by Lotta Smith
My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, I’m not into kinky sex, and no, I’m not making this surname thing up. I’m twenty-nine years old, half Italian-English American and half Japanese. Currently, I’m divorced with no intention or anticipation of a new romantic relationship, much less marriage.
Been there, done that. No thank you very much.
Right then, my mind was completely centered on my career. And guess what, thinking about myself as a super-cool, classy, and oh-so-savvy sleuth—the assistant extraordinaire, to be precise—totally made me happy. The hard bench chair I sat on was no Cassina, and with the faded grayish-green color scheme, sad taste in décor—or lack thereof—and chilly yet stale air, the morgue’s waiting room was depressing at the best of times. But I was optimistic. In fact, I was feeling kind of flamboyant because I really, really liked the idea of visiting the morgue in line of my job. First of all, I loved the CSI TV series, and the prospect of seeing a live autopsy was totally thrilling. Besides that, it was not like the morgues were open to the public so that anybody could take a sightseeing tour and attend an autopsy, right? Having access to this facility was a real privilege.
In my mind, I was picturing myself as a female version of Dr. John Watson, only less geeky. Maybe by taking a part in the autopsy, I might come up with something that could lead to a breakthrough—just like super-assistants of brilliant detectives in fictions do all the time. Maybe I could even kick some ass like a badass assistant, too. In my opinion, it was often the assistant extraordinaire who should get the credit for disentangling the mystery before his/her boss did.
Something warm and fuzzy started to bubble up in my stomach. It wasn’t the aftereffect of a lunch burrito. I had to use a great amount of self-restraint to keep myself from singing, “For the first time in forever, I’ll be watching an autopsy!” like a certain Princess of Arendelle.
I didn’t realize I was smiling until I heard, “Why don’t you stop grinning like an idiot?” in a deep, husky voice, which belonged to Michael Archangel, the private investigator I worked for, who was sitting next to me on the same bench.
How I managed to forget his presence, I didn’t know. If nothing else, the delicate yet distinct scent of Higher Energy by Dior, his fragrance de jour, should have alerted me to his presence.
No thanks to his voice, I was snapped back to the reality that it was him who had access to the morgue, not me. I hadn’t clarified with the morgue, but considering I had no authority or qualification, they wouldn’t have granted me permission to attend the autopsy if I went there all by myself. I also realized a real badass woman wouldn’t imagine singing like a Disney Princess while sitting in the morgue’s waiting room. The truth was, I wasn’t very sure if I wanted to attend the autopsy at all.
I was no Dr. Watson. I had no background in medicine. The closest experience I’d ever had with this particular field was having a pediatrician and an orthopedic surgeon as ex-faux-dads. It was the first time for me to see a cadaver getting cut open. The corpses I had seen often had a hole or two, but I had never seen the human innards peekabooing from inside of the body cavity, saying something like “Yoo-hoo?”
As I anticipated this new experience, a gazillion butterflies went wild in my stomach. Okay, so the earlier flamboyance and faux-hardboiled tone were only parts of my façade to hide my nervousness. And speaking of body contents, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to keep my lunch burrito where it belonged.
Discreetly, I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and regain my composure. “I didn’t realize you were watching every step of mine, but thanks for your keen attention anyway. I’m flattered,” I said nonchalantly.
“Ha.” With a snort, Archangel’s candy-apple-colored lips curled into a sarcastic smirk. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s hard to miss someone sitting by my side babbling silly things with goofy grin pasted on her face, especially when this special someone starts drooling.”
I felt around my lips with my fingertips, only to find the area completely drool-free.
“I wasn’t drooling. You tricked me!” I narrowed my eyes.
“It’s because you’re such a good comic relief to poke fun at, Kelly,” he had the audacity to admit. “But look on the bright side. It was just a joke and not a con. Hey, speaking of a con, did I mention I in no compare to the lying, cheating, jilting, swindling, oh-so-disturbing excuse for a human douchebag who happens to be your ex-husband?” With a lighthearted chuckle, he added, “No pun intended.”
Biting my lip, I toyed with the idea of kicking him really hard in the shin. This cra…I mean, nonsense, of him dissing Warren and my past marriage was just getting old, and it was oh-so-tempting to finally make a point. But I thought better of it. First off, kicking your employer runs a potentially hazardous risk for your job security. Secondly, most of his words were accurate, especially the part about my ex being a con—as in being a convicted conman. I didn’t want to reinforce his cocksureness by getting upset. That would only tip him off that yours truly, indeed, had feelings for my ex-husband.
So instead of kicking him, I retorted, “I never drool!”
“Hey, Kelly.” Flashing the perfect set of pearly whites, Archangel nudged my elbow. “Look what you’ve done to her.” I followed his gaze and spotted the female receptionist. She was practically gaping at us from behind the counter. My eyes met with hers. I tried a polite, social smile that implied I was not her enemy. She averted her gaze.
“See?” He cocked his head. “You’ve managed to creep her out in five minutes. What a shame. Now I’m labeled as a PI who’s stuck with a weird assistant from La-La Land. Come on, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” As he shook his head, shining locks of his long, auburn hair swayed like dancing waves.
“I see, so you’ve got a reputation to maintain.” Rephrasing his words, I gave him an up-and-down look. His attire consisted of a skintight, above-the-knee-length dress in vivid magenta and purple fishnet stockings paired with fuck-me-if-you-can high heels. Okay, so the colorful attire flattered his alabaster complexion and the totally gorgeous hair that went midway down his back. Even the heavy makeup wasn’t laughable.
Yes, you heard me right. I said he was dressed like a woman. I’m not making any of this up. His outfit de jour was described as skimpy and eye-catching, at best. It was not his Halloween costume on an account that it was early April, not the last day of October. Did I mention that cross-dressing was his “casual/business” attire? I didn’t know and didn’t want to know what he wore for black-tie events.
I glanced back at the receptionist, who was shaking her head as if trying to clear away the many thoughts running through her mind. I suspected she was taken aback—no, that would be an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if her brain was caught in a temporary cerebral arrest. Archangel had that effect for many people. Basically, unlike L.A. or Miami, seeing a transvestite in rural Virginia was a very rare occasion, which alone counted as an element of surprise. There was another major element called confusion. Indeed, to the casual eye, his appearance was very confusing. I’m not talking about an esthetically challenged dude playing dress up as a geisha.
He wasn’t ugly—lucky him—thanks to inheriting high cheekbones, baby-blue eyes, a well-sculpted nose in a perfect shape that would make Cleopatra cry with envy, and a tall, slender figure from both his mother—Miss California—and grandmother—Miss Greek—he managed to appear almost as strikingly gorgeous as a woman. At least in photos.
Speaking of photos, I supposed perhaps she had seen the pictures of him in the morning paper. Newspapers often carried his photographs. As a Virginia-based PI, he usually consulted with law enforcement, such as the FBI, and worked on tricky, weird, or even the most impossible cases. As a matter of fact, he happened to be a good detective—not just good, but top-notch. He always cracked difficult cases quickly, and as result, newspapers, magazine articles, websites, and sometimes even TV shows reported his accomplishments.
&
nbsp; Then again, seeing him in person was a whole different story. Archangel happened to have an even bigger impact in person. He still looked almost like a woman. To be precise, he looked more like a supermodel than a woman. I mean, it’s not like supermodels look like the rest of us real women, right? Those tall, skinny girls are byproducts of women-hating men who dominate the fashion industry and set out to punish us real women by force-feeding us distorted body images, just because we have curves and boobs.
Okay, enough with my little speech. I had mixed feelings about my employer’s looks. I know his outfit preference was none of my business, and I believe everyone’s entitled to express themselves through fashion. I also appreciated he was the one who caught all the attention, not me. I was the shadow. I enjoyed my invisibility. Then again, it got a little awkward when total strangers would stare at us, chattering about ‘That totally dazzling supermodel,’ and they went on like, ‘Who’s she? The little one standing next to her? An assistant wannabe? Doesn’t she look so mediocre and a little bit heavy?’
And it got a little annoying when Archangel caught such chatter and would announce, ‘Did you hear that? They think I’m pretty and you’re not!’
Did I mention he has a diva personality?
Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size two. But in my defense, I’ve got the boobs, uterus, ovaries, and everything a girl needs. Besides that, it’s totally rude to judge people based on the physical features for Pete’s sake! I might be described as a petite woman, but that doesn’t make me the little one. I’m the assistant, not a wannabe. Besides that, if you looked carefully, Archangel’s jaw was a little bit too strong for a woman and he has an Adam’s apple. At 6’3” with lots of toned muscles, what he resembled the most was a Greek Goddess with excessive growth hormone. Or Poseidon in drag.
“Mr. Archangel, why do you think I’m the one who’s responsible for spooking her out? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re the one who’s grabbing her full attention?” I asked.
“Why?” Without answering my question, he arched an eyebrow.
“First of all, she’s looking in our direction in general, so both of us are in her sights, and…” I struggled with the words.
“And?” he probed, tapping the backrest of the bench chair with his fingers, which sported nail polish in the same shade of color as the lips.
I was ready to tell him, “And… with all due respect, a giant transvestite is very eye-catching—or rather, an eyesore?” Then it dawned on me that maybe dissing your employer might not be a good move. Call me desperate, but I wasn’t made of money and I needed to pay my credit card balance. Unlike Mom, I wasn’t a rich-husband-magnet, which meant I really needed to keep my job as a personal assistant to this huge, cross-dressing, brilliant-yet-cynical detective. Maybe I shouldn’t have purchased those pricy pillows from Neiman Marcus, but they were so worth it. You want to invest in high-quality pillows to ensure beauty sleep and sweet dreams, especially when you see murdered corpses on a regular basis.
Also, I knew the chances of my scoring other gainful employment anytime soon were practically nonexistent. My resume wasn’t something described as highly-decorated. On top of all that, it’s not like having lost my last employer in a tragic murder—which wasn’t my fault but made me look like a jinx— and being an ex-wife of a notorious swindler would catch a potential employer’s attention in a good way, would it?
Yes, I was desperate. So much for an independent woman ready to kick ass.
“Kelly? Tell me why you think I’m the one who’s creeping her out.” Crossing his long legs, Archangel pressed on.
“Well…” With all due respect, I furrowed my eyebrows like a confused third-grader struggling to grasp the concept of division. “What was I thinking? Isn’t it odd that I can’t recollect whatever was in my head?”
“Ha. You need to get a head CT to see if you’ve got a brain at all.” Archangel gave a throaty, husky, oh-so-manly laugh. Did I mention his voice was often a dead giveaway for his otherwise confusing gender? When I first met him, I thought he must be gay, but I wasn’t so sure any more. I knew his sexual orientation was none of my business, and I respected people with every sexuality, but for a guy who opted to wear women’s clothes, Archangel was pretty much lacking delicacy.
Turning my face away from him, I stuck out my tongue. Very mature, I knew. So far, my job duties were one part secretary, one part chauffeur, and one part personal chef. Not to mention being a part-time comic, or rather, laughing stock. Unlike brilliant detectives in literature, Archangel didn’t need much assisting when it came to investigation and solving cases. Just like fictional detectives, he was crazy and tended to torment his precious little assistant, having a chuckle at my expense.
I was an assistant extraordinaire who outshone the detective only in my fantasy, and in reality, I was merely a newbie assistant and a butt of jokes to this huge, cross-dressing detective.
It really sucked when the gap between your fancy daydream and the hard, cold, stone-hearted reality was so huge.
Book 3: Deadly Vision: http://amzn.to/1og0Pp9
A sweet n' cold murder…
A newbie, pathetic agent…
And a hot mess…
PI Assistant extraordinaire Kelly Kinki is back, and she’s stuck between a hunk and a hard case.
A popular college student has been murdered after visiting a local ice cream shop. The suspect list is short and sweet, but with a fledgling FBI agent tagging along on their investigation, Kelly and her drop dead gorgeous boss Michael Archangel have an extra scoop of trouble.
Trading his dress for a suit and hitting DC’s top ten list of eligible bachelors may be business as usual for Archangel, but with a hopeless newbie screwing up the case and Kelly revving up his libido, solving this seemingly ordinary murder might not be cake for America’s answer to Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER 1
There’s a first time for everything.
I was engaged in a tight lip-lock with Michael Archangel, a Virginia-based private investigator and my employer.
There should have been a sequence of events that led to the incident, but I couldn’t recall anything at all. And for full disclosure, I was way too preoccupied with the current action to care about how I ended up in a hot kiss with him.
Just like in cartoons, the angel part of me was sitting on my right shoulder, screaming things like “Hello! What’s happened to your professionalism? Don't you have anything like work ethics?” And the devil part of me was hooting, jumping, and cheering me from on my other shoulder. “Go, Kelly, go! Think about it, you’re not getting any younger!” She was a really naughty devil.
As a professional woman with work ethics and dignity, I didn’t listen to the devil and started listening to the angel, and…no, that’s a lie. I didn’t listen to the angel. Call me an unethical slut, but I was falling for the devil’s words.
For a brief moment, our lips parted. I opened my eyes. His baby blues were staring at me so intensely, they seemed a shade or two darker than usual.
He cupped my face in his hands.
“Are you ready?” he whispered. His voice sounded oh-so-sweet on my ears. Then he brushed away my hair and planted a light peck on my forehead.
I mumbled something that meant nothing and everything. Then I realized he was shirtless and I was only one slutty Agent Provocateur bra and a thong away from…gulp! the bedroom.
Breathing hard and admiring his Greek god-like physique, I struggled with his belt buckle, which didn’t unbuckle easily. I shivered as Archangel unhooked my bra with just a snap of his fingers.
I closed my eyes. He was reaching south, and then…
* * *
Also, there’s a bundle of 3 books available…
Confessions of the Assistant Extraordinaire: amzn.to/1R3GaO6