Chapter Eight

We spaced out and did our “warming up the crowd” routine, pointing and kicking to the pounding beat of the music. The individual team members were introduced, the national anthem was sung a cappella, and the Courtside Dancers hurried back to the dressing room for the first costume change.

Game on.

When we came back to the front of the tunnel, I watched the game, paying special attention to the ball boys and the sweat moppers as they scurried around. Not a single one of them held an envelope or a guilty expression, nor did they do anything other than their job.

The team played through the first quarter before we took to the floor again. I stayed in position, got every step right, and before long the first routine was over.

We went back to the dressing room for a water break. I took a deep drink, reapplied my lipstick, and sat next to Jennifer. “Tell me about the players.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Best to stay away from them,” she said.

I gave her a sideways glance. “What do you mean?”

She studied her face in the mirror as she retied her shirt. “Victoria says it’s unprofessional. We’re supposed to stay away from them, especially during games.”

“Why especially during games?”

Carrie, the dancer who was sitting to my left, piped up. “Look in the triangle above the bench.”

“The players’ bench?”

“Yup.”

The players sat along the court line if they were suited up. If they were out for the game, they dressed in nice street clothes and sat out behind the players.

“When you go back out,” she continued, “check out the triangle.”

“Tell her why,” Selma said, coming up beside me.

Carrie swung her hair behind her shoulders. “Take note and steer clear. Those are the players’ wives.”

They were so damned cryptic, but what they were saying registered like a neon sign. “So we can’t talk to any of the players because their wives might get pissed off. Got it.”

Jennifer smirked. “After you’re done gawking at the wives, check out a couple rows above them.”

I bit. “Okay, why?”

Carrie dropped her voice. “That’s where the girlfriends sit.”

I stared, the subtext of her words sinking in. Still, I asked for clarification, thinking maybe I was wrong and it wasn’t quite so blatant. “So the players who have wives…those women sit in one section, and the players with girlfriends…they sit in a different section?”

“No,” Jennifer said. “What I mean is that Number Thirty-four’s wife is sitting with the other wives, and his girlfriend is sitting with the girlfriends. Nice and sordid, but tidy. Almost all of them have wives and girlfriends.”

¡Ay, caramba!

“A method to the adultery madness, so to speak,” Jennifer added.

I shook my head, trying to grasp that it was just accepted that the ballplayers were unfaithful spouses. But did the wives know? I came back to thinking one or more of them might be behind the notes to the dancers.

Carrie pulled out her lipstick, carefully applying it to her plump lips. My money was on silicone. She patted my knee. “So we steer clear.”

After Carrie sauntered off, Selma sat down, rolling her eyes.

“But can I talk to the players off the court?” I asked her. “I mean, how did Rochelle hook up with Michael Brothers?”

“Have you seen Rochelle?”

Big boobs. Blond hair. Paris Hilton’s twin. “Yep.”

“Guess Mike Brothers likes that.”

Selma was the exact opposite. Slighter build, natural beauty, a golden all-over tan, and normal-size breasts. Even made up for the game, she was the girl next door.

“So they make the moves on the dancers if they’re interested?”

Selma made a face. “Sometimes the girls will get notes from the opposing team’s players, inviting us to a party or something. If you’re lucky, a player from the Royals will try to hook up.” She made sure Jennifer wasn’t listening and lowered her voice. “If one of us goes that way, we do it at our own risk. We all signed contracts when we got this gig. We are not allowed to fraternize with the players.”

“So that’s why Rochelle, er, left?” She may have quit, publicly, to save face, but it seemed clear to me that Victoria had pulled a Donald Trump on her with a, “You’re fired.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Before I could ask her anything else, she spritzed perfume in the air, walked through the mist, and hurried back to the court for the second half of the game.

…

We were just heading toward the tunnel after our next routine when one of the ball boys jogged over, a white envelope clutched in his hands. He gave it to Selma. She held it with two fingers, and from the way the ball boy had been pawing it, getting fingerprints might be sketchy, but at least Selma was trying.

But then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her run a finger under the flap of the envelope. No! She’d been at Camacho & Associates when Manny had said he hoped to get fingerprints off of one of the notes. Why was she opening it?!

But I couldn’t get to her in time to stop her. The envelope snapped open and she slid out the tri-folded paper, holding it by the edges.

Good girl, Selma. She was being careful, anyway. We might get prints off the note itself. She read the lines of the letter, her eyes growing wide.

I scanned the court but in the dim light it was too difficult to tell if anyone was paying attention to her. I studied the ball boy. He slowed his pace as he walked by me. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. I crooked my finger, motioning him toward me as I jogged out of line and leaned against the wall.

“Hey,” he said. The acne on his face confirmed his youth.

“Hey back.” I held in a cringe at the come-hither wink he sent me. “Got one of those for me?”

The ball boy shrugged, his eyelids heavy as he considered me. “Not this time, baby.”

I pouted, tilting my head to one side. “But where’d you get it?” I pointed to the rows above the players’ bench. “From one of them?”

He shrugged again. “Nah. The letters are always by the clean towels. There was a note once that said for me to deliver to one of the Courtside Dancers, so now whenever there’s an envelope, that’s what I do.”

“You deliver messages for someone but you have no idea who it is?” There had to be something in it for him.

“Pretty much.”

“Do you get paid for it?”

“Sure do,” he said, grinning. “Twenty bucks every time. It’s always right there under the envelope.”

Twenty dollars to scare the bejesus out of a dancer. Cheap labor. “And you have no idea who puts them there?”

He took a step back, wary. “I already told you, no. Why?”

Eek. Maybe I’d been too direct. Undercover, I reminded myself. I regrouped, giving him a flirty wink. Which, given my attire, felt altogether nasty. “Maybe someone’ll give you one for me,” I said coyly.

He relaxed. “Yeah. Maybe. You new here? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Just started this week.” From the tunnel, the girls were intent on the game. I had a good long while to see if the ball boy knew anything that he didn’t realize he knew. “How about you?”

“I’ve worked for the Royals since the season started.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall.

I forced myself not to move away. “Bet you deliver notes to all the girls.” Lame, I thought, but flirting with a teenager made me nauseous.

“Maybe I’ll arrange a personal delivery.” His voice rose over the cheering crowd and he edged his hand along the wall toward me.

“Oh, so you do know who—”

“From me.” He stiffened beside me. “I’m right here. Why would ya want some loser who doesn’t even know the players?”

Damn. “Oooh, so you know the players? Is there a party tonight?”

He leered, his eighteen-year-old, acne-scarred face making him look a touch unstable. “I’ll show you a party. Real private-like.”

Okay, now this was going too far. “Oh, I don’t know…” I patted his hand in a gesture of dismissal, but he didn’t take the hint.

“Come on, baby. Lemme show you the locker room. They don’t let nobody back there anymore, but I’ll give you a personal tour.”

Hmm. This was tempting. I glanced around. We had about ten minutes before our next routine. “Can you give me the tour now?”

He seemed unsure as he glanced back toward the court, mulling it over before making up his mind. “Sure thing, baby. Hold that thought.” He jogged down the court, said something to one of the moppers (who turned to gawk), then he jogged back.

He snatched my hand and pulled me into the tunnel after him. “What’s your name, baby?”

What was with all the baby stuff? He was the baby in this equation. “Lola. What’s yours?”

“Josh.”

I pulled my hand free. “Well, Josh. Impress me. Why do they keep it so off-limits?”

“Scandals and stuff. Gotta protect the players.” We walked side by side until he stopped short in front of the door to the locker room. “This is it.”

Like any pro sports team, Royals players had had their share of accusations lobbed against them. Drugs. Gambling. Women. I hadn’t been able to dig up any dirt on any of the dancers yet; the players were next in line.

“Can we go in?” I asked, wondering how I could get rid of him so I could search the lockers real quickly. Maybe I’d get lucky and find a stack of ready-to-deliver envelopes piled in a corner somewhere.

“Nah.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Well, that’s not much of a tour. I’ve never been this close to someone who actually knows famous basketball players.”

Josh puffed up like a peacock, full of his own importance. “Well,” he said, “maybe for a quick minute.”

He pushed the door open, poked his head around the corner to check out the room, and, when he was sure the coast was clear, let me pass.

My heart pounded. It was only a locker room, but getting caught wasn’t on my list of things to do tonight. Cubbies with the players’ belongings lined the walls and a buffet spread far superior to the one in the dancers’ locker room spanned two rectangular tables. Cases of bottled water were stacked in one corner, beside a soda machine, vending machine, and a closed door along another wall.

“This is it?” Despite the buffet, I expected more bells and whistles for a championship-contending basketball team.

Josh spread his arms wide as he turned around in a circle. “What d’ya mean, ‘this is it?’ This is the Royals’ locker room. It’s fan-freaking-tastic.”

I walked by the cubby lockers, checking each one as surreptitiously as I could.

No envelopes.

No paper.

No writing instruments.

No big surprise.

I peeked through the window of the door next to the vending machine. Linens. “What’s over there—?”

I broke off as Josh clamped a hand on my shoulder and spun me around. He crashed his mouth against mine, gripping my shoulders with his icy hands.

“Thtop!” Instincts kicked in. I hauled my knee up, slamming my foot down a split second later, landing squarely on his toes.

He screeched, pulling back. I threaded my arms in between his to knock his hands away and slapped his cheek. “What the hell are you doing, Josh?”

He held his palm to his face, hopping on one foot. “What d’ya mean?” His eyes turned glassy. “You wanted to come in here.”

Son of a bitch. “Right, to see the locker room. Dude, I’m way too old for you. And, uh, let me enlighten you. Girls you hook up with don’t want to be groped the second you get them alone. Whatever happened to getting to know someone before exchanging spit?”

He looked me up and down, still clutching his reddened face. The cocky attitude had been replaced by eighteen-year-old confused frustration. “But you’re dressed like…like…” He waved his hand up and down at my body. “Like that. And you’re hot.”

Pobrecito. It wasn’t cool to mess with a teenager’s libido. “Wanting a tour is not code for something else,” I said. “Bit of advice, Josh. These dance costumes are a uniform. And even if a woman is dressed…er…suggestively, that’s not a green light that she’s game for a hookup.”

Josh just stared at me, hurt and dumbfounded, but I didn’t have time to give him any more mini lessons on how men should respect women. I resumed my quick search. I walked briskly through to the showers, glanced at the urinals and toilet stalls, and passed by another door. “What’s in there?”

His shoulders slumped, his face morose, but he answered. “Doctor’s room. Trainer uses it to work on the players. There’s a hot tub for therapy.”

I peered through the glass…and froze. We weren’t alone. The trainer, Steve, was talking with someone, his back to the window, the other person out of my range of view.

I quickly retreated back to the main part of the locker room, thankful Josh and I hadn’t been discovered. Victoria and Lance wanted me to investigate, but they couldn’t let on they were okay with me breaking ranks—not to mention leaving the tunnel and scoping out the locker room. If I were busted, the wrath of the real Victoria would come hammering down on me. It would have to.

“Thanks for the tour, Josh,” I said once we were back in the main corridor. “You’re a great catch. Just give a girl a chance to see it.”

I waved, then raced back to the tunnel.

The dancers were scattered in the opening. Selma was spooked, her black eyes like liquid pools in the midst of her creamy skin.

“Are you okay?” I asked, squeezing in between her and Cassie.

She said, “Yeah,” hesitantly as Cassie whispered, “Where’d you go? Victoria’ll have a conniption if she finds out you left the tunnel.”

“Had to use the restroom,” I said, the lie rolling off my tongue. Being a detective meant I was getting pretty good at blithe little fibs as cover stories. I’d be saying a truckload of rosaries when this case was over.

Selma clutched the envelope in her hand. I leaned closer. “Is it…?”

She fanned the envelope. “It can’t be for me. I haven’t done anything.” She peered back through the tunnel as if someone back there had done something and she knew all about it.

“Isn’t there a name on it?”

She flipped the envelope around. “Nope. Nothing.”

I pried it from her fingers and scanned the letter, touching it only by the corners. You can’t hide the truth forever.

It was definitely different than the others. “What truth? You don’t know what it’s talking about?”

Selma’s face had paled and her voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s. “I h-have n-no idea.”

I didn’t believe her. I was beginning to think that she had some other secrets under her sparkly sequined halter top.

A high-pitched whistle came from the stands. Selma’s cheeks flared red and she turned her back on the fans.

“Do you get recognized a lot?” I asked. I got the feeling she really wished she could be in hiding rather than exposed for all to see at this game.

“All the time. Even when it’s six in the morning and there’s only one person in the store, someone always seems to know who I am. I wish I’d never done that reality show.” She flicked her head toward the enormous scoreboard and the four gigantic TV screens mounted above the sections of stands. “Our faces get plastered up there. That’s why Victoria says to never go out without makeup. Sometimes I just want to quit, you know?”

Standing on the other side of me, Cassie batted at my arm. “It’s time. Let’s go.”

I tucked the letter behind Victoria’s stool, straightened my outfit, and pumped my arms to get energized.

Jennifer skipped to her place in front of the line and counted. “One! And two! And three! And four!”

Three-and-a-half minutes later, sweat poured out of my pores and I knew why the dancers doused themselves in perfume. At the first opportunity I raced back into the dressing room and put Selma’s letter into my duffel bag. Then I borrowed Jennifer’s cologne, spraying into the air like I’d seen the girls do, walking through the falling mist. A few other dancers milled around the room, snacking from the buffet table before halftime. I took a stem of grapes, popping one in my mouth as I headed back toward the tunnel.

I finished my grapes, and a short while later we performed our last dance. We showered and I changed for dinner. I’d searched the crowd for Rochelle, but if she’d come to the game, she hadn’t sat with the girlfriends or the wives. She was in a weird limbo state, existing somewhere between the two realities.

I had no chance to investigate any further. Too many people lingering postgame. Another day. With any luck, I’d have a brilliant idea by then. Or I’d find the arena empty and a slew of clues just waiting to be discovered.

I zipped up my brown platform boots and fastened the floral blouse that crossed over into a V at the neckline and tied at the side. I scrunched my hair in between my fingers to let it air dry the rest of the way, packed up my duffel, and wandered around the room.

More of the women smiled at me. Baby steps. If only my mother were here with a fresh batch of flour tortillas, I’d be in on the chisme in a second. They wouldn’t be able to stop sharing the gossip with me.

The corner of a white envelope poking out of a bag caught my eye. I stopped short. Was it an old message, a new one, or something else entirely?

Nicole walked up behind me, raven hair glistening, the gap between her low-rise jeans and her half shirt equal to the dance outfit we’d just changed out of. “Can I help you with something?”

Of course it would be her bag. The one dancer who I was pretty sure had a stash of lemons in her bag—which she sucked on every time she saw me. Pues, maybe not the only one, but definitely the worst one. Swallowing, I tried to think of a plausible lie that could get her to rifle through the duffel. “I was hoping to see the earrings you wore after the last game. They were really cool.”

She frowned, pulling her hair back behind her shoulders. “Which ones? I don’t remember.”

They had been cool, and I remembered thinking so. Now I racked my brain for the details, gesturing near my own ear as if I could make them materialize. “They were dangly, with a small square on top, and a bigger square under that, then a big circle. I think there were beads on them.”

She snapped her fingers, her pouty red lips curving up. “Oh yeah. I dig those. I got them at this funky shop downtown.”

“Do you have them with you? I’d love to see them again,” I added, being sweeter than my mother’s buñuelos.

She hesitated, and for a second I thought my buttering up was going to be a bust. But then she moved to her bag and pulled the zipper open the rest of the way. I bit my lip as the sides flapped down and the envelope slipped deeper into the duffle. I bent down to peer inside while she rifled through what seemed to be the entire beauty section of a drugstore. If she weren’t a Royals dancer, Nicole could have been a traveling cosmetologist.

She took out the clothes on top, two toiletry bags, the envelope, a huge ring of keys, and finally a jewelry bag.

I tried to get a closer look at the envelope, but it was buried under the other items she’d dropped. She unfolded the trifold bag, revealing an array of enormous silver earrings, including the ones I’d mentioned. “Here they are,” she said, holding them up for me to see.

The sparkling silver caught my eye. They really were fantastic. I took them and held them to my ear. She seemed to be warming up to me, so I kept chattering as I faced the mirror. “What’s the name of the shop where you got them?”

“Vintage Things, off of Twenty-second Street.”

Talking vintage clothing had brought out a bright side in Nicole’s personality. She spent the next few minutes telling me everything about the store’s eclectic fashions, right down to every single item she’d ever bought there. Pretty soon I was salivating to go on a shopping spree.

But it would have to wait. I had a case, and that took precedence over everything else. “They’re cool.” I gave them back and said, “Let me help you clean this up.”

She tucked the earrings back into the jewelry bag while I gathered the toiletry bags and then the envelope, surreptitiously turning it over to see the back. It was smaller than the others. More like an invitation.

“I’ll take that,” Nicole said, pulling the envelope from my hand just like I’d slipped Selma’s from her.

I summoned my acting skills again. “Is there a party? I heard there are some great ones after games sometimes.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” she said, her sour mood back. She tucked the envelope into her bag, I added the clothes on top, and she zipped it up.

In the blink of an eye, she threw her bag over her boney shoulder and was out the door.

So much for building camaraderie.

…

The dancers had arranged to get together at a Howe ’Bout Arden restaurant. More food. They were bottomless pits.

Trainer Steve and his brother waved to me as I wheeled my bag down the corridor. The team’s leopard mascot, complete with a royal blue, gold-trimmed cape, jumped in front of me, wiggled his body, and spun around. I careened back, nearly falling on my behind. I managed to skirt around him, checking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following me, the rascal. He wasn’t. I was in the clear.

As I rounded the corner, I ran smack into Jennifer. Not literally, but close. She leaned against the wall by the exit door, her packed duffel next to her.

“Are you coming?” I asked, stopping to talk to her.

She winked. “After a while.”

My spidey senses went on alert. What was that wink about? “I’ll wait with you,” I said.

She sauntered down the hallway, throwing her hand up in a dismissive wave. “No, no. Don’t wait for me. I’ll be there,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Hmm. Jennifer was up to something, and I wanted to know what. I dawdled on my way out the door. Finally, just as I was at the exit, I caught a glimpse of three Royals players heading toward her. One of them stopped while the other two kept walking my way.

“Hi,” I said a few seconds later, moving out of their way.

One of them, Number 23, I think, held the door for me so I could maneuver my case through it. “Any time, baby.”

I forced myself not to scowl as I moved outside, trying to see through the two enormous men, but Jennifer was gone and the other ballplayer was, too.

“How you doin’?” Number 34 asked, goggling me with dark brown eyes that matched his skin.

“Great.” I gripped the handle of my case as I stepped outside, but my mind was musing over Jennifer. If I had to guess, I’d say she was breaking the rules and fraternizing with a player. But hadn’t I just been warned about that very thing?

“Wanna have a private party?” the other player, I think he was Number 23, said, breaking me out of my reflections.

I tilted my head so I could see them. So tall. I much preferred the just right six-one of Jack Callaghan. “Are you married?” I asked Number 23, laughing in my head at the double entendre.

“Hell no.”

Number 34 had a sneaky smirk on his lips.

Not married. Right. He might not have had a ring on, but the way he pressed his enormous thumb over his ring finger said it all. The guy was hitched and I felt sorry for his wife. And his girlfriend.

I wasn’t going anywhere with them, and I was tired of playing games and getting nowhere, so I ponied up the burning question in my mind. “Do you know anything about some notes the dancers have been getting?”

“What notes?” Number 34 cracked another suggestive grin. “Come on, let’s party.”

“Gee. It’s tempting, but no, thanks,” I said. “Dinner with the girls.”

They shrugged and disappeared into the night. They—and I—all knew that there was no shortage of women willing to par-tay with them, never mind a pesky wife or girlfriend.

Once they were gone and the coast was clear, I scurried back inside, dropped my duffel, and moved through the corridors, listening. What I was listening for, I didn’t know, but there had to be something juicy going on behind one of these closed doors.

Didn’t there?

But if there was, I couldn’t find it. A steady stream of people still milled around—the cleaning crew, fans, and God knew who else. I finally gave up, gathered my belongings, and found my car. I felt like I was spinning in circles—moving a lot but getting nowhere. Some detective I was.

…

A short while later, I pulled into the restaurant parking lot off of Arden Way in the Arden Fair area of Sacramento and immediately spotted the rest of the dancers.

A couple of them waved as I walked up. Progress. A few minutes later, the table was ready. They turned and moved toward the entrance like a school of fish.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Jennifer?” I asked, not seeing her with the group.

“Nah, she’s always late,” Cassie said with a wink.

A-ha! The perfect opening. “Why?”

“Boyfriend, of course.”

Of course. “I saw her with one of the players. Is she—?”

But Cassie burst my bubble. “Nah. Her guy’s a civilian.”

“How do you know?”

“Jennifer had a few flings with players, but she’s over them. Her new one? She said he’s just a regular guy.”

So Jennifer followed the rules, which meant no disgruntled wife. But then who was the player she’d scurried off with, and why had she gone with him? Could she be two-timing her civilian boyfriend? Could that have something to do with the mysterious letters?

Híjole. I had all kinds of theories, but proof of nada.

We filed into the bar like a line of well-dressed ants. Men and women turned to stare, recognition on their faces. Chattering came at me from all sides, and I got a taste of what it must feel like to be a celebrity on display. It was surreal. And uncomfortable. Incognito was definitely more my speed.

I searched for Selma, hoping to sit by her and find out more about Rochelle. The disgruntled Mrs. Brothers still seemed the most likely suspect at the moment, but part of me didn’t really care all that much. The letters were barely threatening, and no one had been hurt. That insurance fraud case was looking better and better.

I sat next to Cassie around a long rectangular table that ran along the back wall between the bar and the restaurant. The stares and pointing continued as we ordered drinks and appetizers. And more appetizers. Chicken wings, potato skins, onion rings, artichoke dip, and chips and salsa. The list went on and on.

“Are you expecting an army to come join us?” I said after the waitress left.

Laughter burst out around the table and the girls shot knowing glances at one another. “Victoria and Jennifer.”

My puzzled expression brought on more laughter. “Do they eat a lot?”

More glances. “They usually bring people with them,” Cassie said. “The trainer, his brother, a few fans sometimes. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not that hungry.”

Nicole rested her elbows on the table. “Me, too, but dancing works up an appetite. I might as well take advantage of my metabolism while it’s working with me instead of against me.”

A moment later, Selma rushed in, her face flushed. She slipped into the chair next to me, out of breath but excited. “Listen, girls. I was leaving the arena and met three incredibly gorgeous guys!”

A collective roll of the eyes and an indulgent, “Selma…” floated over the table.

“No, really. Gorgeous. One of them has this goatee that you just want to squeeze and, oh my God, beautiful dark skin. One of them had a wedding ring, so I guess he’s off limits. Real cute, though.”

“Not necessarily off limits,” Cassie said.

I stared at her, beginning to think the cheerleaders were as bad as the players, going for one-night stands and groupies who were titillated by their almost-not-there costumes and dirty dancing moves.

Selma gushed. “And the third guy. Holy shit. He could be a freaking movie star. Blue, blue eyes and a really sexy dimple.” She closed her eyes for a second. The dreamy expression on her face made me think she was conjuring up an image of Adonis.

“I invited them to come along and”—she paused for effect, swinging her dark hair behind her—“they’re coming!”

“I thought you had yourself a guy,” one of the girls said to Selma.

“Oh, I do. I invited them for you all. You can thank me later,” she said. Then she flung her head back and sunk in her chair, a satisfied lift to her lips.

The chattering continued around the table. I didn’t get any more information, but I was fitting in. Another step in the right direction. I guess this was better than insurance fraud.

Thirty minutes later Selma’s gorgeous guys hadn’t materialized. Maybe they’d stood up the poor girl. The team’s trainer, Steve, and his season-ticket-holding brother ambled in, however. Selma scooted over her chair to make room for them and the small talk continued.

I focused on the conversations around me. Steve telling the girls how great they’d been. Larry, the brother, asking where Jennifer and Victoria were. Selma wiping the lipstick off her mouth while Nicole added more to hers.

A minute later, the chattering abruptly stopped. I froze, a few French fries in my mouth, gaping at the women—who were all staring at something behind me. A hand came down on my shoulder.

Selma’s words came back at me and I gulped. A dimple and blue eyes. It couldn’t be. But I knew that hand. My intestines tied themselves into inexplicable knots as I turned to look over my shoulder.

Jack.

Antonio stood behind him, a big ol’ shit-eating grin on his swarthy, goateed face.

I peered around them to see who the other guy was.

Oh boy. My cousin Zac.

The guys Selma had met.

I made a series of expressions, trying to communicate to them all. I’m undercover! I tried to say.

“Jack,” I said, sucked in by his liquid blue eyes.

The dimple Selma had admired worked its way into his cheek. “Lola,” he said, looking un poquito hot and bothered. “Let’s take a walk.”