Wild Spring Read online

  Wild Spring

  Tyson Wild Book Twenty Five

  Tripp Ellis

  Contents

  Welcome

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Author’s Note

  Tyson Wild

  Connect With Me

  Copyright © 2021 by Tripp Ellis

  All rights reserved. Worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services. All characters engaging in sexual activity are above the age of consent.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  1

  JD and I were doing what we did best—judging a bikini contest.

  Gorgeous girls pranced the stage, the sun glistening their toned, oiled bodies. Pert assets jiggled, barely contained by skimpy fabric bursting at the seams. Spike-heeled shoes accented long legs that sparked lewd fantasies among the drooling, drunk crowd.

  This was Spring Break in Coconut Key. That time of year when thousands of college students and partygoers descended upon the island to drink copious amounts of alcohol, party like it was the end of the world, and hook up with random strangers. Then pretend it all never happened.

  A full stage had been erected on Taffy Beach with towering columns of speakers on either side. A massive lighting grid rivaled that of an arena rock show. Various bands would play throughout the day and night, and the preliminary bikini competitions were interspersed. It was all leading up to the final contest where the winner would receive $100,000. With a prize that large, the contestants pulled out all the stops—and quite often, pulled off all the fabric. The contest was less about the bikinis and more about the girls. Each tried to outdo the other with less fabric, wild undulations, and lewd behavior.

  There were large banners by the towering speakers promoting a local radio station that had sponsored the event along with Coconut Cream Sunscreen. We had worked with the company on numerous occasions, and the owner had asked us to judge one of the preliminaries. Who could turn down an offer like that?

  The sun baked the beach, and there were plenty of red faces and shoulders. Skin peeled, and freckles darkened. A few noses were white with zinc oxide. Red plastic cups dangled from hands. You didn't have to look far to see someone bonging a beer through a funnel and a clear hose. The air smelled like beer, whiskey, strawberry daiquiris, and sunscreen. Not far away was the First Aid tent, treating overheated, drunk, and dehydrated revelers.

  Last year, we certainly had our troubles. We all hoped this year would be different. Aside from the excessive partying, the insane traffic, and the wanton debauchery, we didn't expect much beyond the typical chaos—petty thefts, fights, and minor property destruction. More than a few hotel rooms would get trashed every year. People would pass out drunk in bushes and puke on walkways.

  The department was stretched thin this time of year, with deputies working overtime to contain the madness. There was a fine balance to strike between commerce and chaos. Spring Break was one of the most lucrative times of the year, and many establishments relied on the boon to get through the lean times. Hotels were packed, bars were full, restaurants had long waitlists, and vendors sold tons of souvenirs—everything from T-shirts to seashells to paintings of seascapes. There was a party on every boat in every marina. It was like Vegas—nonstop action, 24 hours a day, seven days a week during the month of March. It came in three distinct waves as different colleges broke on different schedules.

  What happened in Coconut Key stayed in Coconut Key. For the most part.

  A lovely young lady finished her performance, and the DJ announced the next contestant. "Please give a warm round of applause for Rachel Reid.”

  A beautiful brunette sauntered onto the stage, displaying her assets. She wore a spaghetti string bikini that somehow managed to cover all the requisite parts with microscopic patches of leopard-print fabric. With the way she bounced and jiggled, I was sure the fabric was glued in position because the wardrobe never malfunctioned, despite her best efforts. She was tan and fit, with sparkling blue eyes and enticing curves.

  The crowd went wild.

  JD and I exchanged a glance, thinking exactly the same thing—10.

  This girl was a perfect 10.

  She put on a good face as she did her routine, flashing her pearly whites. But behind her eyes, I could tell she was experiencing some discomfort. I don't think most people would notice. Most people weren’t looking at her eyes.

  She finished teasing the audience and exited the stage amid boisterous applause. When she passed the next contestant, her eyes threw daggers.

  The DJ rumbled, “Please welcome to the stage, Vivian Grey!”

  The beautiful blonde took the stage to more hoots and hollers. The whistles and cheers were well deserved. Vivian lit up the stage with her infectious smile and her buoyant disposition. Her bikini, if you could call it that, consisted of a few small seashells covering her precious parts. The swimsuit was held together by impossibly small strings.

  The audience prayed for a thread to burst.

  I gave another glance to JD—10.

  Vivian was another perfect 10. Maybe even an 11.

  Something told me all the contestants were perfect 10s. Perhaps we weren't good judges after all. Who were we to ruin anyone's hopes and dreams? The lowest score we’d give was a 9.

  Vivian pranced the stage, wriggling and writhing, undulating in hypnotic ways. Men drooled, and women eyed her with envy. A smoldering look from the luscious vixen could ignite any man’s desire.

  Vivian left the stage with a confident strut, knowing the competition was hers to lose.

  That's when the chaos began.

  2

  I didn’t see it happen.

  It was a few minutes later when a stagehand found
us in the judge’s booth and asked us to come backstage to manage the situation.

  Vivian and Rachel had gotten into a catfight, and let’s just say the skimpy little bikinis didn’t fare well. The frail straps snapped, and bits of ripped fabric dangled. There were a few seashells on the floor, and two sets of the perkiest peaks you’d ever seen bounced free.

  Rachel and Vivian snarled at each other, bearing their fangs while others held them back. Obscenities flew from their plump, glossy lips.

  Neither of the girls was injured. Not so much as a scratch. Even their perfectly manicured nails were intact. Their faces were red with rage, and they huffed and puffed.

  The DJ announced the next contestant, and the show continued on.

  “What’s the problem here?” I asked.

  "I'll tell you what the problem is," Rachel growled. "That fucking bitch put muscle cream in my bikini."

  JD snorted.

  Menthol on sensitive parts had to sting a little.

  "I don't know what she's talking about," Vivian replied, feigning innocence.

  "Own up to it, you little bitch!”

  "Maybe that burning sensation is an indication that you should see a doctor?”

  Rachel's eyes narrowed at her.

  "I mean, you’re a nurse. You should be familiar with the symptoms of an STD."

  "You are an STD!”

  Vivian shrugged it off.

  "Both of you are gonna get disqualified if this nonsense continues," I said.

  I had no authority to disqualify anyone, but I thought it might snap them in line.

  Panic washed over their faces.

  "I didn't put Tiger Balm in her bikini," Vivian said. "And you can't prove that I did."

  Rachel clenched her jaw, still seething. In a calm voice that was downright frightening, Rachel said, “Okay. Fine. Whatever.” Then she whispered, “Just watch your back."

  It was the kind of threat that shouldn't be ignored.

  I reiterated my stance. "I'm gonna talk to the sponsors of this event. And I can assure you, if there is another such incident, all parties involved will be disqualified. Is that clear?"

  The two girls glared at each other.

  "Is that clear?" I said in a tone that demanded an answer.

  "Yeah, sure," Vivian said.

  "Fine," Rachel said. "If that's the way it's gonna be."

  "You’re both lucky I don't take you to jail," I said.

  Vivian gave me a sultry look. "Are you going to cuff me and stick me in the back of your squad car, Deputy?”

  It was an enticing offer.

  Rachel rolled her eyes and muttered, “Slut.”

  Vivian's eyes snapped to her. “Excuse me?"

  “You heard me.”

  “Hey!” I roared.

  Rachel raised her hands in surrender.

  Vivian knelt down, scooped up her seashells, and strutted away, not bothering to cover her endowments. I mean, hell, they were pure perfection. Why cover them up?

  Rachel huffed and stormed in the opposite direction.

  JD had a wide grin on his face. "This has the makings of a reality TV show. I think that should be the next thing you pitch to the studio. 10 hotties all living in the same house, competing for a million-dollar bikini prize. Could be fun. Catfights galore.”

  The idea had possibilities.

  The bikini contest continued, and we resumed our places in the judge's booth. We had missed a couple of contestants, but had more than ample opportunity to see them backstage. We stuck with our pattern of perfect 10s for our favorites and 9s for everyone else. Each contestant had her own special charm. It was hard not to love them all.

  We filled out the scorecards accordingly and turned them in at the end. The scores were tallied, and the semi-finalists were selected. There were five judges in total. The other 3 were undoubtedly tougher critics.

  We waited, eager for the results. But Sheriff Daniels called and spoiled our fun. “I need you two nitwits to get over to Chuck’s Whiskey Shack.”

  You wouldn’t get much resistance from us about going to a liquor store. But it was an unusual request from the sheriff.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “The place got robbed. Chuck got shot. That’s all I know.”

  I deflated. “We’re on it.”

  I ended the call and filled JD in on the situation. We pushed our way through the crowd, heading toward the parking lot. JD’s Miami Blue Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet waited. It was a thing of beauty and a magnet for potential exes.

  The lot was full of Spring Breakers drifting about in various states of inebriation.

  We climbed into the car, and Jack cranked up the engine. He eased out of the parking space, and it took us a few minutes to get out of the lot and another twenty to get across town. The traffic was intense. There was no parking available by the liquor store, so JD pulled behind a patrol car, parked in a traffic lane, and clicked on his hazards. Red and blue lights atop the patrol car flashed, and the Porsche’s yellow hazards flickered.

  The area had been cordoned off, and deputies kept the gawking crowd at bay.

  Camera flashes spilled out of the liquor store.

  We pushed through the crowd and pulled open the main doors.

  "Watch out!" Brenda shouted. "Don't step there!”

  We froze in our tracks.

  3

  The forensic photographer snapped several photos of the floor as we hovered in the doorway of the liquor store. Somebody had spilled a can of soda, and the sticky substance dried atop the tile floor. The floor was checkered with vinyl squares with black speckles.

  Brenda squatted, examining the caramelized residue.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Footprint," Brenda said. "Could be the shooter's."

  There was a barely visible impression in the residue.

  A trail of sticky footprints led from the dried puddle to the counter, fading away. That was probably as far as the shooter advanced into the store.

  There were rows and rows of liquor bottles—amber whiskeys, clear vodkas, and a mix of clear and amber rums. Rows of wine bottles lined the aisles. Refrigerators in the back were stocked with beer and soda, and their compressors hummed. A few overhead fluorescent bulbs buzzed. The aisles were loaded with drinking accessories—shot glasses, corkscrews, and weighted glasses. There were packets of flavored mixes for daiquiris and margaritas. You could even find chips and salsa along with peanuts, assorted nuts, and other snackables. There were koozies and ice chests for sale, along with hats and cheap sunglasses.

  Chuck lay on the floor behind the counter in a pool of crimson. He’d taken a bullet to the chest and another to the head, which had left a splatter of blood, brain matter, skull fragments, and red sludge on the shelves of cigarettes and small pints behind the register. Several bottles had fallen from the shelves, and shards of glass speckled the ground around Chuck. The air was thick with the smell of whiskey from the broken bottles.

  I didn't know Chuck well. Enough to say, “Hey, how are you doing?” when I saw him in the store. He always had a friendly smile on his face, and we’d chitchat for a brief moment while he rang up the register. Nice guy. It sickened me to see him lying there on the floor.

  I'd like to say that liquor store robberies weren’t common, but they were. They were easy targets, and there was usually a lot of cash in the till. Chuck offered a 5% discount for liquor purchased with cash. By the end of the day, he would have quite a bit in the register. I was pretty sure he had a handgun or a shotgun under the counter. But it was clear he couldn't reach the weapon in time.

  Something bothered me about the scene right away.

  Chuck was in his late 50s. He had mostly gray hair that was peppered. He had a slightly bulbous nose and droopy hazel eyes. He had an average build and wasn’t in bad shape. He wore a white shirt with thin navy blue stripes and blue jeans—both of which were speckled with blood.

  Why Chuck spent as much time in the store as he did
was beyond me. Most of his business came from online sales. He had a team of employees handling the warehousing and shipping. He could have hired someone to clerk the store. By all accounts, Chuck was well off. But maybe he liked interacting with the customers.

  The cash drawer was open, and the majority of its contents were gone. There were a few singles in the bottom of trays that had been missed, but it was mostly cleaned out.

  I surveyed the area and saw a security camera that had an angle on the register and the door. "Anyone take a look at the footage yet?"

  “Sheldon is in the back office, looking for the footage," Brenda said.

  I glanced at JD. A grim look soured his face. “I always liked Chuck.”

  “Me too."

  We marched down the aisle and pushed through the door labeled Private, Employees Only. Sheldon sat at Chuck's desk, looking through the footage on his computer. He had the replay cued up.

  JD and I huddled over the monitor and watched the sad scene. It was a scenario that had played itself out in countless liquor stores and quick marts across the country.

  A guy in a ski mask pushed into the store, marched to the counter, and aimed a pistol at Chuck. There was no audio on the recording, but this little home movie didn't need a soundtrack. The thug demanded Chuck open the register and empty the cash.