Cash and the Sorority Girl

by Ashley Bartlett

  “Cool. Does that mean you’ll be finished tonight?”

  “Probably. I hope so.” Lane nodded toward me. “I told Cash earlier that I want to go back to class tomorrow.”

  “That’s great, sis.”

  Lane half shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “You have Monday classes?” Robin asked.

  “Yeah. Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “Are you moving back on campus?” Laurel asked.

  “Nope. I called dibs on little sister.” I winked at Lane.

  “Did you just wink at her?” Laurel asked.

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Winking is creepy. And you can’t call dibs on someone.”

  “I agree with Laurel on this one,” Robin said.

  “No one asked you.” I pointed at Robin.

  “Do you want a ride to campus tomorrow?” Laurel asked Lane.

  “Oh. Yeah. That would be good. I guess I can’t just walk to class like I usually do.”

  “You could, but it would take a while.”

  Lane laughed. “I’d rather not.”

  I debated offering to give her a ride as well, but then I realized Laurel might want time with Lane. Dibs or not, my goal was not to get between them.

  After we finished pizza, Lane went back to the truck. Robin followed to take measurements for seat covers and whatever other goofy accessories she was going to get Andy. I helped Laurel gather dishes and empty cans to bring into the kitchen.

  “Did you guys make any more progress on the case today?”

  Laurel started scrubbing plates. “Not really.”

  “We don’t need to talk about it,” I said.

  “It’s fine. I like talking through stuff like this with you. You’re removed from it. That’s a good thing, by the way.”

  I nodded. “I like that you talk to me about your day. So I guess we are all in agreement.”

  She grinned and shook her head. “Fenton wanted to run through everything again, see if we were missing some connection. Nothing stood out. A couple of flimsy connections, but—” She shrugged.

  “Did you guys set up a meeting with the victim?” I started drying the plates as she rinsed soap off of them.

  “Yeah. A few of them, actually. Two of the other women explicitly stated that they were at frat parties. So we are going to start with them.”

  “I thought all the assaults happened at frat parties.”

  “So did I. Apparently, the others only said party and mentioned a few other details that led Blackford and Fenton to believe they were frat parties.” She dried her hands and leaned back against the edge of the sink. “This case is already falling apart, even as it’s getting bigger.”

  “Well, hopefully they’ll get specifics to look at. The good thing about social media is that it doesn’t disappear. Even if someone deletes it, it exists somewhere.”

  She gave a little nod at my pep talk. “That’s true.”

  “I assume you can bring in your tech department for help?”

  “Yeah. Duarte is good, but that’s because he’s young. It’s not a specialization.”

  “He did kind of kick all your asses today.”

  Laurel laughed. “He did.”

  “Maybe they have a program that will help you sort through the photos.”

  “They do. But we need a specific pool for them to input.”

  “Like a specific pool of photos?” I asked. She nodded. “Oh, but you don’t know which parties to focus on.”

  “Exactly. Duarte pointed out that we can probably use geotracking to get solid locations, then work backward and figure out which party and hashtag to focus on for each incident.”

  “That’s kind of badass.”

  “Assuming people posted photos of the parties. And assuming those photos have hashtags. And assuming the rapist is in any of the photos, let alone enough to tip us off that he’s worth noticing.”

  “So we’re going with a glass half-empty approach?” I asked.

  She grinned. “Fuck off.”

  I stepped into her space and kissed her. Partially because she was hot even when she was bitching and partially because it had been far too long since I’d done so. Between my shoes and her lack thereof, our height difference was more noticeable. She stretched to wrap her arms around my neck. I took a step backward and let her push me against the counter. Our lips parted on impact. She kissed me again, her tongue pressing past my lips.

  I worked my fingertips under the edge of her sweater. Her undershirt was tucked in, and I worked it up until I could touch skin. Her breathing tripped. She tugged at my hair. The sharp sensation cascaded down my body.

  “I take it you two aren’t joining us downstairs?” Robin asked.

  Laurel pulled away. She looked flushed, but I told myself it was from making out, not having been caught.

  “I wasn’t planning on it at the moment, no,” I said.

  Robin laughed. “Well, Lane is still working, but I need to pick up Andy.”

  “Dammit.”

  Laurel smacked my stomach with the back of her hand. “That’s fine. We would love to head down to make sure Lane isn’t alone.”

  “Yeah. That’s obviously what I meant to say,” I said.

  “Obviously,” Robin said.

  We followed Robin out and waved her off. Lane didn’t seem to notice when we climbed into the now clean truck bed and stretched out our legs. Laurel put her warm hand on my thigh.

  “You’re crashing at my place tonight, right?” I asked.

  “I can’t. I need to be in by seven to review the case with Fenton. I volunteered to interview victims with him all day.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to take Lane to school?”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s fine. I can take her.”

  “You don’t need to. I’m sure I can take a break and do it.”

  “I was going to offer earlier. I just didn’t want to interrupt your time together, if that’s what you were aiming for.”

  “It kind of was, but I didn’t think about my schedule at all.”

  “Or,” I said grandly. I waited until she gave me her full attention. “I stay here tonight. Lane can take my car back to my place and drive herself in the morning.”

  “That seems complicated.”

  “It’s not. Staying at my place alone will help her develop autonomy in a safe place.”

  “Are you just advocating for this so you can get laid?”

  “No,” I said. Laurel gave me a look. “I’m doing it so Lane can develop autonomy and so I can get laid. It’s a win all around.”

  Laurel looked mildly displeased with that answer, but then she called out to Lane.

  “What?” Lane shouted back.

  “Come here.”

  There was a thump followed by a clang. The driver’s side opened and Lane stuck her head over the edge of the bed.

  “What’s up?”

  “I forgot that I have to be at work by seven. You want to borrow Cash’s car in the morning and drive yourself?”

  Lane gave me a questioning look. I nodded. “Yeah, that would be great,” she said.

  “What if you stayed at Cash’s place alone tonight? Would that freak you out or engender a feeling of autonomy?”

  “I feel like that was leading the witness,” I said.

  “No, I gave her two opposing options.”

  “But what if her answer is neither of those options?”

  Laurel huffed. “Fine.” She turned back to Lane. “How would you feel about staying at Cash’s place alone tonight?”

  “I feel like it would engender a feeling of autonomy, but I also feel, inexplicably, like someone planted that idea in my head. Isn’t that weird?”

  I laughed. Laurel scowled, but then she broke and laughed too.

  “I’ll text Robin to give her a heads up. If you need anything, she’ll mother you,” I said.

  “Cool. You really don’t mind me drivin
g your car?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And if you do get freaked out about sleeping alone, call us,” Laurel said.

  “Yeah. Seriously.”

  Lane nodded. “Got it. Call Robin for mothering and call Cash for a slumber party.”

  “Is that what you guys have been doing? A week of slumber parties?” Laurel asked.

  Lane and I looked at each other and nodded. “Yeah, basically. Pillow fights, braiding hair,” I said.

  “Facials, pedicures.”

  “Dance party night was my favorite.”

  “You are an excellent dancer,” Lane said.

  “Thank you. I was classically trained.”

  That was too much for Laurel. “Cash, if I gave you one million dollars right now, could you define what a classically trained dancer is?”

  “Yes. A dancer trained in the classics.”

  “Nailed it.” Lane leaned over and high-fived me.

  “I thought so,” I said.

  Laurel just shook her head.

  “Okay, I’m going to finish this shit up.” Lane pointed at the cab. “And then I’m going to Cash’s place to dance in my underwear.”

  “Good plan.” I gave her a head nod.

  Lane climbed back in the cab. About fifteen minutes later, music started playing. The volume grew steadily. Laurel and I looked through the back window into the cab. Lane was watching us and looked quite pleased with herself. She wrestled the back window open.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It sounds fucking awesome.” I high-fived her through the open window.

  “Agreed. Very impressive,” Laurel said.

  “Andy is going to be stoked. I’m stoked. Thank you for doing this.”

  Lane smiled slowly, quietly. “It was fun. Therapeutic.” She tapped the volume down. “It’s like those adult coloring books, but with electricity. And if you do it right, you get validation at the end.”

  “That was some lovely poetry right there,” Laurel said.

  “Shut up.” Lane took the keys out of the ignition and the stereo cut out.

  Laurel and I climbed out of the truck bed. I traded keys with Lane, my car for Andy’s truck.

  We said good-bye to Lane and went upstairs to Laurel’s apartment like normal adults. She closed the door and pressed me against it. She kissed me, gently sucking my bottom lip between hers, then releasing it. I walked her backward. We got as far as her big oak desk. She kicked the rolling wooden chair out of the way and pressed herself between my legs.

  I tugged at her sweater, pulling until I could shove it over her head. She didn’t bother trying to undress me. By the time I’d managed to untuck her shirt again, my pants were unbuttoned and falling off my ass. She pressed her tongue into my ear. The wet sensation was both unpleasant and tantalizing.

  “How invested are you in a bed right now?” Laurel asked as she slid her fingers over my clit.

  “Fuck.”

  She pulled back. “You want me to stop?”

  I gripped her wrist above the waistband of my underwear and held her still. “Fuck no.”

  “Good.”

  She kissed down my neck, her tongue darting out just enough to keep me engaged with what her mouth was doing. I let go of her wrist, hoping she would put her fingertips back where they’d been. Instead, she tugged my jeans and boxers down. She dropped to her knees. The hard edge of the desk dug a line across my ass, but then Laurel licked the length of me and I did not care about the state of my ass.

  I gripped the side of the desk with one hand and the back of Laurel’s neck with the other. I wanted to hold her close, to fuck her face, but I knew from experience that she wouldn’t allow that until she decided I was ready. So I held still and let her have me. She sucked my clit into her mouth and pulled ever so slightly. Certainly not enough pressure for me to come, but enough that I couldn’t think of anything else. She teased the underside with her tongue, the gentle lapping made sure any blood remaining in my body would move at her behest. I choked out a plea for her to let me come. She laughed. The soft vibration mocked me in a multitude of ways.

  When she finally let me come, I was hyper aware of the warmth of her mouth, the soft hardness of her tongue, the discomfort of holding every muscle taut. Laurel stood and kissed me slowly. Her lips were softer and swollen. I’d never been loved quite so well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My phone vibrated with a message from Kyra. Here.

  I grabbed my phone and Laurel’s spare key ring. As I locked the front door, I could hear Kyra’s car idling at the curb. She unlocked the door when I approached.

  “Is that the truck?” she asked after I climbed in.

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “It’s so Andy. She’s going to die.”

  “It’s pretty cool.”

  “When’s her birthday?”

  “November third.”

  “That’s like two weeks away. You have to keep this under wraps for two weeks?”

  I frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. Damn.”

  “Breakfast at Tower?”

  “Heck yeah.”

  Kyra nodded and turned toward the edge of midtown. She chatted about nothing in a pleasant way until we got to Tower. We parked in the theater lot and circled around to the front of the restaurant.

  “Inside or out?” The hostess grabbed menus and waited, smiling.

  I looked at Kyra. “I know it’s chilly, but it’s still sunny.”

  “I’m down,” she said.

  “Outside.”

  The hostess nodded and led us outside. The greenery enveloping the patio made it even cooler, but we were led to a table sitting in a patch of sunlight that had somehow penetrated the jungle. We sat and took our menus. The hostess assured us a waiter would be with us soon and disappeared around a palm. Kyra dropped her menu without looking at it and propped her chin in her palm.

  “So.”

  “So?”

  “Did you meet with Jerome?”

  “Yeah.” I tried not to scowl and failed.

  “How did it go?”

  “Really well, actually. He agreed to a much higher percentage than we thought he would. He must be desperate.”

  “That’s great. So what’s next? Just give it a couple of months and make sure it all plays out?”

  “Basically, yeah. We included a stipulation for information too.”

  “Nice.”

  “And now I just have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life.” I was aiming for flippant, but Kyra saw right through it. Which was a pretty annoying quality.

  “Freaking out?”

  “Totally.”

  A waiter approached the table. Kyra ordered coffee for us and promised him we would look at the menu. We didn’t.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know, man. I’m almost thirty. My skills include tolerating college students for up to four minutes at a time, counting real fast, and laundering money with a quick turnaround time.”

  “You’re also empathetic and kind and intelligent.”

  “I’m a snappy dresser.”

  Kyra looked at my borrowed Henley. It was tight in the shoulders and loose at my waist. “Clearly.”

  “That didn’t seem entirely sincere.”

  She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.

  The waiter came back. I picked up my menu like I’d been looking at it all along.

  “You’re going to order eggs Benedict with extra hollandaise. Why are you pretending otherwise?” Kyra asked.

  I shrugged and put down the menu. “Fair point.”

  “You guys ready to order?” The waiter took out his order pad hopefully.

  “She wants eggs Benedict with extra hollandaise.” Kyra nodded at me. “And I’ll do the blueberry pancakes.” She took my menu, stacked it with hers, and handed them to the waiter.

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “That’s it
, thank you.” Kyra smiled. As the guy walked away, she turned to me. Her expression was a mixture between horror and embarrassment. “I did it again.”

  “You did,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Makes me feel like a real lady when you order for me.”

  She laughed. “Should we add that to your list of skills? Real lady?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “Any other hidden talents?”

  “Wealthy housewives adore me,” I said.

  “Hmm.” She appeared to contemplate that. “You have a very specific skill set that doesn’t translate much to other fields.”

  “Thank you, I know. I’ve been trying to tell you that.”

  “Okay, what do you enjoy doing?”

  I answered without thinking. “Looking at art, hanging with my cat, being sarcastic, dismantling the white supremacist cis-hetero patriarchy, reading poetry.”

  “Great. So probably like second grade teacher?”

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  “With a series of themed sweaters,” she said.

  “Of course I’m going to wear themed sweaters. I’m not a fucking idiot.” I took a sip of my coffee.

  “Okay. What about journalism? Your degree is in English. You’re good at telling people why they suck. Why not be an art critic or something?”

  “I don’t like to critique art. Or poetry for that matter. I just like to look at it and know in my heart that it’s awesome or it blows.”

  “In your heart?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what I always wanted to do?” Kyra asked.

  “Do tell.”

  “Run a gallery. Or curate a museum. How cool would that be?”

  “I guess. I mean, yeah, for you that would be cool.”

  “You don’t think it would be awesome to put together an art show? Pick the people and pieces to create a cohesive whole?”

  “I can see why that would be cool, but I’d much rather just chill in a super cool gallery that someone else curated.”

  The waiter came back with our breakfast. It was clearly a slow morning. Kyra made a delighted noise and started slathering her pancakes in whipped butter.

  “Okay. I’ve got it. For real this time.” She pointed at me with a forkful of pancake. “Stockbroker. Ability to deal with douchebros, check. Counting fast, also check. I think. I’m pretty unclear on what a stockbroker does. Money laundering, definitely probably helpful. Ability to buy a gallery and pay someone else to curate it so you can just hang out, fucking check.”