“No,” he said. There was a pause, and then an opening. “Where would we stay?”
“I don’t know, maybe a youth hostel?”
“A youth hostel.”
“A little joke. I’ll find something nice. Go home, pack for a night, and I’ll pick you up there. The client has deep pockets.” I didn’t tell him that the client also had empty pockets.
“You don’t know where I live.”
“I’m a detective, remember?”
“Strange how I forget that sometimes.”
“See you at noon.” What was he so afraid of? I didn’t bite. Hard.
That gave me all of an hour and a half to get ready and find a hotel online. We were only going for the night and I wouldn’t need to pack much. Packing for San Diego was easy: shorts, tank top, unmentionables, sandals, sun screen. The hotel was easy, too. According to the hotel’s website, it had a pool on the roof. And there was a shopping mall two blocks away in case we needed anything else.
I headed out of my building onto Russell Road and then hopped onto I-15 heading south towards Mike’s house. He was waiting for me out front of a nice ranch house with a palm tree next to the driveway. Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t a rat hole either. Mike had ditched the Willy Loman look in favor of a fitted brown t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. A gray backpack was slung over his left shoulder. With his sunglasses on, he looked like a model in a sporting goods catalog. A definite improvement. He threw his bag in the back seat and got in the car.
“Thanks,” he said.
“What for?”
“I need to get out of here. I haven’t left town in months.”
“Buckle up,” I said. I patted him on the thigh. It had the approximate firmness of titanium. “Jesus, where do you work out?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Got a gym in the basement,” he mumbled.
I turned and smiled at him. He was blushing.
Mike clicked away on his computer for most of the ride. He seemed to have steady work chasing after deadbeats and casino cheats, but it didn’t seem very lucrative. Or exciting. After stopping for a light lunch, we hit the outskirts of L.A. a little after 2:00 and then veered south towards San Diego. I had only been to California a handful of times in my life, but somehow the names of the cities on the exits we passed had a familiar ring: San Bernardino, Riverside, Temecula, Escondido. I pulled out the map and had Mike guide me to the La Jolla address Rachel had given me. “He lives on a street named Fairway Road,” he said. “It’s probably on a golf course.”
I laughed. “Wow, you could be a private eye.” Would another pat on the thigh be too bold? I resisted the urge.
As Sherlock had predicted, Fairway Road was indeed on a golf course, an off-shoot of Country Club Drive. The house was a large tan Mediterranean with a red tile roof, and the entire structure was covered in some kind of ivy. Two immense palm trees stood off to the left, providing shade to most of the yard. I couldn’t see through to the back, but I guessed that one of the golf course’s holes was adjacent to the back yard.
We parked across the street and I dialed Block’s number one last time. I wasn’t exactly sure why. Courtesy?
“Someone’s in there,” Mike said.
“What?”
“Somebody just moved around when you called,” he said.
“Was it an old man?”
“I couldn’t see any details, just the shape of someone moving.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out if he lives here,” I said, opening the car door.
I walked up the driveway and noticed a small green Volkswagen Passat parked on a slab next to the garage. Mike waited in the car. Somebody’s home, all right. I climbed up the brick steps and rang the bell. While I waited I studied the front door, which was immense and finished in a deep amber stain that brought out the richness of the mahogany. There was no answer. The window on the door was too high to peek into, and I didn’t feel like snooping around, especially since Mike had seen someone inside. Someone who obviously didn’t want to chat.
“So that’s it?” he asked when I got back to the car.
“No, we should come back tomorrow too.”
“Next time, don’t call first. It only lets people know someone is looking for them.”
“Good tip. For now, let’s check into the hotel and get some food,” I said. “I’m starving.”
We arrived at our hotel in downtown San Diego around 5:30 and checked in. We met up in the lobby and the concierge pointed us in the direction of the Gas Lamp District, a historic and slightly touristy section of town about a half mile from our hotel. We stumbled upon a Mexican place with outdoor seating. I wondered briefly: do Mormons eat Mexican food? Then again, why on earth wouldn’t they?
“This okay?” I asked.
“Looks good to me.”
I ordered a blue margarita and Mike ordered a diet Sprite.
We studied the menus in silence. Mike decided on a baked tilapia special, while I ordered my old standby, ground beef chimichangas.
“You ever drink?” I asked.
“Once or twice. Religion says we’re not supposed to, you know.”
“Try mine. Just a sip.” I pushed my glass in front of him. I felt like a crack dealer trying to suck in a new customer.
We locked eyes for a few seconds and he gave me a little smile. “Okay,” he said, “just for you.”
With his finger he wiped some of the salt off the rim of the glass. Then he took a big gulp.
“Not bad,” he said. “What’s all in that?”
I explained the basics of margarita mixing to him. “The key is, never order a house margarita. They sit in those giant vats all day and there’s almost no booze in them.”
“Good tip,” he said.
The waitress returned a few minutes later with our food.
“Anything else I can get you folks?” she asked.
“I’ll have a house margarita,” Mike said. The waitress nodded gravely and left.
My mouth was hanging open. Mike tried to keep a straight face, but he burst out laughing.
“You bastard,” I said.
“Sorry. I just had to mess with you a little. I’m not a nun, you know.”
“No kidding. My great aunt’s a nun and she has a pint of schnapps every day.”
“I’m just like everybody else. Do you know anyone who follows every single tenet of their religion, every day, all the time?”
I thought about it for a second. “I guess not.”
Mike’s drink arrived, and we clinked glasses. He took a big sip out of his straw.
“Yours was better,” he said.
“No shit.”
About halfway through my second chimichanga I realized Mike was getting pretty drunk. I could tell because he was talking without being asked a question. He’d only finished about a quarter of his drink, but his liver was obviously out of practice.
“Drink up,” I said. “They’re going to think you didn’t like it.”
He took a big slurp. I liked men who responded to gentle nagging.
We finished up our meals and along the way he managed to drink about three-fourths of his margarita. I paid the check and slurped down the watery green dregs of his drink, which was clearly concocted with children or the elderly in mind. We left the restaurant and began walking slowly up the street.
“What now?” he asked.
I had no idea. It was only a little after seven, and I had a nice buzz going. And Mr. Titanium Thighs was feeling good. “When was the last time you had a beer?”
He giggled a little. It was an unseemly sound for a six-one guy like him, but it was kind of cute. “Is alcohol your answer for everything?”
“No. Sometimes hard drugs are required. But if you want me to drink a beer alone, I understand.”
“Okay, okay. One beer. How about this place?” The bar on our right was very touristy, but it looked as good as any, and we could sit outside. Mike found a seat next to the sidewalk and
I went inside to the bar.
Knowing that you’re one-hundred percent definitely going to hell can be very liberating sometimes, and this was one of those times. Mike had said “one” beer, so I wanted to make it worth our while. The bartender assured me that the “imperial” amber ale they had on tap was their strongest beer, and I ordered us a couple of them in the twenty-five ounce size. The glasses were roughly a foot tall.
I hefted the two glasses onto the table like some Bavarian fraulein, somehow managing to keep most of the liquid from spilling. “What the hell is this?” Mike asked.
“I’m trying to get you drunk,” I said matter-of-factly.
He shook his head in quiet resignation.
We sat for awhile in silence, watching tourists walk by in the dimming daylight. The gas street lamps fired up and came slowly to life. A cop on a chestnut horse trotted towards us. Just before passing by, the horse paused, looked directly at me, and unleashed an avalanche of poop right on the curb. God’s judgment, no doubt.
I stole a furtive glance at Mike. He’d knocked off half of his beer and hadn’t thrown up yet. A good sign. He was staring at the poop.
“You don’t have to finish your beer just to impress me,” I said. “There’s a pool on the roof of our hotel, you know.”
Mike looked across the table at me. His eyelids were a little droopy, but he seemed okay. He took a long look at his half a beer and gave it thoughtful consideration. “I could go for a swim,” he said.
We stood up from the table. He stumbled just a bit and reached out to the table for support. I took his arm and led him out to the sidewalk. We walked together, in silence, back to the hotel.
“Meet you at the elevator in five minutes,” I said.
Mike nodded somberly.
I freshened up and changed into my black bikini. I found a comfy white hotel robe in the closet and went out to the elevator. I had half expected Mike to pass out face-down on his bed, but there he was. He didn’t have a robe on. Just his t-shirt and black swimming trunks.
“Good planning,” I said, eyeing his shorts. His ripped thighs bulged out beneath them.
“I swim at the downtown Y almost every morning. I figured you’d spring for a hotel with a pool.”
On this Monday night the pool area on the roof was deserted. Dim accent lighting highlighted a narrow lap pool that lay near the roof’s edge, and an elevated hot tub stood off to the side, partially obscured by a few shrubs. We stood there surveying the scene. I took off my robe and threw it on a lounge chair. Mike looked at me and gulped.
“Holy . . .”
I smiled. “Hot tub?” I asked.
He followed behind me. My thong didn’t leave much to the imagination, and I hoped he was helping himself to a good look. I bent over and pressed the button to get the bubbles going before I climbed into the tub. I watched Mike take off his shirt, revealing a muscular, lean torso and rippling arms, and for that brief moment I felt a little bit of the thrill that men must get when they come to Cougar’s.
We sat quietly in the Jacuzzi for a few minutes. The sound of the pump motor running and bubbles fizzing drowned out everything else. I had been leading Mike down this path all evening, so I was pleasantly surprised when he actually took the initiative and grabbed me under the water.
“What took you so long?” I whispered.
He responded by grabbing me harder and pulling me onto his lap. He proved to be a great kisser, and I managed to keep our lips locked while I undid my top. His hands did the rest. We wriggled out of our bottoms and thrashed around the hot tub. The Mike I knew was gone, a million miles away. The new Mike still didn’t speak, but his movements were confident and his hands were strong. After a minute he backed himself onto one of the stairs in the tub and pulled me onto his lap, facing him. After that, I lost all track of time and movement. I moved with him, on him, lost in the wetness of his mouth and the hot steamy water we splashed in. After an eternity of motion my arms got sore from holding onto him, but I wasn’t going to let go until he was done with me. I clung tighter to his chest, and as his breathing got heavier he grabbed me even closer until it hurt. With a flurry of thrusts he heaved himself into me and finished, falling forward onto me and submerging both of us in the water. We came up gasping for air, and I put my arms around him and held him. Our chests both heaved together, seeking oxygen, and we didn’t move for a very long time.
Obviously, Mike needed that. So did I. People assume that strippers must have wild and fulfilling sex lives, but most men we meet are scumbags or just plain losers. And when the good ones find out what we do for a living, they tend to back away after a few dates.
Our breathing returned to normal after a few minutes. “Want to get out?” I asked. We were still standing, holding each other, the water bubbling up to our chests.
Silence.
“Mike?”
He had fallen asleep standing up. I gave his ass a meaningful grab. “Mike? Let’s go to bed.”
“Okay,” he murmured.
I led him slowly out of the pool, and when he got out he stood there naked, dripping wet and still half aroused. He probably thought he was in a dream. I pointed to his shirt and shorts on the ground and he seemed to get the idea. I found my robe and put it on. And then I panicked.
“Mike, did you bring your room key?”
He felt in his shorts. “No.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll just give us new ones at the front desk,” I said. We’d look ridiculous, but I didn’t care because I was drunk and in a happy afterglowy place. Mike got his clothes on and we made our way slowly to the door. It was locked.
“What the . . ?” I pulled at the doors again. “We need a key to get back in. We’re stuck out here.”
He seemed not to fully appreciate the situation. He was drunker than I thought.
I looked around. “Well, it’s July, we’re in San Diego, and there’s a bunch of cabanas over there with beds in them. It could be a lot worse. Let’s go get a big drink of water first.”
He followed me to the drinking fountain and drank from it like a parched mule at the Rio Grande. I led him to a cabana. He was already half asleep when we got into bed. I opened my robe and pulled his head to rest on my chest, and I fell asleep dreaming of an early morning encore.
Chapter 9
“Ex-cooz me, ex-cooz me.” The high-pitched voice was insistent. As I grudgingly awoke from a peaceful sleep, I realized there was something off about the voice that I couldn’t place. An accent, that was it. Mexican. I opened my eyes and squinted into the light. A wide-faced, dark skinned woman was standing in front of the cabana, her arms on her hips. Her look of disapproval didn’t require any translation.
I pulled my robe around myself and propped myself up in the cabana bed. “What time is it?”
“No speak English,” she said. “Ex-cooz me,” she said again, and pointed at the door. “No open.”
“Okay, I get it. We were locked out. Key?” I asked. I made a lame motion with my hand trying to explain what had happened. Mike was still asleep, face down. I shook him by the shoulders and he began producing a series of grunting noises. “We have to get out of here,” I said.
“Mm hmm.” He rolled over and I tried to pull him up. He seemed to finally get it and slowly raised himself from the bed. I smiled apologetically at the Mexican woman. She kept frowning at us as she looked us over. And then her eyes got big. I followed her stare to Mike’s swimming trunks. It looked like he was trying to hide the Washington Monument in his shorts. I thought I caught the faintest hint of a grin on the woman’s face as she turned away and waved her hands in the air in mock disgust.
“Let’s go,” I said.
The doors were now open, and we took the elevator down to the lobby in silence. They gave us new keys without batting an eyelash, and on the way back upstairs I couldn’t tell if Mike was hung over, embarrassed, or both. We agreed to meet in the lobby coffee shop in forty-five minutes.
I was halfway through my
large coffee and a bagel when Mike arrived. He got himself a glass of orange juice and a cup of yogurt mixed with fruit and granola. I was about to make fun of him, but I had a flashback to his toned, athletic body. His pecs and abs made a pretty good case for avoiding alcohol and eating right. He didn’t seem too talkative, and I decided it would be better to avoid the subject of last night.
“We should probably get up to La Jolla as soon as possible,” I said. “It might be a long day.”
He nodded.
“You know, you don’t have to come with me.”
“What else am I going to do? Go shopping?” He smiled at me over his yogurt. “So,” he began tentatively.
Here it comes, I thought. He wants to talk about last night. I was dreading this. Guys had a way of going weird on me—either they bailed out right after sleeping with me, or they got clingy and needy.
He continued, “You have a plan other than just going up to this guy’s door and ringing the doorbell?”
“Um, actually, no.”
“Okay, just checking.”
Whew—I had dodged an awkward conversation. It was almost ten when the valet brought the car around. I pressed the button to drop the top down and we spent the ten miles drive up to La Jolla enjoying the warm sea air in our faces. We headed up the Pacific Highway and swung west on Mission Boulevard, which crossed over the coastal side of Mission Bay. The road hugged the coastline, and soon turned into La Jolla Boulevard. From there I retraced our route from yesterday and found the streets leading into Mel’s home at the La Jolla Country Club.
As we turned onto Fairway Road, I spotted a green Volkswagen pulling into Mel’s driveway a block ahead of us. I hit the brakes and began inching the car closer, trying to get a glimpse of the driver without drawing too much attention to us. I stopped a half block away and saw the car’s driver—it obviously wasn’t Mel—walk up the front steps. The girl looked about twenty and had her blond hair tied back in a pony tail. She wore a gray sweatshirt and dark green shorts, and she had a grocery bag under her arm. She propped the bag up on her left hip while she used a key to let herself in.
Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series) Page 6