longshoreman.
“Elaine tells me you’re a writer.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“She says you’re trying to get this Murdoch guy off the hook.”
“I just can’t believe he killed Stacy.”
“The cops do.”
“Cops have been known to make mistakes. Just ask Rodney King.”
“Point taken,” he said. He still had two biscotti left on his plate. I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from grabbing one.
“But be careful, okay? This detective stuff sounds kind of dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s actually sort of exciting. And to be perfectly honest,” I said, surprised at my own candor, “I could use a little excitement in my life right now.”
He looked up, interested.
“Things a little on the blah side?”
“Terminally.”
“Same here.”
Really? There was a story behind that remark, one that I was dying to hear.
He picked up one of his biscotti, and then put it down with a sigh. “I’ve just been through a pretty messy breakup, and I’ve been spending way too much time staring at the walls.”
A breakup. So that’s why he was alone on Valentine’s Day. Who did he break up with, I wondered. A girl? A guy? I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking. And I don’t mind telling you I was getting pretty uncomfortable, biting my tongue and sitting on my now-numb hands.
“So,” he said, grinning mischievously. “You’re looking for excitement. I’m looking for excitement. What should we do about it?”
I had a million ideas, none of which I can repeat in a family murder mystery.
“I know,” he said. “Let’s go get some margaritas.”
Margaritas? What did that mean? Did he want to ply me with tequila so he could take me back to his place and ravish me? Or did he simply want a drink?
Stick around. You’ll find out.
Chapter Nine
W e polished off a pitcher of margaritas at a bar down the street. I was hoping Cameron would tell me more about his ex, but we spent the whole time talking about movies. The ones we loved. ( Gone with the Wind. Rosemary’s Baby. Shadow of a Doubt .) And the ones we hated. ( The English Patient. Runaway Bride. And the complete oeuvre of Pauly Shore.)
Cameron kept his hands to himself and made no romantic moves whatsoever. The whole thing was strictly PG-13.
At 2 A.M ., we licked the last of the salt from our margarita glasses, and Cameron drove me back to my place. He insisted on walking me to my door. For a foolish instant, I got excited. He could have just dropped me off at the curb. Did this mean he wanted to ravish me, after all? For the first time in more years than I could remember, I felt stirrings in the vicinity of my G spot.
“This was fun,” he said, as we stood at my doorstep.
I stood there tentatively, hoping for a kiss. A hug. Anything involving body contact. But all I got was a crinkly-eyed smile.
“Well, see ya,” he said, and started down the path toward his car. As he passed Lance’s apartment, I saw Lance at the window, eyeing Cameron with interest.
“Take a number, Lance,” I muttered, as I headed off to bed.
I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, my head throbbing like an angry rap tune. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Prozac sitting on my chest, demanding to be fed.
As I hauled myself out of bed and staggered into the kitchen, I made a vow: No more margaritas after 11 P.M . Ever. No exceptions. Except maybe if I have them with burritos to absorb the alcohol.
I gave Prozac her breakfast, a smelly can of fish innards optimistically called Shrimp, Cod and Sole Souffle. She pounced on it with gusto, practically inhaling the stuff. You’d think she hadn’t eaten for a week.
Trying to ignore the fish fumes, I started to put up some water for coffee. And then suddenly I remembered: My 8 A.M . aerobics class at the LA Sports Club. I looked at the clock: Seven thirty-five.
I tore into my bedroom and threw on a pair of sweats. I’d change into my workout gear at the gym. I grabbed a moldy
“Elaine tells me you’re a writer.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“She says you’re trying to get this Murdoch guy off the hook.”
“I just can’t believe he killed Stacy.”
“The cops do.”
“Cops have been known to make mistakes. Just ask Rodney King.”
“Point taken,” he said. He still had two biscotti left on his plate. I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from grabbing one.
“But be careful, okay? This detective stuff sounds kind of dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s actually sort of exciting. And to be perfectly honest,” I said, surprised at my own candor, “I could use a little excitement in my life right now.”
He looked up, interested.
“Things a little on the blah side?”
“Terminally.”
“Same here.”
Really? There was a story behind that remark, one that I was dying to hear.
He picked up one of his biscotti, and then put it down with a sigh. “I’ve just been through a pretty messy breakup, and I’ve been spending way too much time staring at the walls.”
A breakup. So that’s why he was alone on Valentine’s Day. Who did he break up with, I wondered. A girl? A guy? I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking. And I don’t mind telling you I was getting pretty uncomfortable, biting my tongue and sitting on my now-numb hands.
“So,” he said, grinning mischievously. “You’re looking for excitement. I’m looking for excitement. What should we do about it?”
I had a million ideas, none of which I can repeat in a family murder mystery.
“I know,” he said. “Let’s go get some margaritas.”
Margaritas? What did that mean? Did he want to ply me with tequila so he could take me back to his place and ravish me? Or did he simply want a drink?
Stick around. You’ll find out.
Chapter Nine
W e polished off a pitcher of margaritas at a bar down the street. I was hoping Cameron would tell me more about his ex, but we spent the whole time talking about movies. The ones we loved. ( Gone with the Wind. Rosemary’s Baby. Shadow of a Doubt .) And the ones we hated. ( The English Patient. Runaway Bride. And the complete oeuvre of Pauly Shore.)
Cameron kept his hands to himself and made no romantic moves whatsoever. The whole thing was strictly PG-13.
At 2 A.M ., we licked the last of the salt from our margarita glasses, and Cameron drove me back to my place. He insisted on walking me to my door. For a foolish instant, I got excited. He could have just dropped me off at the curb. Did this mean he wanted to ravish me, after all? For the first time in more years than I could remember, I felt stirrings in the vicinity of my G spot.
“This was fun,” he said, as we stood at my doorstep.
I stood there tentatively, hoping for a kiss. A hug. Anything involving body contact. But all I got was a crinkly-eyed smile.
“Well, see ya,” he said, and started down the path toward his car. As he passed Lance’s apartment, I saw Lance at the window, eyeing Cameron with interest.
“Take a number, Lance,” I muttered, as I headed off to bed.
I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, my head throbbing like an angry rap tune. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Prozac sitting on my chest, demanding to be fed.
As I hauled myself out of bed and staggered into the kitchen, I made a vow: No more margaritas after 11 P.M . Ever. No exceptions. Except maybe if I have them with burritos to absorb the alcohol.
I gave Prozac her breakfast, a smelly can of fish innards optimistically called Shrimp, Cod and Sole Souffle. She pounced on it with gusto, practically inhaling the stuff. You’d think she hadn’t eaten for a week.
Trying to ignore the fish fumes, I started to put up some water for coffee. And then suddenly I remembered: My 8 A.M . aerobics class at the LA Sports Club. I looked at the clock: Seven thirty-five.
I tore into my bedroom and threw on a pair of sweats. I’d change into my workout gear at the gym. I grabbed a moldy
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