Chapter 1
If I never see a man wearing a panther print thong again, it will be too soon. ~ Text from Hailey to Suzie
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
I roll my eyes. Corny. “Dude, if we didn’t meet like this, you couldn’t afford to take your girl out to fancy restaurants every weekend,” I say as I slap the fifty-dollar bill in his hand.
Ralph, the motel desk clerk, sticks the money in his front pocket. “Room 234. Second floor. Half-way down. Curtains are open.”
“When did they arrive?” There is a precise timing to my work.
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Awesome.” Ten minutes should be about the right amount of time.
I wave to Ralph as I walk out of the reception area. Motels are the best. Since all the rooms open on to a public breezeway, it makes my life easier. Much easier. You don’t want to know the situations I’ve gotten myself into when I’ve had to work in hotels. When people say they pee their pants in fright, they are not kidding. Trust me. You don’t want to know.
I climb the stairs and walk down the hallway toward room 234. As I do, I scan the area to make sure no one sees me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not doing anything illegal, but people tend to freak out when they see someone taking pictures of other people inside a motel room.
In my defense, it’s not like I enjoy watching random people doing naughty things. Seriously, I don’t. Yuck. Hairy backs, wiggly bottoms, and saggy boobs? No, thanks. When I have sex, the lights are always off. Although my boobs do not sag. I kind of wish they did. Sagging would mean I had at least some boob action going on. Spoiler alert – I don’t.
But taking pictures of people having sex is my job. Well, kind of my job. I’m not exactly a photographer. Nope. I’m a private investigator. Although, considering most of my cases involve cheating husbands and lost kittens, I’m not sure I’m allowed to call myself an investigator. Whatever. It pays the bills. And – bonus – I don’t have to sit inside in some boring office.
I find room 234 halfway down the building like Ralph said it was. The curtains are open and, judging from the noises coming from inside the room, I’m right on time. I grab my camera, take off the lens cap, and tiptoe to the window. Blech. I’m right on time all right.
I start clicking away. Come on, dude. I need to see your face. But his face is buried in... Well, you don’t need to know where it’s buried. I close my eyes for a five-count. When I open them, he lifts his head with a cocky grin on his face. Aha! Gotcha! I snap the money shot and take a few steps back straight into a brick wall.
Hold up. I know there wasn’t a wall on the other side of the breezeway, which can only mean one thing. I slowly swivel around and look up. Since I’m five-foot-eight, I can look most people straight in the eyes. Not this time. Nope, I have to look up and up to see who the heck I bumped into. As soon as I see his face, I jump back like he’s contagious. Shit. I am in deep shit.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Despite everything, I shiver at the sound of his voice. It’s deep and sultry. Exactly the type of voice I would love to hear in my bedroom. No, wait. I don’t want to hear his voice in my bedroom. I shake my head to rid myself of those crazy-pants thoughts.
I can’t help myself from taking a second to peruse his body, though, because his body totally matches the deep and sultry voice. Yum. He’s tall and muscular. I happen to know he’s six-foot-three. The perfect height for me. Not as if this man is for me, but you get what I’m saying. And those muscles? He doesn’t look like an over the top bodybuilder, but he’s definitely strong enough to take care of business.
His hair is dark brown and curly. It practically dares me to run my hands through it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. His strong jaw is covered with stubble. I love the rugged look of a man who can grow a beard but chooses not to. It’s his eyes, though, they get me every time. They are a deep blue and, when he looks at you, you have the feeling he can read every single thought in your head. But, like I said, this man is not for me.
“I’m not doing a thing, Barnes,” I say as I put away my camera.
His head jerks back. “How do you know my name?”
And now you know why I hate the guy. I know hating people is wrong, but come on, just this once I’m allowed. How can he not know my name? How?!
I roll my eyes as if him not remembering who I am doesn’t feel like a kick in the gut. I also ignore his question. If he doesn’t remember who I am, I am not enlightening him. Although his failure to recognize me every single time I run into him, makes me feel like the heartsick fool he used to call me when we were in high school.
“Well, it was nice seeing you again.” I can’t stop myself from goading him. I start to walk away, but he grabs my upper arm to stop me. I raise an eyebrow at him and dip my chin to his hand. He immediately drops it and takes a step back.
“Seriously. Who are you? How do we know each other?”
Is he a complete imbecile? Yeah, we live in a city of more than a million people, and it’s been over a decade since high school, but it’s not like we haven’t run into each other on several occasions since then.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him and try to walk away again.
“Hold up. I’m a police officer.” He takes out his badge and flips it open for me to see like I don’t already know he’s a police detective. “When I ask you a direct question, you answer me.”
I snort. He’s pulling the police card on me because he can’t remember who I am? Lame, dude. Totally lame.
“If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll be forced to arrest you for being a peeping tom.”