She said, “If I hadn’t come in for a drink, what would you be doing right now?”
He took a sharp intake of breath. His eyes narrowed. “I guess I’d be thinking about you in the shower—singing ‘Shades of Summer,’ of course.”
She finished her drink, set it down on the floor. She sat back up, unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Her face was getting warm. Her groin was getting warm. She glanced at his. Yeah, he was, too. “You keep coming back to that shower thing.”
“It’s an image that just won’t seem to go away.”
“So you were being nefarious.”
He gave a crooked smile. “It’s not easy to lie to an investigator, is it?”
“It’s certainly not wise. Now you owe me.” She undid another button.
He eyed that motion, set his drink down on the floor, moved over to her, put his arm around her, stroking her hair, gently. His rough laborer’s hands were calm, gentle. Just like the way he sang, tough and tender at the same time.
He leaned in, started nuzzling her neck. She could feel his warm lips, soft, but firm, as he drew her collar to one side.
She unbuttoned more buttons, pulling him down to her breasts, although it didn’t take much encouragement. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her as she arched forward, unhooked her bra, and that was just fine. And then she unfastened her pants, lifted her butt, slipped the jeans down, kicked them off on the floor while his workingman’s hands roamed all over her, her hips, her thighs, on the outside of her panties at first, which were moist now, then inside, gently finding her spot. Applying sweet pressure. Hitting it just right.
She woke in the middle of the night in his bed, nude and exhausted in the best way possible. She looked over at Steve, facedown, head buried in a pillow, purring away. The sheet and blankets were twisted around his midriff. He had a hard, muscular build, maybe a pound or two to lose, but he carried them well. She had wiped him out in the sack and, for the first time in a week, she bet he was sleeping like a baby. She smiled at herself. She felt pretty damn good, too. Mission accomplished.
Her head was still buzzing. Music, drink, sex. She could get used to it.
She pulled the sheet up over him, climbed out of the sloshing waterbed. Nature called. Clothes were all over the floor in a tangle, leading up to the bed. She stepped over them, down the hall to the bathroom. Afterwards, she went into the kitchen, drank a long glass of water, ran another. She’d had enough drink to numb a small town and didn’t need a hangover to match it. Her head was throbbing, but still in a nice way. She leaned against the cool tile edge of the countertop, feeling about as a free as a satisfied body without clothes can feel.
Time off for good behavior.
She raised the glass of water to her lips and drank.
And then, she heard a key slide into the lock of the front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In the darkened kitchen Colleen set her glass of water down on the counter quietly, listened to the front door unlocking, the sound reverberating through the house without walls. Her heart quickened.
The clock on the kitchen wall, visible in the moonlight coming through the window over the sink, told her it was past four in the morning.
Now her nakedness, freeing before, felt like a vulnerability, cold and prickly.
“Who’s there?” she said, peering down the long hallway. But she had a good idea.
She saw the outline of a woman in a fluffy coat.
“What the fuck?” she heard Lynda say.
Colleen ducked into the hallway, into Steve’s bedroom, quickly pulling on her bell-bottom jeans commando style. She threw on her shirt. Steve was still facedown, snoring, lights out.
She reached over, shook his shoulder. “Lynda’s here,” she whispered. He responded with an unconscious groan. “Get up!” Colleen headed back out, buttoning up her blouse.
Lynda appeared in the hallway to the bedroom.
“I might have fucking known,” she said.
Colleen blocked her path, hands on her hips.
“I think you better leave,” she said, adrenaline pumping her awake. “Now.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Something was in Lynda’s hand. A hammer. She must have pulled it from Steve’s tools.
It came at Colleen in a blur. Hit her shoulder. To say it didn’t hurt would have been a lie. She stifled a yell, bounded off the wall. A photo in a frame crashed to the floor.
“You fucking whore!” Lynda shouted. The hammer came at her again.
Colleen deflected the hammer this time with an upraised forearm. That hurt, too. Lynda’s enraged face swooped in.
Colleen recalled a fight she had witnessed in the showers in Denver Correctional Women’s Facility. She spit into Lynda’s face with all the force and saliva she could muster.
It had the desired effect. Lynda recoiled, dropping the hammer, which bounced off the floor as she grabbed at the spittle on her face. “Why, you dirty fucking bitch!”
Colleen lunged at her, grabbed a thick handful of blond hair with her left hand, yanked it like a rope, bringing Lynda’s face straight into her fist. Not hard enough to break her nose, but enough to show she meant business. Lynda howled, and Colleen held onto her hair, pulling her down to the rough floorboards. All fights went to the ground. Another thing she learned in prison.
While Lynda was twisting, Colleen retrieved the hammer. She let go of her hair. A good chunk of it was loose and fell to the floor.
Colleen stood back. She set the hammer on an open joist.
Lynda gasped.
“Stay down,” Colleen said. “I’m going to search you now. Don’t move. Unless you really want to get hurt.”
Lynda stayed down, sprawled, seething with hard breaths while Colleen patted her down. Clean. Colleen stood up and back.
“Can I fucking sit up now?” Lynda growled.
“Slowly,” Colleen said, standing back, feeling her shoulder where the hammer had connected. She hoped nothing was broken. It didn’t seem like it, but it throbbed with an ominous ache.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve in a pair of jeans, nothing else.
“What the hell, Lynda?” he said in a hoarse voice.
Lynda climbed off the floor, feeling her nose. “Bitch fucking tore my hair. Bitch!”
“What did you expect?” Colleen said. “Flowers?”
Steve had a cigarette going. Colleen wanted one herself.
“What do think you’re playing at now, Lynda?” Steve said.
“‘Piss Off’?” she said. “That’s your answer? To Dad’s agreement? After he offered to bail us out? Seriously? What are you trying to do? Get Mel fucking killed?”
Steve took a puff. “Your little game is up, Lynda.”
“Fuck you.” Lynda’s face hardened. “Lucky for you, I spoke to Dad, and he’s willing to give it another shot. It wasn’t easy, believe me. But we’re running out of time.”
Colleen shook her head, amazed at the woman’s ability to lie. Steve brushed past the two of them, headed into the living room, such as it was, flicked on the overhead light. He returned with a photo—one of the two Colleen had given him showing Mel on Ebony. He handed it to Lynda.
Lynda took it, looked it over. Colleen saw her face fall, but she recovered quickly. Lynda looked up at Steve, mouth open, appropriately shocked.
“It’s Mel,” Steve said. “On a horse.”
“Oh my God,” Lynda said, eyeballing the pic again. “Where is she?”
Colleen couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
“What do you think you’re laughing at, bitch?” Lynda snapped.
“You,” she said. “You’re good.”
Lynda ignored her. She shook the photo. “Where is she, Steve?”
“Christ, Lynda—enough. You know where. You had Ebony delivered to some place in Olema, yeah? A little reward, was it? For playing along with the ‘kidnap’?”
Lynda’s face hardened. “If you know where she is, asswipe, you better come
clean.”
“I just told you,” Steve said. “No one is holding her hostage. She’s quite content, it seems.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now, the question is, where’s my twenty grand? Plus, the interest I owe.”
Lynda stood there for a moment. Her eyes slitted. “Fuck you, Jack,” she said, tossing the photo on the floor. “You haven’t heard the last of this.”
“That’s funny,” Steve said. “That’s exactly what I was going to say to you.”
Lynda shot daggers at Colleen as she turned for the door. “Is this how you work? Fuck your clients?”
“I think of it as a fringe benefit.”
Lynda spun, headed for the door.
Steve spoke: “I expect Mel to be home, your place, safe and sound, by tonight, Lynda.”
Lynda opened the door. She turned, glaring at Steve. “You sad, fucking loser. You could have had it all. You could have had John Lennon singing on your albums. But no, you had to go and kill that bimbo in a drunken orgy, blow it all to hell. Then you ran away. Threw it all away.”
Steve’s face dropped, the cigarette smoldering in his hand like an afterthought. “That’s a low blow, Lynda. You know that’s not the way it happened. It was a bloody accident.”
“Your whole life is a bloody accident,” Lynda said. She shook her head. “Dad tried to help you, but no. You had to cut your nose to spite your face. You think your music is something special? It’s product, Steve, that’s all it is, and you won’t even leverage what little you’ve got left. You drove us to this. What we did with Mel is your fault. Your fault. Loser.”
“Get out.”
“I tried to rebuild you. Rebuild your career. Even married you, to pump up your little boy ego. Do you think I could ever love a sad sack like you? You just don’t have what it takes. Even your own daughter laughs at you. You miserable piece of shit.”
Steve’s face was hardening on the outside but crumbling inside.
“That’s enough,” Colleen said. “What Steve says about Melanie being home tonight—that holds.” She raised her eyebrows.
Lynda gave an angry gasp. “She’ll be home.” She turned to Steve. “But you’ll never see her again. She’ll be happy about that. So chalk up one good thing to come out of this.”
Lynda slammed the door behind her, and they could hear her stomping down the front stairs.
Steve stood there, in just his jeans, staring at nothing. A desolate frown slackened his face. Colleen felt for him, humiliated and betrayed by someone he had once loved, and still seemed to carry a torch for. He flicked ash off his cigarette onto the floor absentmindedly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“We’ll touch base later today, Steve?” Colleen said.
The sun was a hint of light in the east, creeping up Steve’s kitchen window.
He nodded, blinking in thought.
“Good,” Colleen said, placing her empty coffee cup in the sink. She felt both exhausted and fortified, not necessarily a bad thing, if you took Lynda out of the equation. It was just a shame that what had happened last night between her and Steve had to be marred by Lynda’s visit. Her shoulder hurt but it wasn’t enough to outweigh the sex.
What mattered most right now was straightening out Steve’s money situation.
Steve leaned against the kitchen counter. He had dressed and composed himself and had recovered somewhat from Lynda’s verbal tirade.
Colleen slipped on her bomber jacket. “Once we clean this up, the sooner you can put it all behind you, Steve.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
She gave him a cautious smile. Her times with men, since her ex, had been few. But each one had been special. Steve, especially. She came over to him by the sink, gave him a soft peck on the cheek. “Call me if you hear something. If I’m not home, leave a message with my answering service.”
“Will do,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “We’ll figure out your twenty K. Plus interest.”
“Thanks, love.”
There, he said it again. Just an expression to him. But not for her.
“Ciao.” She turned, headed for the door.
“Hold up, Colleen.” She heard him going to the back of the house.
She turned back, happy for the little extra time with him.
Steve came out of the hallway, holding an album.
“Hell, yes.” She took the album, looked at a younger Steve, and read his dedication.
Colleen—Thanks for everything and more … Steve.
“Wow,” she said, knocked a little bit sideways. “Can I retire off this?”
He gave a playful frown. “If you’re planning on dying the next day.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m never going to get rid of it anyway.”
He gave her a tired but happy wink.
She went home, in high spirits, yet still conflicted. She didn’t like the way Steve was brooding, although he had every right to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The morning sun was glowing gray above the fog on Potrero Hill as Colleen turned right on Vermont, driving past her front door lobby, looking around for a white van, one that had been parked there the other day.
No van.
She drove around the block and pulled into the dirt parking lot behind her building. She locked up, grabbed her copy of that album, took the exterior stairwell up to her flat on the third floor. The old wood stairs creaked under her footsteps. She had mixed feelings about the separate entrance, which had been added long after the century-old building had been constructed; it allowed her a small deck off the kitchen and provided an alternative exit in the case of fire or earthquake but, by the same token, also afforded an extra source of vulnerability.
On the third-floor deck, she unlocked the door to the porch off the kitchen, let herself in. The flat was cold. She listened for a moment, as she always did, then checked the place out. Paranoia ran deep, especially nowadays. She flicked on the heat.
Last night with Steve was one to remember.
Leave it that way.
After her disastrous marriage, that was the way Colleen kept things with the opposite sex. Simple.
A quick shower rinsed off last night. Colleen dressed in fresh black 501s, purple turtleneck, sneaks, threw on her beat-up brown bomber jacket. She peered through the Venetian blinds onto Vermont Street and saw no van parked.
She needed to deal with Lynda, Lynda’s father, and anyone else gunning for Steve. She’d start with Lynda. Try to see that Steve got his money back before he got his legs broken.
She called Lynda’s house, got no answer. She wasn’t surprised. Lynda might well be on her way up to Olema to get Melanie, now that the kidnap ruse was blown.
Colleen needed to make sure, though.
She grabbed her special hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice, took the back stairs down to the Torino, and headed over to Lynda’s house on Colon one more time.
No one was home, judging by the single light in the living room.
She left the car running, got out, pressed the door buzzer outside on the brick wall, where there was an intercom.
No answer.
She went back and parked down the street a ways, where she could watch the house.
Hours later, midafternoon, up on Colon Avenue, she saw what she was hoping for: Lynda’s BMW turning into the driveway. Colleen turned down KGO radio, picked up her binos.
Lo and behold, there was Melanie Cook, sitting in the passenger seat, face grim like she was going to a public hanging. Like mother, like daughter. But she was home safe, and that’s what mattered. Colleen set the field glasses down on the passenger seat, picked up her book, checked around, rearview mirror, too. Nothing. It amazed her how little people actually noticed what went on in their own neighborhoods.
She opened the book, which had been hollowed out to hold the black Bersa Piccola .22 Moran had slipped her on a recent job. None too legal, but you couldn’t have everything. She tucked the compa
ct gun in the pocket of her jacket, got out of the Torino, locked it up. Headed up to Lynda’s at a brisk pace.
The driveway gate was already shut. She pressed the door buzzer on the outside wall.
The intercom crackled.
“Who is it?” Lynda snapped over the tinny speaker.
“Colleen Hayes.”
There was a pause while a click of static filtered over the speaker.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” Lynda said.
“Believe it. We need to talk.”
“No, bitch, we most certainly do not.”
“Then I guess I go to the cops instead, bring them up to date with everything that’s transpired. How’s Ebony?”
She waited for a moment. The gate buzzed open.
Colleen walked up the brick path to Lynda’s front door, hands in her bomber jacket, one gripping the Bersa in case Lynda decided to go fetch the baby-blue LadySmith Colleen had seen next to her vibrator in the bedside table. She hadn’t seen the house from this angle up close, having broken in through the side door by the garage, and it was smart. Mock Tudor. 1920s.
The front door opened as she stepped up on a brick porch.
Lynda stood there in beige toreador slacks and black flats and an angora sweater, fuming. But unarmed.
“Nice place,” Colleen said, entering the rich hallway. The house had been cleaned up since the last time Colleen had “visited.”
“Go to hell,” Lynda said, shutting the front door with a push. She came into the house, stood in front of Colleen, legs apart, hands on her hips. “What do you fucking want?”
Colleen noticed Melanie, standing at the top of the stairs, in her green barn coat, black pants tucked into riding boots. She stared at Colleen with hard little eyes. Colleen felt for her, even though she might have willingly taken a horse over her father. Being Lynda’s offspring would be a challenge for anyone, let alone a child.
Colleen nodded to acknowledge her, spoke to Lynda: “You sure you want her to hear what I’m about to say?”
Lynda turned to Melanie. “Go to your room, sweetie.”
“God!” Melanie glared at Colleen for a moment, stormed off.
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