Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle Pauline Jones (the red fox clan txt) 📖

so my back was tucked against the solid warmth of his front. His hand slid down to settle on my stomach over the spot where our baby was growing. I put mine on top of his and felt my insides fill up with wonder and even a touch of awe. And a teensy touch of panic.

“It’s a good thing I’ll have a highly trained, former federal agent assisting me.”

He kissed the side of my neck, then leaned his forehead on my shoulder and sighed.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I have this sudden urge to apologize to my mother,” he admitted, rubbing his chest like it hurt.

I straightened and turned to face him. “I thought it was just me.”

With unspoken, but mutual consent, we turned toward home.

“Do you think we’ll get over it?” I asked. If I started apologizing to my mother who knew what impact it would have on our relationship—not to mention the space-time continuum.

He grinned at me, bringing his dimple into play and I felt strong enough to resist all urges that didn’t involve him in a prone position. We may have started walking faster.

He tugged me closer. “If it doesn’t, what’s the worst that can happen?”

I tensed, trying to hear Fate chortle over the pounding of my heart. It wouldn’t…would it?

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Do Wah Diddy Die

He’s either going to kiss her—or kill her. If the crazy hit couple doesn’t get to her first.

Luci Seymour came to New Orleans to find her father—not trouble in the shape of an elderly hit couple and the tangled threads of a con man’s last scam. She thought the hard part would be her aunts. But when the bullets start flying, she’s happy to have one of New Orlean’s finest at her side.

Mickey Ross thought he knew crazy, that he knew all variations of weird. But not even living and working in New Orleans prepared him for Luci and her relatives. He can understand someone might want to kill her. She’s annoying and frustrating and distracting—but someone wants to kill her bad enough to put a hit out on her.

What’s up with that?

When the stakes get upped by the local mob boss and a bunch of middle aged women, Mickey learns why someone somewhere once said, “Old men for counsel, women for war.”

"When it comes to creating stories with offbeat humor and outrageous situations, Pauline Baird Jones is in a class by herself. A most excellent experience!" RT Book Reviews

“This one is a must read! —Reviewer's Choice Award from Scribes World

"If you have ever read Pauline Jones' work, I won't need to say anything more than ‘she's raised the bar once again.’ Beyond good, excellent, and all the rest of my store of superlatives…” Crescent Blues

If you like your reading “hilarious,” then grab a copy of Do Wah Diddy Die.

1

An ancient radio was scratching out a Sousa march when Fern Smith unlocked the door of the seedy hotel room and found Donald posing in front of the cracked mirror with an AK-47 held at a military angle across his chest and a bandanna knotted around his mostly bald head. His long thin neck merged into plump jowls, making his head an uncertain rectangle, with the wispy remains of his hair trailing around three sides. A hang-dog expression adorned the fourth side. His puny shoulders were jaunty and self-satisfaction gleamed from close-set eyes as he regarded the speckled image in the substandard mirror. Donald was neither tall nor short—though he could appear either, depending on where he belted his pants across his beer belly—so his attempt at Rambo fell sadly short of the mark.

Fern pushed the door closed with her shoulder and dumped the sacks she carried onto the lumpy surface of the less-than-double bed. When she snapped off the radio, her voice broke flatly into the sudden silence. “I still think we should have bought the Uzi.”

Donald froze like a deer in headlights, then spun to face her. He grabbed the bandanna and stuffed it in his back pocket, then produced a wide, hopeful smile as he peered up at her, exposing the gap where his plates didn’t meet his gums.

Fern was a tall woman, narrow everywhere but the hips, with stooped shoulders and long arms that made her look like a caricatured bird of prey. Her muddy gray hair, as wispy as Donald’s, was drawn up in an off-center bun. Her narrow mouth, having long ago given in to the force of gravity, sagged on either side of her pointed chin.

“Teddy said—”

“I’m sure what Teddy said had nothing to do with the price.” Fern’s expression gave no quarter. “If you hadn’t let Artie lay out the hit—”

Donald tenderly deposited the AK-47 on the dresser top, retrieved the bandanna from his pocket and rubbed his fingerprints off the AK. “His tab, his call.”

Fern’s sigh was silent, but it ruffled the back of what was left of Donald’s hair as she reached around him to pick up the photograph of the target. She studied the face. There was something about her eyes, something deep in the mysterious green slits barely visible beneath drooping lids, that made Fern nervous. She tossed the picture down beside the gun.

“His way overdue tab, don’t you mean?”

With a triumphant look, Donald pointed at something behind her. She turned and