Mary Grace considered those wonderfully poignant brown eyes. I knew it was a truck. “I didn’t want to seem pushy and you were somewhat aggravated with me yesterday.”
“You’re not pushy.” Brogan playfully shifted her in his lap, and she nearly moaned aloud. “As for the other, it seems like a moot point. No more mad killer on the loose with wire cutters, explosive devices, or guns. He’s very soundly locked away for the interim. So what did you do today? Since you’re out of the detecting business, that is, and no longer under a bodily death threat.”
“I went shopping,” she said. Not exactly a lie. No, I’m not lying. I’m just not sharing the rest of it. I did go shopping. I also got kicked out of a mall. Then I went to interrogate my boss about his murderous five year old son. I know something you don’t, or at least until Monday, and you’re not going to know that I know, unless I mess up and tell you anyway. Hah. Get that out of me, copper.
Brogan nipped at her neck. “Did you buy anything sexy?”
Mary Grace leaned into him. The heck with all this keeping secrets business. This is more interesting. His tongue played with the bit of flesh that melded neck with shoulder. He sucked for a moment and then kissed his way up her neck. One of his hands took the beer out of hers and put it on the little wrought iron table that sat beside the Adirondack chair they sat in. Then it came back and relieved her of her wine glass. On the third pass, it gently touched her breast and played with her nipple through her baby doll shirt. She pushed herself onto his hand, and ground her bottom onto his lap, reveling in the fervent growl that came from his lips.
“What was the question?” she asked weakly and after an indeterminate amount of time. “Oh, did I buy anything? No, the sales kind of…sucked. I don’t think I’ll be going to that mall again anytime soon.”
Brogan slipped one of the baby doll’s sleeves off her shoulder and nipped at her collarbone. He was too distracted by what he didn’t find to pay attention to what she was saying. “No bra today?”
“It’s a little hot,” she whispered. “And in case you have any more questions.” She deliberately rubbed her bottom against the hard ridge of flesh she felt under her. “I always wear matching bra and underwear.”
Brogan froze. “You mean you’re not wearing anything…?”
“Not a stitch.”
“Okay then,” he said agreeably, and carried her inside. Outside several neighbors sighed with amusement.
•
When Brogan woke up the next morning, he was thinking about Mary Grace. It wasn’t hard to do, since she was lying beside him, all feminine softness with the scent of a spicy perfume. Her blue-black hair was tumbled on the pillow, glinting prettily in the morning light. Her luscious lips pursed in a little pout. Perhaps he should have been embarrassed that one of her wonderfully formed breasts peeked out from the sheets and a candy-pink nipple was very nearly winking at him, but he wasn’t. Instead one curious finger of his hand reached out, briefly caressed the soft flesh into burgeoning hardness and then covered it reluctantly with a sheet.
The previous day he’d had to explain to Jason why the foyer table was overturned, and Brogan hadn’t liked feeling like a teenager who had gotten away with some naughty misdeed. But Jason, having caught the gist of the matter without Brogan actually having to be specific, had laughed. “On the hallway table, Dad? Way to go for an old dude.”
What is it about Mary Grace? Brogan twisted his lips. She was attractive, but she was also ditzy. Ditzy wasn’t the right word, however. Perhaps it was more that she lacked some kind of common sense that would have been readily apparent to Brogan. That little needy something appealed to him in a way that he wouldn’t have previously imagined. And she makes me really, really hot. I would have fucked her in the parking lot at the hospital if the radio hadn’t blared. What’s up with that? I mean, besides my dick?
Brogan was über-grateful that Mary Grace’s stalker had been apprehended. Trey Kennebrew wouldn’t have been his first choice for the bad guy, but he’d been caught red-handed with a confession in Mary Grace’s sweet little fingers. She might have broken into his house, but she was the one who supplied the motive for Kennebrew’s attacks. Certainly, Kennebrew owned up to the brake line job like the ninny he seemed to be; he didn’t even ask for an attorney when he’d let the brake-job info loose to the local police. But his notes were somewhat ambivalent about the other events. The Duncanville Police couldn’t find a .38 pistol to which Kennebrew would have had access. There were holes, but it seemed likely that the worst was over. Hell, three quarters of the cases he worked were left with holes. Life didn’t tie itself up in neat little packages with which detectives could work
And Jesus twitching eye Christ, the things Mary Grace can do. First, there’s her little exploit to Jack Covington’s house with her buddy. Then she romps over to Tinker, Texas to shake down a couple of vineyard owners simply because she thought their logo looked like the one on a mysterious note she’d gotten. She still hasn’t told me all the details about that, I haven’t forgotten. Then she’d gone back to brace her boss about the booby painting. Brogan chuckled quietly. Hell of a painting. I wonder if Covington would sell it to me. Finally, she breaks into Kennebrew’s house to see if she can come up with some evidence to convict him or clear him. Which she did. Thank God she’s not a cop or it would have been so inadmissible a judge would have thrown her in jail instead. Was I angry or what?
Brogan gently brushed a lock of that amazingly blue-black hair away from her incredible face. Life wasn’t going to be boring around her. Half the time he wanted to strangle her. Half the time he wanted to fuck her. His cock didn’t know whether it should get hard or haul ass into his body for protection. “Hey,” he said.
Mary Grace burrowed into the pillow and feebly waved her hand.
“Hey,” he said again. “I have to go to work, Mary Grace. I just wanted to give you a kiss before I went.”
“You can take a shower here,” she mumbled. “Oh, God, my head hurts. No more wine. If you bring me some Tylenol I’ll give you a B.J.”
Brogan laughed, knowing she was joking. However, his penis gave a lustful lurch that he thought was he was incapable of doing after the sexual jaunts of the previous two days. “So you were drunk and I seduced you,” he said instead. “Oh, I’m a bad boy.”
She shifted her body and peeped at him from the fringe of her hair. “I remember that part,” she said saucily. “On the kitchen table. On the floor. In the shower. Then it got kind of blurry. I think we’re going to have order condoms by the gross.”
Brogan leaned in for a quick kiss and backed out for the slap on her delectable bottom. “I can’t take a shower here, Mary Grace,” he said reluctantly. “I need my work clothing.”
“Okay,” she muttered. “Can you…”
The door bell rang.
Mary Grace’s head came up and she glanced at the clock on the night stand. “It’s 7 AM,” she said accusingly at the clock, as if it were at fault.
“Yep. Maybe that’s your mother,” Brogan said amicably. “She’ll probably grab a shotgun if she sees me here at this time of day.”
Mary Grace leapt from the bed and groaned. As she fell out of bed she realized she was naked, and grabbed for a robe. Incidentally it was his very favorite transparent in the light robe. Brogan stood by and grinned broadly. “Coffee?”
“Yes, God. Please, yes,” she muttered. “Lots of it. The grounds are in the freezer. The filters are above the coffee pot in the cabinet.”
The doorbell rang again. Someone really leaned on it this time.
Mary Grace stumbled toward the hallway and tried to ignore Brogan’s admiring stare. My God, he thought. What am I getting myself into?
•
Mary Grace tottered down the hallway and paused at the answering machine set in the telephone nook in the wall. There was large blinking ‘43’ on it. The previous day she had come home and turned off the ringer on the phone because she didn’t want to talk to her moth
er. She had also turned the power off on her cell phone. Naturally, and also somewhat unnaturally due to a massive intake of white wine, she hadn’t turned either device back on. “43?” she muttered. “Something’s wrong with the machine. Ma couldn’t have called me 43 times. Maybe ten. Then she would have just shown up. Besides she’s just letting me stew. 43?”
The bell rang again.
Mary Grace made it to the door and peeked out a side window to see several of her neighbors talking as they stood on her front porch. There was Mr. Lofts of the gay persuasion. Mr. Peterson was present without the obligatory brood. Mr. Poteet held a stack of what appeared to be newspapers in his arms. Mr. and Mrs. Flagg were laughing about something. They were all chatting amicably.
They’ve come to lynch me, Mary Grace thought. I committed some unpardonable faux pas. Did I have a visible panty line? My bra strap was showing when I wore a tank top last month? Oh, wait, they’re laughing. It’s not a lynch mob. Lynch mobs usually aren’t merry.
Mary Grace checked to make sure she didn’t have eye goop. She smoothed her hair a little and warily opened the door.
They all stared at her.
After a full and very uncomfortable thirty seconds, she said, “Did I forget a neighborhood watch meeting?”
Mr. Lofts giggled. He snatched a paper from Mr. Poteet and handed it to Mary Grace. “The metro section, dear. We’ll wait.”
There was an imminent sense of foreboding. Mary Grace looked glumly down at the newspaper she held. Any day that a group of neighbors came laughing to someone’s door with a handful of newspapers something was wrong. 43 messages on my answering machine, she thought unhappily. Maybe I should have listened to them before I came to the door.
The metro section of the Dallas Morning News was the second section. She put the headlines on the bottom and immediately saw that she was above the fold. Oh, I am so above the fold. Her eyes focused on the photograph first because it took up about a quarter of the page. “Oh, dear God above,” she prayed fervently. “Tell me this is a really wretched dream.” Then she pinched her arm and ascertained that it wasn’t.
The photograph was of Jack Covington’s portrait. In full glorious color. Except the editors had put a big, black bar across the nipples, so they could remain safely anonymous, she guessed. She felt like an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. She couldn’t look away. Were they that big? And that pink? And just exactly who is going to be fooled by that large, black bar?
Finally, she glanced at the headline. ‘Duncanville Man’s Science Project.’ A brief look determined that someone had leaked the story about Trey Kennebrew’s bizarre dissertation experiment and how it had impacted the life of one Mary Grace Castilla. She was identified as a 28 year old graphic artist from Dallas. The story detailed the three attempts on her life and Trey’s arrest and confession to the brake-line job. There was a quote from Trey’s mother. There were quotes from several of Mary Grace’s co-workers. Ghita Castilla had stated firmly that her daughter, Mary Grace, was a good girl, and had not led the alleged, would-be murderer and doctoral candidate on. Finally, Mary Grace Castilla couldn’t be reached for comment.
Well, that explains one of those 43 messages, she thought.
Mr. Poteet grinned at Mary Grace and said, “I’d like an autograph. Right across the black bar, please.”
Brogan came up behind Mary Grace and looked over her shoulder at the article. “Holy Jesus on a pogo stick,” he said.
Mary Grace waved her hand impatiently. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”
Chapter Eighteen – Friday, June 24th
Never wear horizontal stripes if you’ve got what is colloquially called a big booty. Never wear vertical stripes if you want to appear dainty. Black doesn’t always slim especially if you’re a big-boned kind of gal. If your butt crack is visible to the Hubble Space Telescope,
then your low rise jeans are too low rise. - Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints
Mary Grace fled inside with Brogan close behind her. He efficiently snagged one of the papers from Mr. Poteet, and closed the door on the neighbors’ good-humored protests. While she anxiously paced through the living room, he read over the article, made little sounds under his breath. After a few minutes, he pronounced evenly, “They got everything basically correct. Didn’t get to talk to you, though.”
“My ringer’s off,” Mary Grace said shortly. “So is my cell phone. I don’t think I care to turn either one back on.”
Brogan folded the paper up, careful to return it to nearly pristine condition. She was pretty sure that he wasn’t going to return it to Mr. Poteet.
“How did they get a hold of the portrait?” she asked in a much more calm voice than what she was feeling inside. “How did they get a photograph of a portrait of what my employer thinks my mcguffies look like?”
Brogan shrugged. “The Arlington PD thought it was evidence. Although I’m not exactly certain what it was evidence of. I know this isn’t going to make you happy but I’d imagine that about fifty to a hundred cops probably saw it. I don’t know how many have cameras in their phones, but there’s probably a pretty good percentage. You’re probably an Internet Goddess by now. Wow. Next week you’ll be infamous.”
Mary Grace stopped abruptly and glowered at him. “You sound pretty placid, considering.”
“There’s not much we can do about this now,” Brogan said as he gently waved the paper in front of her. “They didn’t even ask me for a quote.”
Groaning, Mary Grace swung away. “I’m getting coffee,” she announced. “Then aspirin, and then a shower. Finally, I’m going to go cry on Callie’s shoulder. She’s getting out of the hospital today.”
Brogan patted her back awkwardly. “You can cry on my shoulder.”
Mary Grace muttered incoherently and buried her face into his shoulder, gratefully inhaling that masculine scent that was 100% Brogan. After a while she unenthusiastically said. “You’ve got to go to work. And don’t tell me all of your work buddies aren’t going to know about this.”
Brogan spared a fleeting glance for the newspaper. “There could be some flak,” he allowed mildly. “It should be interesting.”
“You think this is funny,” she accused, pointing a finger at his broad chest.
“It is funny,” he said. Then he glowered. “It wasn’t funny on Wednesday, however.”
“If it were your boobies in the paper, you wouldn’t think it was so hilarious.”
“If it were my boobies, they wouldn’t be in the paper.” He grinned suddenly. “Come on, Mary Grace. This isn’t the end of the world. This is a hiccough. Next week you’ll be old news. Kennebrew will still be behind bars, and life will go on.”
“I have to find a new job,” she said coldly. “I have to explain to my mother why my titties are in the metro section of the paper, and hope my father doesn’t get a dozen calls before he tees off this morning. I probably have to move before my neighbors rise up and protest my occupation of this residence.”
“Why do you need a new job?”
Mary Grace grimaced. Think quick, dimwit. Why don’t you just spill everything before it spills out by itself? “Would you work for the man who secretly paints his glorified version of your sweater puppies?”
“I’ve got to go with no on that,” Brogan said slowly. “But I don’t think it’s glorified. Not exactly, anyway.”
“And I’ve got to get a car,” Mary Grace added before she realized what she was saying and to whom she was saying it.
“What happened to Callie’s car?” he barked, his inner policeman snapping to attention.
“Uh, she’s getting out of the hospital,” Mary Grace said quickly. Lame. Oh, dear God, is that lame? Maybe he’ll forget that she can’t exactly drive in her condition. Maybe if I flashed those infamous mazoomas at him?
She had her hands at the edges of the robe before she reconsidered. Brogan wasn’t stupid. He’d probably get a good look and go right back to the question at hand. Or
is that at breast? “She has a broken leg,” he said.
“She does,” Mary Grace said. “But I think maybe her sister needs to use the Miata. Besides it was a little quirky yesterday.” Oh, please, for the love of Uncle Garbo’s deformed unmentionables stop talking now, big mouth, she silently implored herself.
Brogan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was like he could read her mind. “Quirky?” he repeated ominously.
“Problems,” Mary Grace said rapidly. “I had to have it towed to the garage yesterday. They said it’ll be ready this morning.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered. He glanced at his watch and swore. She was thankful he was distracted by the speedy passage of time. “I have to go. Are you going to be all right? I’d offer a ride to you, but I really have to be in a meeting at nine this morning. My lieutenant and his boss.”
Mary Grace brushed a hand across his unshaven cheek, lingering at his mouth. She was inwardly tempted to coax him into remaining via fair or foul means. Relenting, she said, “I’ll take a cab to pick up her car. Thank you for offering, though.”
Brogan stared down at Mary Grace. That suspicious, perceptive look was still on his face as if he knew she was prevaricating about something he should know. She stood on tippy toes to sweep her lips across his, nearly powerless to mold her form intimately to his. He allowed the kiss and then his arms pulled her closer. His head came down and his lips explored her eager mouth with a toe curling intensity that left her knees shaking. “I’ll call you after my meeting,” he said when he pulled back minutes later. His voice wasn’t entirely unaffected. “Turn on your cell phone.”
Mary Grace watched him leave and then gave a dirty look to the pile of newspapers left on her porch with the hastily written note on top.
•
Mary Grace felt half way human when she drove the Mazda Miata up to the hospital. She parked near where construction was continuing on building an additional parking lot for the hospital. She had taken a cab to pick up the Miata and paid the bill with one of her credit cards. The garage had replaced the tires easily enough, but the scratches would have be sanded out and repainted, a process that would take a week or two depending on their workload. She knew that she would have to explain it to Callie and then fork over the dough for the repairs later. Hopefully that would happen after she got a new job.
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