Dirty Kiss by Rhys Ford

suede, her trim legs crossed at the ankles and her dainty feet encased in a pair of sensible black pumps. If it wasn’t for the knife-sharp glare she gave me when I came through the door, I’d have expected her to dab her index finger with grandma spit and wipe a spot clean off my face.
     
    I wasn’t planning on getting within less than five feet of her.
     
    It went smoothly. Her husband spoke for the most part while Claudia stood behind me, providing me with at least visual backup. I wasn’t above being thankful for it. I’d already learned that I’m not invincible to bullets, and Mrs. Brinkerhoff’s purse was certainly large enough to hold a sawed-off shotgun. If things went against it, I planned on grabbing Mr. Brinkerhoff and using him as a shield while Claudia escaped out the front door.
     
    The door had barely closed behind them when Claudia breathed a sigh of relief, fanning herself with a stack of papers. Her grandson’s bulk cast a long shadow across the screen door, and she waved at him, telling him to go warm up the car and she’d follow along in a moment.
     
    “Thanks, honey.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek, pulling back before she smacked me again. “You’re a sweetheart for staying, even though I’m sure I could have taken them.”
     
    “I just wanted to see if they were going to give you crap about the bill.” Grabbing her purse, she hunted around in its depths until she came out with a pair of oversized sunglasses. Putting them on, she patted at her hair and headed to the door. “I charged them for repairing your car window and a little extra for replacing the clothes that you tore on that fence.”
     
    “I didn’t tear….” I stopped, very familiar with Claudia’s creative billing techniques. “Got it. Have a good night.”
     
    “You too.” She stepped onto the porch, stopping to give me one last critical look. “You have a good weekend. Be sure to get some food in you.”
     
    “Look at me. Do I look like I’m starving?” I patted my stomach, straining to create a pot belly. “Promise. I’ll eat.”
     
    Letting the door slam behind her, Claudia gave me a parting shot. “And something other than red meat. I swear, Cole, I’m going to come in one day and you’ll have turned into a cow.”
     

     

     
    I’d planned on kicking around the house until mid-evening, then driving down to the club where Hyun-Shik had died. Then the phone rang, and I found myself being talked into having a quick beer with an ex-cop I’d worked with. I’d missed getting the shit beaten out of me that morning, so I thought I owed Bobby at least a crack at my brain. Hell, I couldn’t even begin to tally the debts I owed to Bobby. Stopping off to spend some time with him seemed like a very small price to pay.
     
    Robert Dawson was a burly, twenty-five-year veteran of the Los Angeles Police Department. He was winding down his career while I was coming up. We worked together on some cases, and then after I got shot, he’d come by every once in a while to check up on me. There was a solid friendship between us, something I was grateful for as I fought through the pain. Bobby was there with bad jokes and smuggled-in hamburgers. I decided, after two weeks of broth and Jell-O, that a true friend was worth his weight in rare, greasy food.
     
    There were always rumors going on around the departments, tidbits of gossip that no one really paid attention to. I had my own problems to deal with. I never hid my sexuality. If someone asked if I had a girlfriend, I’d respond no, because my boyfriend would be pissed off. Eventually, people realized I wasn’t joking.
     
    Bobby took a different route. He lay low, keeping any relationship he had hidden, even from the closest of his friends. My getting shot affected him probably as much as it did me, and he took it upon himself to change things. Putting in for retirement, he opened the door of the closet he’d hidden in for decades and stepped out, never