Queen and Bandit Read online

  Queen and Bandit

  Geonn Cannon

  Smashwords Edition

  Supposed Crimes LLC

  Matthews, North Carolina

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2022 Geonn Cannon

  Published in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-952150-76-0

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  Most days, Gracie Simon had three hours where she could be herself. The two hours between getting home and going to sleep were private. And the hour after waking up before she had to be at work was safe, too. The window in her bedroom looked out onto a brick wall, and the window in the living room had a double set of curtains, just in case. Those three hours were the only part of her day, not counting when she was asleep, where she didn’t have to worry about how she carried herself or how she walked or the timbre of her voice.

  Today was not most days, just like the night before had not been most nights. The night before, she’d let a coworker convince her to join “the gang” for drinks. Drinks were incredibly dangerous. Anything that lowered her guard was to be avoided at all costs, and social gatherings were a minefield. But constantly avoiding them was a quick route to being labeled the office weirdo, so she had to say yes to at least some of them. So she decided to sacrifice her nighttime hour of freedom to in the interest of looking like a member of the team.

  Gracie hadn’t had very much to drink. How she wished she could say the same about Verity Combs, the copy editor currently taking up the other side of her bed. Gracie stayed as still as possible, one hand on her stomach and the other pressed tight against her side, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Verity was lying on her front, her left arm draped across Gracie’s torso, pinning her down.

  Instead of sleeping, Gracie had watched the sun rise across the ceiling’s cracked brown surface. She wasn’t sure she’d even blinked since falling into the bed. She’d looked over at Verity a few times, the other woman’s face obscured by a frankly surprising amount of thick blonde hair, wondering if she was asleep or truly passed out. If she was actually passed out, there was a chance she could slip out from under the arm and go to the couch.

  But then Verity would snore, Gracie would look back up at the ceiling, and wonder how long it was until morning.

  Finally, blessedly, the body next to her slowly resurrected itself. First there was a deep inhale of breath, then the hand pressed down on Grace’s stomach, and Verity shifted and lifted her head just enough to get off the pillow. She brought her hand up - Gracie had never before felt such freedom, such relief - and pushed her hair out of her face to see who she was sharing a bed with.

  Verity smiled. Her eyes were still half-closed, and her lipstick was horribly smeared across her mouth, but it was still an attractive smile.

  “Well, hey there, sailor,” Verity mumbled, her voice still cotton-y with sleep.

  “Hey.” Gracie sounded choked even to her own ears.

  Verity wet her lips and raised an eyebrow. She pursed her lips and moved her hand to pinch the sleeve of Gracie’s shirt.

  “Can’t help but notice you’re still fully dressed.”

  “You are, too.”

  Verity looked down, confirming she was still in the dress she’d worn to work.

  Gracie explained, “I was just trying to put you to bed. Neither of us were in any shape to drive, so I thought you could sleep it off here, and I... I was... I... you kind of fell on me.”

  “I think it was more than that.” Verity scooted closer. She reached for the highest button on Gracie’s shirt. “Couldn’t have been comfortable. You oughta lighten up, Gracie.”

  “I-I’m fine,” Gracie said, shrinking away from Verity’s hands. “But seeing as we’re both up now, I think I best be... I should, um, get... to...”

  Verity was practically lying on top of her now. “What’s the hurry? It’s Saturday. Neither of us has to be at the office today. Why don’t we just stay here for a little while?”

  “I shouldn’t, um, I... I do actually have an assignment...”

  “An assignment?” Verity said. “Well, then we’ll just have to hurry.”

  Gracie closed her eyes and swallowed, wishing for a car to slam into the front of the building or the ceiling to cave in, anything that might save her from what was happening. Verity’s hand was sliding down the placket of Gracie’s shirt.

  “You know, if any of the other men had taken me home last night, I would definitely not have woken up in these clothes.”

  That was basically what Matz had said when Gracie was walking Verity out of the bar, one arm slung heavy over her shoulder. “Pace yourself, Gracie! She’s taken down men twice your size!” Toland had added, “While twice as drunk!” and both men had collapsed in laughter.

  “I know,” Gracie said. “That’s kind of why I decided I should be the one to make sure you got somewhere safe.”

  Verity batted her eyelashes. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact her eyes were uncoordinated and turned it into more of a disastrous blink.

  “My knight in shining armor.”

  Before Gracie could counter, Verity had stretched up and pressed their mouths together. Gracie choked back a yelp of surprise. She put her hands on Verity’s shoulders and tried to cringe away but the mattress was too firm to provide her any escape. She squirmed and twisted, but Verity put a hand on Gracie’s belt to pull her back in place.

  “Stop,” Gracie gasped when the kiss ended. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “You deserve a reward, don’t you think?”

  Gracie’s face was burning up. “No! No, I didn’t... this wasn’t anything but consideration. I-I don’t, I...” She managed to get Verity’s hand off her belt before it traveled lower. “I don’t want this.”

  Verity sobered and leaned back. “You don’t want it?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, i-it would... it would be...” She cursed her awkward stutter. “I just... I’m not looking for anything. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  Verity looked away, lips pursed and brow furrowed. The sleep and the drunk haze were clearly still fogging her mind, preventing her from connecting the dots.

  “It’s not about you,” Gracie said. “Honest.”

  “Okay.”

  Verity scooted to the other side of the mattress, taking a second to adjust her skirt before she stood. She looked around, spotted the bathroom, and headed toward it.

  Gracie sat up. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Verity didn’t turn around.

  “Still. I don’t want you to think you’re not... you’re very... um...”

  Verity stopped in the bathroom door and looked back at her. She was smiling sadly, her eyes mostly veiled by her still-sloppy hair.

  “Don’t worry, Simon. I’ll tell everyone you were a gentleman.”

  She went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Gracie dropped her head back onto the pillow and grunted with frustration.

  “If only I was, V,” she muttered u
nder her breath. “It would solve a lot of damn problems.”

  ***

  The problem was that Gracie definitely wanted to give in to Verity’s flirtations. As soon as the apartment was empty again, Gracie jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. She stripped out of her clothes and turned the water on hot, stepped in before she was completely undressed, and angled her face so the cold spray pounded her eyes and forehead. A whole night next to Verity Combs. Smelling her perfume. Being weighed down by her.

  Gracie moved her feet apart and braced them against the edge of the tub. She was still wearing her boxer shorts and she pushed her hand inside. She tried not to think about what would’ve happened if she had really let Verity’s hand get this far, then surrendered and focused on what she hoped would’ve happened. She had been strong all night and now she could give in without repercussions. She bowed her head so that the water was hitting the crown, flattening her short copper hair. Her head was shaved on the sides, long in the front, so the tendrils hung down over her face as she masturbated. She watched the water pool around her curling toes and moved her hips against her hand until she came.

  When she’d caught her breath, she turned off the water and peeled off her sodden underclothes. She left them in the tub and went to the sink. She was tall and slender, lean like her mother with big hands like her father. She wasn’t flat-chested but close enough that she didn’t have to worry much about anyone noticing, especially if she wore undershirts a size too small. There were enough masculine traits in her features - strong jaw and thin lips, an aquiline nose, and thick eyebrows - that people just assumed she was the person she presented as.

  And the person she presented as was Simon Grace. It was an extremely easy change, swapping her first and last names, and so far it had worked a treat. Of course there were people at the paper like Verity who insisted on giving everyone a nickname, and through some cruel twist of fate, they’d dubbed her Gracie within a few weeks of the job. So after carefully crafting a false identity, half the people she worked with called her by her real name anyway.

  The irony was enough to make her sick to her stomach.

  She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and retrieved a dry outfit from the closet. She hadn’t been lying when she said she had an assignment, though she was dreading it.

  Gracie put on her eyeglasses as she left the house. She didn’t need them to see, but anything that helped obscure the shape of her eyes or face was an extra layer of protection.

  Her car was parked at the curb. It was her pride and joy: a 1940 DeSoto Coupe, forest green with white interior. It gleamed in the sun, and she ran her hand possessively along the shapely back fender. Her apartment was shoddy and every item of clothing she owned had been mended at least once, but her car was the one extravagance she’d allowed herself. It still had its issues but nothing that got in the way of how absolutely free she felt when she climbed behind the wheel.

  The dashboard was real wood with chrome trim. She sometimes spent her Saturdays polishing every inch of metal on the thing until it looked brand-new. The engine might cough a little, but her baby definitely turned heads every time she took it out.

  She really hadn’t been able to afford it. She got her first big paycheck as a writer and, on the way home she passed a lot where the car had practically been shouting her name. She justified it by saying she needed a way to get around, to follow leads, to investigate stories. A reliable vehicle was as much a necessity as her apartment. More so, really, because if she lost her apartment she could spend a few nights in the car until she found a new place.

  But the actual reason she walked into the dealership and dropped more money than she’d ever paid for anything was much simpler: she really just wanted a nice, cool car. And it was green. And she loved green. And she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else driving this gorgeous car.

  Gracie loved the car so much she actually looked forward to the long drive to work. In addition to giving her extra time behind the wheel, it also gave her a chance to slip more fully into her character. She’d been play-acting maleness for so long that it was almost second nature to her, but it was still a cloak she had to put on every morning. One slip could be forgiven. Maybe she hurt her back and it made her walk strange, or she had a cold so her voice was a little odd. But enough slips would add up, whispers would start, questions would be asked. She couldn’t risk it.

  The office of the Los Angeles Mercury, the Merc, was a dull brown building in Van Nuys, part of a nondescript cul-de-sac of three buildings that faced each other around a shared parking lot. Gracie pulled into her usual spot near the street, cutting down on the potential of anyone dinging the finish. The office was usually quiet on Saturdays, and the lack of other cars in the lot gave her hope as she headed inside. Maybe she could just get what she needed and get out, two minutes, no muss or fuss.

  The lights were on, but that wasn’t unusual. She just needed her press credentials and the tape recorder she kept in her bottom drawer. She reached her desk and pulled out her chair, ignoring the memos littering the blotter as she grabbed what she needed. She was just standing up again when a door at the far side of the bullpen open. She didn’t have to turn around to know her editor, William Swain, had just stepped out of his office.

  “Sorry, chief, just on my way out.” She hurried away from her desk as if moving quickly enough would erase the fact she’d been there.

  “You’re just who I was looking for, Simon. Come here. I have a story for you.”

  She reluctantly turned to face him. He looked like a panda bear, round and soft with salt-and-pepper hair. He was bald on top but made up for it with a thick beard that gave him the impression of a muzzle. Today he was wearing a dress shirt that was only a little rumpled and sweat-stained at the collar. He had one beefy paw on the jamb of his office door like he was dangling from it. He motioned her closer with the other hand.

  “I’m actually on my way to a story. Councilman Atwater. He agreed to talk to me about being forced to resign, but this was the only time he would agree to talk to anyone.”

  Swain shook his head and waved more emphatically. “Bray can handle that. Come on.”

  “You can’t give my story to Bray. He can barely handle the obituaries. Besides, there’s no time. I’m supposed to meet with Atwater in...” Two hours. “...half an hour.”

  “Bray is quick and he’s good enough for a story most people will barely skim. I’m offering you something everyone’s going to be jealous of come Monday morning.”

  Gracie stared skepticism at him, but his bushy eyebrows were up and his cheeks puffed out in a smile. The City Council story would be front page. But her curiosity was going to be the death of her. She sighed, slumped her shoulders, and finally changed direction to join him in his office. He chuckled and ushered her inside. He picked up a piece of paper, turned it around, and held it out to her like a prize.

  “What’s this?” It was a glossy photograph of a woman’s face with the name EVELYN WADE written out in the bottom margin.

  “That’s Evelyn Wade,” Swain said.

  “I gathered that much,” Gracie said. “Why am I looking at her face?”

  He stared at her with disbelief. “You don’t know her? Everyone knows her. Over Red Rocks? The Night At Sea? Chicago Canary?”

  Gracie shrugged and looked at the back of the headshot. “Sorry. I don’t get out to the movies very much. Is she any good?”

  Swain snatched the photo away. “Who cares if she’s any good? Look at that mug! She’s going to be the next Greta Garbo. And the director of her current flick has agreed to let one of my reporters come on-set for a--”

  “Oh no.”

  “--profile of her.”

  “No!”

  “Just a quick interview, a couple pictures--”

  “I have to be the photographer, too? Come on, Swain!”

  “--and a few hundred words about where she’s from, who she’s sweet on, something to give the readers a taste of the wo
man behind the silver screen. The next big thing from Universal!”

  “I’m not a photographer.”

  “You told me you have a dark room at your place.”

  “It’s a hobby, but--”

  He waved her off. “It’ll be fine.”

  “You have professional photographers on the payroll who could do this.”

  Swain gestured at the empty bullpen. “Do you see any of them around? You’re selling yourself short, Simon. You’ll do great.”

  Gracie glared at him. “Of course I’ll do great. I’m a good reporter. It’s not about whether I’m capable, it’s whether this nonsense is worthy of my time. You’re pulling me off front page political corruption for a fluff piece on some starlet? You have to be joking.”

  “No joke. I told you, no one is going to care about Atwater a week from now. But Evelyn Wade is immortal. Or she will be, soon, and you’re going to help her get there. This is LA, Simon. Celebs like her are the real power, not whatever politician is currently occupying some random office.”

  Gracie closed her eyes. It didn’t seem like there was a way out of this, so she tried to find the positive angle. She hated Atwater, and believed him to be the worst kind of slimy politician, and part of her had been dreading the idea of sitting down to talk with him. It would’ve been worth it for the front page. For the prestige of seeing her name, however mangled, connected to such an important report. It could have been a stepping stone to even bigger stories.

  “When do you need it?”

  “It’s tomorrow’s top story.”

  Her eyes popped open. “Tomorrow...? As in--”

  “As in twenty-four full hours. Like you said, it’s a fluff piece. No one’s expecting Shakespeare. Just a little thing to make the bobbysoxers buy our paper. Just go talk to her and write up something that won’t get her dander up, I’ll approve it, and you have a byline on a very popular story. It’s a cake walk of an assignment, Gracie. Be grateful.”

  She decided arguing was pointless and surrendered. “Where do I have to go?”

  “Attaboy,” Swain said, handing over the picture again. “You don’t even have to go very far. They’re out in Bronson Canyon right now shooting some nonsense about the Trojan War or something, I think.” He searched the papers on his desk and handed one of them over to her. “Directions. Just take your press pass, tell ‘em you’re with the Merc. They’ll let you on.”