by Jada Ryker
Kevin, on the other hand, had seemed to misunderstand her gesture of friendliness.
It had begun so gradually. Kevin’s intent brown eyes, staring at her. Going out of his way to sit next to her. Ignoring the counting off system for the smaller groups so that he could join Marisa in her small group.
At the time, Marisa had a disquieting sensation, rather like the feeling when a harmless lizard ran across her bare feet. Unpleasant, but not frightening.
When Kevin had asked Marisa for help with his resume so that he could find a management position in marketing, she had cautiously agreed to do so by email.
According to Kevin’s resume, he’d graduated from a prestigious university twenty years ago, with honors and a master’s degree.
Between his graduation and the current time, he had not worked. Anywhere. In any capacity.
The email correspondence, which began with Kevin’s resume, grew into several long, daily letters to Marisa. In the emails, Kevin wrote that his mother financially supported him. His mother’s money even paid for his weekly visits to massage parlors. She paid his legal fees and fines to extricate him from each of his minor brushes with the law, including stalking a massage parlor worker. Finally, tired of her son living with her, she actually paid the price for her independence. She signed the lease on a small apartment, purchased an old car for him, and piled all of his things into a large moving van.
Kevin started waiting in the parking lot for Marisa, before each support group meeting. On several occasions, she was positive she’d seen the lights of his car behind her, following her when she’d left the meetings.
The disquieting sensation had escalated from creepy to alarming.
She had finally sent him an email, stating if he didn’t leave her alone, she’d contact the police.
When that didn’t work, she threatened to call his mother.
That threat had the desired effect, at least to the extent he had not talked to her or approached her. However, a member of their support group had seen Kevin lurking in the bushes, taking photos of Marisa.
While Marisa was considering and rejecting several approaches (Call the manager? Grab Tara, run, and put some distance between them and Kevin? Scream? Throw up?), Alex grabbed Kevin by the scruff of his shocked neck.
“Hi, I’m Kevin. You must be a friend of Marisa’s. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, he was introducing himself to Alex.
Alex lifted him off the floor, and shook him.
Kevin’s protruding brown eyes wheeled to Marisa. “My love,” Kevin simpered, swinging in Alex’s surprisingly strong grip.
The fury started in Marisa’s gut, catching her by surprise as it swept up her body in a hot wave. The rage propelled her across the short distance separating them. Ignoring the interested gazes of Tara’s group members, Marisa thrust her face in Kevin’s smiling one. With her nose a fraction of an inch from Kevin’s and her teeth clenched so tightly she could hardly speak, she gritted, “Kevin. Get the hell away from me. Or I swear I will scream so loud and so long, the entire police force will be here to drag your sorry ass to jail.”
In the face of Marisa’s raw anger, the smile finally faded from Kevin’s face.
His face set and ignoring Kevin’s mewling distress, Alex dragged him toward the door.
The bartender, who had been drawn by Tara’s invisible bosom strings, stood with his mouth open. He stepped back out of Alex’s path.
“She actually hates confrontation,” confided Tara to the bartender.
Pulling nervously on his ponytail, the bartender shuddered. “If that’s a sign of hating confrontation, I don’t want to be around when she decides to confront.” Shaking his head, sending the ponytail flying, he waved the bouncer away and headed back to the safety of his bar.
Dusting his hands in satisfaction, Alex rejoined Marisa and Tara. He asked, “Marisa, what was up with that guy?”
Shivering, Marisa told Alex the whole story.
“I think you should go to the police, Marisa.”
Alex seemed oblivious to Marisa and Tara’s significant glances.
“And I know just who you should call,” Alex continued. “Dreamus Camden, who investigated the killings last spring. I know stalking is minor compared to murder, but the lieutenant can help keep Kevin away from you.”
Glancing toward the corner in which the disguised lawman lurked, Tara cleared her throat.
“That whole thing seems so fantastic now,” Alex mused. “Killings, hidden pasts, assumed identities...and now, it could almost be a dream.” He paused. “Or a nightmare.”
Tara leaned forward and hissed in Alex’s ear.
He started to turn his head toward the disguised homicide lieutenant.
“No, don’t look!” Marisa hissed in his other ear.
“Maybe he’s here undercover because of Caleb’s murder,” announced Tara.
Alex’s bewildered look cleared. “The same Caleb so lamented by Brianna! He was part of this group!”
Marisa and Tara quickly filled Alex in on the little they knew about the murder.
Alex whistled. “I wonder if the Knight was extinguished by one of the Round Ladies?”
Tara said, “We need more information. I have an idea.”
“Tara!” Marisa hissed.
Too late. She was sauntering with deceptive casualness toward the disguised lieutenant.
Mentally throwing up her hands, Marisa turned to Alex. “Thank you for rescuing us. But what on earth are you doing here, Alex? I didn’t think nightclubs matched your conservative, accountant-type image.”
“I’m here to support Brandon...” he peered around the club. “Oh, there he is, heading toward Tara.”
Marisa rolled her eyes. The pervasive effect of Tara’s bosom. Of course he was heading toward Tara, along with the majority of the males in the club. She frowned. “Brandon Proctor, the trauma hospital’s director of guest relations?”
“Mmmm. He dragged me along with him for his face-to-face meeting with the new love of his life.”
Brandon, deflected by the crowd around Tara, veered toward Sarah, aka Taylor. His thin hands were waving in agitation, and his normally smooth gait was jerky. Sketching along the edges of both jaws and converging at the cleft in his chin, the charcoal line of precisely trimmed stubble highlighted Brandon’s oval face. In his lightly tanned face, Marisa could see a hint of vulnerability, even tenderness.
Marisa sputtered. “He has a crush on...um...Taylor? What happened to the torrid romance between him and the agile Widow Cranston?”
Alex desperately clamped his hands over his ears. “For God’s sake, don’t remind me of that horrifying moment when we caught Brandon playing horse to Mrs. Cranston’s disciplinary cowgirl!”
Marisa’s eyes narrowed as Brandon’s tall figure bent solicitously over the giggling Sarah. “I would have thought those two lovers would have stayed together, if only to irritate Brandon’s lividly disapproving mother.”
Alex shrugged. “Brandon says Taylor is educated, smart, and funny. She teaches high school and she’s also a cheerleading coach. She’s not only insightful and sensitive, according to Brandon, but she’s also athletic.”
With a quick vision of Sarah, wearing only a g-string as she executed a back flip across the stage, Marisa mentally agreed the object of Brandon’s affection was very athletic.
“And Brandon raves about her cute dimples,” Alex added. “Have you seen her dimples?”
“Yes, I’ve seen her dimples.” On her face and on her naked ass. In the strip club.
A sturdy man with thinning blonde wisps of hair sidled up to her and panted, his tongue hanging out. “Can you guess who I am?”
“Umm...” His short, muscular legs were accented by cut off jeans. His body was slightly rotund, like an overfed basset hound. He was practically wagging his tail, his face was as eager as a dog anticipating a long-awaited walk. “The Blue-Blooded Beagle?” hazarded Marisa.
>
Alex snorted softly as the other man slunk away, his dejected metaphorical tail between his legs. “I think that was the Royal Bloodhound. Instead of pricking up his ears and laying his nose to the scent, he looks as if he’s been whacked on the nose with a newspaper.”
Pricking? Laying? Whacked? Marisa narrowed her eyes. Alex’s smooth face was the picture of shining innocence.
In a flash of color, an athletic figure in a fluttering tunic and fawn tights executed handsprings, swiped Marina Poole’s huge patchwork purse from her shoulder, and landed right between Alex and Marisa.
Marina Poole screeched. “Hey, that’s my purse!”
As Alex and Marisa moved back in surprise, he giggled. “Hi, I’m Amos, aka the Court Jester. I’m not only funny, but also acrobatic.” He bowed low, sweeping the floor with Marina Poole’s bag. As he rose, he shook hair the color and consistency of a tiny chick’s down out of his laughing, baby-smooth face.
Her face as black as a thundercloud, Marina Poole grabbed for her purse. “Give me that!”
The Jester laughed. Poised on the tips of his toes, he held the bag just out of her desperate reach. “I want to go outside and smoke, and I need to borrow your lighter.” Turning his back on the enraged woman, he calmly rooted in her purse.
When Marina Poole leaped up and grabbed her bag, the Jester jerked it toward him. Objects fell from the purse and scattered across the dim floor.
Marina Poole fell to her knees. With a growl, she frantically scooped the contents into the trailing folds of her lacy black top.
When various papers landed at her feet, Marisa bent over to help retrieve them. She glanced down at the bundle in her hand as she passed them to Marina Poole. “How cute, little kids in the tub.”
Snatching the papers from Marisa, she pushed them into her blouse. With a visible effort to control her anger, she tried to smile. “My nieces playing in the tub. Aren’t they sweet?”
Amos the Jester rolled his eyes as he tossed Marina Poole’s purse to the floor next to her scrabbling hands. “We don’t have time to look at your family photos, Marina Poole. If you didn’t have a lighter to loan me, then you could have said so in the first place.” Hopeful, he turned to Marisa.
“Do you have a lighter?” The Jester’s eyes roamed up and down Marisa’s less than twiggy figure, and then moved to Alex. “You must be the Knight of the Round Ladies.”
Marisa’s hands clenched. She opened her mouth to scorch him into backward flips.
“Actually, I’m Alex, aka the Royal Executioner of Snide Smart Asses.” Alex’s biceps bunched into impressive definition. He slid into the younger man’s personal space to smile terrifyingly into his alarmed face. “Don’t you know insults can be as bad for your health as smoking?”
The Jester’s wide eyes rolled from Alex’s clenched fists and hard glare to Marisa’s face. With more haste than finesse, he scooted away into the crowd.
Marisa watched the chastened man melt into the growing crowd.
Carla turned from her conversation with a group behind them to face Marisa. “I’ve never seen a Court Jester scuttle away in fear, until now. I heard his Round Ladies crack. Don’t listen to him, you’re just perfect.” Carla’s eyes flicked to Marisa’s chest.
Marisa wondered if she could just handspring away.
“Are you with him?” Carla jerked her head toward Alex.
“Yes,” said Alex.
“No,” denied Marisa.
“We drove separately, but we’re together now,” Alex smoothly clarified.
Carla was disappointed. “Oh. Well, I think I see Marina Poole waving at me.”
Her bag securely hooked on her shoulder, Marina Poole was indeed waving frantically to Carla. With her other hand, she reached down, vainly trying to disengage the Royal Bloodhound. The Royal Dog was on his knees and had his teeth in her jeans near her ankle. Marina Poole scooted a bit on the smooth floor when he growled and pulled on the material.
Marisa put her hands on her hips. “Why did you say that, Alex?”
“Because I didn’t want her hitting on me.”
“She wasn’t hitting on you, Alex, she was hitting on Marisa.”
Both Marisa and Alex jumped.
“Tara, if you don’t stop sneaking up on people, I’m going to put a cowbell on you!” Marisa patted her heart, and then took a bracing sip of her watery drink.
“She was flirting with Marisa?” Alex laughed. “That’s what I get for being so conceited. If my head starts to swell, you two are always right there with a sharp pin.” His eyes danced with laughter.
Marisa laughed and choked. “Hey, I got Coke up my nose!”
Alex pretended to cringe. “Be careful, or you’ll have the Drug Overlord Kingpin slinking over here to score you some cocaine!”
Brandon plunged between them, and grabbed Alex’s shoulder like a lifeline. “Alex! I want to ask Taylor to do something fun with me tomorrow, but she’s so shy, so delicate. I need to take her on a group date. With you and Marisa.”
Marisa’s mouth fell open. Shy? The woman who strutted naked in front of hordes of men? Delicate? The woman who scampered up and down a pole painted like a candy cane?
Brandon frantically waved his hands. “You both have to help me!” His face cleared. “Racquetball! We’ll play racquetball at the gym tomorrow! I’ve seen Marisa and Tara there many evenings!”
Alex tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Hot, sweaty, panting…sounds like a perfect date to me.”
The Royal Bloodhound happily pranced through the clusters of people. “Come on, everyone! We’ve planted our flag on a huge booth! Let’s hit it!”
“I hope he didn’t mark his territory with anything other than a flag,” Marisa grumbled.
Brandon clapped his hands happily, like a first grader promised an ice cream treat. He took Marisa’s hand, and began to drag her over toward Sarah.
“Brandon! Stop it!” Marisa tried to pull her hand free.
Alex grabbed her other hand, and pulled in the same direction as Brandon.
“Alex! What the hell are you doing?” She tried to free her hands, but the two men refused to let go.
Beginning to get angry at their high-handed treatment of her, Marisa tried to plant her feet. Because of the slickness of the floor, they simply scooted her along behind them, as if they were determined motorboats towing a reluctant water skier.
Finally, panting in exertion, Brandon stopped at Sarah’s side. “Taylor! Marisa, Alex, and I have an excellent idea! We wanted to see if you would like to join us in a game of racquetball tomorrow morning! You and I could play with Marisa and her boyfriend! Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I do not have a boyfriend,” Marisa fumed.
Sarah’s mouth was hanging open. “Well, I don’t know—”
“Brandon,” Marisa practically sputtered in his ear, “I don’t want to—”
“You don’t want to disappoint Taylor! How sweet of you!” Alex slipped an outwardly appearing friendly arm around her, and squeezed her with way too much force. “Taylor can meet us all at the gym tomorrow. It will be great fun!”
“Alex,” Marisa hissed in his ear, “I am going to kill you!”
CHAPTER THREE
Squashed into a booth meant for eight people with the twenty loud, drunken members of the online group, Marisa ground her teeth.
On one side of her, Steve the funeral director had his hand on her right thigh. For the third time, she pushed it away. On the other side of her, the DJ, who had somehow insinuated herself and her huge shoulder bag of CDs into the booth as everyone was crowding in, had her hand on Marisa’s other thigh. Also for the third time, she pushed the woman’s hand off her leg.
His round face alight with glee, the Royal Bloodhound howled at the waitress as she approached. When she stared at him in disbelief, he held his hands up like paws and panted, his tongue lolling.
With a graceful pitch, Tara lobbed an object toward Marisa’s end of the table. The small bag landed
in front of the Royal Bloodhound.
He picked it up, and raised his eyebrows at Tara.
“It’s your treat for being a good dog, Bryce! M&Ms!” Tara laughed when he stood up and wagged his ass at her.
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, the waitress snagged empty glasses off the table. When she reached for the Royal Bloodhound’s empty beer bottle, he tried to nip her wrist with his bared teeth.
Marisa smacked at the hands closing in on her thighs. “I’d hate to see the Royal Bloodhound if he was being a bad dog!”
The laughter escalated from wild to maniacal.
Bryce smiled at Marisa’s comment. He seemed to have decided to forgive her for her earlier blunder with his moniker. She was surprised he didn’t leap across the table and lick her face.
“I didn’t get the chance to properly introduce myself. Bryce.”
Marisa extended her hand across the table and barely restrained herself from saying, “Shake.”
“We’re going on to the jazz club after this. Would you like to ride over with me? I promise not to hang my head out of the window!”
“Marisa loves jazz,” interjected Alex, sitting across the table at an angle from Marisa.
Marisa tried to kick him under the table.
Sarah/Taylor, squeezed between him and Brandon, squeaked in pain.
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” added Alex helpfully. “I heard it from her own lips, not twenty minutes ago.” He smiled hugely at Marisa.
Marisa instantly decided she’d not only kill Alex, but she’d make sure it was a lingering, painful death.
A movement near the door caught her eye. Animal control? No, it was Lieutenant Camden, in his teenage boy disguise. He was slipping out the door, and Marisa thought he didn’t want anyone to notice his exit.
Through aggressive wiggling and sliding, Marisa managed to free herself of her two suitors.
Tara, perched on the edge of the opposite bench seat, looked up in surprise.
“I just saw Dreamus leaving,” Marisa paused just long enough to whisper in her friend’s ear. She sprinted past a waitress with a loaded tray. When three Goth girls and a young man in a top hat and tails lurched into her path, she veered around them. Near the door, a man caught her arm, causing her to pivot.
