Title: Accounting for It All
Author: r.r. campbell
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: November 19, 2018
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Female, Female/Female
Length: 89000
Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, bisexual, porn, accounting, professor, fraud, grief, wlw, money laundering
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Synopsis
Former porn-star Robin Whethers has
skated by as Pornucopia’s do-nothing accountant for years. And who can blame
her? Her supervisor has only encouraged her dillydallying, and it’s given her
oodles of time to do what she loves most: coach the talent at her mentor’s
all-female pornography studio.
But then the IRS comes knocking. With
her supervisor unable to bail her out, Robin can either come clean and risk her
friendships and career, or buck up and find another way to skirt the system. No
matter how she chooses, along the way she’ll have to confront both her
blossoming feelings for the man she’s enlisted to teach her accounting and the
return of the woman she’s always loved, who’s finally ready to try to make
things work.
This lighthearted yet evocative tale of
one woman’s quest for self-actualization is sure to please anyone who’s ever
made the wrong choice for the right reasons.
Excerpt
Accounting for It All
R.R. Campbell © 2018
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Miami, Florida—April 2017
Thursdays are my favorite days at
Pornucopia.
For starters, it’s payday, and second,
it’s in-house filming day, which means after a whole week of waiting, I finally
get to work as a talent consultant again.
But it’s the simplest of things that
make Thursdays the best of days, and there isn’t anything more predictable than
the Thursday morning safe-looting operation.
Before I make it to the safe, though, I
stop in the doorway of Jerry’s office for our routine Thursday conversation.
“Morning, Jer.”
“We’re still doing this, huh?” He says
it with a grin, so between that and me being—in his words—“a prized former
starlet,” I know he doesn’t mind my teasing.
“I’m betting we only have a few thousand
in the safe this week. Still want me to—?”
Jerry throws his hands up, pretending to
look all exasperated as his double chin wobbles around. “Always. Go. To. The.
Bank. Every Thursday. No matter how much or how little is in there. Always. Go.
To. The. Bank.”
I repeat “always go to the bank” with
him as he says it for the second time. “Right. How could I forget?”
“Never forget.”
“I won’t,” I say. And I never have.
I keep moving my way down our skinny,
second-floor hallway and enter my office through the last door on the left.
After I plop to my knees at the base of the filing cabinet, I ease out the
bottom drawer. It slides with a terrible squeak—Jerry still hasn’t lubed it up
with WD40 like he promised—and I lift the half-rusted safe from it, my palms
running along its cool steel.
I punch in the combination and the safe
clicks open, revealing the fat stack of cash inside. If Jerry’s makeshift
receipt can be believed, we’re a tick under sixty-two hundred bucks.
As I double-check Jerry’s count, the
graininess of each bill wears on my thumb. It’s probably my least favorite part
of the safe-looting scheme, what with how tedious it can be. Honestly, for as
much as I love the Thursday morning charade, I’d much rather be back
talent-consulting full time. Or heck, even acting.
It could be worse, I suppose. Really,
Jerry’s not bad where supervisors are concerned. He may be a
ham-sandwich-pounding son of a gun, but since he’s the only person actually
doing any accounting around here—and because he’s the only one who knows he’s
the only person doing any accounting around here—I’ve got no plans to betray
his trust.
After all, getting paid for five days of
work a week when I really only have one? That’s a pretty sweet deal, if I do
say so myself.
I wrap up counting Jerry’s stack of
bills—a bit under six thousand two hundred, just as his scratch-paper receipt
says. No need to count again; they’ll do that at the bank anyway. I wad it all
together with a rubber band and exit my office.
Out in the hallway, I figure I may as
well tease Jerry one last time before slipping downstairs and out the door.
“Hey, Jer?”
My eyebrows knit when I hear nothing
from him. I could’ve sworn I heard him shuffling around hardly a minute ago.
“Hey, Jerry.” Again the only response I
get is my own breathing and the soft pad of my ankle-cut Chuck Taylors on the
tiled floor.
I step into his office. “Hey, Jer. Looks
like we only have a few thousand—”
There, facedown on his desk, rests the
motionless body of Jerry Chalmers.
I drop the chunk of cash and rush to his
side. “Jerry. Hey.” I shake him. He doesn’t stir. My fingers fly to his neck,
then to his wrists in search of a pulse. Nothing.
After dashing back to my office, I
fumble through my purse for my phone and dial nine-one-one.
Thursdays are normally my favorite days
at Pornucopia, but this Thursday might change all that.
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