Here’s a little excerpt from the new book I’m working on, called “Kept.” It’s a sexy, crime ridden, over-the-top melodrama set out in my favorite decadent dry spot, Palm Springs. Enjoy! Please post comments if you have them. 

From Chapter 2:

Connor Hurst should have washed the truck before rolling up to the Jones home. A more professional, polished look is what he continually strove for each and every day, but this morning it was just not coming together the way it usually did.

The shitty, dusty, red Greco & Greco logos on the silver truck doors were chipped along their edges. Not a good look for the town’s best, if not largest, remodeling outfit, he thought. Better if they were clean and smooth.

On the other hand, Connor looked just fine. He looked so Irish he might have been a Celtic warrior or a leering priest in some other, less ordinary life. He told everybody he was black Irish, though nobody really knew what that meant; even he wasn’t really sure. He guessed his dark hair, so brown it read black, and the blue eyes were evidence enough, and his looks had stunned enough women—and men—over the last few years to make further explanation unnecessary.

Connor and Jacy Martin fell out of the pickup into the 115 degree heat of the fresh, late morning asphalt, its chemical odor signaling what Connor liked to think of as a sign of industrial progress: they were making some headway, their actions had consequences.

And they made quite a pair. Dark, Native American and short, squirrely Jacy’s role was always sidekick to the regal Connor: the shadow side, Lone Ranger and Tonto.

Jacy wasn’t the type to trust too much; he was the type to check behind himself before he spoke. Just in case. But even Connor knew it wasn’t good that Jacy told stories of their tribal chief shooting and killing protected sheep, even if it was on the res, on their own land, in their own fucking nation.

That kind of thing got around.

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Jacy spat on the red gravel oval at the center of the Jones’ circular drive, just missing a perfectly round blue barrel cactus. Connor would ignore this. He’d do the same, but never with anybody around. I mean, come on. He figured the Joneses had to be the richest African-American family in town. They had to be. Look at this place.

The low, Spanish style house loomed substantial from the street, but even that was deceiving. It stood at the top of a small rise, then spread out slowly in back, rooms tumbling down to a pool and a fucking tennis court where the landscape leveled off.

As dark as Alice Jones was, Connor wondered if she needed sunscreen at the pool. She told him she never played tennis. Her son had, though, and quite well, so the court was good luck and they kept it up.

She opened the finely distressed heavy oak door with just one hand—which, of course, showed off her diamond and gold wedding rings, as well as a totally separate emerald on her index finger.

The pounding hammers of the other Greco & Greco workers already inside rose up, as did Jacy’s panting, which reminded him of a nervous dog. Then there was Alice Jones, holding the door wide open, wearing one of her green and black caftans from Africa.  Her tits jiggled. No bra today. She knew he was coming.

Jacy was used to the drill. He entered first after a clipped “Ma’am” to Alice, heading straight for the guys who were finishing up new drywall in the media room, which was next to the library, which was down from the dining room.

Far enough away from Alice’s bedroom which was the only important location.

She clutched Connor by the forearm and led him down the hallway, a gallery where they’d positioned spotlights to hit the artwork at precise sweet spots dictated by a professional curator flown in all the way from New York.

“Mr. Hurst, can you come with me?” she asked. “I’ve got some problems to show you in the back.”

He threw Jacy a smirk, though the smaller man was already out of sight. Small problems in the back, yeah right Alice, I bet you have them, Alice!

At the end of the long hallway a door closed, blocking out the daylight—as so many of these desert homes seemed designed to do. Probably better when you had things to hide.

Outside, in the brilliant sun, white-haired Bernard Jones inched his way up the Camino del Monte cul de sac and saw not just one but two Greco & Greco trucks in his driveway, parked on that almost imperceptible incline. So he had to park on the street. He didn’t like the idea of having to walk the forty or so extra paces to his door. It was hard enough getting out of the 911.

Jacy watched from the media room window, conveniently located at the front of the house, a window, which would soon be fitted with a custom removable blackout shade for movie nights. But today it was still just an empty window.

This is gonna be some trouble. Just what Connor Hurst has coming to him. White boy gets away with too damn much, about time someone kicked his ass! Jacy chuckled into his fist, a spasm of delight racing up his spine, making him jump.

Though Bernard Jones was a short old fart. Would they take it out to the pool, or maybe down to that tennis court? No, Mr. Jones wouldn’t want to get into it that way. He’d have a gun, probably close at hand. Probably had several, look at all this art in here. Plus, there weren’t many around Palm Springs who looked like the Joneses.

But sometimes loyalty trumps the desire one feels for right and wrong. Or maybe it was pure practicality, having to get along with your co-workers no matter who they were. Even if they were Connor Hurst. So Jacy moved into the hallway, a cheerful Indian ready to intercept the rich American.

Meantime Connor had got Alice up on all fours on her big bed, which was covered with a taut, blue-green abstract duvet with contrasting tan-black striped pillows, one of which her head was now buried in.

Her caftan was still partly on, bunched up in folds covering her shoulders and her neck, covering her face. Her beautiful cocoa ass pointed up toward the ceiling. Connor had just entered her, leaning over to whisper, “you like ‘em young, don’t you, Alice, you like ‘em white, too!”

Her voice was muffled by the pillows. “I like ‘em hard,” he thought he heard her say. He wasn’t exactly sure because there was commotion, activity unplanned and unwanted, somewhere not too far outside the bedroom door.

Bernard Jones was now in the hallway, the hallway gallery, where their important and expensive works of art had been positioned by the New York decorator with custom track lighting that had to be redone four times before Alice would approve it.

The heavy, dark wooden door at the end of the hallway, the door to his bedroom, was closed.

Bernard Jones headed toward it.

A short Indian was in the way. “We marked places in the sheetrock where your speakers will go, let me show you Mr. Jones,” the little man said, positioning himself directly in front of Bernard Jones, blocking his advance, trying to turn him around, then again, not trying too hard. “Let me show you the media room, man.”

“Get out of here, you fucking little bug! Alice?”

But Connor had already put it together. He was off poor old Alice, grabbing his pants, his Greco & Greco workshirt, his shoes, looking up to the ceiling for an instant, asking if she’d ever considered some “nice regal crown molding,” then easing himself behind the lux drapes and out the slider door. But not before Alice tossed him a couple of Benjamins—as well as his socks.

“Go!” she whispered, blowing him a kiss, already examining herself in the mirror, arranging the caftan back to its correct matronly order.

*   *   *