I WENT home after the hospital.
Yes, I did kind of feel bad about faking an illness to the hard-working medical staff. But, you know, I use hospital emergency services... or any kind of medical services... so rarely, I figured it all evened out. I’m just not a run-to-the-doctor kind of gal.
Dylan and I parted company outside my condo. No, he didn’t walk me to the door. Though there was an awkward pause on his part when I could tell he was wondering if he should. Nope, he didn’t lean in to kiss me good night, and I didn’t lean in to cop one last feel. (Though we both hesitated as I reached for that hoagie on the dashboard.)
Sleep? Like a rock! A happy, happy rock who’d shaved her legs.
And wow, the dreams I had were peaceful. Rare for me.
The sheets were undisturbed (well, except for where I’d tried to rub that tiny mayo stain out—note to self: stop eating hoagies in bed!). I woke to the ringing telephone. I sat up to answer it and—argh—hand squishing down on a tomato slice. (Okay, it was now a rule to self, not a note.)
It was Dylan on the phone.
“Hey,” I said, sinking back into the pillows.
“Hey, yourself.”
It was kind of sweet, and just that little bit awkward, then it was all business. Dylan was off to the university to do a little research, a little checking around. Something he half-remembered, or thought he did, and wanted to check up on.
“Feel right?” I asked (oh the double meanings.) “Is your intuition telling you—”
“It totally feels right, Dix.”
Yeah, double meaning there too.
After I hung up with Dylan, I called Rochelle and arranged to meet her for lunch. She agreed and a few hours later, we met at a local pub (her choice). We chose to sit in the busier section (my choice). Yeah, I know, I’m not usually such a people person. What the heck had gotten into me?
Oh right, Dylan Foreman.
(Sa-lam!)
“Hi Katie.” Rochelle greeted the young waitress (young as in, wow, is she even legal to serve liquor?). The waitress was at our table as soon as we sat, despite the lunch hour rush. Clearly, Rochelle was a good tipper.
“I’ll have my usual,” Rochelle said.
“Perfect.” Katie turned to me. “And for you?”
I wanted to get this out of the way quickly, so I ordered the first thing that came to mind. “Coffee, please. And bangers and mash.”
The waitress looked at me strangely. “Er, have you been watching British—”
“No!” I said. “I do not watch British porn!”
“Um, I was going to say British films.”
Oh, man. Head desk.
Rochelle and Katie both laughed.
I rose, rubbing the sore spot on my forehead. “Can I get a steak?”
“Certainly, how would you like it?” Katie held her pen poised over her pad.
Through tears of laughter, Rochelle put in, “She likes her steak like she likes her men.”
The poor waitress looked all the more confused.
“Rare,” I grated.
Smiling, Katie walked toward the bar. Finally I doffed my coat, relaxed back into the seat.
And Rochelle was looking at me in that knowing way that only best friends have.
“Oh my God!” Rochelle squealed. “I can’t believe it!”
“What?” I said, innocently.
“You got laid!”
“Geez, it is that obvious?” I didn’t even try to fight the grin. “What is it? Do I have that certain glow? Is there a special look in my eyes? Do I exude that contentedness of a woman well-loved?”
“No,” she said. “You’re finally wearing your ‘I got laid!’ T-shirt.” She reached across and ripped the sales tag off the sleeve. Damn, I’d missed that somehow. “When did you buy that anyway? Three, four years ago? Good God, has it been that long since—”
“That’s not the point!”
She was laughing at me all over again. Laughing until the tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“So, I take it you’re happy for me?” I finally said.
Katie had brought our iced tea during Rochelle’s laughing fit, and Rochelle toasted me. “Delighted. I always knew you and Dylan would become a couple. Eventually. When you stopped fighting it.”
That straightened me up. “A couple?”
“Yeah,” Rochelle said. “Together, Dix. It scares you.”
“Scare me? Pfttt.”
Rochelle cocked an eyebrow. “Right.”
Busted. Rochelle knew me too well. She understood. I’d been so burned in the past. Myles Gauthier hadn’t just broken my heart, he’d shattered it. Myles was long gone, but those scars remained. Few things scared me. Close scared me.
“Okay, it scares the hell out of me. But only when I think about it.”
“Well, don’t think about it today.” Rochelle lifted her glass in a toast again, drawing me from my darker contemplations. “Just enjoy the afterglow.”
Well, I could drink to that.
“So how’s the case going?” Rochelle stirred the ice in her drink with her straw. “Anything new on the Death by Cuddle Club case?”
“Where to begin?” While we waited for our lunch to come, I told her about the pheromones, Gaetan’s anxiety attack, the lab results, and about my clever disguises and visits.
“So,” she said. “Gaetan may be guilty of doping the club air with pheromones. Albert Valentine was definitely guilty of blackmail.”
“And whoever Albert was manipulating with those pheromones, I’m betting, is guilty of murder. Mad as hell—guilty as hell. It just makes sense.”
There. Ta-freakin’-da—I’d said it.
But where was the aha? Where was the feeling of complete brilliance? (Oh yes, there it was—never far away—but not front and center, like it should be.) Most of all, where was that niggle of intuition that told me I was bang on.
It just wasn’t there.
“So did you figure that out while you were rounding second or third base?”
I looked at Rochelle. “What?”
“Oh come on, Dix! You usually get those aha moments while getting it on with Dylan, don’t you? Remember the Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen? “
“We were at the Underwood motel—”
“And then again with the Family Jewels—”
“Hey,” I said. “What happens in Florida, stays in Florida.” My turn to laugh, ’cuz I’d told her all about Florida.
“Forget about Florida. I want to hear what happened with Dylan last night.”
Over lunch, I let her wheedle it out of me. Okay, so there was no wheedling involved, and yeah, I spilled the glorious details before the entrée had even arrived. But why wouldn’t I? We’re best friends. And there is a loyalty between close women friends that is just amazing. I trusted her; she trusted me. I’d do anything for her and—you got it—she’d do anything for me.
But that was women for you. Right?
Yes, it was.