Unleashed Read online

  Unleashed

  Lois Greiman

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Unleashed

  Copyright © 2016 by Lois Greiman

  Ebook ISBN: 9781943772513

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Praise for Lois Greiman

  "Dangerously funny stuff."

  Janet Evanovich

  “Simple sexy sport may be just what the doctor ordered.”

  Publishers Weekly

  "Lois Greiman is a modern day Dorothy Sayers. Witty as hell, yet talented enough to write like an angel with a broken wing."

  Kinky Friedman, author of Ten Little New Yorkers

  "What a marvelous book! A delightful romp, a laugh on every page."

  MaryJanice Davidson, NYT bestselling author of the Undead series.

  “Amazingly good.” (Top Pick!)

  Romantic Times

  “L.A. psychologist, Chrissy McMullen is back to prove that boobs, brass, and brains make for one heck of a good time…laugh out loud funny…sassy…clever.”

  Mystery Scene

  "Excellent!"

  Library Journal

  "Sexy, sassy, suspenseful, sensational!! Lois Greiman delivers with incomparable style."

  Bestselling author of To the Edge, Cindy Gerard

  "Move over Stephanie Plum and Bubbles Yablonsky to make way for Christina McMullen, the newest blue collar sexy professional woman who finds herself in hair raising predicaments that almost get her murdered. The chemistry between the psychologist and the police lieutenant is so hot that readers will see sparks fly off the pages. Lois Greiman, who has written over fifteen delightful romance books, appears to have a great career as a mystery writer also."

  thebestreviews.com

  "Ms. Greiman makes a giant leap from historical fiction to this sexy and funny mystery. Bravo! Well done!"

  Rendevous

  “A fun mystery that will keep you interested and rooting for the characters until the last page is turned.”

  Fresh Fiction

  "Fast and fun with twists and turns that will keep you guessing. Enjoy the ride!”

  Suzanne Enoch, USA Today best-selling author of Flirting with Danger

  “Lucy Ricardo meets Dr. Frasier Crane in Lois Greiman’s humorous, suspenseful series. The result is a highly successful tongue-in-cheek, comical suspense guaranteed to entice and entertain."

  Book Loons

  Dedication

  To all of Chrissy’s crazy friends who have so patiently waited.

  Chapter 1

  You’re pretty, you’re skinny, and you’re nice. But I think we can still be friends.

  —Christina McMullen, following a flare-up of teenage angst and a buttload of chocolate mousse

  “How’s the unborn?” I asked. My best friend since fifth grade, Brainy Laney Butterfield, was due to give birth to a baby girl in a matter of weeks. In fact, months ago, she’d named the adorable little zygote Tina, after moi.

  “What’s wrong?” Laney’s voice was terse, steady, and take-no-prisoners focused, though we hadn’t, as of yet, exchanged more than the vaguest of cell phone pleasantries.

  “What? Nothing. I was just calling to see—”

  “Are you okay?”

  I laughed. “Of course I’m okay. I’m better than okay. In fact, my life’s fantastic.”

  Silence.

  “If things were any better it would be forbidden by California statute 3021-2304 to be Christina McMullen. PhD,” I added, just to make sure she remembered that I was, in fact, well educated and hopelessly euphoric.

  “What’s going on?” Judging by her tone, she wasn’t buying the euphoria segment of my proclamation, but it’s not as if Elaine Butterfield, better known to the television-viewing masses as Hippolyta, Amazon queen, was psychic or anything. She could probably just guess at my current state because we’ve been bonding over dreamy guys and hokey movies since time out of mind.

  “I have a date.” My voice was chipper as hell, like a Laker Girl on a helium high.

  “A date?” She’d gone from terse to suspicious. In the big scheme of things, I preferred the former. “With Rivera, right?”

  I turned off the 170 and zipped onto Riverside Drive. My car has about ten million miles on it, but it still runs like a champ…or like a seriously outdated Saturn, kind of bumpy and a little whiny but still moving. At my seasoned-but-unsullied age, I’ve realized that it does no good to allow your expectations to become too lofty.

  Speaking of expectations, I was wearing a silky lavender skirt topped with an ivory cap-sleeve blouse. Manolo slingbacks adorned my feet. They were a sassy little pair, even if they were secondhand. The ensemble hinted of class and whispered of sexy. Or maybe it screamed that I was holding on to hope by my well-manicured fingernails. “Who?” I asked.

  “Rivera,” she repeated dryly. “Is your date with Rivera?”

  Jack Rivera and I had been running hot and cold and crazy all over for a couple of lifetimes. He’s a cop. I’m a psychologist. He lives in Simi, where the neighborhood kids play ball on manicured lawns. I live in Sunland with a lone cactus and neighbors who probably wish I would move to Tibet…or at least install a sprinkler system. But irrigation systems are environmentally detrimental…and expensive.

  “You mean that relatively attractive police officer I socialized with for a short while?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, then spoke quietly to someone nearby. He was probably male, ungodly handsome, and wonderfully obsequious. Laney attracts that kind of guy like masochists draw sadists. And I should know. I’m a psychologist, remember?

  “We had a long-overdue colloquy,” I said.

  “Holy moly. A colloquy?” Suspicion had morphed into an arid sort of what-the-hell-are-you-yammering-about tone, but Laney had been swearing off swearing for a long time. Now, with mommyhood impending, her phraseology had become increasingly G-rated. If I weren’t so fucking sophisticated, I would have enjoyed the shit out of mocking her.

  “Yes. It was all extremely civilized.

  There was a stunted silence. I would say it was fraught with disbelief, but I’ve never been entirely sure what fraught means, despite my aforementioned education.

  “We’re still discussing Rivera, right?”

  I smiled with genteel tranquility. “Yes.”

  “And you,” she added.

  The jacaranda trees were beginning to bloom, thrusting out their purple trumpet flowers with Seuss-like surrealism. I used the calming beauty of nature to nurture my inner Zen. “Listen, Laney, I’ll admit that in the past I may have acted somewhat…” I considered, then subsequently discarded, several terms, one of which might have been bat-shit crazy, and continued on. “Irrationally where the dark lieutenant is concerned, but—”

  “Irrationally? I believe Captain Kindred was called in to mediate on more than one occasion.”

  It was true that I had a somewhat fractious relationship with Rivera’s commanding officer, but I didn’t see a need to address that just then.
“As I was saying…things have changed.”

  “So I don’t have to notify the paramedics?”

  I held on to the smile. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know you haven’t lost your stellar sense of humor.”

  She ignored my sarcasm with well-practiced aplomb. “Tell me now if I have to call an ambulance; I’m due on set in five minutes. We’re shooting…” She gasped softly, as if struck by a terrifying thought. “I don’t have to call the morgue, do I, Mac?”

  “You just get funnier and funnier.”

  “Must be the clean air out here.”

  Due to Laney’s delicate condition, the powers that be had moved the production from New Zealand to Idaho, so as to continue the queen’s questionable adventures practically up to the moment of parturition. I worried that she was working too hard, but at least she wouldn’t have to board a plane to return to L.A. for the birth.

  Personally, I think anyone who intentionally brings another squalling Homo sapiens into the world must be a couple rungs short of a full ladder. But diplomacy suggested I keep that information to myself.

  “I can assure you that not a single drop of blood was shed.”

  “Strangulation, then?” she asked.

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “You didn’t poison him, did you?” Then, to Mr. Handsome, who I could picture perfectly with my extremely fertile imagination, she said, “I’ll be right there.”

  “This may surprise you, Laney,” I said, breaking out the terminally snooty tone I had been holding in reserve, “but we didn’t even raise our voices.”

  “That does surprise me.” She sounded impressed and, I thought, more than a little dubious.

  “We came to a mutually agreeable decision.” My hands tightened on the steering wheel, but I convinced myself to relax, employing one of the many techniques I learned at a recent symposium given by Dr. Bram Dirkx, a genius in the field of schizophrenia. I was operating on the theory that if his methods were effective with psychopaths they would probably work for me.

  “You’re certain you were talking to the right Rivera?” she asked.

  I pursed my lips and a couple other sphincters. “Yes,” I said. “And we decided it would be best for all parties concerned if we discontinued our…” I thought hard, trying to disavow a hundred lewd memories that involved a scantily clad Rivera. Those lean-muscled hips, those dark, do-me eyes. My fingers were beginning to hurt, convincing me to loosen my grip. “Our romantic relationship. That doesn’t, of course, preclude the possibility of us remaining platonic friends.”

  The phone went silent for several beats. “You and Rivera,” she said again. Dubious may have stretched into the land of are-you-nucking-futs.

  I narrowed my eyes and tapped an index finger against the Saturn’s unoffending steering wheel as I turned sedately onto Camarillo Street. “Yes,” I said, voice rising just a little. “We’re—”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Ruocco,” Mr. Handsome said, cooing her stage name. “Frank says they need you right away. You’re shooting the male-harem scene today,” he added, but she still didn’t speak.

  “Laney?” I was beginning to worry that my news had caused shock-induced heart failure. But that was ridiculous. Jack Rivera and I were two perfectly mature individuals. There was no reason to believe our relationship couldn’t come to an amiable conclusion. “Laney?”

  “Ms.—”

  “Please extend my apologies and inform them I’m going to be a little late,” she said to Mr. Handsome.

  “But—”

  “Tell them now.” Her voice was firm. Almost borderline…brusque. I held my breath. Brainy Laney and I had attended Holy Name Catholic School together, where we’d bonded over preteen ugliness and shared ice cream. (She shared. I didn’t. Let it be said in my defense that growing up in a household with three idiot brothers, it was eat or be eaten.) And in all the years since, I have never known her to venture near the unfriendly border of brusque.

  Apparently, Mr. Handsome was just as shocked as I, because in a moment I heard a murmured apology and handsomely retreating footsteps.

  “Laney,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “What happened?”

  “What?” I was within three blocks of Le Petit Château, a lovely little restaurant resembling a French castle, where I was to meet my date, one Tyler Simonson. I slowed the Saturn down despite the fact that my stomach was growling carnivorous obscenities at my mouth, demanding that it be fed. In the past, food and I have had what some might refer to as a confrontational relationship. But I’m classy now and had gained control over my baser corporal impulses. I hardly ever have wet dreams about lobster manicotti anymore.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Laney ordered. “And start at the beginning.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I assured her. “We mutually agreed to go our separate ways. We’re too…” I shrugged. My throat felt kind of tight. Maybe I was coming down with a cold. “The unfortunate truth is, I’ve simply outgrown him.”

  “Mac—”

  “You know it’s true.” My voice was absolutely level, perfectly logical. I’ve never been more proud. “He’s a police officer. Not that there’s anything wrong with his chosen profession. It’s a commendable career choice, and I’m sure he’s excellent at his job. But his work calls for a certain degree of…” I remembered him in cop mode…all hard lines and dark intent, head lowered as he sauntered toward me. I cleared my throat and tried to do the same with my memories. “Base physicality. My chosen path is more…cerebral. More cultured. A therapist requires a certain amount of tranquility if she hopes to assist her patients in achieving the same. And with Rivera out of my life…” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat again. “Listen, Laney, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call you back. I think I’m having an asthma attack.”

  “You don’t have asthma.”

  “I can if I want to,” I snapped, then closed my eyes and found the inner peace that Dr. Dirkx had written of so eloquently in chapter seventeen. “I’m sorry, Laney, I guess I’m a little stressed. But it is six fifty-seven, and I don’t like to be late.”

  “Since when?”

  I gritted my teeth and wondered why I loved her so much. “Perhaps you’re unaware of this, but the last several months have been a time of introspection and growth for me. I feel I’ve become a better human being, more stable, more empathetic. More…” I paused, thinking. “Outward-looking, if you will.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Talk to me, Mac,” she said, and there was something in her softening tone that made me want to curl into the fetal position and blubber like a baby, but I fought back the infantile urges.

  “I would love to,” I said. “But I’ve made a commitment to Mr. Simonson and I really must go. We’ll talk again as soon as I get a spare—”

  “If you hang up on me, I’m taking the first flight home.”

  I laughed, confident in her inability to shake the truth from me. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re due on set in about three—”

  “Jean-Claude,” she said, voice muffled slightly. Apparently, there had been two ungodly handsome, obsequious men in the room. “Please get me on the first available flight to LAX.”

  I was a little less amused now. “You’re not flying anywhere, Laney,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m great. Everything’s great.”

  “Any available seat will be fine,” she added to Mr. Handsome II.

  “Laney,” I said, tone a little less dulcet, “you have a show to do. What would the unwashed masses do without their queen?”

  She ignored me. “Tell Frank we’ll have to wrap up the harem scene next week.”

  Panic was setting in. I understood, of course, that the delay was not going to cause the crash of civilization as we knew it, but a bazillion rabid fans were dying to find out if Queen Hippolyta and her swarthy but oh-so-sensitive man-slave were ever going to be free to “share their love.” Not me, of course
, I was far too busy rereading Dr. Dirkx’s chapter thirty-one, succinctly titled “The Hidden Agenda Behind Every Seemingly Logical Decision: A Therapist’s Guide to Delving Into the Truth Behind Falsehoods.” It was absolutely gripping and couldn’t possibly be considered competition for over-the-counter sleep aids. Neither had I, on several occasions, set it aside to read novels with scantily clad men on the covers. That would be wrong.

  “You’re not going to wrap anything up next week,” I said.

  “You might be right,” she agreed, returning her attention to me. “My midwife thinks the baby might come early.”

  My stomach twisted into a double knot. I wanted to see her more than I wanted a fudge-brownie sundae supreme. But even I was not so selfish as to risk her well-being for my crisis du jour. “Laney, you can’t fly when you’re eight months pregnant. It’s not—”

  “Have Britta pack me an overnight bag, will you, Jean-Claude?”

  “Okay!” I snapped, cracking like an Easter egg in a pressure cooker. “Our parting wasn’t perfectly cordial.”

  “What happened?” Her voice was low and quiet, filled with gut-level caring and a bottomless well of friendship. My eyes watered, blurring my vision; I pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot and turned off the engine. Nearby, a thousand hopeful roses bloomed in wild profusion. The air smelled heavenly…I felt like I was doing an extended stint in purgatory. “I’m a therapist,” I whimpered.

  “So you’ve mentioned.”

  “A licensed psychologist.”

  “And a very good one.”

  Was I? I wondered, but shoved aside the doubts and glanced out my passenger window. At the top of a steep concrete incline, three teenagers were arguing over a dented shopping cart that looked like it, too, had spent a considerable amount of time in the underworld. “My career, my chosen path, dictates that my life be relatively sedate…you know, so that I might better serve the clientele that comes to me with their troubles.”