gone to Japan on business for two weeks, I don’t care how pregnant I am. I’m hornier than ever!”
Hopper clicked it off because his throat was going thick. Yasmin had a floozy voice that must’ve been a put-on. What she lacked in breast size, lip size, and shapely legs, she made up for with those eyes and the way she held herself, as if she lived in a state of constant heat.
The shower burned but after a while it cooled and Hopper turned the cold down. He would stand there until every last drop of hot water was gone. Then he would be ready.
He knocked on the door of his sister’s shotgun house in the Marigny district around eleven that night. It was small but gorgeous and stocked full of arty new furniture that Hopper rarely saw used. Sister liked new and different in a city that preferred the old. He stepped inside without waiting for her to answer, as usual. The front room was dark.
In her daily life, Sister wrote romance novels, three or four a year, under a pen name. She had risen in the ranks of hacks to just under a six-figure income. She avoided writer’s conferences and publicity for the most part, toiling away at home, writing about romance and passion and tradition when she didn’t have any herself. Sex was a power play, an urge, a tool. Hopper didn’t see her daylight life so much. She once told him she’d even written a couple of romances for the Christian market.
“Not much different, except there’s no sex and the characters pray a lot, but they feel the same urges. Pretty boring, though.”
Hopper left a couple two-liter Diet Cokes on the kitchen counter, shoved a bag of party ice in the freezer, and eased down the hall to Sister’s bedroom. He knew what he would find before he opened the door: Sister under the covers on her side, slim tiny laptop open as she clicked with one hand. The large TV at the foot of the bed would be freeze-framed on some romantic image from a movie she’d seen a thousand times.
A soft knock, a creak, and it was exactly that. She didn’t look at him. She was under the sheets in her black nightgown, an old thread-bare favorite. Face lit white by the laptop’s tiny screen. Hopper checked the TV and saw a still of Demi Moore. The room was fuzzy with several lit candles, some vanilla and some cinnamon.
He said, “How are you feeling?”
“So so. You brought ice?”
“Yeah.”
A long sigh. “Thank you. Are you just going to stand there?”
Hopper steadied himself against the door and reached down to take his shoes off. He climbed into Sister’s bed fully clothed, eased under the sheets behind her and settled in. He started immediately doing what he always did at this point—he gave her a backrub. He knew her spot, one that always seemed tense, and massaged it hard, circular.
She hummed and said, “That’s nice.”
He looked over her shoulder at the laptop. She had written one sentence: Meredith was as bored with life as she was with this conversation.
“Writer’s block?”
Sister closed the laptop and set it on the floor. “Forget it. I’m fine.” She took the remote control and pushed play. The picture moved but without sound.
“Do you think I need a tummy tuck?” she asked.
“Why would you think that?” Hopper had learned long ago that he couldn’t win this conversation—she believed he was lying if he said no, cruel if he said yes. “Has someone said something?”
“Look at Demi. There’s no way it’s diet and exercise alone. The rest of us don’t stand a chance.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to be in the movies.”
She pulled her shoulder away. “If this is a joke to you—”
“No, no, I’m sorry. Only wondering why.” If he could do this without making it obvious, turn her off, then he might be able to lull her to sleep and leave before anything happened. If she saw through him, he might as well stay the night. She could be brutal with payback.
“It’s been a long day. Sorry if I’m distracted. A new case
Hopper clicked it off because his throat was going thick. Yasmin had a floozy voice that must’ve been a put-on. What she lacked in breast size, lip size, and shapely legs, she made up for with those eyes and the way she held herself, as if she lived in a state of constant heat.
The shower burned but after a while it cooled and Hopper turned the cold down. He would stand there until every last drop of hot water was gone. Then he would be ready.
He knocked on the door of his sister’s shotgun house in the Marigny district around eleven that night. It was small but gorgeous and stocked full of arty new furniture that Hopper rarely saw used. Sister liked new and different in a city that preferred the old. He stepped inside without waiting for her to answer, as usual. The front room was dark.
In her daily life, Sister wrote romance novels, three or four a year, under a pen name. She had risen in the ranks of hacks to just under a six-figure income. She avoided writer’s conferences and publicity for the most part, toiling away at home, writing about romance and passion and tradition when she didn’t have any herself. Sex was a power play, an urge, a tool. Hopper didn’t see her daylight life so much. She once told him she’d even written a couple of romances for the Christian market.
“Not much different, except there’s no sex and the characters pray a lot, but they feel the same urges. Pretty boring, though.”
Hopper left a couple two-liter Diet Cokes on the kitchen counter, shoved a bag of party ice in the freezer, and eased down the hall to Sister’s bedroom. He knew what he would find before he opened the door: Sister under the covers on her side, slim tiny laptop open as she clicked with one hand. The large TV at the foot of the bed would be freeze-framed on some romantic image from a movie she’d seen a thousand times.
A soft knock, a creak, and it was exactly that. She didn’t look at him. She was under the sheets in her black nightgown, an old thread-bare favorite. Face lit white by the laptop’s tiny screen. Hopper checked the TV and saw a still of Demi Moore. The room was fuzzy with several lit candles, some vanilla and some cinnamon.
He said, “How are you feeling?”
“So so. You brought ice?”
“Yeah.”
A long sigh. “Thank you. Are you just going to stand there?”
Hopper steadied himself against the door and reached down to take his shoes off. He climbed into Sister’s bed fully clothed, eased under the sheets behind her and settled in. He started immediately doing what he always did at this point—he gave her a backrub. He knew her spot, one that always seemed tense, and massaged it hard, circular.
She hummed and said, “That’s nice.”
He looked over her shoulder at the laptop. She had written one sentence: Meredith was as bored with life as she was with this conversation.
“Writer’s block?”
Sister closed the laptop and set it on the floor. “Forget it. I’m fine.” She took the remote control and pushed play. The picture moved but without sound.
“Do you think I need a tummy tuck?” she asked.
“Why would you think that?” Hopper had learned long ago that he couldn’t win this conversation—she believed he was lying if he said no, cruel if he said yes. “Has someone said something?”
“Look at Demi. There’s no way it’s diet and exercise alone. The rest of us don’t stand a chance.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to be in the movies.”
She pulled her shoulder away. “If this is a joke to you—”
“No, no, I’m sorry. Only wondering why.” If he could do this without making it obvious, turn her off, then he might be able to lull her to sleep and leave before anything happened. If she saw through him, he might as well stay the night. She could be brutal with payback.
“It’s been a long day. Sorry if I’m distracted. A new case
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