of warm, creamy goodness suddenly appealed.
They were running out of potatoes, anyway.
But back to Mitch. Yes, he was macaroni and cheese. No outstanding warrants. No arrests. No unpaid traffic tickets—or paid ones, either. No ominously sealed juvenile records. Paid his credit cards off every month, no glitches in the credit rating, except—what the heck was this? A big, old, fat bar, that’s what it was. A big, old fat bar that turned into a wall. Even the best software programs Noir Blanc had couldn’t get past it.
Wow. Mitch had mentioned something about his accounts being frozen, but this was subzero. Kristenbacked up and tried to check out last month’s information, but couldn’t get into that, either.
So she went fishing. Back to the credit reports. This time, she studied which cards he had and which companies had requested his file.
Anderson Personnel was on top. They’d requested his file last March. Now why was a personnel company requesting Mitch’s personal credit report? His company’s profile, sure, but why Mitch’s own data? Was Mitch job hunting back then? And why would he job hunt when he owned his own company?
Kristen searched for info on Anderson Personnel and discovered it was a holding company. Okay, what and who were they holding? Texas Rhinestone Corporation. Rhinestones needed a corporation? Maybe not, because TRC turned out to be Longhorn Entertainment’s parent company. And Longhorn Entertainment owned… Kristen searched and clicked. Fruit? The Coconut Club. Big Bananas. Tutti Fruiti. Miss Melons. Cherries Jubilee.
Somehow, Kristen didn’t think she was looking at fruit-of-the-month clubs. Beefsteaks. Whipped Creme. Oh, how nice. They’d branched out into other food groups.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
Adult clubs. Had to be. Something about rhinestones and entertainment pointed Kristen in that direction. Frankly, she had a live-and-let-live attitude toward the adult entertainment industry as long as it didn’t live too close—or try to pawn off burlesque as family entertainment.
She briefly wondered if the sushi and salsa place was connected—that was food, wasn’t it?—but decided itwasn’t worth the effort of researching. She’d stick with the fruits.
Now, where were these places? And how were they connected with Mitch? One of his ick-factor clients?
Why did “ick factor” immediately bring to mind Jeremy Sloane? Was it because “ick” rhymed with “slick”? She only had a high-school-aged memory, but she’d bet he looked about the same—slick in a carefully styled young-businessman-at-a-prayer-breakfast-with-the-boss kind of way.
He’d been the student council vice president, a member of the mixed chorus, the football team manager—a position reserved for those who couldn’t play but wanted to pretend they were a part of the action. Kristen had a sudden vivid memory of Jeremy handing out water to the players on the sidelines. She’d been on the drill team and they always lined up early behind the team to prepare for their halftime show. The players, oblivious to anything but the action on the field, had tossed the plastic squirt bottles and cups to the ground and dirty water had splashed onto some of the drill team’s white boots.
Kristen remembered their lieutenant yelling at the players about it. An assistant coach—the hot one they all had a crush on—sent an annoyed look first at them, and then at Jeremy. Yeah, it had been Jeremy. She remembered his carefully parted hair. And then she remembered how he took a towel and went down the line wiping their white boots as they stood at attention.
Kristen had only been relieved to get the splashes of mud off but now she wondered how he’d felt. No big deal? Or the ultimate humiliation?
She hadn’t seen his expression because they’d been trained to keep motionless and their eyes forward. And, frankly, until this moment, Kristen hadn’t given the incident—or Jeremy Sloane—a second
They were running out of potatoes, anyway.
But back to Mitch. Yes, he was macaroni and cheese. No outstanding warrants. No arrests. No unpaid traffic tickets—or paid ones, either. No ominously sealed juvenile records. Paid his credit cards off every month, no glitches in the credit rating, except—what the heck was this? A big, old, fat bar, that’s what it was. A big, old fat bar that turned into a wall. Even the best software programs Noir Blanc had couldn’t get past it.
Wow. Mitch had mentioned something about his accounts being frozen, but this was subzero. Kristenbacked up and tried to check out last month’s information, but couldn’t get into that, either.
So she went fishing. Back to the credit reports. This time, she studied which cards he had and which companies had requested his file.
Anderson Personnel was on top. They’d requested his file last March. Now why was a personnel company requesting Mitch’s personal credit report? His company’s profile, sure, but why Mitch’s own data? Was Mitch job hunting back then? And why would he job hunt when he owned his own company?
Kristen searched for info on Anderson Personnel and discovered it was a holding company. Okay, what and who were they holding? Texas Rhinestone Corporation. Rhinestones needed a corporation? Maybe not, because TRC turned out to be Longhorn Entertainment’s parent company. And Longhorn Entertainment owned… Kristen searched and clicked. Fruit? The Coconut Club. Big Bananas. Tutti Fruiti. Miss Melons. Cherries Jubilee.
Somehow, Kristen didn’t think she was looking at fruit-of-the-month clubs. Beefsteaks. Whipped Creme. Oh, how nice. They’d branched out into other food groups.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
Adult clubs. Had to be. Something about rhinestones and entertainment pointed Kristen in that direction. Frankly, she had a live-and-let-live attitude toward the adult entertainment industry as long as it didn’t live too close—or try to pawn off burlesque as family entertainment.
She briefly wondered if the sushi and salsa place was connected—that was food, wasn’t it?—but decided itwasn’t worth the effort of researching. She’d stick with the fruits.
Now, where were these places? And how were they connected with Mitch? One of his ick-factor clients?
Why did “ick factor” immediately bring to mind Jeremy Sloane? Was it because “ick” rhymed with “slick”? She only had a high-school-aged memory, but she’d bet he looked about the same—slick in a carefully styled young-businessman-at-a-prayer-breakfast-with-the-boss kind of way.
He’d been the student council vice president, a member of the mixed chorus, the football team manager—a position reserved for those who couldn’t play but wanted to pretend they were a part of the action. Kristen had a sudden vivid memory of Jeremy handing out water to the players on the sidelines. She’d been on the drill team and they always lined up early behind the team to prepare for their halftime show. The players, oblivious to anything but the action on the field, had tossed the plastic squirt bottles and cups to the ground and dirty water had splashed onto some of the drill team’s white boots.
Kristen remembered their lieutenant yelling at the players about it. An assistant coach—the hot one they all had a crush on—sent an annoyed look first at them, and then at Jeremy. Yeah, it had been Jeremy. She remembered his carefully parted hair. And then she remembered how he took a towel and went down the line wiping their white boots as they stood at attention.
Kristen had only been relieved to get the splashes of mud off but now she wondered how he’d felt. No big deal? Or the ultimate humiliation?
She hadn’t seen his expression because they’d been trained to keep motionless and their eyes forward. And, frankly, until this moment, Kristen hadn’t given the incident—or Jeremy Sloane—a second
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