One Hot Mess by Lois Greiman

pleasure yet,” I said.
    He glanced away again. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I don't think it's that kind of ride.”
    I nodded crisply, but my words were less controlled and wobbled a little. “You could be wrong.”
    His lips tilted the slightest degree. “It's happened before,” he said.
    “Never thought I'd hear you admit it.”
    He grinned, but the expression was dark. I felt my heart squeeze up tight in my chest. “Any possibility you'd take some advice?” he asked.
    I cleared my throat. It felt painfully tight, but I was not going to cry. “It's happened before,” I said.
    For a minute I thought he'd argue, but he didn't. That,more than anything, made it all seem horrifically final. “Stay away from my old man,” he said.
    And suddenly a thousand unchecked excuses rushed to my lips. “Listen, Rivera, I just went to Edmond Park to—” I began, but he held up a hand.
    “I can't do it.” His throat tightened, the tendons standing out for a moment beneath his tanned skin, then relaxing. “I can't wonder what you're up to every minute. Worry—” He paused, glanced away, brows lowered. “Maybe I'm getting too damn old. Maybe the job's taking its toll, but I've got to keep my head in the game or I'm going to wind up dead.”
    I swallowed a lump the size of a walrus. “I don't want you dead,” I whispered.
    “Yeah?” His voice was raspy. His eyes burned with emotion, but he bunched his jaw and failed to reach for me like I hoped he would. “I don't want you dead, either, McMullen. That's why I'm warning you.”
    I was floundering in confusion and sadness and hopelessness. “About?”
    “Jesus. Don't you ever—” For a minute I thought he'd explode. That I'd explode back. That we'd make up and start anew. But none of that happened. “Maybe you think I'm jealous of my old man. And maybe I am. Shit…” He laughed. The sound was coarse. “God knows he has more money, more power, and more …” He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. They flared slightly. “You can't trust him, Chrissy.”
    “Trust him? Why are you talking about…” I paused as a thousand thoughts scrambled through my head. “You don't actually think he had something to do with Baltimore's death!”
    He didn't answer, but his brows lowered another fraction of an inch.
    “Do you?” I asked.
    “The murders out of my jurisdiction,” he said, and, turning, walked out of my life.
    went running Sunday morning. Four miles. It was the longest six hours of my life. When it was finished I scoured the sinks, scrubbed the floors, washed the windows, and shambled out to collect the mail I had neglected on Saturday. More bills. The whole day was like a finely sliced little sliver of hell.
    By five o'clock in the afternoon I had convinced myself that it was all for the best. I shouldn't be wasting my time on guys like Rivera, anyway. I needed someone mature and giving and open-minded. He was childish, selfish, and opinionated. It was good that he dumped me.
    I poured myself a glass of Asti Spumante, then added another cup to convince myself of my it's-all-for-the-best theory. Maybe it wasn't a stellar idea, because booze makes me weepy in the best of circumstances. This wasn't even close: I hadn't had sex in a millennium, and it didn't look like that was going to change anytime soon unless I was brain-numbed enough to take the offer of a guy who had known me for approximately thirty seconds; I had gained two pounds since Shirley began working for me; and I could have bought a new Porsche for the cost of a new septic system.
    But, hey, things weren't so bad. I took another slug of wine and gave myself a little pep talk. I was, after all, a healthy, intelligent woman who still had all her teeth.
    Setting my glass aside, I riffled through the mail on the immaculate table. Everyone wanted money Except… I came across a handwritten envelope, read the return address, then read it again.
Gerald Miguel Rivera
was sprawled across the upper