ask.”
Murphy didn’t believe her, and selected the least likely candidate from all of her college friends. “You mean Bennie, Bernie—what was his name?”
Hannah laughed. “Yeah. It’s Bernie. Okay? I’m pathetically in love with a guy who thought lighting his farts was more entertaining than watching the Aurora Borealis. Woe is me.”
Murphy laughed, too, pushing all of her empty beer bottles into a line on the table. “That is pretty woeful,” he agreed.
She got serious. “Let it go,” she said quietly.
He nodded. And changed the subject only marginally. “How come I didn’t know about this?” he asked.
“Because I don’t share everything with you,” she told him.
“Yes, you do.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t. For example, I didn’t tell you that I’ve got, like, a period from hell. Like, change my pad every hour, with menstrual cramps that make me want to curl up on the floor in a fetal position.”
“Point and match,” Murphy said.
“It’s why I’m drinking all this beer,” she pushed it. “It actually helps the cramps. Not so much with the massive bleeding though.”
“Great,” he said. “I get it. Thanks.”
She leaned across the table, toward him. “Murph, do you like her?”
She was talking about Angelina.
“I do,” he admitted. “Very much. I just…I don’t want to screw things up between us, you know? You and me. I mean, if it doesn’t work out…”
“What if it does?” Hannah said, her eyes such a striking mix of green and blue as she gazed at him with such conviction. “What if all you need to do to be wildly happy is just take that chance, that risk?”
And Murphy did it. He took that chance, and he leaned forward, his hand under Hannah’s chin and…
He kissed her.
Her mouth was soft and so sweet and she tasted not of beer, but of Johnny Walker and then, God, he was pulling her down, on top of him, rolling over, her legs wrapped around him and he fumbled with his pants and then—
Murphy opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the overcast grayness of the morning sky. He was in the back of his truck and the air was cold, but he’d burrowed beneath some old blankets that he’d thrown back there.
A dream. It was only a dream. About Hannah, not Angelina, which was different, but still made him cry.
It hadn’t happened that way—the way that he’d dreamed it. He hadn’t kissed Hannah, not ever. Not once in all of the years he’d known her, in all the years they’d been friends.
Not until earlier tonight.
Murphy searched beneath the blankets for the bottle of Bacardi 151 that he kept for precisely this type of emergency—when he found himself excessively cognizant.
He fumbled in his jacket, too, for the pill bottle he carried there, shaking two of the little rounded tablets into his hand. He washed them down with the rum, and sure enough, in a very short amount of time, his world faded back to black.
J ANUARY 2008
S AN D IEGO , C ALIFORNIA
There was a woman standing in the Troubleshooters office waiting room.
She was either military or law enforcement—Decker guessed it right away, first from her short hairstyle and then from her posture.
Former
military or law enforcement, he quickly realized. She was leaning on a cane.
Her manner of standing also screamed
I don’t want to be here,
which was often the case with clients, particularly when they first walked in.
This woman was younger than most people who sought help from Troubleshooters Incorporated—maybe in her late twenties—and tall. About as tall as Deck was, which made her tall for a woman, but not particularly tall for a man. She was solidly built, too, but not as solid as he was. He, however, wasn’t built quite as poetically—a fact that was apparent despite this woman’s efforts to keep her inspiring curves concealed. She was wearing a loose T-shirt and cargo pants, running shoes on her feet.
Not that she was doing much running these days. Not with that
Murphy didn’t believe her, and selected the least likely candidate from all of her college friends. “You mean Bennie, Bernie—what was his name?”
Hannah laughed. “Yeah. It’s Bernie. Okay? I’m pathetically in love with a guy who thought lighting his farts was more entertaining than watching the Aurora Borealis. Woe is me.”
Murphy laughed, too, pushing all of her empty beer bottles into a line on the table. “That is pretty woeful,” he agreed.
She got serious. “Let it go,” she said quietly.
He nodded. And changed the subject only marginally. “How come I didn’t know about this?” he asked.
“Because I don’t share everything with you,” she told him.
“Yes, you do.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t. For example, I didn’t tell you that I’ve got, like, a period from hell. Like, change my pad every hour, with menstrual cramps that make me want to curl up on the floor in a fetal position.”
“Point and match,” Murphy said.
“It’s why I’m drinking all this beer,” she pushed it. “It actually helps the cramps. Not so much with the massive bleeding though.”
“Great,” he said. “I get it. Thanks.”
She leaned across the table, toward him. “Murph, do you like her?”
She was talking about Angelina.
“I do,” he admitted. “Very much. I just…I don’t want to screw things up between us, you know? You and me. I mean, if it doesn’t work out…”
“What if it does?” Hannah said, her eyes such a striking mix of green and blue as she gazed at him with such conviction. “What if all you need to do to be wildly happy is just take that chance, that risk?”
And Murphy did it. He took that chance, and he leaned forward, his hand under Hannah’s chin and…
He kissed her.
Her mouth was soft and so sweet and she tasted not of beer, but of Johnny Walker and then, God, he was pulling her down, on top of him, rolling over, her legs wrapped around him and he fumbled with his pants and then—
Murphy opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the overcast grayness of the morning sky. He was in the back of his truck and the air was cold, but he’d burrowed beneath some old blankets that he’d thrown back there.
A dream. It was only a dream. About Hannah, not Angelina, which was different, but still made him cry.
It hadn’t happened that way—the way that he’d dreamed it. He hadn’t kissed Hannah, not ever. Not once in all of the years he’d known her, in all the years they’d been friends.
Not until earlier tonight.
Murphy searched beneath the blankets for the bottle of Bacardi 151 that he kept for precisely this type of emergency—when he found himself excessively cognizant.
He fumbled in his jacket, too, for the pill bottle he carried there, shaking two of the little rounded tablets into his hand. He washed them down with the rum, and sure enough, in a very short amount of time, his world faded back to black.
J ANUARY 2008
S AN D IEGO , C ALIFORNIA
There was a woman standing in the Troubleshooters office waiting room.
She was either military or law enforcement—Decker guessed it right away, first from her short hairstyle and then from her posture.
Former
military or law enforcement, he quickly realized. She was leaning on a cane.
Her manner of standing also screamed
I don’t want to be here,
which was often the case with clients, particularly when they first walked in.
This woman was younger than most people who sought help from Troubleshooters Incorporated—maybe in her late twenties—and tall. About as tall as Deck was, which made her tall for a woman, but not particularly tall for a man. She was solidly built, too, but not as solid as he was. He, however, wasn’t built quite as poetically—a fact that was apparent despite this woman’s efforts to keep her inspiring curves concealed. She was wearing a loose T-shirt and cargo pants, running shoes on her feet.
Not that she was doing much running these days. Not with that
Similar Books
