Dirty

by Debra Webb

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to laugh. Shari and Donna dissolved into snickers themselves.

  “I guess I can go next.” Donna draped herself on the sofa beside me. The rest of us exchanged a look, waited eagerly to hear her story. “Today I told Wilson it was over.”

  Feigned surprise claimed my face as well as every other one in the room. A collective why resounded.

  One corner of Donna’s mouth quirked. “Because I discovered Blake.” She grinned like a Cheshire cat and sat up a little straighter. Donna finds it impossible to stay still when she’s talking. “He’s amazing. He owns a software company. He’s not only incredible, but he’s rich, divorced, and only thirty-six,” she added with a sinful gleam in her eyes and a matching one in her already sultry voice. “We had lunch today.” She collapsed back onto the sofa with all the production of a fainting southern belle. “I got my first ever orgasm from toe sex.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the details but Donna continued, “I had no idea playing footsy could be so rewarding.” She gave us each a knowing look. “I was doing a little touchy-feely thing with my foot.” She sighed and demonstrated, using my leg for a prop. “You know, running it up and down his leg until I decided to take the plunge and nuzzle up to his crotch.”

  I shot her a warning look and scooted away.

  Ignoring me, Donna moaned with remembered satisfaction. “Right in the middle of the entrée he gave it to me with those magic digits. I’ll never look at toes the same way. This hook-up is off to a good start.”

  Amid the oh-my-gods and cheers I felt hope. Maybe I wouldn’t get the award this time. Not that the prize was a bad thing. Usually it was a terrific gift and almost always from Victoria’s secret, but I’d won so many times in a row it was really getting embarrassing.

  “I’m afraid my confession won’t hold a candle to that one,” Shari piped up. “I gave my new yoga instructor an enormous raise and he’s scarcely started.” She waggled her eyebrows and released a breathy sound reminiscent of Donna’s sated sighs. “But trust me, he’s worth it. I had no idea an orgasm could be so powerful when you’re standing on your head.”

  Laughter tittered around the room but panic pooled in my stomach, overriding the temporary comfort the enormous meal had provided.

  “Relationships based on sex don’t have the legs to last,” Mary Jane said somberly, all amusement having vanished from her expression. “We know this but no one is paying attention.”

  “Who cares what kind of legs it has? It’s what’s between them that counts,” Shari admonished. She and Donna burst into nefarious laughter. Mary Jane gazed at the ceiling as if she’d given up any hopes of training us better.

  Now would come the moment I had dreaded all day.

  “Your turn, Jackie,” Donna prompted. Mary Jane and Shari echoed the sentiment.

  Oh well. What the hell. Anything from Victoria’s Secret would be fun. Why break my record now?

  “You know Kevin,” I ventured. Heads bobbed eagerly. “I met him two weeks ago, but we’d only dated twice...” I cleared my throat. “Until last night.”

  “And,” Donna prodded.

  “Don’t rush her,” Mary Jane scolded. “It’s Jackie’s turn. She can take her time if she wants to.”

  Shari glared at the two of them. “Shut up and let her tell the story. I want to hear the bump and grind part.”

  “Anyway,” I reluctantly went on, “like I said, last night we had our third date and it turned into an overnighter.” I hesitated, looked from one expectant friend to the other. “And he was great,” I admitted. Three grinning faces glowed with pride and anticipation of hearing more. “I...well...it was actually the best sex I’ve had in ages.”

  Applause prevented me from having to go on immediately.

  “Gosh, Mary Jane,” Shari teased when the clapping ceased. “We all got an orgasm since our last confessional except you.”

  “Who said I didn’t get one?” Mary Jane tossed back. “You think I don’t know how to use a vibrator?”

  More laughter broke out around the room. Even I stifled a chuckle. Mary Jane just wasn’t the vibrator type. But then again, who would have thought she had a secret fantasy about Lil Wayne?

  “So, break this down for us,” Donna said, steering the conversation back to me, “will you be seeing him again?” She couldn’t stand the anticipation a moment longer. She always had to know all the details. “If the sex was that good...” Donna left the statement dangling but all in the room understood. At our age, great sex didn’t come along every day—especially with a guy close to our age.

  I moistened my lips and confessed to the rest. “Actually I kind of hope not.”

  Shari frowned. “Why? He sounds terrific from what you’ve told us.”

  Stupid me. I’d bragged the last time we’d gotten together about how great my new guy was.

  “Well, there was a little glitch,” I mumbled.

  “Glitch?” Donna parroted. “Did his Viagra run out too early?” More hysterical chortling.

  Ha-ha. “No it wasn’t anything like that. He remained armed and ready at all times.” This time I did laugh out loud. It was probably the JD taking hold. Or hysteria. Maybe both. “The problem was he’s a felon. A fugitive.”

  Mary Jane gasped. “You took him in?”

  Donna’s eyes danced with delight. “You mean you had great sex and then you cuffed him?”

  I nodded. “Actually, it was a little later. He was in the shower.”

  Shari’s mouth dropped open. “Ohmigawd! Were you naked?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I had on my pink Victoria’s Secret thong and matching bra. But he was naked.”

  Whoops and cheers punctuated my admission. I laughed some more and then I downed the rest of my drink. Might as well enjoy this. I held up a hand for silence. “And then I went to the office and hired a new investigator who looks every bit as buff and sexy as Brad does in that movie.” I lowered my voice. “Only he doesn’t need make-up or special effects.”

  The prize was mine. A new thong, this one lavender, with matching supersexy bra.

  We turned to poker then, passing around a Swisher Sweet cigar. I had never been a smoker but I loved the weekly ritual of sucking down the cherry flavored smoke. Even my mother had a good attitude about our weekly dip into debauchery. You gotta die from something. If one thing doesn’t get you, another will.

  My phone rang. Speak of the devil. Mom probably wanted to make sure I was okay after our bonding moment today. Mother’s exploits on the courthouse steps would come up later with the girls, after a couple more bourbons and Cokes. That was another perk of being the hostess. You didn’t have to worry about driving home.

  And there was the photograph with its ominous message. It wasn’t like I could keep that a secret. The girls might even have some useful insights. They’d helped me flesh out a puzzling case more than once. I thought about the man in the photo and something tugged at my insides, made me yearn to learn the whole truth about him.

  How had that man, a total stranger, touched me so that night? And how had I managed to block the memory so effectively for all this time? The phone rang again, nudging me back to the present.

  “Mercer.” It was habit. Home or office.

  “Got company?”

  Dawson.

  I’d know that sensual voice anywhere.

  I started to ask how he knew I had company but then I considered the noise in the background. “What’s up?” I was feeling just enough of a buzz not to really care how he knew I had company. Truth was, I just wanted to hear his voice. How pathetic was that?

  “I didn’t thank you properly today.”

  For what, I wondered. I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until he answered.

  “You took a chance on me,” he said, something besides sensual vibes in his tone now. “I appreciate that.”

  Doing my level best to ignore how his voice disturbed my senses, I walked over to the front window to get away fro
m the chatter. I stared out into the darkness and wondered where he was calling from. Where did Dawson call home? There had been an address on his application...but I couldn’t for the life of me remember it since I’d been sure I wouldn’t be hiring him.

  “I won’t let you down, Jackie Mercer,” he said softly. “That’s a promise.”

  I squinted. Was that a pick-up truck parked across the street? I couldn’t determine the color...but it didn’t belong to any of my neighbors unless they’d just bought it. Despite my alcohol induced state of relaxation a flurry of tension fluttered through me. Did whoever sent that message have someone watching me?

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said when I didn’t bother responding.

  Tomorrow. That reminded me. I couldn’t celebrate too much tonight. I had to track down that case file. Disposable. Nasty business. That’s what Bob had said. Drugs and murder, involving illegal immigrants. I thought of Alita and her request. I had to get to work on that as well.

  “Yeah,” I finally answered, “I’ll see you in the morning.” The tension from the strange link happening between Dawson and me gave awkward new meaning. Considering that and all the bizarre happenings of the last few hours I was glad the day was nearly over.

  “Have a nice evening.”

  “You, too,” I said, suddenly needing to sever the connection. Talking to him made me feel uncomfortable on too many levels. Probably because of the attraction, I felt guilty about it. It didn’t take Donna’s psych courses to recognize the symptoms. He was my employee now, like it or not. I wasn’t supposed to be feeling any of this. Not to mention I just found out my latest lover was a fraud...and an old lover had suddenly reappeared, so to speak, in my life with an unsettling mystery of his own. I didn’t need more man problems just now.

  “Good night,” rasped silkily across the airwaves.

  I depressed the end call button without saying more.

  Setting aside chemistry, the jury was still out on this guy. And I still didn’t know how he’d managed to handle Big Hoss. Like Dawson said, if things didn’t work out I could always let him go.

  Time was the great healer but it was also the great revealer. Time would tell. Until then, Mr. NYPD Blue Eyes was on probation in my book.

  I wrestled my thoughts away from work and back to the girls and the conversation. Tonight was girls’ night. It was my night. No worries, no expectations, and no cares about what should be and wasn’t.

  Definitely no work. Right now I just wanted to enjoy being Jackie Mercer, the woman...I grinned...forty-five and loving it. Maybe I wasn’t so savvy when it came to men...but there was always tomorrow.

  CHAPTER NINE

  First thing this morning I climbed into my trusty Jeep to go in search of any facts on the Disposable case I could flush out. Armed with what I’d learned from Bob as well as what I hadn’t discovered through Max, both were telling in their own ways, I needed something to tie the two together.

  The day went downhill from there. I just happened to look into the rearview mirror and did a double take so fast my brain probably rocked against my skull.

  My roots were showing.

  Dread coiled in my gut. I leaned forward and inspected the situation more closely.

  Not the dark brown or black grow off you see on bottled blonds. No, this was far worse. I groaned. A glimmer of shiny, silvery gray edged up from my scalp, as obvious as strewn glitter in my otherwise brunette hair.

  “Oh God.”

  I blew out a disgusted breath and fretted a moment as to how I could fit a touch-up into my schedule or my stylist’s. She was usually booked for weeks in advance. Perfect.

  Backing out onto the street the horn of a red Audi blared angrily as the annoyed driver cut around me. I waved apologetically and, taking the time to ensure the street was clear, headed on my way.

  I couldn’t worry about gray roots right now.

  There were more pressing issues, like not getting in a traffic accident. Donna would say I was crazy, that nothing was more pressing than hiding the encroaching signs of age. But then she didn’t have an old lover—possibly an old, dead lover—on her plate.

  It took a while but eventually I put the issue out of my immediate thoughts and dove into my work.

  I started my search at the site of Houston’s very own Holy Grail—The Houston Chronicle. Like the New York Times, anything printed in The Chronicle was automatically regarded as the gospel. Amen.

  Considerable advanced manual dexterity was required, I learned, of those utilizing a microfiche machine for more than a few minutes. By the time I stumbled upon anything relevant to my case I had started to ponder why we called a strip of negatives imprinted with pictures of out of date newspapers something that sounds as much like a nukeable frozen dinner as microfiche.

  Actually, I completely understood that my mental ramblings were about keeping my mind occupied and off my new investigator.

  I rotated my wrist to relieve what felt like the beginnings of carpel tunnel and peered at the screen.

  Jury Selection in Drug Trafficking Trial Begins.

  Brandon Masters and Peter Reagan had been arraigned and held without bail until the date of the trial. My eyebrows plunged into a vee before I could stop the automatic reaction. Shari had lectured me repeatedly about this particular facial expression and how it added to the lines developing on my forehead. Something I hadn’t actually noticed until she brought it to my attention. I rolled my eyes in exasperation. Why did I care? The best thing I could do for myself was let my gray roots show and put on fifty pounds, then I wouldn’t have to worry about always picking the wrong guy. Most of them would run if I even looked their way.

  God, we live in a vain world. Looks are everything. It’s so damned depressing.

  I shook off the frustrating thoughts and focused my attention back on the screen.

  Why would two fat cat rich guys like Masters and Reagan—men without prior records—be denied bail? Certainly there was the risk of flight, but wasn’t that always the case? These were Texans, born with the proverbial silver spoons in their mouths and spurs on their booties. Wealthy, connected, all the things that mattered by today’s standards. What judge in his right mind would deny one of his fellow good ol’ boys bail? Scrolling down the article I looked for the name of the judge in the case.

  Jackson Mercer.

  “Whoa.”

  Startled, I sat back and looked again. My father was the judge on the case? It wasn’t really a question since I stared directly at the answer.

  Astonished, I read on.

  Not only had my father been the judge, but my uncle, Hank Mercer himself, had served as lead investigator of the task force composed of local cops as well as federal agents, both FBI and DEA.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I stabbed the print key and levied my lower jaw off the floor. Now I was completely confused.

  What did the guy in the picture have to do with Disposable? Was I being targeted here because my father and uncle were key players in this ill-fated saga? Did someone think I knew something simply by virtue of the fact that my father had been the judge? Or because my uncle was the lead investigator?

  I moved through a few more pages of articles until I found one that provided photos of the two men charged in the case. My mystery man definitely wasn’t Masters or Reagan, which made sense since both had been sitting behind bars the night in question. Whispered sounds and the memory of hot flesh gliding against hot flesh instantly sifted into my thoughts. I pushed them away, read on.

  Suspects Slain in Disposable Case.

  An unknown gunman had shot down Brandon Masters and Peter Reagan the final day of jury selection as the two suspects were ushered into the courthouse.

  My father had denied the two men bail but had allowed them to sit in on the jury selection process. Another of those marring frowns furrowed a path between my eyes.

  Who was the defense attorney?

  I moved back to the first article. Russell
Barnett. Legal eagle from Dallas. Never lost a case in his career. Too bad he’d mixed driving and drinking and ended up wrapped around a tree at ninety miles per hour a few years later. Now there was a headline I remembered. I’d used it to remind my son about the dangers of drinking and driving.

  Why was it I could remember that and virtually nothing about Disposable? Why hadn’t my father ever mentioned the case? I sat back in my chair again and searched the recesses of my brain for some reasonable explanation.

  Then I knew.

  A sigh heaved past my lips. Ten years ago I’d been in the midst of my ugly divorce. My whole life had been in an uproar. Between my asshole of an ex and my confused son, the last thing I’d been worried about was current events, local or national.

  I sat up straight again. Why the hell didn’t Bob tell me my father and uncle were involved in this case?

  My gaze narrowed. I knew it. Bob was hiding something. Yes, sirree. No question. I moved my head side to side. I would be talking to him again. Whether he wanted to protect my feelings or simply wanted to shield my uncle from my interrogation tactics mattered little to me just now. Bob had always been up front with me. I hated like hell that he’d decided not to be this time.

  Was my father’s involvement the reason for Bob’s refusal to advise on the case? Had he stepped back out of respect? That didn’t feel right somehow. Something about this whole case felt way, way off. Dead suspects, dead defense attorney, dead judge. I shuddered.

  Glancing over the articles one last time I hesitated on a smaller headline in the edition of The Chronicle after the one that touted the Suspects Slain... piece. “What the hell?” I muttered. Ralph McElroy, DEA, dies of self-inflicted gunshot, I read silently. No mention of the Disposable case in this one, but it struck me as odd that a DEA agent assigned to the Houston area had died in that same twenty-four hour period. Maybe his death was unrelated. Call me cynical, but I wasn’t one to believe in coincidences.