mind-blowing, earth-moving, proof-that-God-exists sex.”
“Now you’re bragging.”
“Just being objective. As I’d be glad to show you.”
“No thanks.” We both smiled, and the little flirtation didn’t hurt. I’d been around long enough to understand that earth-moving sex didn’t depend on positions, practice, or never-ending potency. Forget the Kama Sutra or even Viagra. Nothing could beat lying naked next to my husband, the man I’d adored for nearly two decades. We’d gotten married on a faraway beach, then come to LA, had children, and learned to deal with teething pains and teachers’ meetings, bills and mortgages, disappointments and disagreements. But at the end of the day—okay, not every day, but enough of them—we still turned to each other for passion and sex. Nothing could be more mind-blowing than that.
Billy gazed at me with his green eyes and stroked the three-day stubble at his chin as if deep in thought. Then he stood up straight and snapped two fingers together.
“I’m going to do it,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Show you the e-mails. I know we’ve just met, but I’ve got to trust someone and better you than the cops. You seem a lot like me—no agenda but the truth.”
That sounded like a motto of the FBI. Or at least the local Cub Scout troop.
“No agenda but the truth, right?” he repeated. He raised his hand, as if taking an oath.
“The truth is always good,” I said.
“High five!” he shouted. He stretched his hand higher, and when I didn’t move, he said, “Come on, give me five!”
Not sure what else to do, I awkwardly raised my hand to reach his. Instead of just smacking palms, he clasped my hand tightly, then twisted his fingers in what I guessed served as some odd biker’s salute. Could be we’d just become blood brothers—or else I’d pledged to be his Harley chick.
Maybe the latter, because he put his arm on my elbow and steered me toward the side of his shop.
“These e-mails from Cassie,” he said. He stopped, hesitating. “Well, maybe I won’t say anything until you see them. They speak for themselves.”
“What do they say?”
“Volumes.”
“Give me a hint.”
“Casssie kept talking about how Princess Diana had worried that her husband might off her, and how after she died, nobody believed Charles had anything to do with it.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “She got killed in a car accident, remember? Chased by photographers through a tunnel in Paris.”
“Cassie wasn’t so sure. She seemed scared.”
Cassie as Princess Diana? My client didn’t exactly arouse the passions of the paparazzi, but I got the not-so-hidden agenda. Cassie worried that she might die—and Roger would never be a suspect.
We were standing in front of a shiny motorcycle now, and Billy handed me a helmet.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you over. Just a ten-minute ride. I really want you to see these.”
I looked dubiously at the helmet. Riding a Harley made my list of “top ten most dangerous things to do,” right up there with hang gliding, bungee jumping, and arranging blind dates for Molly. But what the heck. As Billy said, he lived fast and free—and still lived. Cassie, protected in her gilded cage, had died. Maybe I’d relabel my list “top ten things that could be darn fun to experience if I weren’t such a chicken.”
Should I launch those experiences right now? I didn’t have to rush home. Dan had arranged to take the kids out to dinner tonight at Tijuana Taco. I rarely came along for his Mexican family feasts. Stated reason: Dan deserved bonding time alone with the kids. Real reason: Who wanted to eat refried beans? My thighs couldn’t handle food that had been fried once, never mind twice.
Enchiladas or not, I had three kids who needed my attention and devotion. On the other hand, my client Cassie had been murdered and my best friend, Molly, had gotten herself entangled with Roger—and she needed help. Friendship
“Now you’re bragging.”
“Just being objective. As I’d be glad to show you.”
“No thanks.” We both smiled, and the little flirtation didn’t hurt. I’d been around long enough to understand that earth-moving sex didn’t depend on positions, practice, or never-ending potency. Forget the Kama Sutra or even Viagra. Nothing could beat lying naked next to my husband, the man I’d adored for nearly two decades. We’d gotten married on a faraway beach, then come to LA, had children, and learned to deal with teething pains and teachers’ meetings, bills and mortgages, disappointments and disagreements. But at the end of the day—okay, not every day, but enough of them—we still turned to each other for passion and sex. Nothing could be more mind-blowing than that.
Billy gazed at me with his green eyes and stroked the three-day stubble at his chin as if deep in thought. Then he stood up straight and snapped two fingers together.
“I’m going to do it,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Show you the e-mails. I know we’ve just met, but I’ve got to trust someone and better you than the cops. You seem a lot like me—no agenda but the truth.”
That sounded like a motto of the FBI. Or at least the local Cub Scout troop.
“No agenda but the truth, right?” he repeated. He raised his hand, as if taking an oath.
“The truth is always good,” I said.
“High five!” he shouted. He stretched his hand higher, and when I didn’t move, he said, “Come on, give me five!”
Not sure what else to do, I awkwardly raised my hand to reach his. Instead of just smacking palms, he clasped my hand tightly, then twisted his fingers in what I guessed served as some odd biker’s salute. Could be we’d just become blood brothers—or else I’d pledged to be his Harley chick.
Maybe the latter, because he put his arm on my elbow and steered me toward the side of his shop.
“These e-mails from Cassie,” he said. He stopped, hesitating. “Well, maybe I won’t say anything until you see them. They speak for themselves.”
“What do they say?”
“Volumes.”
“Give me a hint.”
“Casssie kept talking about how Princess Diana had worried that her husband might off her, and how after she died, nobody believed Charles had anything to do with it.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “She got killed in a car accident, remember? Chased by photographers through a tunnel in Paris.”
“Cassie wasn’t so sure. She seemed scared.”
Cassie as Princess Diana? My client didn’t exactly arouse the passions of the paparazzi, but I got the not-so-hidden agenda. Cassie worried that she might die—and Roger would never be a suspect.
We were standing in front of a shiny motorcycle now, and Billy handed me a helmet.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you over. Just a ten-minute ride. I really want you to see these.”
I looked dubiously at the helmet. Riding a Harley made my list of “top ten most dangerous things to do,” right up there with hang gliding, bungee jumping, and arranging blind dates for Molly. But what the heck. As Billy said, he lived fast and free—and still lived. Cassie, protected in her gilded cage, had died. Maybe I’d relabel my list “top ten things that could be darn fun to experience if I weren’t such a chicken.”
Should I launch those experiences right now? I didn’t have to rush home. Dan had arranged to take the kids out to dinner tonight at Tijuana Taco. I rarely came along for his Mexican family feasts. Stated reason: Dan deserved bonding time alone with the kids. Real reason: Who wanted to eat refried beans? My thighs couldn’t handle food that had been fried once, never mind twice.
Enchiladas or not, I had three kids who needed my attention and devotion. On the other hand, my client Cassie had been murdered and my best friend, Molly, had gotten herself entangled with Roger—and she needed help. Friendship
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