Chapter Forty-Two

Baxter Kincaid sat atop his black-and-red 1947 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead parked in front of the almost fluorescent-colored facade of Amoeba Music. He checked the time on his phone. Jenny was either working over or enjoying making him wait. It seemed that, although he was technically her boss at Baxtercorp—the actual name printed on his business cards—she delighted in antagonizing, insulting, and discouraging him. Although, technically, he supposed she wasn’t an employee, since he didn’t pay her anything.

It was more that they were independent contractors providing a mutual service to one another. Jenny used her accounting degree to keep his books up to date along with a few other office-related tasks that would have never been completed if the job had been left up to him. And, in exchange, he agreed to let her tag along in her down time and learn the art of investigation. Why she wanted to learn had remained a mystery. She never mentioned getting her PI license or showed an interest in working on her own as an investigator. He suspected that boredom played a role, which was likely the same reason Jenny had abandoned a cushy CPA job, dyed her hair black, pierced her body, and tattooed over so much of her flawless skin.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Jenny appeared at the front window, cocked her head to the side, and winked—while flipping him a middle finger that had happy-face tattoos climbing up to a nail adorned with a winking emoji.

In that moment, Baxter could have cared less about the lessons for the night and her reasons for wanting them. All he cared about was the fact that, for the next three to four hours, he had her all to himself. If the rest of the world didn’t envy him for that, then they had never met Jennifer Vasillo.

He had little doubt that she understood his attraction to her, but she always seemed to let their relationship teeter on the edge of flirtation and consummation.

A new addition caught his eye as she walked, fresh ink on her wrist surrounded by red tissue. He could only see a small, black shape in that brief glimpse, but he made a mental note to ask her about it later. Her skin was the artificial white of cocaine. Her black hair was short and spiky with pink highlights. Her lips bright as strawberries. She wore jeans and a bright, red-leather jacket, the kind that Michael Jackson wore back in the Thriller days, the one with all the zippers. Tattoos climbed her neck, and a round nose ring looped around the bottom of her right nostril.

He wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to love a woman who disguised her true self with so many layers.

He said, “I brought an extra helmet, just in case you decided to live free on the back of the bike.”

With a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she said, “I prefer to keep my internal organs right where they are, instead of squished up against a guardrail like a bug to a windshield. I’ll drive. As usual.”

He shrugged. “I’m an infinite optimist.”

“You’re optimistic that I’ll decide it’s a good idea to have my insides on the outside?”

“Merely hoping that you’ll see the light. That you’ll choose to live with the wind in your hair and nothing above you but blue skies.”

“The wind wouldn’t be in your hair. California has a helmet law.”

“I was speaking metaphysically.”

“You mean metaphorically.”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“So what are we investigating tonight?”

Baxter chuckled and shook his head. “I honestly don’t recall at this point.”

~~*~~