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Knowing what he probably knew, too.
I hadn’t looked at myself in the mirror for months, maybe even years.
So much so that sometimes, I even forgot the color of my own eyes.
LIFE IS ABOUT LOOKING AT yourself in the mirror without flinching.
Five minutes.
That’s how long I stared at myself in the mirror just to make sure fucking Snowflake was wrong. And she was. I hardly even blinked.
I wasn’t butthurt over her comments at Café Diem. It just rubbed me all wrong—and not in the right places—that Jesse Carter, of all people in Todos Santos, would label someone as a whore. People were allowed to fuck whomever they wanted, as long as it was legal and consensual. She’d probably cheated on her high school sweetheart and got deflowered by another. Pot and kettle anyone?
Whatever. Fuck that, and fuck her. Also, fuck this.
“’K, Grier, thanks for a wonderful time and a lovely blowjob.” I tossed my Tuesday Girl’s dress on my bed. I lived on a houseboat in the marina. I’d bought it when I was eighteen because I’d wanted to own something—anything, really, other than a bad reputation—and never saw the point in moving anywhere else over the years. I could probably afford more than a shitty mini-yacht at this point. But I liked the houseboat fine. It was nice and cozy, and I fed the fish under it every morning, my way to say thanks for sharing the ocean with me. Plus, my bedroom was big enough for a queen-sized bed, and that’s all I really needed. A place to eat, shit, and sleep. Grier’s blonde mane spilled all over her back as she sat on the mattress, stretching lazily.
“Were you distracted today?” She yawned.
“Huh?” I kicked the door leading to the deck open. I was naked, save for my briefs. Even they were pulled half-down after a piss, my inked ass cheek on full display. Skulls with roses pouring from their eye sockets, monsters in battle, sea creatures crawling up my thigh. I looked like a human canvas, because fucking Snowflake was right. About the eyes. About the mirror. About everything, really.
Hiding made me feel like shit.
“It seemed like your mind was elsewhere.” Grier lit up a cigarette and joined me on the deck, leaning against the banisters, wrapped in nothing but my white sheet. The roar of the ocean rising made her skin blossom into goosebumps. I angled my face toward hers.
“Is this your diplomatic way of saying I sucked?” I flicked her jawline softly, and she shivered in pleasure.
“You can never suck, Bane. That’s why I keep you around.” She winked. I smacked her ass. “Tell Brian I need him to stall the health and safety inspectors. They are pushing to come check out Café Diem, but the faucets are leaking again.” Another hundred grand I spent from Darren’s advance on plumbing before fulfilling my part of the deal.
Brian Diaz was the county’s sheriff. I kept his wife happy, and he, in return, gave me access to police files and turned a blind eye to some stuff that probably didn’t put me high on the Citizen of the Year list of Todos Santos. From the outside, it looked kind of fucked-up, but it wasn’t, trust me. Brian was gay and came from a notoriously Catholic and rich family. The last thing he needed was to be disowned and stripped out of his fat inheritance and badge. No one wanted a closeted sheriff who secretly liked picking up lady boys in radioactive-colored wigs at Redondo Beach. And it wasn’t like he was a bad husband, but Grier had needs. I took care of the Diazes’ problem, and they, in return, took care of mine.
“I will. Anything else?” She nuzzled her nose to my shoulder. She was warm and soft and wrong. Suddenly, I didn’t want another rodeo. I wanted her gone.
“Nope.”
A knock on the door saved me from the prospect of round two. I broke her cigarette in half and threw it in the water. “Say no to cancer.”
“You smoke like a chimney.” She laughed.
“Yeah, but you should know better.” With that, I tilted my head to my bedroom, silently ordering her to make herself invisible. I grabbed some pants and opened the door.
Hale.
I propped my shoulder against the frame, folding my arms.
“Miss me?” The smirk on his face was the main reason they invented sucker punches.
“Like a bad case of crabs, baby.” I tucked the joint I was about to smoke on the deck between my lips. Hale coerced his way into my living room like he owned the place. He wore Hawaiian board shorts and a black wetsuit top. I closed the door behind us, inwardly cursing him for making Grier stay longer. Hale flopped down onto my couch and crossed his ankles on my coffee table, making himself at home.
