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Get Lucky
Get Lucky
Get Lucky
Ebook55 pages49 minutes

Get Lucky

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Lucinda O'Brian isn't your average killer for hire. Lately, Lucky's been a little unlucky in the seedy world of back-alley mayhem and murderous hits.

When she ends up involved in the hit of one of Shiretown's biggest mobsters; accidentally fouling up the gangland plans to off him, not only does she find herself utterly attracted to this captivating criminal, but she becomes embedded in the middle of the city's warring factions.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 1, 2008
ISBN9781601820594
Get Lucky

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    Get Lucky - K.A. M'Lady

    http://www.mojocastle.com/

    Also By K.A. M’Lady:

    Song of the Wolf

    Realm Book One: To Tell of Darkness

    Realm Book Two: Shadow Slave

    Faith Savage, Demon Huntress Series

    Ramshackle Castle: Bent Poetry and Other Altered Verse

    Dedication:

    For Rose, because everyone needs a whiskey-swillin’, shotgun-toting Irish Nana--and you're perfect for the job. For always being an inspiration.

    For Tad, because my life would be nothing if I didn't already have my own Irish hero.

    And finally, for all the readers who need a little Irish in them...and want to get lucky, too.

    Irish Proverb:

    The wearer best knows where the shoe pinches.

    One

    I should have known the deal was going south the moment I got my heel caught in the spoke of the fire escape stairs. And, let me tell you--mangled faux leather does not a happy woman make. I guess that would teach me not to buy cheap Gucci knock-offs from a street vendor, whether they were at the extraordinary bargain basement price of forty-five dollars or not. At that price, you’d think the damn things would have come with wings.

    I’m quite sure ducking out on my blind date in the middle of the first drink (Something blue, repugnant and triple-loaded with alcohol, no doubt. My date’s idea, I’m certain, definitely not mine) and the appetizer, had absolutely nothing to do with the dark cloud of bad karma that was about to rip open a thunderstorm right above my head. Yeah, they don’t call me Lucky for nothing.

    I mean, really, was it my fault my date was all of five-feet-four inches of ‘Call Me Doctor Nerdsville’? His doctorate must have been in the Psychology of boredom, for all the conversation we had going on between us. Whoever’s bright idea it was to hook up an assassin-at-large--that would be me--and Sir Shrink-My-Head needed their own melon examined.

    I’m quite certain that despite my current line of employment, tonight’s dubious date of disaster had little to do with the fact that lately everywhere I went, misfortune seemed to follow. One would think that being a smart, savvy and--not to mention--good-looking Irish girl, I would have had a whole lot better luck. Hell, with my family lineage of Irish ne’re-do-wells, I should have a virtual rainbow shooting out my ass; maybe even a bevy of gold coins falling in my wake.

    But alas, no such luck. And since there’s no family of leprechauns living under my bed, as my luck would have it, even this gig of brazen bullets at twilight didn’t seem to be panning out for me. For the life of me, though, I just couldn’t figure out why. I mean, I’d done my research. Learned the tricks of my trade. I even managed to place top honors in my gun course at the shooting range, which should have counted for something. Like I said, I even came from a long line of crackpots and criminals. My grandfather ran rum for Capone, for cripes sake! But, as I stood on the metal stairs of that fire escape, the heel of my lovely shoe wedged tightly in the jagged little hole of spiked heel horror while it began to rain so heavily I could no longer even see my quarry beyond the rusted metal edging of the fire escape landing, I knew that even I was beyond my own unfortunate fortune.

    Was there even a word to describe the cesspool of crapdom I’d landed myself in? My night should have been titled Malfeasance of Mayhem. Karma of Chaotic Calamity. Or better yet, Rebounding Retroactive Ruin. For once this got out, my goose was literally going to be cooked.

    Really, what were all the other hit men going to say when my contract came back on Three Fingers Jack unfulfilled? I’d be a laughingstock. The only killer in town done in by her own fabulous footwear.

    I can see it now; my headstone will read ‘The lovely Lucky--a legend of lunacy’.

    With a huff of unsettled annoyance, I did the only thing any smart assassin could do. I abandoned my glorious Guccis and clambered down the stairs in my now rain-soaked stockings and silk sheath.

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