by Katie May
Where did I see him before?
I stare intently at the image, willing for my mind to remember, when it dawns on me.
At the strip club! Where I had solved Miles’s murder! The bartender!
Why the hell is a known gang leader (who is supposedly dead) working full-time at a gaudy strip club?
I know I should tell Grant this information, I know I should leave this to the professionals, but my anger is too potent, my hurt too vibrant. I know that if I were to tell Grant, he would take perfect Ashley with him to interrogate the bartender.
And my soul will shrivel into a tiny ball.
So, no. I won’t tell Grant about my discovery. Instead, I’ll do the job that should’ve been mine in the first place. I’ll prove to everyone in this damn department that I have what it takes to be a CSI.
Even if it kills me.
I stare into Cupid’s dark eyes for a long moment, his bare chest heaving.
My mind is spinning a million miles a second as I struggle with what to say, what to do. How can I help someone who obviously doesn’t want to be helped? Or maybe he does want to be helped, but he just can’t find the words to ask.
Instead of confronting him on my newfound discovery, I nod towards the bed.
“Wanna gossip?” Moving around him, I sit cross-legged and flash him an eager smile. “Come on. You know you want to. Anyone here I should be wary of? Anyone already in love with me?” The last part is said teasingly, but when his frown deepens, I begin to shift uncomfortably.
“That reaper dude,” he says, moving to perch himself awkwardly on the bed beside me. “Do you guys know each other or something? Because the love that wafts from him is…” He scrunches his nose in disgust. “It’s pretty damn pungent.”
I bite hard on my lower lip. I know that Kyler orchestrated Grant’s involvement on the show, but I’m still not sure if I’m allowed to share that with the other contestants. Would they be mad that he has an advantage? Or, if I’m being completely honest with myself, a disadvantage?
Nibbling on my lip, I try for honesty. “He’s my ex boyfriend,” I say, wincing as I brace for Lincoln’s reaction.
He blows out a breath through his teeth, the noise almost reminding me of a whistle, before he flashes me a disarming grin. It makes him look years younger, as if the weight of the world is no longer pressing down on him. I can’t help but blink stupidly at him.
“Damn, girl. That’s a shit ton of drama.” His smile turns conspiratorial. “I like it.”
Grabbing, the nearest pillow, I whack him with it as he half-heartedly swats it away.
“Grant and Ridley sitting in a tree. K. I. S. S. I. N.G.”
“Stop!” I warn, hitting him again with my fluffy weapon.
“First comes love—”
“Seriously, Linc.”
“Then comes marriage—”
Before he can finish his ridiculous song , I launch forward and begin to tickle his sides like I sometimes do to Greta when I’m pissed at her. Usually, my bestie will begin cursing up a storm at me as she jabs me with her elbows.
Lincoln, however, breaks into laughter, a ridiculously adorable snort escaping him. His eyes widen in horror as my hands pause their attack.
“Did you just snort?” I ask breathlessly, and he glares.
“Of course not,” he scoffs.
“You totally just snorted.”
“That was most definitely not a snort. You need to get your ears checked if you think I snort.” He continues to level me with a penetrating look, but there’s no ire to be seen.
“Maybe I should just…” Trailing off, I begin to tickle his sides once more, and a wheezing noise escapes him, unbidden. I can’t help but throw my head back in laughter, falling off of him and sprawling across the bed.
“You totally just wheezed.”
“I don’t wheeze,” he hisses, lying beside me. Our hands touch in the center of the bed, but neither of us pull away.
“Wheezed.”
“Ridley?” Lincoln stares up at the ceiling, his customary scowl firmly in place. “Shut the fuck up.”
Chapter 3
I find Grant in his bedroom. His actual bedroom this time—not someone else’s.
He’s already dressed for the day in a form-fitting button up shirt and jeans, his dark hair disheveled like he had run his hand through it one too many times. The tattoos on his neck are visible, each line intricate and blurring into the next.
“Knife,” Grant murmurs immediately after I knock. Stepping around him, I take in his modestly-sized bedroom and sleek, black bedspread.
“Hello to you too,” I mumble, perching on the edge of the pristine sheets, rumpling them. Is it odd that I feel instant satisfaction? Fuck, maybe I am a vindictive bitch.
“Ali,” Grant explains, hurrying towards his desk. “The wound on her neck was inflicted by a knife, not teeth as you would initially suspect.”
I consider this new development, mulling over his words. “And did you get anything from the cameras? Did anyone enter the house who wasn’t supposed to be there?”
We already know that the kitchen where Ali was found doesn’t have any cameras. But if this asshole came through one of the side doors, we should be able to nail his ass.
“That’s the strangest part.” Grant turns towards me abruptly, a familiar, manic glint in his dark eyes. He always gets like this when he’s deep in a case—as if he’ll explode if he doesn’t solve it. “All of the cameras mysteriously shut down for approximately two minutes...the exact time I believe Ali to be murdered.”
“So we know two things,” I muse, tapping a finger against my chin. “First, the murder happened in less than two minutes. So either this person was meticulously organized—able to get on set without anyone knowing, sneak in, slice Ali’s neck, write the message, and then leave, all in under two minutes—or we’re looking at someone already here. Someone who works for the show.” Trepidation travels the length of my spine as if someone had shoved an ice cube down my shirt.
“Or it’s a contestant,” Grant states what I’m thinking, what I refuse to say.
“How many suspects are we looking at?” I query, and Grant turns back towards the table, procuring a Manila file.
“Twenty-two crew members present,” he states. “Most of them live in trailers for the duration of the show—close enough to the mansion where they can sneak in and out without being seen.”
I turn that information over in my head.
“We should look first at the technical team,” I decide immediately. “Camera operators, sound crew, et cetera. If this person is familiar with the camera system and was able to turn it off for the two minutes…” I trail off, my meaning clear enough.
“It could be more than one person,” Grant admits with a disgruntled huff. He forks his fingers through his hair, messing the strands up even further. “One person turns off the cameras; the other commits the murder.”
“So the murderer could have already been in the house, at the ready, when the cameras were flicked off,” I muse, straightening perceptibly. “Can we check the cameras near the kitchen a few minutes before they switched off? See if there were any crew members near there? Any…”
Contestants.
But I can’t say that word. I refuse to believe that any of these men would commit such an atrocious act.
Grant nods once. “I’ll look into that.” Abruptly, his demeanor changes from ‘focused detective’ to ‘desperate lover.’ The harshness of his features soften as he trains me with a penetrating look, his russet eyes near pleading. “Ridley…”
“Well, if you’re handling that, I’m going to go,” I say immediately. Sure, I’m taking the coward’s way out, but I can’t find it in me to care. Grant has hurt me, destroyed me, and now I’m staring at the pieces of our broken relationship in wide-eyed horror.
“Rid—”
I jump from the bed, awkwardly salute him like a doofus, before hurrying down the hall.
Why am I the way I am, you may ask?
Welp. Awkwardness doesn’t need an explanation.
Seven Months Earlier
Rain water drenches me as I race through the muddy parking lot. My hair sticks to my face, and my tight black dress is soaked through. I’m pretty sure I’m flashing more nip than a stripper in a strip club.
That’s a joke, by the way. Because I’m heading to a strip club…
Oh, never mind.
I slow my pace when I reach the entrance, attempting to adopt a nonchalant, carefree, sexy persona. Instead, I probably resemble a penguin awkwardly waddling away from a polar bear.
I’m not Ridley-the-detective today.
I’m Ridley-the-super-sexy-and-better-than-Ashley woman today.
I mentally berate the direction of my thoughts. Ugh. I’m not the type of girl who slut-shames another woman or puts someone else down because I can. Sure, Ashley won the promotion we were both vying for, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t earn it. So maybe she’s not as qualified as me; she’s still an amazingly gifted forensic scientist, and my feelings for Grant shouldn’t influence my opinion of her.
Though I am pissed that she attempted to make her move on him when we were still together.
Girl code, you know?
Mustering a large smile, I sashay through the door and enter the musty smelling lounge. Instantly, stale sweat and beer barrage my senses as I stare in the direction of the currently empty stage. Last time I was here, Candy and another stripper were practically partaking in porn for the eager audience. I’m pretty sure Candy’s arrest put a damper on the whole “porn show thing”—though I doubt she’ll get convicted. After all, she was protecting me from her douche boyfriend when she pulled the trigger.
Despite the incident that occurred a few weeks earlier, the place is packed. Almost every table is full, and there isn’t one stool available at the bar. Fortunately, my cult leader bartender is the one serving drinks tonight, his wispy white hair and potbelly immediately recognizable.
Adopting a sexy smile—read as: an expression of severe constipation—I meander towards the bar, stepping between two young males. They both give me appreciative once-overs.
“Hey, sexy. Can I get you something to drink?” the one on the left queries.
“If you give me your seat,” I purr...well, I try to. I probably sound like a hyena choking on cock. I don’t understand how some girls can sound like sex personified and others can sound like...me. “I’ve been wearing these heels all day, and my feet are killing me.”
I really, really hope he doesn’t look down and realize, in fact, I’m not wearing heels, but black slip ons. Semantics, am I right?
He seems too drunk to notice, though, and eagerly stands, allowing me to sit in his vacated spot. With a grateful smile, I perch daintily on the wooden seat covered in sticky beer and...is that cum? Please don’t be cum.
“What’s your poison, sweetcheeks?” the man questions, leaning forward so that he’s boxing me in, one arm on either side of my own. I try not to wiggle, but it’s hard. I really, really don’t like his hot breath on my neck.
“Um…” I scan the patrons and point randomly towards a bottle of plain beer in a tattooed man’s hand. “That.”
“Jerry!” the man exclaims, lifting a hand to get the bartender’s attention.
Jerry. Interesting.
He waddles forward, his shirt stretched tautly over his pudgy stomach, and frowns when he catches sight of me. For a moment, I think he recognizes me as the SUP agent, but his eyes effectively dismiss me to focus on the man still hovering over me.
“What can I get for ya, Danny?” he queries, his accent even more pronounced than before.
“A beer for both me and my lady,” the man—Danny—says suggestively.
Gag.
The bartender gives me another wary expression before languidly moving towards the back shelf. As I watch him go, a plan begins to form in my mind. I need to get him alone, and I need to question him about his involvement with the Red Eyes.
But how can I do either without my cover being blown?
Chapter 4
At midday, I get a knock on my door. Believing it to be Kyler coming to boss me around, I pad on bare feet towards the door and throw it open, scowl firmly in place. That scowl fades, though, when I see Fernando the green-haired frog shifter standing in the doorframe.
His skinny frame is encased in a gray jacket over a white shirt, and he’s wearing a pair of low-hanging jeans that conform to his muscular thighs. Everything about Fernando is beautiful—and I’m not saying that lightly. He has delicate, almost modelesque features, and lime green hair wildly disheveled. His smile grows when he catches sight of me, and he immediately procures a notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket.
I was thinking I could take you out on our coffee date now, he writes, flashing me the note. I feel my own answering smile play on my lips as I nod once.
“Do I need to grab my jacket?” I ask, nodding towards where I discarded it over the back of a chair. Fernando shakes his head quickly and writes on the slip of paper once more.
Unfortunately, the show isn’t allowing us to leave the premises. But don’t worry. I have a plan. He accentuates the last sentence with a waggle of his eyebrows, and my smile instinctively broadens. Something about him is contagious. Maybe it’s his constant smile, the way his lush lips curl upwards mischievously, or maybe it’s his dark eyes that always seem to be alight with humor.
I don’t know Fernando that well—or at all, technically—but I want to.
“Let’s go,” I say, and he practically jumps up and down. Grabbing my elbow, he drags me down the hall until we enter the dining room. It’s supposed to be the location where the men can eat when I’m on my dates, but I haven’t seen anyone ever use it yet.
Currently, there’s a pristine white tablecloth draped over the surface and only two chairs on either side of the table. Fernando leads me to the one closet and releases my arm to pull the chair back.
“Why, thank you,” I say, and he smiles warmly as he pushes my chair in. He eagerly hurries around the table to sit opposite me.
Holding up a single finger, requesting me to wait, Fernando scrawls something on his notepad.
So, since I wasn’t allowed to bring us to an actual cafe…
He trails off just as the kitchen door swings open, and Liam, Dino, and Zade hurry out, all bedecked entirely in pressed suits and matching red ties. Laughter escapes unbidden as Liam pushes a cart out with a single coffee pot and array of creams on top of it.
“What can I get you, madame?” Liam asks, his Irish accent curling around me.
“We have black coffee,” Dino adds. “Coffee with half-and-half cream.”
“Coffee with mocha cream,” Zade throws in. “And caramel cream.”
“And, we have my very own creation!” Liam grins enthusiastically. “A little bit of all the creams and a hint of luck. I call it the Pot of Gold.” He winks at me, smile growing, and I can’t help but smile back. Because, damn, these men are so freaking cute.
“I think I’ll have the Pot of Gold,” I say, after pretending to consider it for a long moment. Fernando chuckles, the sound deliciously dark, and holds up his notepad.
Me too, please.
Dino hurries back into the kitchen, reappearing moments later with two mugs for the coffee. One of them is white with a pink book on the side and a billowing cape clasped to its spine. “Reading is my superpower” is etched the length of the mug in boxed lettering. The second mug has nothing but a donkey’s butt with the words, “You’re a pain in my ass.”
“I heard this is a super fancy coffee shop,” I say conspiratorially to Fernando. On the opposite side of the table, Liam and Dino begin to argue over how much coffee they should pour in correlation to the cream. Zade, with a sigh, pours a generous amount of black liquid into both cups before applying the creams himself.
Dino and Liam both instantly complain, but all Zade does is rol
l his eyes.
Super fancy, Fernando agrees, grinning.
I wait until Zade drops a cup in front of each of us. I get the book one, and Fernando gets the ass one. The zombie winks at me, his mottled face happier than I can ever remember seeing, before pushing a grumbling Dino and Liam out of the room. I have to remember to give those two more attention. So far, they’ve proven themselves to be kind, genuine men, but they’re often pushed to the sidelines. They’re not as demanding as some of the other contestants, and I’m afraid that gets them overlooked. I’m determined to change that, no matter the cost. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take them on a date?
The plan solidifying, I turn to focus completely on Fernando.
He really is a handsome man. He seems to embody a 1960s gangster vibe with his form-fitting gray suit jacket, lean frame, and tousled hair.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I smile tentatively at the silent frog shifter in front of me.
“So, I suppose I should ask you the stereotypical first date questions?” I tease, blowing on the blistering liquid. Smoke wafts from the top of the cup, perfuming the air in the intoxicating aroma of coffee. “What do you hope to get out of this relationship? Are you looking for a friend with benefits? A DTF girl? Something more?”
It’s always important to know straight away what a guy wants from you. Honestly, a lot of men are pigs. I still remember the one time I decided to go on a dating app and got matched with Daniel from Lakeview.
Him: Hey
Him: Hi
Him: Hey
Him: what ya doing?
Him: Heyy
Him: Bitch
And then, when I deleted him from the app, he found me on Facebook and immediately began messaging me.
Him: What’s your number?
Him: Or snap?
Him: Hey
Him: Hey
Him: Hey
Him: Whore
To be painfully honest, that interaction made me hate men. Obviously, I know that most of them aren’t like that, but those who are need a long lesson in how to treat a woman. It’s not as if we want to go into our messages and be bombarded with flappy dick pics. Let’s be honest: It’s not impressive. It’s actually quite pathetic, because I have seen big dicks before, and that isn’t one.
