27
11:26 a.m., Monday, August 17
Jasmine Patel lived in a swanky two-bedroom condo with kick-ass views of the city and a rooftop garden.
Jasmine was waiting on the sidewalk with a blender pitcher of margaritas when Kellen pulled his cruiser up to the curb.
“That counts as an open container, Ms. Patel,” he said when Riley exited the vehicle.
“So arrest me, detective,” Jasmine shot back.
“Don’t tempt me.”
She sent him a look that would have incinerated a lesser man but only resulted in a cocky grin from the cop.
“Bye,” Jasmine snapped.
Kellen threw them both a snappy little salute before accelerating away from the curb.
“Show off,” Jasmine muttered under her breath before turning to Riley. She wiggled the blender. “How did it go?”
“We basically wasted an entire morning interviewing people who know nothing about anything and reopening several of my emotional scars.”
“Then let’s show this tequila who the bad bitches are.”
Jasmine’s fourth floor condo was modern yet feminine. The floor to ceiling windows delivered a damn good view of downtown Harrisburg, flooding the concrete floors with sunlight. Two white couches with deep cushions and a dozen colorful throw pillows faced each other in front of the short, horizontal gas fireplace.
“How does someone with such good taste in interior design keep picking such terrible guys to date?” Riley wondered.
Jasmine handed her a large mason jar with a metal straw. The jar was filled to the brim with margarita mix.
“It’s the Patel women curse.”
“But your dad is awesome,” Riley pointed out, taking a hefty gulp and letting the icy alcohol soothe her tight throat.
“All Basil-Thorn women are psychic. And all Patel women have to get several horrible men out of their system before they find the one.”
“How many more do you think you have to go through before your system’s reset?” Riley teased.
Jasmine stuck out her tongue and flopped down on one of the couches. “At least a half dozen more. Sticks Strubinger introduced me to her band’s bass player, and we have a date to go to the drag races next weekend. I can already tell it’s going to end horribly.” She blew out a breath that puffed her silky, black bangs straight up. The hair fell back into uniform perfection across her brow.
“How do you do that?” Riley took her preferred spot on the opposite couch, kicking off her shoes and digging her toes into the thick, fluffy rug.
“Do what?”
“How does your hair just magically fall back into place like that? Is it some kind of secret product? Is it an Indian thing? Or are you just ridiculously gifted at grooming?”
Jasmine’s eyes widened over her jar of margarita. “Oooh! Let’s do a hair makeover on you!”
Riley groaned. “Why can’t I just have naturally great hair that does what it’s supposed to? Why does it have to be an eighteen-step process to get it to look okay for public consumption?”
“Girl, no one has naturally great hair. No one can roll out of bed, run a brush through it, and look selfie-worthy. Everyone needs to make an effort. It’s not just you.”
Riley plucked at a strand of what she’d always considered to be “meh” brown hair and thought about Bella’s sixty pounds of extensions.
“Do you think I’d look good with blonde extensions?”
“No. But some glossy chestnut highlights and some fake lashes would be the bomb.”
