“Maybe your house used to be her place, and she’s just coming home to take a dump.”
Dorothy lets out a long, slow lungful. By the time the smell makes it to me, it’s mixed with a blend of woodsmoke and autumn leaves that reminds me of the year Mom married that guy from Vermont—Blain something. He took me cross-country skiing a couple of times, just the two of us, in a misguided effort to bond with me. Poor guy had no idea he’d married a serial bride—serial matrimonialist?—and, in the process, taken on a serial stepson. He must have been Mom’s fourth or fifth? Who the hell knows. I liked that guy.
That was the last divorce I cried over. The last time I made themistake of thinking relationships could last past their predetermined sell-by date.
I shake the memory off, annoyed that I let it in at all.
“I’ve lived in this house for four years,” I remind Dorothy. It’s the longest I’ve ever spent in one home, and I immediately get that itchy feeling between my shoulder blades.Keep moving. Keep going. Don’t sit still.
The house needs work, and until I finish it, I won’t be going anywhere.
“Maybe it’s likeThe Incredible Journey,” Dorothy reminisces. “You remember that movie?”
“No.”
“Must have been before your time. I’m getting old.” Another drag, followed by a steady exhale. “So. What’d you think? Of my team?”
“You mean the rabid monkeys running circles back at the office?”
“Oh, come on. They’re good people.”
“But are they good at their jobs? And is one of them responsible for your breach?”
“They’re good people,” she says, with more force than usual. It gives me pause. Dorothy, on the whole, appears flighty, but she’s a fighter. A woman who married early and raised a child. Then she turned a neighborhood matchmaking business into an online success. She is not a pushover, no matter how many times a day she loses her glasses.
“Fair enough.” Nodding, I shut my eyes hard before reopening them. “I’m not sure what I think yet.” This is a lie, obviously, but being an asshole to Dorothy serves no purpose at this juncture. The whole point of this project is to help her. “For the moment, I’ve found no specific issues.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah, well, it’s early days. I’ll figure it out eventually. There’s always a bad apple to root out.”
She pauses to suck in smoke. Her next sentence emerges in the kind of tight, half-coughing vocal fry I associate with hard-core stoners. “You are the most cynical human being I’ve ever met.”
“Comes with the territory.”
“You ever get tired of it?” Dorothy’s voice is wistful.
“Security consulting?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll stop when I’ve reached my objectives.”
“Objectives. Shit.” Another long drag. “You gotta learn to relax, kid.”
Relax. Right. I can’t help but smirk. “That’s what the club’s for.”
“Oooooooh, the club. Yeah. I’ll bet. Maybe I’ll go check it out sometime.”
“Oh lord.” Picturing her and Malika all gussied up in leather and vinyl is enough to morph my smile into a full-on grin.
She giggles. “I could turn out to have a latent penchant for whips and chains.”
Malika, I can absolutely envision wielding a whip in spike-heeled boots. Dorothy’s a little harder to picture in anything but flowing hippie dresses.
Rae would look good in PVC, my mind unhelpfully supplies. I think of her eyes, her lips, that little divot in the middle of her freckled chin. The way she’d light up, bright red, if I spanked her just right, and how loud she probably moans when she comes.
My stomach rumbles, snapping me out of it. I toe off my shoes and quickly shove my key into the lock. “Night, Dorothy.”
