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    Jule and John Cherry Pimp
    Jule and John Cherry Pimp
    Jule and John Cherry Pimp
    Ebook95 pages1 hour

    Jule and John Cherry Pimp

    By Carys Weldon

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    About this ebook

    Jule is a guitarist with one hope left. A late night audition sounds sketchy to begin with. But she’s homeless and is willing to hope in one last miracle. The audition is for John Cherry Pimp’s band, and he’s her idol.

    From the time he saves her from rape and mugging, right up to the end, she’s limp in his arms, but that might have something to do with the blood sucking vampire he’s become.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMojocastle Press
    Release dateApr 1, 2013
    ISBN9781601801845
    Jule and John Cherry Pimp

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      Book preview

      Jule and John Cherry Pimp - Carys Weldon

      http://www.mojocastle.com/

      Also By Carys Weldon:

      Caresses Well Done

      Angel B.E.T.

      Come With Carys Series

      The Pack Series

      Destra and the Lustpire

      Hell...O!

      Chapter One

      Jule sat on the floor of her empty apartment, eyeing the door. With her back against the wall and her few prized possessions around her, she swallowed heavily and wondered if the two deadbolts she'd installed would hold.

      From the other side, her building manager pried keys into the locks, and let loose with a stream of Hispanic rants that ended with Enjoy your last night, Jule, accentuated with a fisted thump. Because tomorrow morning, my broth-er will be here to get you out of there. The voice retreated but Jule heard her landlord say He will take the door off if he has to. Aye-yi-yi! Your thirty days are up, get out!

      The screwdriver in her fist grew hot. Jule wondered when it would be safe to take the bolts and sneak out. So much for one last night, she mumbled.

      Outside, the wind howled. Snow sifted against the window. But it wasn't as if her place was warm. The drafty upper floor apartment had no heat. That had been shut off the week before.

      Jule sniffed, biding her time until the sun went down, flipping through a two-day-old newspaper she'd picked up by a trash can. She had it splayed out on the floor beside her where the light from the window lit. It was open to the Classifieds, Musicians Wanted section.

      Over and over again, she read: Female redheads ONLY. Midnight Auditions. The address was on the other side of town, in the Old Wharf Theater. She had just enough change to make the bus fare. But what then?

      Hours later, the locks came off easily, quietly, but they weighed heavily, one in each of her coat pockets. She would have left them behind if she wasn't pretty sure she'd need them again.

      It was quite a feat to sling her backpack, two guitars, one old acoustic, and a gig-bagged Fender bass over her shoulder while balancing a toe to hold the door open, and lifting the three hundred amp Peavey performance box. That puppy wasn't light. She'd lugged them around before, and was getting to be a pro at it.

      Getting the gear down the stairs quietly was another job. One noise and her landlord would wrestle her for anything that could be pawned or sold on the corner, anything to get the back rent.

      She managed, though. And before long, Jule found herself out in the streets of New York, freezing her ass off, lugging her crap to the bus stop up the street under a full blood moon. She couldn't take the chance that her apartment manager would see her on the corner outside the building.

      By the time the bus came, Jule was chilled through. The door opened and the driver said, Uh! You can't move in, girl.

      Oh, come on! The bus is empty.

      It was, too. Both of them peered down the interior length of it. The bus was fully illuminated, not a seat taken. All right, the driver gave in. But only because you caught me on a good night. I still got my Christmas charity going on.

      She clunked around until she had all her stuff situated, dropped the coins and sat down. Jule would have gone to the back, but she didn't want to maneuver her equipment around any more than necessary.

      Conversationally, the driver asked, You play?

      Yeah, Jule looked out the other side of the bus, turning a shoulder to him.

      The guy took the hint. He pulled the lever to close the door and put the bus in gear. They traveled in silence for ages. The weather worsened. Looks like we're in for a real blizzard this time.

      Yeah, Jule monotoned. Great, huh?

      She felt his eyes in the panning mirror, but she didn't look. She didn't want to see her own misery spelled across her features.

      Reaching up, Jule tugged the sock cap down over her ears and blew on her fingers. She had on a cheap-o pair of gloves—fingertips cut off—but she was grateful for them.

      Hey. You ever play on the corners? I hear there's some money in that.

      Jule rolled her eyes. Yeah. I got my acoustic case stolen that way. She sniffed, cold-shouldered him again, and hoped he wouldn't bother her with more conversation.

      Why don't you play something?

      Her fingers were freezing. Maybe a little movement would warm them up. She slid the acoustic over her lap and picked out some Spanish classical.

      That's nice.

      She played several pieces until the bus pulled into a stop and Jule perked up, leaning closer to the window, muttering, Don't open the door. They're thieves. She'd seen those two men before. Or some just like them. They were the type that lurked in dark alleys and around blind corners.

      I got to.

      Jule closed her eyes, knowing she was screwed. Call it intuition. She set her guitar aside, tried to look busy bending over, fiddling with her gear, fighting panic.

      The two guys got on, reeking. One smelled like smoke and booze. And the other, he smelled like death. It was awful. It made Jule's eyes water within seconds.

      They weren't quiet, either. As they looked her and her belongings over, one said, Woowee, look what we lucked into.

      Move to the back of the bus, please, the driver used his no-nonsense tone, adding Leave the other passengers alone.

      They didn't. And the use of the plural made them laugh outright.

      One plopped into the seat across the aisle from Jule and the other landed in front of her. As soon as the bus began to move, he asked, What's a honey like you doing out in a snowstorm like this?

      The clichéd pickup made her stomach lurch. Not only were they creeps, but they thought they were smooth, too.

      His buddy noted, Looks like we got us a homeless girl. Oddly, he looked for approval from the other guy before asking, That's what you like, right?

      Jule lifted her chin and did her best to ignore them. She slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped the screwdriver. She'd been mugged before, and raped, and it wasn't going to happen again. She'd die first. But not without putting a little pain on the perpetrator.

      She ain't talking, the first guy chuckled. Looks like she's scared.

      That sent chills down Jule's spine. She looked into the mirror then, and gave the bus driver an 'I hate you' look. He pulled over, opened the door, and said, All right, both of you—off.

      This ain't our stop, the second thug said. Keep driving old man, if you know what's good for you.

      No. Get off the bus.

      Not happening. Shut that door before I pop a cap in your head. What's the matter with you? It was the first

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