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It seemed such a waste not to use the shower for more playtime, so we soaped each other up, and after I rinsed him off, I dropped to my knees to take his cock in my mouth. He didn’t take long to climax down my throat with loud, dirty talk. I jacked myself as I swallowed, hearing his satisfaction, and rewarding the tiled floor with my release.

Feeling spent but in a good mood, we headed to bed. I played little spoon as he pulled me tightly against him. We needed to leave no later than mid-morning to get back in time for Jonesy to get ready for his fund-raising performance, and I knew sleep would come fast—which it did.

“Do you feel vindicated by winning last night, compared to our last Vegas trip?” Jonesy quipped as we hit US-50 out of Lake Tahoe.

I chuckled. “God, yes. I was feeling pretty good last night with Lady Luck standing behind me…but this morning, my ass is sore after what you did.”

“Sorry, babe,” he said with a wince.

“I’m not complaining. You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get to fuck you next time,” I replied with a snort. “And I’ll be happy to.”

“Damn straight,” he said, glancing at me before flipping on the radio and setting the cruise control. “We should make good time if the traffic isn’t bad.”

“I feel guilty that you wouldn’t let me at least pay half of the hotel bill with my winnings,” I said.

“It was my plan to treat you for the night, babe. We got to talk to Chet about the case, do some backstage schmoozing, and watch you experience a casino win that doesn’t happen often,” he replied. “But…if you’d like to ease your conscience, take some of that money and donate it to the LGBTQ+ youth program tonight.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. That’s brilliant!” I exclaimed, the guilt slipping away.

The local radio news came on, talking about the winner of the Miss Nevada title from last night’s pageant. I turned it up as they gave the rundown of the winner. I’d never even heard of a city called Pahrump. I let out a quick laugh as I repeated the city name softly.

“What was that?” Jonesy asked.

“Ah, nothing. They said the winner of the pageant last night was from a city called Pahrump.”

Without missing a beat, he said, “It’s a small town outside Vegas. Quite a few retirees live there, apparently.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, giving him a hard stare.

“I know it’s random,” he chuckled. “We arrested a guy from there about a year ago. Attempted murder. I guess the town’s name kinda stuck in my data bank.”

“We need to meet up with the guys at the bar for trivia night more often,” I said. “You seem to like throwing out obscure facts, like what money is made of and knowing what a Pahrump is.”

“Hmmm…we have been rather absent lately with our friends. I think our busy lives get in the way.”

“Well, tonight we get to see the gang at Beaux. No pressure on your performance,” I teased.

“Oh, it’ll be fun. I’m looking forward to it since I haven’t done drag in a while. I’m thinking Donna Summer tonight… maybe go retro ’80s with my outfit. I know one of the other girls is performing as Cher, though she’s lip-syncing since she can’t sing.”

“Are you singing ‘Bad Girls’?”

“You know me so well, Howler.”

Once we made it to Jonesy’s place, I headed home so he could spend the afternoon and evening getting ready. I kissed him goodbye, thanked him again for the trip, and told him I’d be by around seven o’clock to pick him up. I’d seen his Donna Summer look before, and he looked fabulous as the ‘80s diva. He usually waited to don the wig and finish his makeup backstage at the club. I was sure the guys would get a kick out of his getup—especially with him singing Bad Girls.

I flipped on the TV in my bedroom to catch the end of San Francisco’s baseball game as I unpacked. The local news followed the game, which we won, and my attention was drawn to the screen after hearing that a prominent San Francisco businessman named Raymond Chandler had been killed.

“No fucking way,” I said out loud as I watched the story. There was no way that was the same Raymond Chandler who was married to my client, Brooke. As the story continued, his picture came on the screen, and sure enough, it was the face of the man I’d taken pictures of just a few days ago. He’d lost control of his Jaguar yesterday, which plunged off the winding highway above Glen Canyon Park. The wreckage had been discovered in a deep, wooded ravine.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and an uneasy feeling landed in my gut. Could Brooke have had anything to do with it? Had things got heated between them when she’d confronted him about his indiscretions? If she masterminded it, did she have help? I knew I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but the timing was too coincidental. I figured I’d reach out to Brooke in a day or two to offer my condolences, and perhaps get a better sense of what happened.

I arrived at Jonesy’s place a couple of minutes before seven and texted that I was parked out front. He emerged carrying a large duffel bag, costumed in what I considered a cheap hooker would wear. I dropped my head, stifling a laugh, and popped the trunk of my BMW so he could toss his bag in it. He had what looked like his base makeup on, but not the finished look or his wig, as he climbed into the passenger seat.

“What?” he barked, knowing my expression told the whole story.