Jellybean Slut

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are imaginary, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are over the age of 18.

I’m not what you’d call a morning person, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy juggling flaming monkeys after a twelve-hour graveyard shift, either.

Which is why I’m cursing out loud, petal-deep in a pink Schwinn cruiser, the plush seat smacking my ass on every pothole, as I try to find the hidden boutique on the marshy ass end of the Florida Everglades.

“Mama,” I mutter, scowling under my hand, “if you weren’t my only blood, I’d let the lepers take you.”

Morbid? Maybe. But I feel crispy, as in one giant fried Layla.

I squint at the road sign up ahead, the one marking the turn-off for Whisper Willows Lane, just to double-check it matches the address Mario Bellini texted me this morning.

Bellini, a.k.a. my mother’s boyfriend. A.k.a. a boil on the ass of humanity. The one and only reason I’m stuck babysitting instead of catching up on sleep between gigs.

Bellini’s instructions were pretty clear this morning, especially when combined with my mother’s one-tooth short of a full smile.

“Pick up my package at the boutique and hurry up. Mama’s been waiting for a windfall, Layla.”

I groan, veering left at the private road.

After repeating Bellini’s commands word for word, my mom danced the Macarena and poured herself a mimosa. Way to go, Mom. Why not just auction off the family jewels while you’re at it?

If ever there was a job I’m overqualified for, it’s mothering my mother. It’s not all bad. I get to work on my tan, play professional masseuse, and snack between clients. But I need to get paid, too, now more than ever, if I’m gonna support my mother’s dream to travel the world…and pay off my own credit card debt.

I’m already behind on my electric bill as it is.

If Bellini is buying my mom’s favorite bubbly, I don’t have to worry that he’s shortchanging the cash cow.

My mom’s taste in men, like her diet, is heavily processed and low in protein. Bellini’s bank account is as puffed up as his ego. She’s set for a few weeks. If I wasn’t awake before I am when I find the way to the boutique, the sign makes it impossible to ignore.

It’s an elegant black plaque mounted to a tree that says WHISPER WILLOWS BOUTIQUE in stylized gold script. An arrow points left down a shady dirt lane leading into a wooded cluster of trees.

Below the sign is a smaller wooden one with the words, “PRIVATE PROPERTY: Beware of the Chihuahua.”

What the hell?

There’s a chihuahua with snipers?

I give the bike a firm whack on the handlebars and wobble down the road, a shark-sized mosquito burying its face in my thigh. God, I hate Florida.

The boutique is a one-story building, painted all white and shabby-chic with lace curtains in the windows. It looks like a place where you’d buy handcrafted jewelry and seal it with a fairy dust wish—a cliché, in other words.

According to Bellini, the manager is a “real professional.”

His mannerisms got a little…strange, though, when he discussed visiting the boutique. He muttered something about “jellybeans” and pointed to his crotch. Wh