“Dorian’s hot,” I say in my defense.
“For fuck’s sake,” Smithie repeats in a mutter to the ceiling.
“And he’s sweet. And a good listener. He’s protective. And a smartass. And he’s really sharp. Not to mention, he dresses amazing,” I go on. “I mean, I can’t not dream up something for him. Are you crazy?”
Smithie aims his eyes at me again and begs, “Please tell me she’s a sister.”
“Uh, duh,” I reply.
He seems mollified by that.
Slightly.
“I’ll tell you somethin’ for nothin’, I’m not looking forward to this,” Smithie declares.
“Smithie, my friend, people wouldn’t read it if it was boring,” I point out.
“Seen movies with couples in boats, the dude’s paddling, the woman sitting there with an umbrella, and he’s reciting poetry. Women dig that shit.”
I burst out laughing.
“I’m not joking,” he says into my laughter.
I round the chair, sit in it, pull my shit together, and say, “Do you honestly want me to put Dorian in a boat and make him recite poetry?”
Smithie’s lips hitch to the side.
“That’s what I thought,” I go on.
“Who’s the woman?” he asks.
“I’m not saying,” I don’t answer.
“Is she a dancer?”
“No.”
“Does he meet her at Fortnum’s?”
“No.”
“Is she a friend of Indy’s?”
“No.”
“Lottie’s?”
“No.”
“Daisy’s?”
“No.”
“Shirleen’s?”
“No.”
“Chaos?”
“No.”
“Ally?”
I say nothing.
Smithie’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.
There’s more bass in his tone when he asks, “She’s a private investigator?”
“Ummmmmmmmmm…” I hum, drawing it out mostly because I sense he’s about to lose it.
Smithie then loses it.
He shoots up out of his chair, shouting, “Holy fuck!”
“Smithie, relax, my man, she’s not a private investigator.”
“Then how does Ally know her?”
I try to look innocent and know I failed when Smithie asks, “Is she a cop?”
“Weeeelllll…”
He falls back into his chair, lands an elbow on the desk, and puts his head in his hand.
Yeah, he senses how much shit is going to go down.
Oh boy.
Smithie straightens on a snap and orders, “Don’t shoot her.”
“I—”
“Or shoot Ian.”
“But—”
“Or kidnap her.”
“Well—”
“Or Dorian.”
“You see—”
“Or injure either of them in any way. Or fuck with their heads. Or—”
I cut him off this time.
“I can’t promise that, Smithie. You know how it is. It happens, that being, they tell me their story, and I write it how it happens. And as you’ve learned, pretty much anything goes.”
“At least tell me this, is she something else?”
I smile big at him.
“She’s dynamite.”
Smithie studies me for a long time.
Finally, he speaks.
“Are you ever gonna be done with us?” He asks this question on a heavy sigh.
“I hope not,” I answer, meaning these words with my whole heart.
“If the results weren’t worth the pain in the ass you are, you wouldn’t leave this club,” he totally lies.
“Don’t try to feed me that, Smithie,” I say, smiling at him. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re a big softie and everyone knows it.” I whirl my hand in the air indicating our current scene. “You don’t fool anybody with this act.”
“Yeah, not a big fan of you letting that cat out of the bag either,” he returns.
I fight rolling my eyes again because that also isn’t on me.
He totally sucks at hiding he’s one of the best guys in the world.
He was the one who gave it to me.
I just wrote about it.
“Are you gonna offer me a drink and a VIP table or what?” I ask, deciding on the fly I could have just one, watch the show for a spell, and still be back to the hotel at a decent (ish) hour to get some rest in before I have to be up in the morning.
“French 75, Hendricks?” he asks back.
I smile at him. “You know me so well.”
“You’re a pain in my ass,” he mutters as he rises from his chair.
“You still love me, though,” I say as I rise from mine.
When he makes it to me, he slings his arm around my shoulders, I slide mine around his waist, and he guides me to the door, retorting, “Need to get my head examined, but yeah, I do.”
And yeah.
I love coming home to Denver.
It rocks.
Chapter Six
Something Special
KA
The next day, early afternoon …
I’m a little surprised I’ve been called to Axl’s house.
The plan was late afternoon at Auggie’s, pork rind nachos, Fat Tire beer, and swapping recipes and tales on his back patio.
So Axl texting me and asking me to his place before that happens is a surprise.
His house has no real yard, it’s set just a bit off the sidewalk, and it’s literally around the corner and down one single block from where I used to live in Denver’s Baker Historical District.
It is, in fact, the house where I drank wine, ate food, shot the shit with my friends who lived there and babysat those friends’ daughter.
A baby I sat with in my lap in the hall that was in the back of that house, running between bedrooms, and we made funny faces at each other in the closet door mirrors.
A baby that is now a grown woman who I attended her wedding who has her own baby.
Yeah.
Ugh.
Even if the exterior and location is my friends Dixie and Chris’s old house, the interior is all Axl’s.
It’s da bomb.
After he invites me in, I look at the piece of art sitting on the cabinet in front of his window.
And the other piece in the corner.
I don’t mention either as Axl invites me to take a seat on one of his couches, tells me we’ll walk together to Auggie’s as he lives just down the road, and then he excuses himself and heads to the kitchen.
When he returns, he has a couple of sheets of notepaper with him.
He sits next to me on the couch and says, “I wanted to give these to you to include in my section, but I didn’t want to do it in front of the guys.”
I think this is weird because we were talking about recipes.
I mean, why couldn’t he share a couple of recipes in front of the guys?
I look down at the paper in my hand, and first think how classy it is he has monogrammed notepaper.
Then I flip from one to the other, and instantly, I know why he’s not sharing these in front of the others.