Under all the glamour surrounding Beverly Hills, a sleazy underbelly quietly festers. As love for barter, lowlife scams, and trashy pickups lurk in the shadows, a small-time hustler masquerades as a big shot. Forty-year-old Joel Schebschitz is a friendly supplier of antique jewelry who knows a sexy woman when he sees one-and that doesn't include his wife. Claudia Alonzo is a voluptuous Brazilian model looking for a fast buck. When the long-legged beauty approaches Joel with the hope of selling her ruby ring, he jumps at the opportunity. But there is only one problem-Claudia is not attracted to Joel at all. A mastermind at devious manipulation, Claudia knows Joel may be very useful to her, so she happily strings him along as he trails after her heels like a lovesick puppy dog. In this scandalously provocative tale set among the bogus glitz of Southern California, steamy sex transforms into murderous hate as a diabolical war ensues between a rapacious gold-digger and a monstrous liar. "Liar is very entertaining-smart, insightful, funny and truly sexy. A must-read" -Russell Andrews, author of Hades "A very sexy and hilarious book . . . " -Peter Gethers, chief editor for Random House

LIAR

By J. R. Allison

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 J. R. Allison
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3172-3

Chapter One

Joel

I'm standing at the street corner, idly wishing I'd won the lottery, when the black Carrera skids to a stop. Then she slithers out.

One look at her, and I get a triple organ attack. My diaphragm seizes up and squeezes out a weird strangled whistle; my heart hammers like some psycho beat box; and my stomach literally flies into the air, like a mad acrobat going for one of those crazy quadruple flips.

Her dark gold hair, springing and darting in what must be twenty different shades, is all in a riot and tumbling in what they call a bedroom tangle to her waist; her tilted, soot-black eyes beckon and tease with each lazy flick of those drowsy, half lowered lids; and her strawberry lips are donut-puffy and syrup-wet, like little oozing marshmallows–oh, but slightly parted. Indecent bitch.

She's stacked with twin Himalayan peaks that beg for fingers to scale them; her gym-toned arms guarantee an energetic tussle in the sack; and her scarlet vampire nails are made to tickle, caress, and scratch long and deep. A total sex beast.

Her hourglass figure's the real deal, with a waist that's pinched in like somebody's scraped out every ounce of fat. It's trussed into the skimpiest black top, and a leather miniskirt barely covers her scandalous ass that has cheeks as round as full moons hovering high in the air. Yeah, just lemme grab a handful of that.

Those thighs and calves are athletic and taut, wrapped in skin that looks like shimmering caramel cream. Those legs don't wanna stop–they shoot right up to those liquid velvet shoulders.

And she's got black spike-heeled fuck-me sandals on her dainty fuck-me feet: the kind with fuck-me straps that bind up those fuck-me ankles.

38–22–36 inches of total come-on.

Goddammit, this piece of ass has turned me into a poet.

I'm like a magnifying glass–I hone in on every little detail, right down to the tiny round dots of blood red polish on her itsy-bitsy toenails. I pin my eyes on her as she slinks toward the building, like some kinda curvy snake writhing to the charmer's flute. Tok, tok, tok, those stilettos hit the pavement. And yeah, yeah, yeah, those luscious hips sway.

Something in my groin wakes up and wriggles like a worm. Wait a minute. I don't even remember the last time I had a natural hard-on, without the magic of a little blue pill.

What the hell?

She's carrying one of those rich-bitch Chanel bags. It swings on a gold chain and bounces against her smooth hipbone, like a black leather fist that's making little light punches. Rich, kept, or big money by the hour?

She's just walked into the building where I'm headed. No shit. See you in the lobby, baby.

Hey, cool it. Hello? You're hitched. Wanna play? Where's your dough for Playmate-class pussy?

I put my hand on my cock. Gotta double check its unusual condition. Right, so this AK-47 in my pants ain't fully loaded. But wait till it finds its target. That astounding little butt–it must have a perfect bull's eye right in the middle.

Well, get going! What're you waiting for?

* * *

I, Joel Schebschitz, practice my trade in this building.

I'm a friendly supplier of antique jewelry to the thieves that own the small shops and booths that are packed in the corridors like a goddamn rat maze. The crap's more like secondhand, in fact it's usually beat up and mangled, but they'll call a little piece of shit a collector's item and break your balls for it.

Yeah, I admit I hustle in and out of sleazy pawnshops and fleabag offices all over L.A, and lowball jackasses who don't know the worth of things, then peddle them at a high profit. But that takes consummate skill. There ain't many with brains like mine. Too bad I've got a slightly impaired work capital–make just enough to feed the family, pay the mortgage, and put a little away. That's all good, right?

This afternoon I've got a ring in my pocket. I nabbed it for three hundred and know Ilya the obese sleazebag Russian would snap it up for a thousand. Now that's what I call a significant transaction.

Hey, where's that babe?

I'm like the big bad wolf in Little Red Riding Hood–I literally sniff the air. Left. Right. The far end! The Russian's dinky little store. The greasy Beef Stroganoff's heavy accent yapping away, and a woman's low throaty laughter.

I charge in like a mad bull. There she is, perched on a stool, sipping tea from a glass. No. Definitely not a shopper. And I know the lousy pig blubber well enough. He won't give a hooker the time of day. So she doesn't come with a price tag. Who the hell is she?

"Diz iz good friend of mine," the tub of lard says in his annoying thick voice.

"Hey, I'm Claudia." Voice smoky and gritty. A soft growl.

Goddammit, just makes me want to throw her down, right here, and fuck her till she whimpers, weeps, and melts into a puddle on the floor.

I squint to get a better look at her. Eyes half-closed under lashes fat as spider legs, like she's saying, "C'mon, baby, let's do it." Lips like fluffy pink cushions you could sit on. Oh, yeah, two-hundred-percent suckable.

Gotta get her number. Like this instant.

"Tea?" the human pork belly barges in and gives me a faceful of his Ukraine toilet breath.

"Sure." I don't even look at the fat fuck. I mean she's just flicking a pinky red, pointy tongue over the rim of her glass!

I've already figured out her accent. It's Spanish. She's gotta be Mexican or Puerto Rican. Nah, not the poor immigrant kind. She's definitely one of these Beverly Hills upscale chicks.

I've had a few Latino strippers in my day, but this one's way classier. Salma Hayek? Or one of those Desperate Housewives? No, this babe ain't a housewife and I'm the desperate one. Hey, what's the name of that blonde kitten who gyrates her hips like she's begging for it? Shakira? No, better than Shakira. More like that Eva Men-dozing or something.

She's giggling over some dumb-ass Russian joke. I don't even know what the hell they're laughing about. Shit, I hate that.

"Hold the tea. I'll come back later. I have some important business to attend to," I make damned sure I sound big time.

I know the drill. Don't even think about showing the ring today. What, let her know your business with the nine-chin wonder totals a thousand bucks? Wanna pick up a piece of ass, make her think you're a heavy hitter. Dammit, why didn't I put on my best suit this morning? Thank god I'm wearing my good shoes.

I'm feeling a little damp in the armpits. She doesn't look like she's gonna leave any time soon, but still.

I rush over to Michel the French frog. I've got another piece of crap: just the kind of thing he flogs as rare treasure. I'm an excellent judge of time. It's part of my extraordinary talent. I figure I'll make a fast buck, then run right back to the Russian meatball. I mean, gotta earn. Food ain't cheap, right?

"Ca va?" the amphibian chirps like a bird. He thinks he's making goddamn music.

"Great," I yank my mouth open in what I hope a relaxed grin. This cheap fuck's a notoriously temperamental buyer, but it looks like he's in a cheerful mood today. Good chance I can wring a few extra bucks outta him.

I unveil my "rare treasure," which is a gold stickpin with an evil dog's head on the top. It's actually some kinda trash metal washed with gold, but of course I'm not...