Dirty (12 page)

Hobbs and Dawson exchanged parting comments before the newest member of the Mercer Agency staff exited the premises.
 
I let go the breath I’d been holding then.

Hobbs sauntered into my office, rubbing his hands together with unrepentant glee.
 
“So, does he start tomorrow?”

I glowered at him.
 
“You tell me how Dawson managed to bring in Big Hoss without getting a scratch on him.”
 
I had a feeling Hobbs had intervened on Dawson’s behalf somehow.

Offended, my assistant braced his fussily manicured hands on the back of the chair Dawson had vacated and assumed the properly injured posture.
 
“I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing,” he said as if he’d been cast as a doomed character in a play by Shakespeare.
 
“I have no idea how he managed the feat.”
 
He frowned petulantly.
 
“I even asked one of my contacts at CP.
 
He swears Big Hoss followed Dawson to the cell like an obedient puppy.”

Unbelievable.
 
Big Hoss would never passively follow anyone but me to Central Processing.
 
I stopped myself.
 
Was I jealous here, or what?
 
Another thought occurred to me.
 
What about Big Hoss?
 
“Did Big Hoss have any marks on him?”

Hobbs blew out a put upon sigh.
 
“
Nooooo
.”
 
He dragged the solitary syllable out to at least four.
 
“Admit it, Jackie, Dawson is simply good.”

I did not want to talk about this anymore.
 
“I have to go.”
 
I grabbed my Birkin.
 
This whole day was further proof that a woman’s true best friends were good bags and shoes.
 
They never argued or cheated, required no feedings or walks. What more could a woman want?

“See you tomorrow,” I muttered as I stalked past my assistant.
 
I didn’t look at him.
 
Didn’t want to see the smartass smirk that no doubt hung on his beaming face.
 
I’d had my fill for the day.
 
I was tired and confused, with trouble looming on all fronts, past, present and future.

I was halfway to the door when he stopped me. “I’ll take care of Dawson’s personnel forms first thing in the morning and bring him up to speed on how we do things here.”

I hesitated.
 
“Fine.
 
G’night.”
 
Before I could fully escape, he had to throw one more wrench in my plans.

“Don’t forget the girls come to your place tonight.”

Any hope of salvaging the rest of this day deflated like a spent party balloon.
 

Monday night.

Girls’ night.

Dinner, movies and weekly confessional.
 
Too late to bail in view of the fact that I was the hostess.

The perfect ending to the perfectly awful day.

Great sex.
 
Long lost lovers.
 
And a hot new investigator who spelled trouble.

All the ingredients of a new reality series.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I managed to shower and change before seven.
 
Things would have been cool then if I hadn’t checked out my reflection from behind.
 
Was it my imagination or was my ass getting wider?

Middle age spread.

I shuddered as the term reverberated through me.
 
That sucked.
 
Along with failing vision, a woman’s ass had to get as wide as a linebacker’s shoulders.
 
The vision situation you could hide with contacts.
 
But no amount of black fabric would conceal an ass this inordinately huge.

My dejected sigh echoed hollowly in the silent room.
 
Well, these were my favorite black low rider stretch jeans and God knew I loved this turquoise Lycra racer back top.
 
I could move as well as look sexy...at least that’s what I’d thought when I put them on.
 
If the True Religion jeans didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

Tonight I felt like a fat, old, divorced lady—with a kid in law school.
 
Hot flashes would start any minute. Exasperation leaked out of me.
 
And mood swings would likely be next.
 

I frowned at my reflection.
 
What happened to forty-five and loving it?
 
Where was that old
I’ve still got it
feeling now?
 
I didn’t really look any different than I had this morning.
 
Couldn’t possibly have gained more than a pound since then.
 
My vision hadn’t suddenly gone down hill between waking up and Hobbs shoving those damned reading glasses at me.

The only difference was that I no longer had a man in my life.
 
Hobbs didn’t count.
 
He was my assistant, my buddy.
 
Besides, he was gay.
 
More female than me in ways I didn’t want to think about.
 
And Dawson, well he was supposed to be my employee, so he wasn’t
supposed
to count either.
 
Why must a woman measure her worth in terms of the man in her life?

What was wrong with being sexy, sassy, intelligent and just you?
 
Single and satisfied.
 
Why did there have to be an
us
or a
him
to make me feel complete?
 
It wasn’t fair.

I needed potato chips and thick, creamy chocolate.
 
I glanced at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table.
 
I had time.
 
The girls would wait while I made a quick trip to the SafeWay.
 
Anything to drag me out of this blue funk.

Luckily the doorbell chimed just then, ending my self-pity session before it sank lower and sent me binging on junk food.

I trudged off to the living room just as the doorbell broke into its tinny harmony the second time.
 
Taking a moment to compose myself I drew in a breath and then opened the door.

“Shari!”
 
I stepped back to let the first arrival through the door.
 
“Come on in.”
 
At least I sounded perky.

Sharon Novak, aka Shari, was always the first on the scene.
 
She prided herself on punctuality.
 
She claimed it had nothing to do with her ex but I knew differently.
 
Look, when you’re late getting to the airport to take your first real vacation in ten years of marriage and the bastard takes off on
your
vacation with another woman instead of waiting, well that scars a woman.

“I’ve got the movie!”
 
She held up a DVD case, causing the bag swinging from her shoulder to flop down into the crook of her arm.
 
“
Troy
.”
 
She wiggled with anticipation.
 
“Brad Pitt is a god in this movie.
 
Twenty years from now it’ll still be a classic.”

She bubbled with her usual over the top excitement.
 
Maybe her good mood would rub off on me.
 
God knew I needed to shake this gloom and doom.
 
Depression didn’t look good on anyone.
 
Classic or no, a half-naked Brad couldn’t hurt my mood.
 
Except that he was a perfect example of the double standard between men and women in terms of the aging issue.
 
Men got better with age, like wine.
 
Women, on the other hand, were like cheese—aged was good to a degree, then came the mold and the inevitable casting aside.

At least I wasn’t that depressed anymore.
 
Nope, now I was just pissed off.

“Sounds awesome,” I enthused, forcing myself to be swept along by her fervor.
 
I didn’t mention that she’d brought that movie at least twice a year for the past six.
 
Truth was, fair or not, Brad looked pretty damned hot in ancient Greek garb.

Before I could close the door the final two members of our little club, which even after all these years still had no name, bounded up the sidewalk.

“Hey, girl!”
 
This from Donna Ingle, my absolute best friend on earth.
 
She and I went way, way back.
 
Knew each other’s deepest, darkest secrets.
 
Well, most of them anyway.

We exchanged the traditional bear hug.
 
In Texas we didn’t bother with little cheeky air kisses.
 
We hug like we mean it.

Mary Jane reached for me next.
 
“Hey, Jackie.
 
Donna dumped her boyfriend today,” she whispered in my ear before letting go.

Why hadn’t I heard about this?
 
Before I could sulk about it Shari came up beside me and slung her arm around my shoulders.
 
“I didn’t get a hug,” she pouted.

I obliged my neglected friend as I contemplated that Donna, the only one of us who
always
had a man in her life, had dumped her guy.
 
There had to be a new man in the picture.
 
It just wasn’t possible for Donna to be...
singular
.

Five minutes later we were ready to eat.
 
Thankfully the weekly host didn’t have to do the cooking.
 
Shari not only brought the movie she carried a Tupperware tub of southwestern style baked beans.
 
Donna brought ribs.
 
Mary Jane, whose surname was in fact Jane but everyone called her Mary Jane because it sounded better than plain Mary, provided her famous southern style potato salad.

Because we were all over forty and fighting off the effects of slowing metabolisms and advancing cellulite we never had rolls or buns.
 
It was the first rule of our nameless club.
 
No bread shall be consumed during weekly confessional.
 
The second rule was that we must read our bible as soon as it arrived each month—
More Magazine
.
Cosmo
rated a close second.

We had to stay hip on the latest ways to keep our minds sharp, our bodies sleek, and our sex lives titillating.
 
Most women our age were trying to pretend that sex no longer mattered or that the mere promise of it was enough—which usually meant they still had a husband but he hadn’t discovered Viagra yet.
 
We, on the other hand, firmly believed that if we didn’t stay up on feminine wiles we’d be doomed to fade into the humdrum of asexuality.
 
Use it or lose it.
 
That was our motto.

Eating and the movie came first.
 
Before Brad had defeated his enemies on my big screen—another perk of having clients who couldn’t pay with cash, oops guess that was three times—Shari hit pause long enough for ice cream to be served.
 
Dessert in modest quantities had never been against the rules.
 
We considered it in the same category as Prozac or Xanax, a basic essential for the mature woman. More often than not, Mary Jane brought something from her bakery, Sweet Cakes, but tonight she’d fallen down on the job. I worried about her. She seemed preoccupied a lot lately.

I’d forgotten about the box of decadent chocolate hiding in the very back recesses, territory I rarely broached, of my freezer.
 
Perhaps forgotten wasn’t the right word, more likely I had blocked it from my memory for the sake of my hips. Uncovering the hidden treasure had saved the evening.

I felt way stuffed afterwards but it beat the hell out of the emptiness I’d experienced in front of my bedroom mirror.

I’d bet my coveted Birkin and the wide screen that Ken Willis hadn’t felt one speck of guilt or disappointment or any damned thing else.
 
It was the curse of womanhood.
 
Always carry all the guilt.
 
Always shoulder all the worry, stress and any other emotionally wrenching stroke or heart attack trigger known to modern medicine.

I stared at Brad on the gargantuan screen as the movie resumed.
 
Shari was right, he looked hot.
 
A lot like my new business associate.
 
Before I could stop my carbohydrate sodden brain, Dawson’s image bloomed in the private theater of my mind.

Dawson, ex-homicide detective who’d decked his superior for bonking his future wife.
 
God, he was cute and way younger than dear old Brad.

Striking blue eyes.
 
Like the sea lapping against the shore.
 
And the lips.
 
Well, suffice to say that Hollywood heartthrob Brad could use a set of lips like that.
 
Full, sculpted but definitely not feminine.
 
Kissable.
 
Suckable.
 
I moistened my lips hungrily.

Whew!
 
I should have adjusted the thermostat.
 
It was hot in here.
 
My heart was racing.
 
Hot flashes? I wondered vaguely and got depressed all over again.

“Are you all right?”

Donna’s voice startled me.
 
“What?”
 
I glanced at her then looked away so guiltily and so fast I got whiplash from the momentum.

My oldest friend scrutinized me for a second too long.
 
“You look flushed, Jackie.”
 
Her hyperanalyzing gaze tapered to mere slits.
 
“What’s going on?
 
You’re way too quiet.”