Excerpt from Grindhouse by Elle Chambers: “Deviltown”

Grindhouse1“You said that was twenty, right?” the man said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nah, babydoll—I said twenty if I do you. Thirty if you do me.”

The man cursed under his breath, but pulled three crisp ten dollar bills from his wallet. “Here. Now get the fuck out, Ladyboy.”

Mimi scoffed. Ladyboy. Well…wasn’t he clever. The day a tranny-loving john with self-loathing tendencies came up with an insult worth a damn was the day she’d stop tricking. Shit, she’d probably hit the lotto first.

She slipped the money into her pseudo-cleavage, courtesy of rubber falsies and a Miracle bra, and pulled her leopard print skirt down over her still semi-erect appendage. She smiled.

“It’s always a pleasure, Norman.”

She chuckled to herself when he flinched at the stroke of his cheek. So predictable. They all were. Couldn’t wait to suck and fuck in the privacy of a dark alley, their hands (and other orifices) full of her, but once that initial rush wore off and the nut was over, they acted like she was carrying the plague. Hypocrites.

Mimi climbed out of Norman’s (if that was even his real name) black sedan, careful not to stumble in her YSLs. She studied the stilettos for a minute, trying to focus on not falling over, willing her legs to strengthen after the mind-blowing orgasm she’d just experienced. Norman was an idiot who regularly said idiotic things, but his mouth was apparently good for something. She wondered if his wife had had the pleasure of his head game or if that little trick was something he’d been saving for this special occasion.

The sound of squealing tires behind her brought her back to the present. She needed to find her way back to the main street. This particular alley hadn’t been far from her usual stomping grounds outside McGregor’s Pub, but it was a homeless haven and she hated stepping over half-wasted, malnourished, and frequently insane men who’d grab at her ankles and beg for change. Shit, it was hard in these streets—she wasn’t giving a damn dime to nobody. If they wanted to eat, they’d work on their hustle just like she did. As her girl Trinny used to say, “A closed mouth don’t get fed.” Neither did legs or assholes for that matter.

Now with Norman’s thirty bucks, she almost had enough to cover this month’s rent in her shithole apartment. She checked her designer impostor watch. Ten fifteen. She had enough time for another trick or two if she worked quickly. Maybe she’d get enough to buy something pretty for herself, some non-necessity she could show off to the girls. It’d been a long time since she’d had the opportunity to do that. Davonte kept taking all her damn profits, talking about how he was owed it and if she wanted for something, all she had to do was give a little something. Which Mimi knew meant he wanted his dick sucked. She’d obliged his trifling ass on numerous occasions, but the shit was getting old. He took forever to get hard, and cumming was virtually out of the question most times. Then he’d slap her as if it was her fault his old crusty dick didn’t work right. Bastard.

But he was better than other pimps, she supposed. He’d never beat his girls like a lot of the others—only gave them a good backhand every now and again when they fell out of line. He never put none of them in a hospital, though, and for that Mimi was grateful. Her old man didn’t used to be as kind. He’d put Trinny there once, and she never came out.

She made it back to McGregor’s, only having had to curse out three bums on her way. Two more girls—a short redhead whose ass and tits practically sat in the street, she was so fucking tasteless, and a tall blonde the size of a toothpick—stood on the corner hooting and hollering at every free, and not-so-free, dick that happened to swing past.

“You young hoes need to stop being so desperate,” Mimi said with a smirk. She sidled up beside the girls, both of which were barely out of their teens, and took a cigarette out of her skirt pocket. “Didn’t I teach y’all nothing?”

The redhead, Sugar, lit Mimi’s smoke as she rolled her eyes. “The only thing you could teach us is how to remove our teeth when we get to be your age and still blowing broke tricks in parked cars like basic high school bitches.”

“Yeah, don’t get mad at us ‘cause your geriatric ass needs a bottle of Evian to get wet,” the blonde, Farrah, chimed in.

Mimi shook her head. “Disrespectful slores.”

The girls’ laughter rang through the busy streets.

“I’ll have you bitches know I’m twenty-five. And you skeezers better hope you make it to my age at the rate y’all fast asses is going. Y’all gonna mess around and get one of them Jeffrey Dahmer mothafuckas taking you home and tossing you six ways from Sunday, baby, in a garden salad with a bottle of Chianti as a teaser.”

The girls giggled as a red Mustang pulled up to the curb. They quickly composed themselves and put on their best “come fuck me” faces. Mimi shook her head. These young girls these days were so damn obvious. Not a lick of sense between the two of ‘em.

Their Lolita-esque facades slipped when the passenger side window rolled down and a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty stuck his head out. He leered Mimi’s way.

“Hey mama, wanna come for a ride with us?”

“Who’s us?” Mimi typically didn’t do boys, but this one had a pretty decent ride and might actually have some money. Even better, he’d probably be the two-pumps-and-a-dump type, so she’d get back here in time to snag a real man before having to call it a night.

The kid smirked. “Me and my boy Braxton.”

Another kid leaned over and waved. Mimi couldn’t stop a smirk of her own from forming on her lips. He was wearing a white Polo shirt, his hair parted on the side, a shiny gold watch glittering on his wrist. Yeah, they most certainly had money, but those Young Republican types were also a bore, and she didn’t have the time or inclination to teach anybody how to be a decent lay.

“Sorry, boys,” Mimi said between a puff of smoke. “I’m off the clock.”

The boy in the passenger seat sneered, his face contorted into the ugliest grimace she’d ever seen.

“Fuck you then, faggot.”

He flipped her off as his friend, Braxton, chuckled and sped on down the road.

Mimi didn’t even blink. Children. They were all fucking idiots, and to get mad at them for that was to get mad at a pencil fresh out the box for being what it was—absolutely pointless.

“That piece of shit,” Sugar said, throwing her arm around Mimi’s corseted middle.

“Ignore him, girl. Yeeeesss…it’s a full moon tonight, hunty, and folks is gonna act the fool.”


A man’s shout caught their attention. Leaning out the door of McGregor’s was the man himself: big, round, and sweaty—and looking awfully pissed.

“What I tell you about hanging out in front of my bar like this is the goddamn free clinic? Git!”

The girls muttered expletives and waved him off, teetering down the street on their unsteady heels. They went through this song and dance with old man McGregor every other night. They’d humor him for a bit, but wind up right back out front the next evening. Maybe one of these days he’ll wise up and call the cops, Mimi thought. Then she remembered ninety percent of their clientele were patrons of his establishment, and she knew he’d never do it. He couldn’t afford to lose business, not in this economy.

Mimi checked her watch. Eleven. Davonte would be rolling up around one looking for his cut. If she didn’t want to end up short on rent, she’d need at least one more trick to get by.

“You, with the legs, come here.” A male voice shouted from a distance.

Mimi glanced over her shoulder and smiled. A nice Jag was idling by the curb. The passenger side window, tinted, was rolled halfway down. She couldn’t see the guy’s face, but his voice was resonant and strong, so strong her panties would have been wet from anticipation. If she was wearing any. Or had a puss.

The bluest eyes she’d ever seen peered out from the shadows of the car window. He met her gaze. “Yeah—you. Come here, please. I’d like to ask you for directions.”

Directions, huh? That’s what they were calling it these days. She smirked and sashayed over to the window. She could hear the girls behind her cursing her good fortune. Ha. Let the bitches seethe.

Mimi leaned in and smiled at the gentleman (and she could tell by the sharp suit he was wearing and the smell of his cologne that he was indeed a gentle man, definitely not from around these parts, no baby, not here).

“How can I be of service to you, Mister…”

“Reed. The last name’s Reed.”

“Well, Mr. Reed, you said you needed directions. You lost, babydoll?”

The man grinned up at Mimi. “You could say that.” He leaned back in his seat. “I’m also kind of tired and need to get on home. You think you could drive a stick? Help me out?”

Mimi licked her lips and felt a chuckle rise up around her Adam’s apple. She suppressed the urge to laugh. One should never do that when staring down at the bulge in a man’s pants—it’s bound to make him feel some kind of way, and Mimi St. Laurent wasn’t in the business of making anybody feel nothing other than pleasure.

“Yeeeesss, Mr. Reed,” she said, her voice dropping an octave to that deep, honeyed spot men loved. “I think I can handle that just fine.”

He hit the locks and Mimi tossed her cig, climbing into the car, waggling her fingers at the dumbstruck whores on the corner.

See ya in the morning, hookas.


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New Release Wednesday: Grindhouse by Elle Chambers


Warning: This triple feature contains graphic violence, strong language, sexual content, and extreme bloodshed. This is not for the mild-mannered. If you have any emotional triggers that can cause severe mental disturbance – Grindhouse is not for you. All others – read at your own risk. You’ve been warned.

Grindhouse is a short story collection featuring three disturbing tales:

“Little Girl, I Want To Murder You”: A young paralegal, on the way to the interview of her life, takes the cab ride from hell.

“Deviltown”: A pre-op trans hooker, looking to perform her last great trick, is in for a treat when she goes home with a stranger.

and “The Beautiful People”: High school is hell for awkward teenage girls. And payback is a bitch for the ones who’ve done wrong.

Get your copy on Smashwords today.

ETA: Grindhouse is now $0.99 on Amazon!

Excerpt from Grindhouse by Elle Chambers: “The Beautiful People”

Jessie glanced down at her fingers as if seeing them for the first time. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. She pressed her lips together and wrung her hands.

“I know what you think. But it’s not what you think.” She stared at Detective Gross with a pitiful expression of fear. “She’s come back for us. She’s going to get even.”

Detective Gross sighed, leaning back in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was another reason he avoided long talks with his daughter-teenagers had the uncanny ability to talk in circles, a skill he’d never quite mastered himself when he was their age. He’d always been a straight-shooter-he didn’t evade; he was clear and, most importantly, direct. This girl was anything but, however, and he silently prayed for patience before continuing his questioning.

“What is Morgan trying to get even for?”

Jessie’s watering eyes finally spilled over and she swiped at the errant tears. “For everything we did to her.” She leaned back in her seat and tugged at her shirt sleeves again.

“It started when she first came here three months ago. She was quiet, and she didn’t dress well, so that instantly made her a target. The guys made fun of her and said she looked homeless, and the girls were just as bad. No, they were worse. They used to pull awful pranks on her.”

“Like what?”

Jessie rolled her eyes. “There was this one time she wore white pants to school. I don’t know where she got ‘em from ‘cause nobody I know has white pants. They looked a little old even, like, flare leg jeans. And nobody wears those either. Anyway, the girls took a handful of ketchup packets out of the lunch room and put them on her seat in Government. She sat down and the packets burst, and everyone was laughing because you could hear the squish, and when she stood up there was this huge brownish spot on her pants so it looked like she’d had her period or shit herself.”

Her eyes widened and her hand flew up to her mouth. “Sorry. I meant ‘pooped.’”

Detective Gross waved her off. “Doesn’t matter. These pranks-they were always like that?”

Jessie nodded vigorously. “She cried after the ketchup incident. She ran out of the room while everyone was laughing and didn’t come back to class for three days.”

“Did you laugh?”

Her cheeks reddened and she lowered her gaze. “At first. It was funny, you know?”

He didn’t, actually. He’d been a Morgan in high school himself so he wouldn’t find that kind of adolescent “humor” all that amusing. To each their own though.

Jessie pulled her turtleneck up around her throat, shivering.

“Are you cold?” He didn’t think it was chilly in the room; in fact, he felt his underarms dampen, but he was also heavier than the tiny girl. It was possible she was still feeling the effects of the night air from when she was brought in the station. Nerves may have had something to do with it, too.

The girl shook her head. “I’m fine.” She stared back down at the table, not meeting the detective’s gaze.

“I told Brooke about the ketchup incident one day after school, trying to make conversation. Of course Lassie laughed, but Brooke didn’t. I was shocked because that seemed like something she’d find hilarious. But she tossed her hair over her shoulder and said something like, ‘We should talk to her. Invite her to lunch.’ Lassie stopped laughing then. If we were seen with Morgan, it’d be like social suicide.”

Detective Gross looked up from his writing. “Why?”

“Because Morgan was lame. The way she dressed-she looked Amish. Seriously, it was embarrassing. Her hair was never combed, it looked like a bird’s nest most days. And she was a nerd. Always had her head stuck in a book. She was poor. She lived over on Peach Street in the broken down house next to Mrs. Landingham. No one cool lives in that neighborhood.

“But nevertheless, Brooke had me invite her to lunch. She asked me to do it because we had a few classes together. I didn’t really mind Morgan, but something didn’t sit right with me about this.”

“So why do it?”

Jessie shrugged. “We always did what Brooke said. If you wanted to be ‘in’, you had no choice.”

“Brooke was the Queen Bee then.”

Jessie’s brow creased and Detective Gross shrugged. “My kid watches those Gossipy Little Liars shows. I know the lingo.”


Detective Gross noted Jessie’s sudden silence. She bit her lower lip and stared past him at the wall.

“When I asked Morgan to lunch, she was so happy. She wasn’t blabbering about it or anything, but you could just tell by the way her eyes lit up that she was psyched. She didn’t have any friends. People don’t go out of their way to befriend newbies.”

“You took her to lunch-then what happened?”

Jessie folded her arms across her chest. “She sat with us and it was fine. The first day. Brooke was nice-for her-and Lassie…she made passive-aggressive comments here and there, but Brooke shut her down every time. The next day, Brooke barely spoke to Morgan. Lassie ignored her too and I was stuck having to talk to her. It was so awkward. We didn’t have anything to talk about. She tried talking to me about some dead Russian writer, but I don’t read that kind of stuff so there were these long moments of silence.”

The detective noted their own moment of silence with mild amusement. Jessie had stopped talking again and it was just like being in a room with his own daughter. He never really knew what to say to her. And when emotions were high, like they were with Jessie now, he definitely didn’t have a clue how to behave.

Jessie shivered again and Detective Gross stood. He needed to do something besides sit there looking like a brain-dead idiot.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “It’s not very good, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“No, thanks.” Jessie wrapped her arms around her middle. She stared up at the detective. “I’m ready to tell you what happened.”

Detective Gross nodded and sat back down. He raised his pen, poised to take her statement.

Jessie cleared her throat. “Things didn’t get bad until about a week or two later. Brooke and Lassie got bored with being fake-nice and decided to revert to form. They’d invite Morgan to lunch with us or to walk home with us after school and they’d make catty ass comments the whole way. You could tell Morgan was uncomfortable, but she wasn’t the type to defend herself. They made fun of her hair and her clothes and the way she talked-she had a slight stutter. Why she kept hanging with us, I don’t know. They were awful to her. I would have stopped coming around if it was me.”

“Okay, so the girls made smart-aleck comments from time to time. Do you really believe that’s enough for a girl to want to kill someone?”

Jessie’s face turned stony. She looked the detective in the eye. “Obviously you’ve never been a teen girl.”