guy you wanted to bring home to Mom.
Or maybe not , Savannah decided.
Instantly, she could see that Kyd was as appealing as his music. And she could also understand why matriarch Helene wasn’t enamored with him.
“Hi,” he said when he saw her. “Who are you?”
“Savannah,” Emma said, “this is my boyfriend, Kyd. Baby, this is Savannah Reid, the lady I told you about. The one I hired to help Oma.”
“Oh, yeah. The private investigator.” He walked to Savannah and held out his hand. “That’s pretty cool, what you do. You find lost people and catch cheating husbands and cool stuff like that, right?”
“We pretty much leave the cheating husbands to their wives to catch, but we’ve found some lost people, yes.”
He pulled a large speaker monitor off a chair and onto the floor and took a seat.
Savannah noticed he had skulls and crossbones on his flannel pajama bottoms, too. Definitely a case of fashion stagnation and death fixation, she told herself.
As though reading her thoughts, he said, “You ever find dead people or catch murderers, cool stuff like that?”
She thought if he used the word “cool” one more time, she might smack him with his dick-shaped microphone.
“I’ve found a few dead people in my time,” she said in her most patient, long-suffering voice—the one she reserved for fools who deeply annoyed her. “It wasn’t cool at all. I’ve also brought some killers to justice. Now, that was cool. Extremely cool, in fact.”
He gave her a long, appraising look. “I guess you’d have to be pretty smart to do that.”
She shrugged. “Everybody’s smart in one way or another, about one thing or the other. I guess I’m smart in that way.”
“Kyd’s an amazing musician,” Emma piped up. “People don’t realize how hard it is to play death metal. It’s like jazz in a way … harder than you might think if you aren’t into it.”
“You like death metal?” Kyd asked Savannah with a sarcastic little grin, as though defying her to say she didn’t.
“Not really,” she said. “I guess the lyrics turn me off.”
He dropped the grin. “They aren’t meant to be taken literally. Everybody knows that. Everybody who’s knowledgeable about the art form, that is.”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. No one in their right mind would take subjects like rape, torture, murder, and dismemberment seriously.”
Kyd stood and ran his fingers through his spiked hair, reencouraging it to stand on end. He adjusted his sagging pajama bottoms that were about to fall off. “I gotta go practice some more,” he told Savannah. “We got a gig tonight at Hell’s Inferno in the valley. If you’ve got nothing else to do, no killers to catch, drop by, and I’ll buy you a drink.” He extended his hand for a parting shake.
“I think my social calendar’s full,” she said, shaking his hand and feeling the hair gel slickness on his palm, “but thank you for the invitation. Maybe some other time.”
Sometime when I can bring ear plugs, a blindfold, and gloves, she silently added. She also made a mental note to squirt some hand sanitizer on her palms when she got back into her car to leave.
As Kyd picked up his guitar, then retreated through the back door, stopping at the refrigerator for a breakfast beer, Savannah glanced over at Emma. She saw the same lovesick, puppy-dog look on her face that Tammy had been wearing yesterday. And it made Savannah feel the need to swallow an entire bottle of antacid tablets right away.
“I think I’ll get going, too,” Savannah said, rising and stepping over an amplifier and guitar case. “Please speak to your grandmother about the bodyguards.”
“I will, for all the good it’ll do. And I’ll pack a bag and go out there. She’s always complaining that I don’t visit her enough since Kyd moved in.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Savannah told her. “You know, Emma … guys come and go, but you don’t get that many grandmothers per lifetime.”
Emma’s
Or maybe not , Savannah decided.
Instantly, she could see that Kyd was as appealing as his music. And she could also understand why matriarch Helene wasn’t enamored with him.
“Hi,” he said when he saw her. “Who are you?”
“Savannah,” Emma said, “this is my boyfriend, Kyd. Baby, this is Savannah Reid, the lady I told you about. The one I hired to help Oma.”
“Oh, yeah. The private investigator.” He walked to Savannah and held out his hand. “That’s pretty cool, what you do. You find lost people and catch cheating husbands and cool stuff like that, right?”
“We pretty much leave the cheating husbands to their wives to catch, but we’ve found some lost people, yes.”
He pulled a large speaker monitor off a chair and onto the floor and took a seat.
Savannah noticed he had skulls and crossbones on his flannel pajama bottoms, too. Definitely a case of fashion stagnation and death fixation, she told herself.
As though reading her thoughts, he said, “You ever find dead people or catch murderers, cool stuff like that?”
She thought if he used the word “cool” one more time, she might smack him with his dick-shaped microphone.
“I’ve found a few dead people in my time,” she said in her most patient, long-suffering voice—the one she reserved for fools who deeply annoyed her. “It wasn’t cool at all. I’ve also brought some killers to justice. Now, that was cool. Extremely cool, in fact.”
He gave her a long, appraising look. “I guess you’d have to be pretty smart to do that.”
She shrugged. “Everybody’s smart in one way or another, about one thing or the other. I guess I’m smart in that way.”
“Kyd’s an amazing musician,” Emma piped up. “People don’t realize how hard it is to play death metal. It’s like jazz in a way … harder than you might think if you aren’t into it.”
“You like death metal?” Kyd asked Savannah with a sarcastic little grin, as though defying her to say she didn’t.
“Not really,” she said. “I guess the lyrics turn me off.”
He dropped the grin. “They aren’t meant to be taken literally. Everybody knows that. Everybody who’s knowledgeable about the art form, that is.”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. No one in their right mind would take subjects like rape, torture, murder, and dismemberment seriously.”
Kyd stood and ran his fingers through his spiked hair, reencouraging it to stand on end. He adjusted his sagging pajama bottoms that were about to fall off. “I gotta go practice some more,” he told Savannah. “We got a gig tonight at Hell’s Inferno in the valley. If you’ve got nothing else to do, no killers to catch, drop by, and I’ll buy you a drink.” He extended his hand for a parting shake.
“I think my social calendar’s full,” she said, shaking his hand and feeling the hair gel slickness on his palm, “but thank you for the invitation. Maybe some other time.”
Sometime when I can bring ear plugs, a blindfold, and gloves, she silently added. She also made a mental note to squirt some hand sanitizer on her palms when she got back into her car to leave.
As Kyd picked up his guitar, then retreated through the back door, stopping at the refrigerator for a breakfast beer, Savannah glanced over at Emma. She saw the same lovesick, puppy-dog look on her face that Tammy had been wearing yesterday. And it made Savannah feel the need to swallow an entire bottle of antacid tablets right away.
“I think I’ll get going, too,” Savannah said, rising and stepping over an amplifier and guitar case. “Please speak to your grandmother about the bodyguards.”
“I will, for all the good it’ll do. And I’ll pack a bag and go out there. She’s always complaining that I don’t visit her enough since Kyd moved in.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Savannah told her. “You know, Emma … guys come and go, but you don’t get that many grandmothers per lifetime.”
Emma’s
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