Twisted Vine by Toby Neal

that are genuine, and both victims having memberships on this fishy website. I’m not even sure the case is hanging together at this point. Ang seems convinced, though. What would you think of a program that could mine all the different law enforcement databases for commonalities in a case? Nationwide?”
    “Impossible,” Stevens said. “Too much security, too many different and incompatible databases. But if it could be done, and the interagency problems resolved, incredible.”
    “That’s what Ang’s working on. Girl’s some sort of genius with computers.”
    “Awesome potential. You fixing to have another friend?”
    “Don’t know. I like her, but she keeps to herself.”
    “Speaking of keeping to yourself, and being sick of it, have you given any more thought to what we’re going to do when I’m free?”
    “I don’t know. It’s so hard. One of us has to give something up with work.”
    “I know. But I’ve been thinking about you. Remembering.” The deep note in his voice activated longing, a throb that spread outward and beat in her veins. The feeling, instant as fire blazing through a dry field, rippled down the insides of her arms, and she squeezed the steering wheel, hard.
    “I’ve been trying not to think of you. That way. Any way.”
    “It’s not working. What are you wearing?”
    Lei laughed. “I’m driving. I have two dogs as chaperones. And I’m wearing the usual Bureau pants and shirt.”
    “I meant—under that.” His voice dropped lower.
    Lei gulped, speechless. “You first.” She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. Phone flirting had never been their thing—but desperation led to invention.
    “Well, I got off work and went surfing. I just got back, took a shower. Got a towel on.”
    Lei’s nipples tightened with a tingle akin to pain as she pictured his long corded arms, the light sprinkle of chest hair over his wide chest, the ripple of his abs ending at the towel.
    “This is torture. I hate you,” she said.
    “Yeah. I wish you were here. If you were, I’d put you in front of me and unbutton that white blouse. Slowly. One button at a time.”
    “No,” she breathed, turning off the freeway onto the side street that would eventually lead to her house. “I’m driving. Stop.”
    “You have to call me back. Later.”
    “Okay. I will. And keep the towel on until then. I’ve always liked you wearing less.”
    This time he was the one to hiss though his teeth. “Don’t know if I can wait for you.”
    “You better.” She put her foot down and sped home.
     
     
    Sophie circled her mixed martial arts coach, Alika Wolcott.  Marcella had canceled again, some excuse that meant she was seeing her new boyfriend. Sophie kept her stance low, and when Alika finally made a move, throwing a roundhouse kick, she caught his leg and tripped him to the ground.
    She wore a boxer’s padded helmet, split-fingered, open-palmed gloves, and tight Lycra athletic wear—not out of any vanity but to keep the clothing from getting caught and used against her.
    Alika was large, at least six foot two and a hundred and ninety pounds, all muscle, from what she could tell, and considerably stronger than her pound for pound. That’s why she had to be more tenacious and agile—and she felt a frisson of triumph as she succeeded in wrapping herself around his back in a hold called the spiral ride.
    Alika’s thick muscles bunched beneath her, and he flexed, breaking her grip. He held up a hand, indicating a stop to the action, and she moved away, sitting up on the mat and circling her arms around her knees.
    He unclipped his headgear and took it off, kneeling on the mat. Black hair rippled back from his forehead; he was a light brown color too, but more golden than she. His heritage was Hawaiian and Caucasian, what they called hapa in Hawaii. 
    “When you do that hold, grasp your arm above the elbow.” Alika shook his head briskly and combed his hair out of his eyes. Sophie