black skirt with a flare, a lacy, sleeveless black top, and black booties with a heel. I never feel like a girl without my heels.
I slide my favorite round black Gucci purse over my chest to hang at my hip. It was an extravagant gift my mother called a birthday gift, but I knew it was delivered out of guilt for her behavior after I left the firm. She was not only angry, she refused to talk to me for a full month which was more than a little painful. My mother still doesn’t understand that gifts don’t equal support, nor do they matter to me as they do to her, but I know she meant well. And I do adore the purse. It fits a petite firearm, a lipstick, and powder, as well as my wallet perfectly. A petite handgun is a girl’s best friend, even above lipstick.
My cellphone rings and I slide it from the pocket of my skirt to find Grace calling. “My Uber is about two minutes from your house. I’m picking you up.”
I smile to myself and say, “What if I told you I was naked in the bathtub?”
“I’d tell you to grab a towel and hurry up.” She disconnects.
I laugh and head downstairs, happy for the ride. I might only be a few blocks from the Mexican cantina where the party is being held, but right now, walking a few blocks alone at night doesn’t feel smart. Not that I’ve been threatened, I remind myself. I’m simply paranoid, but then how can I not be right about now?
Once I’m at my door, I wait there until my phone rings again with Grace’s number. I answer and she says, “I’m here. Do I need to come pick your towel color?”
I grin and exit my front door to find the car at the curb. Locking up and arming my security system, I hurry toward the vehicle and climb inside.
“You look stunning, my dear,” Grace says.
Grace is thirty, blonde with green eyes, gorgeous, and presently wearing a little black dress that makes me feel better about my little black skirt.
“So do you,” I say, eyeing her cleavage. “I’m quite sure you’ll have Josh’s full attention in that little number.”
She waves me off. “I don’t even care. I have cases stacked from the floor to the top of my head, and men are trouble. I’m not sure I have the energy right now to decide if I trust someone just to be disappointed. I know you understand.”
Oh too well, I think, but work is my friend. I’ve really had no time to deal with the personal side of life these past two years. We pull up to the dimly lit cantina, with teal and pink as a theme. There are also beer cans hanging from the ceiling and music blasting, at present “Homesick” by Kane Brown is playing, and the words hit one of those personal notes I usually avoid. Only I don’t feel homesick like I used to at all. My new life is where I belong, no matter how lonely at times, and how much my mother likes to believe otherwise.
Grace and I head to the bar area, which includes a dance floor, where we’re greeted by co-workers and then end up at one of the tan wooden standup tables. We’ve barely ordered margaritas when the music is cut and Josh is ordered to the center of the empty dance floor, while one of the senior homicide detectives I know well, Martin Morgan, holds a microphone. Martin is tall, blond, and muscular with a hard face and a scar on his mouth. Josh is a bit taller, with light brown hair, and strong, classically handsome features that engage plenty of female attention, including Grace’s, who leans in close to me to whisper, “Do I have to trust him to lust after him?”
“First comes lust,” I say, managing a serious tone, “later trust.”
“Good point,” she says, snatching up a chip. “Lust has to happen first.”
I smile with the wishful look she casts in Josh’s direction, and at the jokes and speeches a slew of people soon deliver, about and on behalf of Josh’s retirement.
It’s a fun time, but there’s no question that by the time the formalities are over, I’ll be feeling tipsy. The margarita is big, strong, and despite being barely touched, effective at delivering my buzz, which probably is aided by the fact that I actually don’t remember what I ate today. I reach for