One Hot Mess (11 page)

He shrugged, grinned, didn't stand up. “I'm not feeling harassed yet.”

“Holy crap!”

“You're an attractive woman,” he said. “I didn't think to check your stats, but I'm assuming you're over the age of consent.”

I wasn't sure if I was expected to respond, but it was out of the question anyway.

“I'm fair to middlin' in bed,” he said. “Willing to try almost
anything once so long as it doesn't involve condors. I don't like scavengers.”

“I see.” My voice had gone weak.

He smiled. “I have references.”

I blinked.

He widened his grin.

“Well, think about it,” he said, and, rising to his feet, crossed the floor and opened the door.

I collected my mandible from the floor. Outside his office, his secretary was staring with owlish eyes.

“It was nice to meet you, Ms. McMullen,” he said.

“Yes,” I muttered, voice as hazy as my mind. “You, too.”

ANEY.” I felt breathless and a little hallucinatory by the time I was in my car and on the phone. “I was just propositioned by a cop.”

“So things are pretty much par for the course?” I could hear someone yammering at her in the background, but someone was always yammering at Laney Especially since she had morphed from struggling actress to Amazon Queen.

“No. A different cop,” I said.

“Riveras different.”

I was exasperated, harried, horny, and confused. “One I hadn't met until a few minutes ago.”

“Well…” She paused. I could imagine her mulling
things over in her Amazonian brain. “You're gorgeous.” Then, “Tell them I'll be right there,” she said quietly. Back to me: “Of course guys are going to come on to you.”

“He asked if I was interested in casual sex.”

“Which you are.”

“Well, yes, but I didn't think it was culturally acceptable to admit that to a total stranger.”

“You're growing up so quickly.” I could hear someone muttering about makeup and camera angles. I think someone else might have been proposing marriage. Generally speaking, there was always some guy proposing marriage where Brainy Laney was concerned, but I had her full attention now. “Was he off duty?” she asked.

“That's the weirdest part. Not only was he in uniform, he was standing in the middle of his own police station.”

“What were you doing at the police station?”

I opened my mouth and paused. As it turns out, Laney doesn't like it when people attempt to murder me, so she sometimes tries to discourage me from doing things that might precipitate that eventuality.

“Mac?”

“Oh, I was just… asking a few questions.”

“About what?”

“We're running out of daylight,” someone said. He sounded impatient and a little gruff. I didn't think it was the proposal guy. They usually sound dreamy and a little high.

“One minute,” Laney responded. “Are you in trouble, Mac?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Why were you talking to a policeman?”

“Listen, L…you seem…breaking up,” I said, using a
ploy I've implemented a hundred times with my mother. “I'm afraid—”

“No, I'm not, and no, you're not,” she said. “Why the policeman?”

“You're running out of daylight,” I said, a little peeved.

“We'll run into it again. How'd she die?”

“Who?”

“The woman the senator asked you to investigate.”

I sighed and wished I wasn't stupid.

“How'd it happen?” she asked.

“That's what I'm supposed to find out.”

“And?”

“I think it was an accident.”

The world went quiet for a full fifteen seconds before she spoke again. “You know what happens when you lie to me, Mac.” I did. In fact, I couldn't help but scratch my neck a little at the memory. When we were twelve we went to Camp Woodhollow together. I had subsequently snuck out of our cabin for a nocturnal visit with a boy called Tadpole. When Laney inquired about my whereabouts, I lied like a… well, like a man. The rash covering me from nose to nipple the following morning made me look like a burn victim. The camp nurse thought it was poison ivy, but I knew better; it was retribution.

“Honest to God, Laney, I think it was accidental,” I said, and forced myself to stop itching.

She let me hang up after I promised to be careful. She would be returning to L.A. in a few days and apparently hoped to see me alive. I kind of hoped so, too, but as I drove home, the radio reporter droned on about a hundred depressing stories, and I couldn't help wondering
why a guy with Highland Rogue dimples would proposition a woman wearing stained sweatpants and dog drool.

was still wondering when I reached home, but my observations were cut short when I saw Rivera sitting in his Jeep beside my curb. Remembering the scene with him and his father, I actually considered zipping past as if I were just another commuter, but he had already seen me. I knew it, even though he wore dark glasses, so I parked in front of him. A moment later he stepped out of his vehicle, all cool slow motion and somber expression. I hadn't seen him since nearly having kitchen sex with him, and he looked good. His hips were lean and synchronized to my heartbeat, his arms were tight-muscled and dark beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. Something fired up inside me at the sight of him, but I casually opened my door, buying myself a little time as Harlequin tromped over me on his joyous way out of the car.

By the time I exited the vehicle, I was almost over how Riveras biceps bunched prettily below his faded sleeves, and I barely noticed that his jeans rode low and loose on his tight-assed hips.

“McMullen,” he said.

“Rivera,” I responded. Cool as an eggplant.

He looked past me to my Saturn. “You in Sespe?”

“Where?” I scowled. The place almost sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it and nothing showed on his face.

“Where, then?” he asked.

Lies come so readily to a girl who has survived three
perpetually moronic brothers, but I stifled them. “Edmond Park,” I said.

He nodded, glanced past my car toward the Al-Sadrs' immaculate lawn, then: “I'm going to have to give up,” he said.

My throat felt tight, my knees stiff. I knew what he meant. He was angry—about his fathers visit, about the fact that I would consider getting involved with the senators shady dealings, but I asked the question anyway. “On me?”

He removed his sunglasses. His eyes were dark and intense. Emotion shone in the gleaming depths. “It's been an interesting ride.”

I didn't want to beg. Or cry. Begging and crying are sometimes misconstrued as weaknesses. Still, I felt the tears and the pleas bubbling up inside me like the goop in a lava lamp. So I painted on a smile and went for humor. “But we haven't even gotten to the part where we rush downhill screaming with 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 left-hand corner. Holding my breath, I opened the envelope and pulled out the enclosed card. It was embossed with the senators initials. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, but I left it for a moment as I read the note:
Dearest Christina, please forgive my crass behavior of some days past. The sole purpose for my late visit was to apologize for my former actions, but I fear even the best of intentions are often waylaid when emotions flare. Thus I say now, it was wrong of me to involve you in problems that are not your own. You must put the death out of your mind, for I could never forgive myself if something untoward happened to you.