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 gonna tell him. He doesn't know shit.

"Ow mouch?" the lizard-cousin annoys me with his nasally voice. What, aren't there any Americans in this place? He annoys me even more by examining the pin in his hand, turning it this way and that, as if the dog's head's about to come alive any second. I hope it bites him in the ass.

"Seven hundred fifty," I say firmly. I'd been meaning to ask for six, but I'm going for the kill. That's right, it's all about timing.

"What!" the toad yells as if scalded by hot oil. "I wooden pay more than three hundred bugs for zees piece of sheet!"

Zees piece of sheet glares at me in silence, all geared up to bargain like a goddamn fishwife. C'mon! Pussy's waiting and I've got a hard-on. Well, an upcoming hard-on.

Just at this crucial moment, the babe glides up to the booth. The ugly Frenchie's cockroach eyes instantly change direction and shoot like a pair of darts to my honey-bun's full stacks. Hey, wanna compete?

"Ca va, cherie?" the Swamp Thing croaks, trying to hide the pornographic leer on his face.

I surreptitiously angle my sightline to the same spot he's eyeballing. Now that's what I call a pair of real tits. Miss, may I, er, pinch them, just a little?

"Claudia, Joel's a great ruby expert ..." the pond rodent rattles off like a machine gun, pretending to sing my praises, "And ee speaks French too, ee went to school in Switzerland ..." That sonofabitch, he's using it as a ruse while he's trying to stick his blackhead-infested nose in my hottie's cleavage.

"Ah, yes," of course I smile modestly. No need to frighten the babe with my distinguished credentials. So she's French? Well then, gimme a dish of them Frog's Legs a la Spread. Cream sauce, please.

"Oh, really?" She turns to me, eyes all bright and interested. "I have a ruby ring I want to sell. Would you like to look at it?"

Bingo. Jackpot. Royal flush.

"Sure," I fight down my excitement and keep a poker face. "Always ready to buy." That's it, proper and business-like.

"I don't know much about rubies. Maybe you can tell me what it's worth?"

But of course. I'll tell you what it's worth. I'll even buy it, as long as you let me suck your delicious little toes. Er, if the ruby's cheap enough, that is. Your pussy's extremely important, but so is money, right?

No, no. I don't say any of this. I keep my trap shut and impress her with an elegant smile. All proper and business-like.

"Is it okay to come to my house tomorrow at ten?" She pulls out her cell phone, "I can text you my address."

She sounds hot to trot, and there must be a hidden meaning behind that look and half smile.

Is it a come-on? Or am I crazy?

"Yes. Ten's good," I say casually, as if it's no big deal.

Fuck me! I can't believe it's as easy as this. Shit, I hope nothing's gonna go wrong, like she's got a husband who'll slug me the minute I walk in, or ten kids asking for candy.

She moves away, swinging that appetizing little tail and leaving a cloud of something strong and musky in the air. Ah, the aroma of intense fucking.

I take a deep whiff. The frog's watching me, so I sneeze and pretend I'm clearing my nose. I catch him goggle at her butt till she walks out the door, drool bubbling at his mouth. The shit-head.

Then he whips his warty head back to me so hard I think it's gonna come off. "Ow mouch again?"

I wish I can wipe that scowl off his face.

"Aw, take it for five hundred if you want," I flip my wrist at the insect-vermin.

You lucky bastard. You're getting the deal of the century. I feel real generous 'coz I just scored the most fuckable pick-up of my life. And you know what? I paid twenty bucks for the stickpin anyway.

The mud-creature counts out his twenties as though each note's a slice off his dung-reeking hide. I watch with eagle eyes, just in case he shortchanges me. Oh, yeah, he's tried it before.

Four hundred and eighty profit. Could've made a hundred more–maybe. But just for today–who cares. The hot pussy's invited me to her house, so most likely I can do her right then and there. Then I won't have to take her to lunch and fork out.

Even Stevens.

* * *

Damn, cash feels good.

Just when I'm about to get outta the mall, I feel something missing.

Wait a second. Gotta do something to impress this spring chicken. Gotta show her I'm megabucks. That always promises fast delivery, a la Domino's Pizza. Hey, don't take any chances.

I know that drill too. I run to the men's room and write a check to Rob Katz, one of the big boys in town. Eighty thousand bucks. Made out a month ago. I tear up the check, flush the scraps down the toilet, and look again to make sure the carbon copy shows up clearly. All set and ready to go.

I march right back to the frog.

"Buddy, I almost forgot. Got a big ruby ring? I mean real expensive? Money's no object."

"What about Claudia? She's selling 'ers."

"Nah, I need it today. An important private client of mine wants to surprise his wife tomorrow morning. It's her birthday. I'm showing him a coupl'a rings tonight. All heavy-duty stuff."

"Well," the oozy slime-bag looks suspicious, "I 'ave a ring I keep in zee safe for special customers, but eet's seventy-five grand. You can't handle zat kind of thing."

"I can't handle it? I just bought an eighty-thousand-dollar diamond a month ago!"

"Oh, yess?"

"Oh, yeah. Here, let me show you the check I wrote."

The web-toed lowlife inspects the carbon copy and his eyes almost roll out like dull marbles. "You do business wiz Rob Katz?" he asks in awe at my major-league connections.

"What, didn't you know?" Of course I don't know Rob, but then neither does he. I press my advantage, "You wanna make money or not?"

"I suppose I w'eel not refuse a penny ..."

"Well then, let me take your ring for the night," I say, deadpan. "I'll bring it back tomorrow if it doesn't sell."

"I do not know. People take things and disappear."

God, this piece of newt turd is such a pain in the ass. "All right. I'll write you a check and you can hold it till I bring back the damned thing."

"Ow do I know your cheek is good?"

For fuck's sakes. "Then you slap my cheek and put me in jail, okay?" Now here's where you bluff, "And you can call Rob Katz right now if you want to. You wanna make a seventy-five-thousand-dollar sale or not?"

I can just see his murky brain churning. Struggle lost. Greed wins.

"I suppose I do not have to call Rob." Yeah, as if Rob's gonna take your call. "Just write me zee cheek."

"Fine."

The ring falls into my palm.

Fucking A. Now she's gonna see what a heavyweight I am. She'll pant at my great wealth and big business. She'll drop at my feet, like a fat plum from the tree. Finger-licking good.

And then it's good business. I'm such a genius. Hey, sweet-cakes, look at my monster ruby ring. Look what an expert I am. I know prices. I'll tell you what yours is worth, which is of course nothing. Then I'll buy it. You'll be so grateful you'll go down on me, and I'll fuck your pretty little cream bun till you call 911.

Chapter Two

Claudia

I know that man's gawking at me. It's nothing unusual. Men ogle at me everyday and everywhere. This one? Another of these crass, middle-class Americanos. They're all doggies in heat–even the geriatrics. But I do love getting attention from men. The old ones, the young ones, yes, even the hideous ones. Why not?

Dios, I can literally feel his eyes boring holes in my body–like an X-ray. Does he want to check if I'm missing a lung or what? Maybe I should give him a smile and lead him on a little. Oh, why bother? I've got work to do.

I'm here to do business, and flirting with a silly dork on the street's definitely not on my "to do" list. Still, one should always be at one's best. So move like you're on the catwalk, roll those shoulders and make big circular figure eights with those hips. Oh, that guy's nailed all right. But what's the point. He's probably a stalker or a serial killer, or something much worse: a Nobody. I tilt my chin and take no notice of him. A girl should always be sexy, but dignified.

My first stop: Ilya the Russian's store. He's ugly and obscenely obese, and the shop's dark and dusty. But there're cases crammed with valuable jewelry, so he must be rich. Oh, I know he's got the hots for me, and Dios knows a beautiful girl must date rich men. But I can't stoop that low. He's really too disgusting. Please, just imagine kissing those big fat oily lips. But, business is business, and it's always better to do business with the guys who're panting after you, isn't it?

Here I am, buttering Ilya up, and that guy from the street just falls through the door. Looks like he's in the business too. Well, one more contact. Who knows? Maybe he's useful.

He's okay looking, though for sure on the wrong side of thirty-five. Salt-and-pepper hair. Horn-rimmed glasses. A straight enough nose and lips still a tiny bit full. About five-foot-ten, a tiny bit overweight. Still, not quite as bad as I'd thought. But then I wasn't really looking.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from LIARby J. R. Allison Copyright © 2012 by J. R. Allison. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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