Tequila & Lace
By Kimberly Knight
No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity, explicit sexual situations, and alcohol consumption.
Tequila & Lace
Copyright © 2015 Kimberly Knight
Digital Edition
Published by Knight Publishing & Design, LLC
Cover art © Okay Creations
Cover Photographer © by E. Marie Photography
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To the original Paul Jackson.
There is rarely a day that I don’t think of you. I miss you too much.
May you rest in peace.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Joselyn
Chapter Two: Paul
Chapter Three: Joselyn
Chapter Four: Paul
Chapter Five: Joselyn
Chapter Six: Paul
Chapter Seven: Andi
Chapter Eight: Paul
Chapter Nine: Andi
Chapter Ten: Paul
Chapter Eleven: Andi
Chapter Twelve: Paul
Chapter Thirteen: Andi
Chapter Fourteen: Paul
Chapter Fifteen: Andi
Chapter Sixteen: Paul
Chapter Seventeen: Andi
Chapter Eighteen: Paul
Chapter Nineteen: Andi
Chapter Twenty: Joselyn
Chapter Twenty-One: Paul
Chapter Twenty-Two: Joselyn
Chapter Twenty-Three: Paul
Note from the Author
Books by Kimberly Knight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Joselyn
I stared out of the tiny, grungy, living room window of our two-bedroom mobile home. Today was my birthday and for the past seventeen years, I couldn’t remember a birthday when I’d woken up to presents and cake, or even my mother wishing me a happy birthday.
Today was no different.
“When are we gonna have cake?” my brother, Bryce, asked, tugging on the hem of my purple tank top.
I turned and looked down at him. I didn’t know if we were going to have cake at all, so I did my best not to give him false hope. “I’m not sure, buddy. Maybe when Mommy wakes up.”
“But I want cake now!” he whined, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking his bottom lip out.
I wanted to tell my eight year old brother that I wanted cake now too, but we didn’t have money to go to the store. There was also no way I was waking up Mother in hopes she’d remembered my birthday—even if it was close to two in the afternoon.
“How about you draw me a cake and by the time you’re done Mommy might be awake? You haven’t given me my present yet.” I reached out and ran my hand over the top of his hair, messing up the shaggy light brown length that was opposite of my dark brown. I knew I was only biding time, but once Mother was up and in one of her moods, he’d forget about the cake and watch cartoons instead to avoid her antics.
“Fine,” he huffed, then turned on his heels. I watched as he ran down the hall toward the room that we shared. I silently prayed he didn’t wake Mother. If he did, she’d yell and make him cry, then leave me to get him to stop. She was still asleep because she worked nights. I’d thought she worked as a waitress at an all-night diner or something, but when I was thirteen, I learned the truth. I’d woken up as she was coming home at four in the morning dressed in a red tube top, a short black skirt that barely covered her panties (if she were even wearing any), black fishnet stockings, and black high heels that I was certain I’d break an ankle in.
“What are you doing up?” she asked, narrowing her eyes and glaring at me as she closed and locked the small, metal trailer door behind her.
I swallowed. “I … uh … I’m getting some water.”
“Hurry up and get back in bed, Joss.” She brushed past me as she made her way down the narrow hall toward her bedroom. She smelled of cigarettes and sweat. All traces of her perfume I’d seen her squirt on her wrists before leaving were gone.
“Why are you dressed like that?” I asked. She had been wearing jeans and a T-shirt when she’d left the house, so I was curious, but I quickly regretted the question as she spun on her heels, anger flashing in her eyes. She backtracked toward me, pointing her index finger.
“I’m the adult. You don’t get to question me.”
I huffed. She’d left me alone every night for as long as I could remember. Luckily, I had Mrs. McKenna next door if anything were to ever happen to me and my brother. “You’re dressed like—”
“Like what, Joss?” She put her hand on her hip and cocked it when she was a few feet from me.
My eyes widened. I should have known not to question her. Whenever I did something she disapproved of, she’d whip me with a flyswatter, a wooden spoon, a belt, a shoe—whatever was on hand, and I didn’t feel like crying myself to sleep if she decided to ever use the end of her spiked heel.
“Like what, Joss?” she asked again. I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t sound as if she were surprised by my question, or that she wanted to hide something.
I took a quick deep breath before I spoke. “A … Uh, a hooker.”
I’d expected her to reach down, slip off her heel and throw it at my head. Instead, she’d laughed while her eyes closed briefly. She shook her head, not necessarily telling me I was wrong. “I really didn’t want to have this conversation at four in the morning, but you’re bound to find out at some time.” She motioned for me to sit at the light blue card table we used as a kitchen table. We sat and she lit a cigarette, the smell of smoke instantly clinging to my clothes as I watched it float in the air before she spoke again. “Yes, I’m a hooker.”
Have you ever had one of those moments where your world felt as if it were spinning on its axis? Or as if your head was literally spinning on your body? Something was spinning inside my head because even though I’d said she looked like she was dressed as a hooker and she worked crazy night hours, I really hadn’t suspected that my own mother was a prostitute.
“Are you going to say something?”
My eyes focused on her face as I realize I was staring at her, trying to wrap my head around what she’d professed. What were my friends at school going to think if they found out? “So you like … stand on the corner?”
She blew a poof of smoke into the air above our heads. “Gotta make money to feed us and put a roof over our heads somehow.”
“Why a hooker? Why not a waitress or something?” During the summer, Mrs. McKenna’s grandson, Seth, would visit. We’d play house with my friend Catherine (or Cat as we called her) and choose professions like a doctor, lawyer, teacher, bank teller, waitress, housewife, but never a hooker. Seth was always a cop. He was four years older than us and wanted to protect us from all the bad guys.