1 Straight to Hell
Straight to Hell
Book one in the Lilith Straight series
Michelle Scott
Copyright 2011 by Michelle Scott
Straight to Hell Copyright © 2011 by Michelle Scott
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means
without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only
authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of
copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated
by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
An Urban Fae Publications Production
Livonia, MI 48152
Edited By: Nancy Fulda
Paperback ISBN:
978-0615611891
First Edition • September 2011
Contents
Coming in 2012 Book Two in the Lilith Straight Series –
Straight Shot
.
120
Other e-Books by Michelle Scott
.
121
A year ago I, Lilith Straight, was the woman you always wanted to be.
I was married to someone better looking than your husband, and his salary climbed into figures so high that you’d have to be married to six men before their incomes equaled his. We lived in the house that you always wanted but never could have afforded, and drove cars that would have made you ashamed of yours. My husband and I went to those exclusive parties you read about in the newspapers – yes, those parties – and we rubbed elbows and other body parts with actors and politicians and professional athletes – yes, those athletes, the ones you also read about in newspapers. My daughter attended a small, very exclusive, private school where your child would not have been allowed even if you could have afforded the tuition.
But within the span of twelve months, all of that changed. My marriage dissolved, my house burned down, and the only job I could find, substitute teaching, hardly paid for a week’s worth of bills. On top of that, I’d suddenly gained custody of my antisocial, eleven-year-old niece, Ariel, when her mother dropped her off at my doorstep and drove off with hardly a backward glance. And a week later, my bent-for-hell stepsister Jasmine moved in after her mother kicked her out of the house.
So when I was hit by a car and died for the first time, I thought that my life had already gotten as bad as it could get.
Boy, was I wrong.
The day I died was a Monday. Specifically, the Monday after a two-week Christmas school break, and all of us – even Drinking Tea, our cat – had slept through the alarm. Had I still been married, this never would have happened since Dr. Theodore Dempsey, my ex, woke me up every morning at five by groping me under the covers. But my recent divorce gave me certain privileges, such as being able to sleep in without having someone squeeze my breasts like they were testing mangoes for ripeness.
So when I finally did wake up and realize what time it was (7:15), I leapt out of bed and began shouting orders to my daughter and my niece. “Grace, get up! Ariel, move it!”
I used to live in a house that had more square-footage than the city library, but after Ariel had accidentally set the place on fire, the four of us had been forced to relocate to a seedy townhouse the size of a walk-in closet. My voice carried through the paper-thin walls without a problem, but at the same time, those thin walls also allowed me to hear my daughter’s whine, “Do I
have
to go to school?”. Followed by my niece’s muttered, “F.U.”.
Luckily, I didn’t have to be to work that morning. As a substitute teacher, I got to pick my own hours, and I’d given myself the day off. It was almost like I knew that this was going to happen. I spared a moment to throw on my robe, then ran downstairs, so intent on getting into the kitchen that I almost didn’t notice the strange, young man sprawled on my couch. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers, and the most interesting thing about him – aside from the snarling dragon tattoo encircling his bellybutton, and the line of metal rivets punctuating his forehead – was the fact that he was the most hairless creature I’d ever seen. Not only was he bald, but his legs were so smooth that I was a little jealous. His chest was as pink and clean as a newborn’s. He had no eyebrows. Nor, for that matter, armpit hair – a fact I realized when he groaned and raised his arms over his head to stretch. I eyed his boxers, wondering just how far the hairless area extended.
For an instant, I considered chasing him out of the house before Grace noticed him, but she was already pounding down the stairs. So instead, to hide the hairless spectacle from her, I tossed a blanket over him. He muttered a ‘thanks’ and immediately went back to sleep.
“Mom! Mom!” Grace skidded to a halt. “Hey, who’s that guy?”
“A friend of Jas’s, I’m sure,” I said. I was going for the coffee, but halfway across the tiny kitchen, I stepped into a puddle of water and soaked my slippered feet. The entire floor was underwater.
“Ah, shit!,” I said. I grabbed an armload of dishtowels from the drawer and began mopping up the mess, tracing the puddle to the washing machine which sat innocently by the back door.
I wanted to cry. A broken appliance was the last thing I needed right then. I’d spent the last of my savings to make my car insurance payment, and had nothing left over to buy a new washer. In fact, I didn’t even have the ten quarters it would have taken to go to the Laundromat. “Goddamn, shit!!”
“You broke rule number one. Now you need to put two quarters in the swear jar.” Grace stood in the doorway, looking solemnly at the mess. She’d dressed herself in the same t-shirt and jeans she’d worn the day before. And the day before that. She was brushing the top layer of her brown hair smooth over a bottom layer of wicked snarls.
For a moment, I flashed back to a year ago. Back to the days of private school when my daughter, wearing a plaid skirt and navy blazer, would have been eating an egg white omelet in the breakfast nook while I braided her hair. The scene, once ordinary, was now so surreal that I might have dreamed it up.
“I know, Darling. I know,” I agreed. I dropped the soaking wet rags into the sink and put down another layer of towels.
“You also broke rule number nine.” Standing behind Grace was a very triumphant-looking Ariel. She loved catching me in the middle of bad behavior.
The rules the girls were referring to were known as the “Ten Commandments of the Straight Household.” I’d posted a list of them on the refrigerator. And on the mirror above the bathroom sink. And next to the computer, on the doors of all the bedrooms, and on the dashboard of the car.