roommate hadn’t stolen my other shoes. The weatherman said it’s gonna get to ninety today.

It’s not the heat. It’s the humidity, I said automatically.

Wait. Did I really want to know what this woman had to say about my husband? Maybe if I asked her nicely she’d take the money and go.

The hooker flipped down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. It’s a shame about Jeff.

Jeff? Nobody ever called him Jeff. My husband’s alternate identity drove home the point that he’d been living a double life. Suddenly, a pounding in my head joined the throbbing in my chest.

He was a real hunka-hunka-burnin— Her lips froze mid-Elvis when she saw the horror on my face. Oh, sorry. What happened?

He flew to Dallas on a business trip and got into an accident in the rental car on the way back to the airport. I tried to sound calm, even though I needed a paper bag to breathe into. How many times did you see him?

Oh, too many to count. He was sort of a sex addict. Sometimes, he showed up two or three times a day. Not just with me. He liked variety, but mostly I think he liked the idea that he wasn’t supposed to be doing it. Clearly, this woman was the Dr. Phil of Hooker World.

I took in a deep steadying breath, summoning my courage for the next question. How long did you know him?

Let’s see. He was one of my first tricks when I got out here. I was seventeen, so—

"Seventeen?" My English muffin turned over in my stomach.

I told people I was eighteen when they asked. I don’t remember if he did, though. She shrugged. I’m twenty, now. Shit, I can’t believe I’ve been doin’ it that long. Time flies, huh?

Huh, I repeated, my mind reeling.

He couldn’t have. Night after night while I was at home trying to invent a dinner he wouldn’t frown at or a hairstyle he might compliment, he’d been getting it on with skanky whores?

I tried to remember the last time we’d had sex. How long had I let myself live in denial, thinking he was working too hard or we were in a temporary slump, or his equipment wasn’t working properly?

The closest I’d come to sexual contact in the last several years were the double air kisses with Betsy Landrey at the country club.

He stopped coming about a year ago.

A lot longer for me, I mumbled before it occurred to me we were having two different conversations. He died a year ago.

I guess that explains it.

I should have suspected this the day Jeffrey brought home the mother lode of Trojans. When I walked into the room unexpectedly, he’d claimed Lani, his office assistant, was sick, and he’d stopped at the wholesale club to get office supplies. He’d happened to run into a great deal on condoms.

Jeffrey at a wholesale club? I must have been delusional to go along with his explanation. I guess that’s what he bought all those condoms for.

Oh, yeah. He brought his own. He used to make a joke about always being prepared because he was an Eagle Scout or something.

I gave a half-chuckle, while I imagined taking a baseball bat to the truck I was sitting in. "He was an Eagle Scout," I replied, as the woman stuffed the money into her boot and got out of the truck.

Damn you, Jeffrey. Damn you to Hell.

I came to, still standing in the garage. I forced my gaze from the SUV. How long had I been frozen here staring at it?

Smoothing my dress, I straightened my shoulders and headed for my minivan as I tried to conjure up the name or location of a seedy bar.

I hoped with every ounce of my being that Jeffrey would be watching tonight when I picked up some stranger and screwed his brains out. I wasn’t sure I knew how to screw anyone’s brains out, but I’d been an overachiever for the first twenty years of my life. Surely, I could figure it out.

And, wherever he was, this would drive lying, manipulative, control-freak Jeffrey out of his mind.

The sun was setting as I backed out of the driveway. I paused a moment to view the house. My Tudor style, made of stucco and river stone, was one of the few things I got my way about. Maybe because we purchased it before Jeffrey and I married, when he was still trying to please me.

I was aware that a five bedroom, fifty-five hundred square foot house was large to many people. However, after growing up in my parents’ massive federal colonial mansion, this place felt downright cozy. Jeffrey had wanted more of a showplace, but I fell in love with my Hansel and Gretel house, and he acquiesced, although he always referred to it as a starter home.

Screw you, Jeffrey. It’s my home now, my real home, and I’m keeping it.

When I reached the stop sign at the corner, my cell phone rang. The screen told me my friend Tina was calling.

Once she’d heard a blow-by-blow of the encounter with the hooker, all Tina could say was, "Jeffrey? Really?"

I can’t believe how gullible I was. I swallowed hard, trying not to cry again. I reached the edge of my neighborhood and hung a right, unsure where I was headed. I can’t believe I never questioned anything.

Tina sighed. You did what you were supposed to do, honey. It’s him you oughta be angry with, not you.

Oh, I’m angry enough for both of us. I swerved around a parked car. If I didn’t slow down, Jeffrey and I might be roommates again. It all makes sense now. You know, the day I walked in on him with the condoms I thought he’d gone and gotten some Viagra.

What?

I thought he was freakin’ impotent! I saw the red light just in time and screeched to a stop. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I didn’t bring it up.

You and Jeffrey were living in a sexless marriage?

You’re not listening, Tina! I yelled. "I was living in a sexless marriage. Jeffrey was getting his truck waxed two or three times a day."

Holy shit!

The one thing I held onto was the fact that he loved me. I searched my glove compartment for tissues. He talked me into marrying him. He told me I was the only woman for him. Oh, my God, I feel so stupid!

You’re not stupid, honey. You’re just—

You know, I was every bit as unhappy as he was, and I never once considered screwing around on him. I always put him first. Did he ever think about me when he was picking up prostitutes?

Where are you? You shouldn’t be driving right now.

I’d like to smash his whore wagon into a wall! I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. The horn sounded and startled a jogger.

You’re not driving it now, are you? Tina asked, her voice deep with concern.

No. Moisture began trickling down my face, threatening to melt off my makeup. I needed to pull myself together. Guys in bars didn’t want weepy, mascara-oozing women. I sniffled loudly.

Paige, honey, you’re scaring me. Do you want me to—?

No! I wasn’t going to run crying to Tina or wallow in self-pity. Not anymore.

Don’t get mad, get even. Don’t get mad, get even.

Where can I find a seedy bar?

A what?

Like where those bikers with the long hair hang out.

How would I know? I’m from Amarillo. And I married rich so I’d never have to see the inside of one of those dives again. What are you planning to do?

When I rolled up to the stop sign, I heard Alice Cooper on the classic rock station singing No More Mr. Nice Guy, the perfect theme song for me. I cranked up the radio. Alice and I were turning over a new leaf.

I’m going to find the raunchiest biker-dude I can and do with him what Jeffrey did with all those hookers. I jammed my fist into the air like a teenager at a rock concert, and it didn’t matter that the busy-body soccer mom in the car next to me was staring.

You’ve lost your mind! Tina yelled. You can’t pick up some crazy redneck! He could dump your body out in the woods, and we’d never know what happened to you.

I was distracted by the night club signs. Why had I gone toward the Galleria? There were no seedy bars here.

I’ll take a picture of the guy with my cell phone and send it to my e-mail. That way if he kills me, the cops can find him, I said as I headed east.

For a brief instant, I felt calm. Serenely, beautifully calm. Okay, maybe crazy calm.

"If he kills you? Tina yelled. Have aliens invaded your body?"

Maybe. It made sense. I’d felt like I was being eaten from the inside out for years. The calm evaporated, replaced by manic determination. I’m not going to be anyone’s doormat anymore, Tina. I cranked the music until my ears rang. No more Mr. Nice Girl! I shouted before I disconnected the call.

Chapter Two

Unfortunately, my GPS didn’t have any listings for dive bars. After driving for half an hour, I found myself in Pasadena.

As I stopped at a red light, my eyes locked on a row of bikes in front of a building I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. The outside was flat and nondescript, the sign above the door small and washed out, making it impossible to read from the street. But this had to be the place. There were a dozen Harleys sitting out front.

Spying an empty, pot-holed parking lot across the street, I turned into it. Adjusting the rearview mirror, I checked my face. Not half bad considering the shock I’d received today.

As I approached the door, the decrepit building throbbed with loud rock music. Amazed those rotten boards held up under such an auditory onslaught, I tilted my head back and was able to make out the sign, "D.O.A."

As in Dead on Arrival? Great.

But I was committed. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open, and stepped in.

At first, the club was a blur of dim lighting, black leather, and smoke. As my eyes focused, the bodies and faces became clear—dozens of bushy-faced men dancing with women who hadn’t seen the inside of a salon in years. And dead center in the crowd was what appeared to be a female version of The Rock gyrating with the original Witchy Woman.

What a freak show.

A couple of patrons near the door swiveled on their stools and stared at me like I was a narc. I viewed the crowd and tried to imagine myself getting down and dirty—literally—with one of these men. They were so...unkempt. Marietta had always warned me never to have sex with someone I wouldn’t share a toothbrush with.

But maybe they weren’t as unwashed as they seemed. It might be a fashion statement, like the grunge look.

The door opened behind me. I had to get out of the way. I could do this. It was all about attitude. Trying not to fidget with the strap of my Louis, I headed for the last remaining bar stool.

I sat, my gaze wandering to the band—a skinny drummer, a guitarist-lead singer belting out a song, a wiry-haired bass player...

My eyes jumped back to the singer. Definitely a stand-out in this crowd. Thirty-something with long dirty-blonde hair, he was tall, broad-shouldered and sexy as hell.

As he sang, his lips seemed to move in slow motion behind the microphone. I could almost feel his stubble on my palms as I imagined sliding my hands up his unshaven cheeks.

My eyes trailed down his chest. His pecs bulged and danced under his t-shirt while his hands caressed the neck of his guitar. As the instrument swayed side to side, tempting bits of man-thigh flashed me from his ripped jeans. He couldn’t have looked better if he were wearing Armani.

With each strum, his pick scraped at my flesh, grazing my nerve endings, moving farther and farther south until...

His guitar screamed.

My body tightened, my thighs squeezing together, recapturing a long forgotten sensation.

This already beat the hell out of Betsy Landrey.

Anybody home? The not so feminine voice came from directly behind me. I whirled my stool to face a burly woman with a black Mohawk, who was tending bar.

I set my jaw and narrowed my eyes, hoping it made me come across as more hardcore. The woman clunked an ancient black phone on the counter in front of me.

Do I have a call? I asked sarcastically, so anyone listening would realize I knew how to handle myself.

The bartender threw her head back and cackled. I figured you were here looking for a phone after your Barbie Car broke down.

I saw a flashback of myself in my bedroom mirror. Yes, in here, I was the freak.

Barbie has much longer hair, I said, hoping she would go away quietly.

Your VW Bug?

No.

Your cherry red Mercedes convertible?

At least a convertible sounded more exciting, and I had to stop the woman before she got to minivan.

I don’t need a phone. I sucked in a lungful of second-hand smoke and tried not to cough. Just give me a... All I saw behind the bar were four kinds of beer and some whiskey bottles. Bud Light. Was that tough enough?

The bartender lifted a bottle and opened it with a flourish. Our finest vintage. She set the beer in front of me.

Thanks. I turned back toward the band.

They were playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s What’s Your Name? and the singer was staring straight at me. Or was he?

I eased my chin over my shoulder casually to see if there was someone else he could be eyeing. The bartender was the only person behind me and surely they weren’t an item. That would be so wrong.

My