Drop Dead, Gorgeous

by J. D. Mason

  “Can’t sleep?” he asked, nuzzling his face in the side of her neck.

  She shook her head. “Got too much on my mind to sleep,” she responded.

  He felt so warm, and so good. Desi closed her eyes and let out a sigh. As anxious as she was about tomorrow, just his touch had a way of easing her fears and reminding her that she really was okay now and that the past was exactly where it belonged. Behind her.

  She had a day filled with meetings tomorrow. Desi was finally getting a meeting with Macy’s head of acquisitions to discuss the terms of carrying her product in their stores across the country. Until now, her Konvictions line had only been sold in small boutiques, and offered online from her company Web site, but distribution was getting to be too much for her to handle on her own. Konvictions was taking off, before she’d had a chance to really brace herself for it.

  “Why the hell are you nervous, baby? You got this.”

  “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” she retorted. “I won’t take it for granted that I do until the ink’s dry on the contract, Solomon. Weren’t you the one who taught me that?”

  He was an entertainment lawyer for some of the top artists in the music industry, and even represented some major sports figures. Solomon knew better than anyone not to get too comfortable too quickly.

  “I did tell you that. Thanks for reminding me of how great a lawyer I am.”

  “You’re welcome. So, that’s why I’m up.”

  “Which is bad, because you’re not going to be too sharp if you’re falling asleep during the meeting.”

  “I won’t sleep,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “Nope. I will not sleep until this is a done deal.”

  “And that’s fine, because there are plenty of other things we can do right now besides sleep.”

  Desi laughed. “Oh, you got ideas,” she teased.

  “Plenty. But first…” Solomon opened the blanket, letting all that chilly air invade their cocooned bodies, and held a baby blue velvet box in front of her.

  Tiffany’s. He knew how much she loved Tiffany’s. Desi laughed, took the box, and held it possessively to her chest. “How long have you had this?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “And you’re just now giving it to me?”

  “I was planning on giving it to you tomorrow,” he said calmly. “Open it.”

  Even in the dark, it was impossible for that thing not to shine. Desi was hit by the light of the most brilliant diamond she’d ever laid eyes on. It was a ring. A perfectly exquisite ring, covered in diamonds circling the band.

  “Marry me, Desi.”

  Desi stopped breathing. Before he’d said those words to her, Solomon had just given her a gift, a ring. Marry me, Desi changed everything just that quick.

  She turned to him. Desi had every intention of saying something but the minute she looked into that handsome, chocolate face of his, she forgot what it was. And Solomon seemed intent on just letting her stand there, looking dumbfounded and speechless. He just smiled. Look at where she was now. Desi looked back out to the city, took a deep breath, and let it all soak in. She’d gotten good at that. Desi had moved past thinking that she didn’t deserve the life she had now, because she had finally accepted that she not only deserved it, but she had earned it.

  “Well?” he finally asked.

  “What do you mean, well? You know what my answer is already, Solomon. You knew it before you even bought this ring.”

  She was long past feeling that detachment she’d come out of prison with. Because Solomon had been there, waiting patiently for her feelings to catch up with his. He waded through all her doubts and missteps with her, held out both hands, and helped her finally get past them. Any other man would’ve given up. His feelings would’ve been hurt, and he’d have shrugged her off and moved on to the next woman.

  Desi sunk deeper into his arms, and sighed. “I will absolutely marry you, Solomon.”

  “And you’ll never let me go?” he added.

  She smiled. “Never.”

  “And you’ll never do anything to make me wanna let you go?”

  “I hope not.”

  “No, Desi. You’ve got to say it.”

  “I will never do anything to make you wanna let me go, baby,” she purred.

  “Then let’s go make love, and seal this deal,” he teased, kissing her neck, and turning both of them around to go back inside.

  They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Solomon backed Desi up to the sofa, spread his arms, and dropped the blanket on the floor behind him. Desi raised up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. Solomon slipped his hands underneath her nightgown, cupped her behind in both hands, and spun her around. He sat down, pulling her down on top of him. Desi’s body melted on top of his.

  Solomon stared so deep into her eyes that she wondered if he couldn’t see her soul. “You’re my wife, baby,” he murmured.

  Of all the things Desi had been in her life, guilty, not guilty, poor, rich, hopeless, nothing—being Solomon’s wife was the only thing that mattered. He pushed his hips toward hers, took hold of her by the back of her neck, and pulled her face to his.

  Desi drove her knees into the space on either side of him, and pumped slowly against him, driving him so deep inside her, until he touched places in her that no other man could ever possibly reach.

  “I love you,” she whispered between kisses. And more than that, Desi felt loved.

  * * *

  Solomon was still asleep when the phone rang. Desi had finally managed to doze off too, but just barely. “Hello?” she asked, without checking the number on the screen.

  The other end of the phone was silent.

  “Hello?” Desi asked again, irritated.

  “Did I wake you?”

  It was Lonnie. Desi hadn’t spoken to Lonnie in nearly two years. The conversation had been brief, curt, and left Desi with more questions than answers. She carefully climbed out of bed and took the phone into the living room so as not to wake up Solomon.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  Lonnie hesitated in answering. “Dallas.”

  “Dallas?” Desi asked, stunned. Whatever had happened to Lonnie happened in Dallas. So, why the hell was she back there?

  “How are you, Desi?” she asked, as casually as if the two of them had last spoken a few weeks ago.

  “How are you, Lonnie?” Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? How was Lonnie? Or was it, Where have you been, Lonnie? Maybe it was, What the hell happened to you, Lonnie?

  “I asked you first,” Lonnie replied coolly.

  “I’m fine. You?”

  “That’s what I hear, Des. I hear you’re doing just fine.”

  Desi was thrown off by Lonnie’s tone. But at least Lonnie was talking to her. When Lonnie first went missing, Desi believed that Lonnie had been killed and that Jordan had been the one to do it, but a few weeks later, Lonnie was resurrected.

  “I’d like to see you,” Desi said reluctantly. It was mostly the truth. But something about the sound of Lonnie’s voice left Desi feeling uncertain about their friendship. “I’d like to see for myself how you’re doing.”

  “I need to see you too, Des. Where are you?”

  Desi paused. She wanted to see Lonnie, but not here. This New York trip was too important to add Lonnie into the mix. “I’ll be back home this weekend.”

  Desi hadn’t planned on flying back to Texas anytime soon, but if she were going to finally see Lonnie again, Texas seemed like the natural place to do it.

  “Do you still have the house?” Lonnie asked. “We can meet there.”

  “That’ll be fine, Lonnie. That’ll be great, really.”

  Lonnie chuckled. “Yeah, Desi. Really great.” Desi cringed at the sarcasm. “Call me back at this number when you get to town.”

  “Sure,” Desi agreed. “I’ll call you soon.”

  Lonnie hung up first without bothering to say good-bye. And Desi just stood there, dreading seeing her f
riend again.

  All About the Watchtower

  “Your daddy and I used to spend hours fishing in this very same spot.” Edgar always sounded more like the old man he was when he sat slumped on top of that old plastic bucket perched at the edge of the Red River. He stared out across it, reminiscent of a time so long ago that it really was ancient history. “Sometimes, a man’s got to slow down, and fishing will force him to do it.”

  Jordan didn’t fish, so the analogy was wasted on him. He’d called Edgar’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer. Jordan called his house, and Edgar’s wife answered, sounding like she was just waking up at three in the afternoon. She was the one who told Jordan where to find the old man.

  Jordan came dressed to traipse around the muddy banks of a river—jeans, an old ranch button-down, boots. He closed the lid on Edgar’s oversized tackle box and sat down on it next to him.

  “If I didn’t know you better, Edgar, I’d think you were purposefully trying to avoid me.”

  The years had added inches to Beckman’s midsection, and in the sunlight, Jordan noticed deep brown markings beginning to mask the old man’s face around his eyes and mouth. It seemed that Edgar’s gene pool had managed to sneak through after all these years. From where Jordan was sitting, Beckman looked like a black man in white face.

  Edgar huffed. “Of course I’m trying to avoid you. How the hell did you know where to find me?”

  “Bridgette told me. She sounded a little out of sorts,” Jordan jabbed. “Is she alright?” Of course he knew the answer to that question.

  Edgar rolled his eyes in disgust. “Coke keeps you up all night,” he said dismissively.

  “When you going to rid of her, Edgar?” It was no secret that Edgar had a weakness for young women. He had lousy taste in choosing one worth having, though. Bridgette was a cokehead, the one before that, a thief, and the one before that, well …

  “She’s a damn good lay,” he grunted.

  “For who?”

  “Is that why you came all the way out here to talk to me, son? You interested in fucking my wife?” He smirked.

  Jordan laughed. “I wouldn’t touch that bitch with a ten-foot pole, old man.”

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  “Tell me what you found out about Frank Ross and Cotton, Texas?”

  “Nothing you couldn’t have found out on your own, if you’d just put your own resources into it.”

  By resources, he meant time and money.

  “I did, Edgar. I asked you to do it,” Jordan said calmly.

  “Since when have I become your go-to man, Jordan?” He looked at him sideways. “Since when am I supposed to jump every time you snap your fingers?”

  “Since when is helping me a problem, Edgar? Maybe I’ve assumed too much. I’ve taken for granted that you’ve been a permanent fixture in my family, always so willing to step forward and to offer your services when needed. You feel I’ve taken advantage of that?”

  The muscle in Edgar’s jaw ticced as he clenched his teeth, but he didn’t dare turn to look at Jordan. Edgar had always been there for the Gatewoods; going back to before Jordan was born, he had been Julian’s best friend, his closest confidant. And he’d always been good at whatever task lay ahead of him. He’d been the best. Edgar was the only man he could trust, and the only one that Jordan knew for a fact didn’t have it in him to ever let him down.

  Edgar took a few noticeable deep breaths. “I’ll be eighty pretty soon,” he said wearily. This time he did turn to Jordan. “I am an old man, son, very old, and I’m tired.”

  “It’s not like I asked you to personally ride out to Cotton and ask around about Frank Ross. You make a few phone calls, and it happens, Edgar. How is that taxing to you? I’d do it myself, but I don’t have time, not to mention, I trust you, Edgar. And a man like me needs someone he can trust on his side.”

  Edgar stared back at him like he was speaking Chinese. Jordan waited for Edgar to say something. He wanted to understand where this reluctance was coming from.

  “Two cops were killed in Cotton last year,” Edgar began to slowly explain. “Some months later, Ross quit the force and moved to Paris.”

  Jordan perked up. “They think he killed cops?”

  Edgar shook his head. “Nobody knows who killed those cops. They’d been keeping close watch over a drug dealer, Reggie somebody-or-other, but all of a sudden he ended up dead too. Ross had a partner, Colette Fisher. She’s still a member of Cotton’s finest,” he said sarcastically.

  “Is she a suspect?”

  Edgar shrugged. “I have no idea. I just got a feeling about it. That’s all.”

  “About what?” Jordan asked irritably.

  “Maybe there’s something there. Maybe there isn’t. I really can’t tell you, Jordan.”

  “Then why bring it up?”

  “Because I said I’d look into it, and I did,” he snapped. “I’m not a fuckin’ golden retriever, son. I can’t fetch you what you want and bring it to you exactly like you want it.”

  “You’ve made your fair share of miracles for me, Edgar,” he said menacingly.

  “Well, not this time! I got nothing! Nothing on Frank Ross, his partner, nothing! But I do have a suggestion.” He had turned a scary shade of red.

  “A suggestion?” Jordan said impatiently.

  “Get rid of him, Jordan! You don’t need the distraction, especially now! He’s no one in particular, son, not worth your time, or mine! Frank Ross could go away and I doubt anyone would even notice! If you want him gone, then get rid of his ass and be done with it!”

  That was his suggestion? To kill Frank Ross? Jordan just stared at him. “What the hell is really going on with you, Edgar?”

  Edgar’s eyes watered. “I told you I’m tired,” he grunted. “And I don’t have it in me anymore to chase after your messes, Jordan.”

  “Is it Bridgette?” Jordan probed.

  “You know what it is,” he muttered.

  Jordan knew what it was.

  “I’m tired of being held hostage by you, son, and I think I deserve better after all I’ve been through with you and your daddy.”

  “We’ve all got something, Edgar,” Jordan said remorsefully. “Holding you hostage has never been my intention.”

  He rolled his eyes in frustration. “Say what you will, Jordan, but I know better and so do you.” He glanced at Jordan.

  Jordan was surprised by that statement. “Is that what you really think I’m doing? Holding you hostage?”

  “What you know about me could put me in prison,” he said, gritting his teeth. “It could get me the death penalty, and you use that! You use that against me, dangling it over my head like raw meat! I trusted you!” He pointed a thick finger at Jordan. “I trusted you because there was no one else!”

  “I know you trusted me, Edgar,” Jordan said carefully. “And I told you that your secret was safe with me. Have I done something to make you think it isn’t?”

  “Don’t toy with me, boy!” Edgar’s face flushed red again. “It’s not what you say. It’s what you don’t say! It’s what you imply!”

  “What the hell have I implied? Tell me, man! You’re talking in circles here! Have you been snorting that shit with Bridgette?” He reached out to Edgar, but the old man slapped his hand away.

  “I did what I had to! I did the only thing I could! You know that! You said that yourself, Jordan! I did the only fuckin’ thing I could!”

  “You did, Edgar.”

  “I never expected you to judge me, Jordan! Not being who you are!”

  The longer Edgar ranted, the more Jordan realized what was really going on here. Guilt was gnawing away at him. It had been eating at him for years, and Edgar was finally starting to buckle under the weight of it.

  “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that way, Edgar,” Jordan said as sincerely as he could, and he meant it. Edgar had been like a father to him. In so many ways, he’d been more of a father to him than Julian ever had. “
If it means anything to you, I’ll back off.” He raised his hands in surrender. “You don’t need the pressure right now. I understand that.”

  Jordan stood up and started to walk away and leave that old man alone with his conscience.

  “He’s only your half brother, Jordan,” Edgar called out. “Joel Tunson’s bastard son…” His voice trailed off. “Make it easy on yourself, son. Make him go away and be done with it.”

  ’Cause You Could Catch a Bad One

  Jordan knew where she lived. Lonnie lived in a secure building, but she doubted that a door that required a code card to open and a nice person sitting at the front desk to welcome visitors and mail carriers would be enough to keep him from getting to her if he really wanted to. Time was running out for Lonnie. The only thing working in her favor now is that Jordan didn’t feel the urgency of the situation, and he’d made it clear that he wasn’t taking seriously the threat of using Frank Ross to expose him. She’d hoped for that. Lonnie had counted on it. Frank was never meant to be more than a ruse, a tactic of misdirection and a distraction to Jordan, and a way to buy her more time.

  * * *

  It was after one in the morning and Lonnie had spent the better part of the night Googling the hell out of Edgar Beckman. In her career as a journalist, Lonnie prided herself on her research skills. She had a knack for finding the obvious, but more importantly, she had a gift of being able to read between the lines of truth and speculation, and for being able to put together the puzzle pieces of circumstance.

  She had a notepad filled with the vital statistics of Beckman: when and where he was born, a list of law firms he’d worked for through the years, including heading up his own practice twice, once at the beginning of his career, and again before he finally retired nearly a decade ago. He’d run for the position of mayor of Fort Worth in his fifties, which she suspected was the reason he even had a Wikipedia page. But there was almost nothing written about his upbringing or his immediate family. And like Phillip had said, Beckman was on his third wife now, thirty-year-old Bridgette Fontaine, a former cheerleader for the New Orleans Saints professional football team.