Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,36
an abdominal muscle.”
“Okay.”
“The guitar print fits better, but the impressionistic painting is a better piece of art. It’s really good. Even though it doesn’t fit, wouldn’t you want to go with the better art?”
She turned to look at her neighbor. He wasn’t even looking at the art. He was looking at her.
“I agree with you,” he said. “The funny thing is, that one-” he said, pointing to the guitar painting. “That one cost me a ton. And that one,” he said, pointing to the impressionistic piece. “That one I got for twenty bucks at an estate sale.”
“I didn’t figure you for a bargain hunter.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What did you figure me for?”
“I figured you for some sort of circus performer.”
“Good guess. But I’m actually a chef.”
“Wow, what a coincidence. I love to have other people cook for me.”
Chris checked his watch. “Speaking of food, I was just going to whip up some pasta. Wanna stay?”
He turned and headed for the kitchen.
Mary checked out his ass again.
“I suppose I could cancel my dinner with the Governor.”
Twenty
Mary woke up in her own apartment. But only because she had insisted that she do so. The night had been wonderful. Good food. Great conversation. But more importantly, hard muscles, strong thighs and stiff flesh. She had been made a woman again. It had been too long. She’d forgotten how good good sex could be.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the stack of files in front of her. But her mind went back to Chris McAllister. Mary had never slept with anyone that soon – it was only the second time she’d talked with him. A part of her felt guilty and ashamed. A part of her told her she was middle-aged and that those kind of rules no longer applied.
She felt a small shudder when she considered that she could end up like those three nymphomaniacs who had supplied Uncle Brent with his Viagra.
Oh my, though, what a lover Chris McAllister was. Patient. Loving. But aggressive when she’d wanted him to be. They had meshed instantly and long into the night. Emphasis on long, Mary thought, and then giggled.
She was bad.
A bad girl.
She smiled.
Being a bad girl was clearly underrated.
She shelved her thoughts of carnal pleasures and called Braggs. She got his voicemail.
“Braggs, it’s Mary Cooper,” she said. “Change your message, you sound like one of those godawful announcers for the tractor pull.” She growled her voice. “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Get ready for the Monster Truck Rally-”
“Whitney Braggs here,” he said, cutting her off.
“Put down the Brylcreem and meet me at Alice’s. You can finish your French pedicure later.”
“It seems you think I’m a bit of a dandy.”
“Perish the thought, Princess. Just meet me there in ten minutes.”
“Affirmative.”
“Shut up, Braggs.”
Silence.
“Tell your old cronies to dust off the mothballs and meet us there, too.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “The ‘old gang’ as it were. I’ll get them there as absolutely soon as possible.”
“And tell them if they have any old pictures, mementos, letters, to bring them, too. Ixnay on anything pornographic.”
“They’re not those kind of men, Mary.”
“I was talking about you.”
They filed in like a parade of Hollywood glamour gone bad. Faces too tan. Or too pale. Bodies too thin. Or too flabby. Teeth too white. Or too yellow. If there were teeth at all.
Braggs introduced each new arrival to Mary, and gave her a brief rundown of their background. Mary recognized most of them from Margaret Stewart’s files. Mary noted each one as they were introduced, adding their faces to her mental Rolodex.
Jason Prescott. Really tall. 6’6” easy. Former stand-up comic turned MC of old folks comedy shows.
Mark Reihm. Average looking except for the severe acne scarring on his face. A gray buzz cut heightened the disastrous effect.
Franklin Goslyn. A chubby little bowling ball of a man.
Todd Castro. A white-haired, dark-skinned guy light on personality, heavy on horrible cologne. Most likely purchased at Marshalls, TJMaxx or Ross Superstores.
Eventually, the names, faces and handshakes, hugs bordering on ass grabs were over and Mary got down to business.
“All right,” she said to the assembled group. “We’ve got work to do, fellas. You guys can jerk each other off later.”
The group slowly quieted down.
“Nice hooters!” a voice shouted out. Chuckles and guffaws filled the air.
“Save it for your Inflate-A-Mate.” Mary said. Maybe she was in a good enough mood to joke about it because she’d had some great sex last night. A lot of great sex.
More laughter followed Mary’s comment.
“Now that’s what I