“Jesus Christ! I'm glad I skipped breakfast this morning.” Detective Layke Owen covered her nose with her arm, turned away quickly, hoping to get the image out of her mind. But even when she looked away she could still see them. Her stomach turned.
“Nothing like the stench of decomposing bodies to start the day.” Her partner, Detective Len Corman, a man who'd been on the job thirty years, and had seen it all, spun her back round to see the carnage, a twisted smile on his face. “Better get used to this, detective. This is what your days will look like from here on out.”
Layke swallowed, pressed her arm even harder against her nose, but to no avail. The smell permeated the fabric of her blazer.
“I hope not.” She peered around the once abandoned warehouse, seeing body after body littering the ground; dried, congealed, blackened blood all around them. She'd never seen so much blood, so many bullet shells, so much evil all in one place. Six weeks on the job and they'd already thrown her in at the deep end, on a case like this.
All around the professionals worked tirelessly collecting evidence and trying to make sense of the scene.
“What do we know?” Len asked one of the uniformed officers.
“Couple of kids were playing in the area, smelled something funny, went inside to take a look.”
“So nobody heard anything? From the looks of it these guys have been here a while.” Len adjusted his belt a little, letting his thick stomach filled with thirty years of ale out some more, which allowed him to breathe better. He scratched his balding head. “I'd say four or five days. Maybe a week.”
“We didn't get any calls about the noise,” the officer said. “That ain't a surprise though. This place is half a mile away from civilization.”
Layke wandered off on her own, weaving through the bodies, studying them. All male and, though she didn't like to generalize or stereotype, they all seemed to have a Mediterranean look about them. Dark skin, dark hair. Mexicans? No, Italians. She was sure of it. With the exception of one. He was furthest from the others, closest to the exit. He didn't resemble them in any way.
“Hey, Corman, take a look at this.” She ushered her partner over, kneeling down beside the body of the outlier, the smell all but forgotten. She fished out a pair of rubber gloves from her pocket and felt around the body for what, she didn't know.
“What did you find?” Corman said, joining her.
She pointed to two of the gunshot wounds. “I'm no expert, but I think those two are exit wounds. So he was shot twice in the back.”
Corman nodded. “Looks that way.”
“And notice anything different about this guy?”
Corman grinned down at her. “What, like he isn't an Italian? Yeah, we got that, Owen.”
Of course they already knew that. Her embarrassment and feelings of stupidity showed themselves in a blush that covered her cheeks and neck.
“You know who these people are?” she asked, feeling tricked.
“Sure do.” He nodded. “Italian mafia. Connected to the Ambrisi family, under Eddie Ambrisi.”
“Aren't they supposed to be on the other end of the guns?”
“Not in Miami they're not. They don't have that kind of power here.”
She gestured at the foreigner, who seemed to have collected fewer bullets than the other cadavers. “And this guy?”
“This guy's from the group who does have that kind of power.” When he realized that his coyness wasn't doing anything to assuage her confusion, he added, “I suppose I don't have to ask if you're familiar with the di Blasio family?”
“Who isn't?” Layke said. “So this was a fight between the Italian mafia and the di Blasios? Seeing as you seem to have all the answers already, you probably know what they were fighting about.” She ripped off her gloves and tucked them back into her blazer. She pushed a fallen strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, out of her face.
“What they're always fighting about: guns. If the di Blasios are involved, you better believe that weapons are involved too.”
Layke narrowed her eyes at him. Len Corman was a guy who smiled way too much for the type of job he did. Mostly it was a sarcastic smile, or a wicked smile. She didn't know what this one was about, however.
“What is it?” she questioned, feeling left out of some private joke her partner shared with himself.
“You hear about that container of military weaponry that went missing a couple months back? Four security guards were murdered. Now, until the ballistics report comes back we won't know for sure, but it looks a lot like the Italians were shot using them. We liked the di Blasios for that robbery. We couldn't pin it on them before – not enough evidence – but this might change things.”
Layke knew enough to know that nothing ever went that smoothly. Her partner's optimism surprised her. No one had ever been able to pin anything on the di Blasios before – at least nothing that stuck – so why would this time be any different? As much as she wanted to be involved in the taking down of the most infamous family in Miami, she had to stay realistic.
“If the law doesn't get them, maybe the mafia will. I mean, you can't kill more than half a dozen men in cold blood and not expect blow-back,” she said.
Corman shook his head. “They don't have the kind of manpower needed to take down the di Blasios. Nope. If we want these bastards gone, we'll have to do it ourselves.” He whistled and ushered one of the uniformed officers over. “Has anyone contacted the di Blasios and told them we found one of their guys?”
“I don't think so.”
Corman's grin returned. “Looks like we'll have the pleasure of doing that,” he said, turning to Layke.
The officer's eyes shifted uncertainly from Corman to Layke and back again. “You don't mean right now, do you, detective?”
“Why not? No time like the present.”
“It's just that Maurice di Blasio is being buried today...” He glanced at his watch. “The funeral's probably happening as we speak.”
“I don't give a crap,” Corman said. “You gun down a bunch of people, you lose the right to be buried in peace.”
Layke, too, looked uncertain. “I don't know about this. Maybe we should at least wait until tomorrow to go poking bears. Especially without evidence.”
He slapped her on the back good-naturedly, and started off. “We're not trying to arrest anyone, Owen. We're simply bringing them some news.”
Layke sighed deeply but followed him out of the warehouse, sensing that her day was about to get even more awful.
“Can I just put it on record that I think this is a terrible idea?” Layke said as Corman pulled up to the cemetery and cut the engine.
“Duly noted,” he said in his cheerful way.
They were parked behind a long line of black town cars, all expensive, their windows tinted. The drivers stood by in their black suits, dabbing at their sweaty pink faces with handkerchiefs and pieces of tissue, the sun in a cloudless sky blasting down on them. There wasn't a tree close enough to provide shade.
“I wouldn't want their job,” Layke commented, undoing her blazer and one of the top buttons on her shirt, the heat also getting to her, even with her window wound right down. The weather had been a lot cooler when she'd left her apartment that morning. Deceptively cool. Now she regretted wearing the suit. After all, it was the badge that really counted. Anyone could have dressed the part; but without the badge you were nothing.
“Goddamn, you'd think this guy was the Dalai Lama! Looks like the whole of Miami came out to send him off,” Corman said, his gaze falling on the large horde of people about seventy yards away – a sea of black crowded around the graveside.
“There must be at least two hundred people. That's a bit excessive. Who would have thought the boss of a crime family would be so popular?” Layke said.
They watched in silence for a little while longer, as the priest made his speech and sobbing old women were comforted by their husbands or children. When the priest finished, Layke watched a lady step forward, take up her position beside him. She slipped her sunglasses onto her forehead, took out a piece of paper from her pocket and promptly began to read from it.
Layke sat up. “Who's that?” she asked her partner, hoping that he would stop tapping out his annoying tune on the steering wheel. “If she's reading at the big guy's funeral, she must be important.” She stared on as the woman read. Although she couldn't hear her, the confidence with which she spoke was visible even from where Layke was sitting. She held herself with such grace, suggesting an upbringing of the finest teaching in etiquette. Which was why she stood out among the crowd. The di Blasios were known for a lot of things, but being graceful wasn't one of them. She wore her black pant suit well, perfectly, in fact, managing to look ladylike with an edge. Her presence fascinated Layke.
Corman squinted out of the window for a better look, then nodded. “If I'm not mistaken, I think that's di Blasio's kid. The elusive Willa di Blasio.”
Layke gawked at him. “He has a daughter? How did I not know that?”
“Not many people do. At least, they know, they just forget. Last time I saw her she was a teenager, had just graduated from high school. That was about ten years ago.”
Layke returned her gaze to Willa, now even more fascinated by her. She knew about the four sons, had done since she was a kid. But a daughter? And only four years younger than her? Maurice had certainly kept her a secret.
“Different mom?” Layke questioned, slightly dumbfounded. That was the only explanation, surely.
“Nope, same as the others.”
“She doesn't seem like a di Blasio...” Of course she had the general look – the dark hair and the same shaped face, from what she could make out. But everything else seemed alien.
Corman shot her a curious look, which she didn't see because she was too busy focusing on what was on the other side of the window. “Stunning, ain't she?” he said, laughter in his voice. Maybe that was it, because she certainly was. Even from Layke's distance she could see that.
“Got her mother's looks. You marry a Cuban model, odds are at least one of your offspring gets her looks,” Corman added.
“So what's her story?”
“She doesn't have one. Not one we need to worry about anyway. She keeps her nose clean, stays out of trouble. Not like her degenerate brothers and the rest of her vermin family.”
They watched Willa fold her paper, slip it into her pocket and return to her mother's side, to put a supportive arm around her, all the while remaining stoic in her posture. Moments later, Trent stepped forward and gave his own speech, minus the paper aid. He hadn't even bothered to shave for the occasion, his dark, thick beard and head of untamed hair scruffy, as though he'd just crawled out of bed.
“And that would be the heir to the criminal throne.” Corman's top lip curled up a little in disgust when he spoke. “Trent di Blasio. Kid's been groomed to take over since the day he was born.”
This was a name she was familiar with. In school, he was the guy kids would threaten other kids with, saying he would come for them. Much like Freddy Krueger. The tough guy you didn't want to meet on a bad day... or a good day, for that matter. Rumor had it that he was ruthless, didn't have a conscience, killed without blinking. Layke had to admit, though, that seeing the man behind the legend, merely seventy yards away, was a bit of an anticlimax. Just a scruffy, miserable-looking dude with too much hair. Muscular, she could see that. She didn't spend much time looking at him, however. Her attention went straight back to his sister. She couldn't explain why Willa intrigued her so, but she found it difficult taking her eyes off her.
“That's our cue,” Corman said after a while. The speeches were done, and individuals were throwing mud onto the coffin.
“I don't feel good about doing this,” Layke grumbled, stepping out of the car. “I would be pissed if cops turned up at my father's funeral with accusations, however covert.” An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach as she traipsed across the grass, walking in sync with her partner, both of them looking like TV cops on a mission. She couldn't tell whether her sweaty palms were caused by the sun's heat, or were a product of her nerves. The acceleration of her heartbeat, on the other hand, was wholly due to nervousness.
“That's because your father isn't the boss of an underground crime ring that's spanned four decades.”
People had already started to disperse as they approached. As soon as the three di Blasio brothers clocked eyes on the intruders, spotting the glistening badges clipped to their waists, they looked as though they would pounce.
“You two must be lost,” Trent snarled, squaring his shoulders and stepping forward, his expression menacing as he glared at Corman, paying hardly any attention to Layke.
“No, I think we're in the right place,” Corman responded confidently. “Just came to pay our respects.”
Several other family members crowded around, all wearing equally threatening looks.
Trent spat on the grass, right at Corman's feet. “You're a brave man turning up here today. Brave... or really stupid.”
Layke prayed that no one could see her hand trembling. Did her partner have a death wish or something?
“Look, we don't want any trouble, all right,” she said, doing everything in her power to make her voice sound assured and balanced.
“Funny, 'cause trouble's exactly what it looks like you came for.” This came from Guy, who was taller than his older brother, though thinner in build, but much more clean shaven, better dressed, and not as vicious-looking. “Why else would you show up at our father's funeral?”
He must be the guy who does their negotiations, Layke thought, studying Guy briefly, noting the smooth way he spoke, and his general suave persona. A pretty boy; a pin up. Her sixteen-year-old self would have been swooning right now. Would have fallen for him, even joined a traveling show and run away with him if he'd asked. But she hadn't been sixteen in a long time, and now he was just like every other di Blasio – like every other criminal, no matter how good-looking he was.
“It's pretty disrespectful, don't you think?” he added.
Around them, insults were being hurled by the mourners. Layke wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole, feeling the chill from their glares reaching her bones. This was such a bad idea.
“What seems to be the problem here?”
If Layke thought she was tongue-tied before, it was nothing compared to how she became when Willa barged her way through to join them, having just left her sobbing mother in the care of a family member. The girl sounded impatient when she spoke. She lifted her shades on to her forehead, and a frustrated frown creased her brow.
“I sincerely hope you have a good reason for being here, today of all days,” she said, though in her tone it sounded much more like a demand. She spoke directly to Corman, and didn't appear to have even seen Layke standing beside him.
“They say they've come to pay their respects,” the youngest of Maurice's children, Noah, offered.
She narrowed her eyes at Corman. “It's no secret that my father had no friends in the Miami Police Department. So why don't you tell us why you're really here.”
Corman smiled jovially. “Well, we were gonna wait until after the funeral to tell you, but seeing as we're here...” He looked at Layke, who seemed paler than usual, then turned back to Willa, his smile never fading. “We found one of your guys in an abandoned warehouse in Coral Way. He wasn't alone. There were a bunch of dead Italians with him. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?” He looked to Trent for the answer, surmising that he would know more about it than she would.
“What makes you so sure it was one of our guys? Last time I checked, we weren't missing any friends.” It was Trent's affected way of playing dumb and ignorant that made his guilt obvious. Corman saw it and so too did Layke.
“Brad 'The Bullet' Gunner? Sound familiar?”
“Oh, Brad. Yeah, we had to let him loose. He wasn't working out,” Trent said. He wasn't even trying to sound convincing. “Haven't seen him in weeks. Not surprised he ended up that way. He took too many stupid risks. But I'm not sure what our old employee's business has to do with us.”
“My guess is it was a deal that went wrong. I don't know. Looked to me like somebody was trying to rip someone off.” Corman shrugged for effect. “But here's the thing. Whoever Brad Gunner was with, they left him. Because he certainly wasn't alone. No man could take down seven Italians alone, unless he was a god.”
He looked at all four siblings, searching for even the slightest flicker of guilt. None showed. They were either completely innocent or all pathological liars, and Corman wouldn't have bet anything on the former.
“And here's the interesting part: looks like the slugs taken out of the Italians match the ones from that container of military weapons that was stolen a few months back. How long ago did you say Brad stopped working for you?”
“We let him go a few weeks ago,” Trent said. “It's like I said, he took too many stupid risks. We don't know half the things he did in his spare time. I would say knocking off the lockup was his doing. Rest assured, detective, we had nothing to do with it.” He spoke like butter wouldn't melt, even put a hand over his chest. Layke was sure she could see the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Convenient, don't you think, Owen?”
It seemed like all the eyes of the world were on Layke now. It was Willa's stare, however, that made her feel the most uneasy.
“And who is she supposed to be?” The amusement in Willa's voice matched her eyes. She stepped a little closer so that she was standing directly in front of Layke, and gave her the longest, most spine-tingling head-to-toe look, making her feel two inches tall. “She looks like a baby dyke wearing her father's suit!”
Everyone in earshot chuckled loudly, their laughter filling the cemetery, loud enough to wake the dead.
Layke's face burned rouge. She didn't think she would ever stop blushing. Never before had she wanted to pull her weapon on someone so badly than she did on Willa di Blasio. At the very least she could wipe that shit-eating grin off her face.
“It's kind of cute though.” Her eyes landed on the detective badge at Layke's waist. She reached out and stroked it. Layke felt powerless to stop her. How had she allowed her to get so close? And, more importantly, why wasn't she backing away from her?
“Detective, huh?” Their eyes met. Layke swallowed. “They're just handing these out to anyone these days.”
From a different angle, the placement of Willa's hand at Layke's waist could have appeared suggestive. It was this thought, and the fact that all eyes were on them, why Layke pulled herself from her reverie, grabbed Willa's arm at the wrist and yanked her hand away. Neither of them looked away. Green eyes met hazel-green, resolve met resolve.
“That's enough,” Layke said, her voice coming out as a firm whisper.
Willa's eyes danced mischievously, filled with humor. Until finally she decided that indeed, enough was enough.
Turning away from Layke, she said to Corman, “My brother has told you everything he knows. Now, if you'd excuse us, we have to go and mourn our father.” With that, she trotted off to catch up to the rest of the family, and her brothers followed shortly after. Not before Trent got in a final glare, which he shot at Corman.
“Ugh!” Layke slammed the passenger door behind her when she returned to Corman's car. Her face was red with fury, her body trembling with it. “What a bitch! I've never felt so insulted in all my life.” She turned to her partner. “And you! I can't believe you were laughing with them!”
Corman didn't improve her mood or the situation by chuckling again. “What, it was funny. Your jacket is a bit big.”
Layke growled again, throwing up her hands in frustration. “And you tell me this now? Just drive.” She strapped herself in, turned away from him to sulk, feeling thoroughly demeaned and embarrassed.
They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. At least she was silent; Corman promptly filled it with his tuneless humming.
“I think you've got it wrong,” Layke said, still peering out the window as the scenery whirred past.
“What's that?”
“You said Trent was heir to the throne. Well, I think you're wrong.”
“I suppose it could be one of the other two. Guy di Blasio, the smart-looking one, the old bastard could have left it to him. Would make sense, I guess.”
“I don't think it's any of the boys...” She looked at him, her face serious. “I think she's the one.”
“You mean Willa?” he asked incredulously, the car swerving slightly. He chortled. “You can't be serious.”
“I am. Why is it so hard to believe? They showed deference to her. Didn't you notice?”
“She's their only sister. Of course they'll show some deference. But come on, Owen. What you're suggesting is ludicrous.”
“Why? Because she's a girl?”
“Because I doubt she knows the first thing about the crap her family gets up to. There's a reason her file's empty. She's not a person of interest.”
“I think you're wrong,” she insisted again, more adamantly. “If we ignore her, I believe we'll be making a grave mistake.”
Corman shook his head, gave a little laugh. “Well, they did say Maurice di Blasio was losing his mind in his old age...”
“If you ask me, leaving her in charge would have been the smartest move he could've made.”
“And how do you figure that?”
“It's fooling you, isn't it?” Layke said smugly.
The smoke alarm blared through Layke's apartment as she cursed, darted from the bathroom, her body soaking wet, and ran into the kitchen. She growled when she pulled open the oven and a mass of smoke escaped, hitting her in the face. The fumes choked her and clouded the whole room as she fanned and coughed, fanned and coughed.
“Great,” she declared, staring down at what was once a meat feast pizza, but was now an inedible charcoal circle. To make matters worse, as if she wasn't already aware, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since lunchtime, almost seven hours ago.
Her bell sounded just as she silenced the smoke detector.
“Hope you haven't eaten,” a voice spoke from behind a bag of Thai take-out. Then a man's face appeared from behind the bag – smiling, big white teeth gleaming.
“You're a lifesaver!” she said, grabbing his face and planting a fat kiss on his lips. She was so grateful for his perfect timing, so too was her stomach, that she was prepared to overlook the way he'd slicked back his blonde hair, with enough wax to start a candle shop. Or that he'd parted it down the middle the way she hated. Ever since his promotion from account manager to vice president at the advertising agency, he'd seemingly done everything in his power to take on the most pompous appearance, as though he had to show the world that he had joined the rest of the one percent. Only in appearance, luckily. Where it mattered he still remained grounded, down-to-earth. He was still the same Dustin she'd been engaged to for the last five years.
“Have you been cooking again?” he said, sniffing the air.
She took the food from him while he shrugged off his jacket.
“Silly me forgot to take the pizza out of the oven before I went in the shower.”
He chuckled, following her into the kitchen. He pulled out an unopened bottle of wine from the fridge, feeling completely at home in her place. “I came just in time then.”
They sat down to eat, Layke's crippling hunger making her a terrible host. She was more interested in wolfing down noodles and rice than asking him how his day was.
He watched her without her knowing, then laughed to himself.
“What?” she asked, mouth full, a bit of noodle hanging out of the side.
“Nothing. When was your last meal, the turn of the century?” he teased.
“I couldn't find the time to eat today. Well, I sort of forgot to.” She wiped her mouth. “Big case.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Multiple homicides. Just a bunch of dead bodies, spread out. Bullet shells and dried blood everywhere. It was as if I'd walked into a Tarantino movie!”
“Wow, and I thought I had an eventful day when we lost one of our biggest clients.” He took a sip from his glass of wine, his eyes drifting to her hand. “Where's your ring?” he asked, aiming for casual.
“Dustin, you know I don't wear it at work, and I take it off before I get in the shower,” she said, agitation showing in her frown.
“That doesn't leave much time for you to wear it,” he said. She knew the smile he gave wasn't from the heart, and that his comment was passive aggressive. That was how he dealt with her – skirted around his issues with her, masking things behind sarcastic smiles and ambiguous comments.
But it was hard to be mad at him for noticing. He always mentioned her missing ring, and she always had an excuse. She was cooking, she was washing her hair, she was taking out the trash and didn't want it falling off. It was always something, some new excuse for not showing the world that she was off the market.
“Have you heard of the di Blasios? My father may have mentioned them in the past. Big Miami crime family, mostly known for gun-running?” Layke said, deciding that a change of subject was necessary. This was the topic she was most interested in discussing, not some stupid ring. In fact, the di Blasios, and particularly the highly offensive Miss di Blasio, had been on her mind since their first encounter. So much so that she'd shoved her suit into a black bag along with a bunch of other clothes that no longer fit, or that she would never wear again, to be donated to charity. So insulted had she been that she'd trawled the internet in search of local, affordable tailors that specialized in suits.
“You mean Maurice di Blasio, the guy who escaped a murder conviction back in '95, for gunning down those Chinese tourists?”
“That's the one.”
“Sure, who doesn't know that guy? Didn't he die recently? I think I read something about it in the paper.”
“His funeral was today. I had the pleasure of attending.” She pulled a face.
Dustin laughed. “What is that, a perk of the job? You get to go to mob boss funerals?”
“Not exactly. Corman thought it was a good idea to show up, uninvited, and dropped it to the guy's kids that we basically suspect them of being behind the warehouse homicides. Yeah, you can imagine how that went down.”
“Ouch. Is your partner still breathing?”
They ate in silence a little while longer, and then Layke stopped. It took her a couple of minutes to build up the courage to approach the subject, and when she realized that she was nervous about bringing it up, it made her even more anxious.
“Hey, did you know he had a daughter?” It was her time to try for casual, only her efforts came off far too disingenuous. Luckily, Dustin had never been very perceptive.
“Who?”
“Maurice di Blasio. I knew about his four sons, but there's also a daughter.”
Dustin contemplated this for a moment then said, as though the memory re-entered his mind, “I think I remember seeing something about that actually, when the trial was going on. Yeah, I do. She must have been pretty young at the time.”
“How did I not know about her?” It still frustrated her to be seemingly the last person to know something so important. At least she believed Willa's existence was important, though she couldn't say the same for her partner.
“Probably because wives, sisters and daughters never get spoken about in connection with people like this, unless their hands are dirty too.”
“I met her today.”
“Really?” He arched forward, intrigued. “What was she like?”
“She was a complete and utter bitch!”
He chuckled. “You sound surprised.”
“I was surprised. There I was, minding my own business, just trying to do my job, then she insults me, treats me like dirt in front of everyone. I wanted to punch her in the face.”
Dustin's guffaw did nothing to make Layke feel better.
“What did she say to you?”
“Just some stuff about my clothes...” she said miserably, dismissively, conveniently leaving out the part about looking like a baby dyke. The fewer people knew about that comment, the better, as far as she was concerned. That wasn't a label she wanted attached to her.
“Well if you ask me, a little insult was the best you could have hoped for, turning up at her father's funeral, pointing fingers. They're gangsters, what were you expecting, a welcoming committee?”
“I'm a detective, I was expecting respect.”
She'd barely got the word out when Dustin launched into a rendition of Aretha Franklin's Respect song.
Layke rolled her eyes and growled. “How old are you?”
Once they'd eaten all they could, with plenty left over, they sluggishly dragged themselves to the living-room and collapsed onto the couch.
“You talk to your mother yet, about bringing her account to us? We're really starting to expand in the apparel sector. Would be great to have her line for the over-fifties and the baby boomers.” He'd waited until he had her feet on his lap, massaging away the day's stresses, to bring up the big thing that was on his mind.
Layke lay back against the arm of the couch, eyes closed, happy for the pampering, but deep down praying that it would never progress from there. She had to admit her current state must have been inviting to him – hair still wet, and wearing nothing but a damp bathrobe, her toned thighs on full display. But that was an accident; she hadn't known he was coming by. Had she known, she would have dressed more appropriately. Now she worried that he would get ideas, that he would want some kind of reward for his troubles. She wasn't in the mood to turn him down, which, she realized, was how most of their “nights of passion” had come about. The thought depressed her.
“She's still talking to some other agencies. Hasn't decided on anyone yet.”
“But surely she would choose her future son-in-law over a stranger?”
“You know what my mother's like, Dustin.” She sighed. “Everything's a competition with her. Family loyalty, nepotism, all of that, means nothing. Which is kind of surprising, considering...”
He did know what her mother was like. Honestly, he couldn't stand the woman. In the seven years they'd been together, she'd been trying to set Layke up with other guys, mostly guys who earned more than he did. Yet she was all smiles and good wishes to his face. His future monster-in-law was always inadvertently stabbing him in the back. Even with the new VP promotion it still wasn't good enough for her.
“You know I wouldn't ask, it's just that we're really going after the baby boomer market over the next few years, and it sort of reflects badly on me that my own mother-in-law won't sign with us.”
“Mmm,” Layke moaned, having already drowned out his whining. She had to give him credit – he gave great foot massages.
“She would be a huge catch, Layke. And with her on the books we'd get a lot more companies catering to the same market,” he droned on.
“I'll bring it up the next time I see her, all right?” she said, giving in. “But can we please not talk shop for the rest of the evening?”
“Of course, of course.”
She realized it was a mistake diverting his attention as soon as she felt his hands stroking her leg. Silently she prayed that he would stop of his own accord; it got extremely awkward having to subdue his sexual advances when she wasn't in the mood, which she never was these days. But his hand traveled further up her leg, until he reached her thigh. Her eyes sprung open when she felt his lips on her thigh.
“What are you doing?” she asked, shoving him away as though he was some horny stranger in a bar who'd had too much to drink and was trying to take advantage of her.
He looked at her, startled, his eyes reflecting his confusion. “What does it look like I'm doing, Layke? Try not to sound so disgusted by me.”
She sat up, dragging her legs in, stealing them away from him. “I don't want that tonight.”
“Okay, but...” He sat up. Layke could see that he was doing his best to conceal his anger, his disappointment, but a flicker of it passed across his brow. “Can you even remember the last time you did?”
“I... I don't know,” she said defensively. “I work really hard, I don't always have the time. Sometimes I want a foot massage that doesn't lead to sex.”
“Five months.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Five months ago was the last time we had sex.”
It couldn't have been that long ago, Layke mused, confounded. A moment of mental calculation told her that he was right: it had been five months.
“I can't believe you've been counting.”
“Well I'm sorry, but after the first month of course I was going to start taking noticing.”
“You know I've had a lot on my mind these past few months, what with the exams and everything. Sex has been the last thing on my mind.”
“And I get that, but it's been six weeks since you passed, since you became a detective, and...”
“And I should put out like a good little girl, is that it?”
“No! Come on, Layke. I didn't mean it like that.” He got up, flustered, combing his hands through his hair, messing it up. “At some point we're going to have to get back to being a couple, doing what couples do, and that includes being intimate.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, watching him snatch his jacket off the peg.
“It's best I stay at my place tonight.” He gave a snort. “My place. Seven years we've been together and we still live in separate homes.” He shook his head then stormed from her apartment. She didn't bother trying to stop him.
It gave her no pleasure seeing Dustin hurt or furious with her, because for all their relationship's faults, he was still her best friend. That was the biggest problem. She loved him like a friend, like a brother, because they'd been together so long. But she hadn't been attracted to him in years. She could have blamed it on his stupid hairstyle, or the way he would throw out the shower gel when there was still some in the bottle, before opening a new one. She could have blamed it on all of his little quirks, but the truth was the attraction had waned a long time ago. And even that hadn't been based on anything physical.
At thirty-eight, six years her senior, he'd been ready to settle down and start a family for five years, hence the engagement ring. She couldn't help feeling that she was leading him on, taking away his good years from another woman who did want him the way he wanted her, Layke. But there was no easy way of telling your fiance it wasn't that you didn't want to be touched, just that you didn't want to be touched by him.