Page 27 of Making His Bones

I went to my room to peel off the sopping clothes. I redressed in identical clothes, added some gel to my hair to spike it, tossed on my cut, and went to the living room to sit on the couch with my laptop. I was deep into a webpage when she appeared.

And what an appearance. Instead of the usual polo shirt and khaki pants not unlike my own, she wore a form-fitting flowered peasant dress. A band of elastic under her tits showed them off just right, and her hands behind her back gave her the look of a kid wanting approval.

“Wow,” I said. “You look . . . “

“Feminine? I know. It’s not a look I usually embrace. Now what’s in that jar?”

She sat beside me, and I tilted the laptop so she could see the screen. “I’d rather talk about this. #HotForElektra? What is this hugely trending hashtag?”

She waved away the computer. “Oh, that. I noticed that. It’s all due to my help tracking down Kneecap.”

Although I should have been against her for her role in the takedown, I was actually proud. Fifteen years ago, Kneecap had strangled his wife and put her in a super-hot bathtub to confuse time of death, and Elektra had run the DNA in his pants from a washing machine, the only DNA they still had on him from back then. Not bad for a housewife from Seeker, Arizona. “People want to nominate you for Sexiest Woman Alive.”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“Some guys are petitioning People Magazine.” I pointed the cursor at the one photo I’d managed to find of Elektra not wearing a polo shirt. Unfortunately, she was with her ex-husband at some charity function, so I quickly zoomed in on her cleavage. “Says Salma Hayek should play you.”

“Oh, that’s all just speculation. People have nothing better to do, unlike me.” She slammed the laptop lid shut. “Why does this bother you?”

I had to admit it. “I feel like I’m competing against these morons.”

She smiled slyly. “If they’re morons, then you’ve got one up on them.”

I flashed her my best white-toothed grin. Her compliment gave me the balls to admit, “The other day when you said you had to check DNA in your bedroom?”

“Yes . . . “

“Well, I sort of . . . spied through the curtain.”

Her punch was not flattering. “You fucking asshole! I knew there was a fucking gap between those curtains, but I trusted you! Ooo! Never fucking again! How the fuck long were you spying on me?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Elektra.” I held her by the biceps. “Just long enough to get an insight into how you . . . like to be pleasured.” What was wrong with that? It gave me an edge in the shower just then. I knew her likes and dislikes. I knew she wanted to be stroked on the right side of her clit.

“So you stopped?” she demanded. “You peeked in on a woman masturbating, but you only did so for a few minutes? I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s the truth!” I lied. I’d pretty much seen the whole thing, while my dick expanded to monstrous dimensions inside my stupid pants. Would I ever get to remove them? Only for the camera, it seemed. I knew how creepy it felt being spied on by horny individuals. I didn’t want her thinking—or knowing—I was one of them. “Thirty seconds, tops!”

She seemed to believe me, and settled back into the couch, although her arms were crossed below her rack. Maybe it was my imagination, but she did seem a bit self-satisfied. First the #HotForElektra trending hashtag, then an LA actor spying on her diddling herself. Oh, who was I kidding? I’d never have the self-assurance to think I was a desirable Peeping Tom.

“Good, good,” I said in a soothing tone. “Now, listen. We didn’t stop the truck with the kidnaped Mexican kids. That jar in the bathroom? It’s hagfish slime.”

She frowned at me, her dark eyes flashing. “Whaaa—“

“Exactly my first reaction, until the car was covered with it. Those fuckers knew what they were doing. They had these eels that emit that slime just ready, boxes of them, to toss at whoever might follow them. Well, it worked. I don’t know if Knoxie’s car will ever be the same again.”

Elektra recoiled. “Is it poisonous slime?”

I rubbed one of my arms. “No, no, but it sure sticks to you, thicker than Jell-O. Listen, while I was looking into the back of their truck, I saw a giant glass jug of clear liquid. This backs up our idea they were going to let those kids out into the desert with moonshine.”

Elektra sat up straight. “We’ve got to figure out whoever in Seeker is making moonshine.”

I was relieved she got my point. “Exactly.”

“And how many millions of dollars you want to bet? It’s Bud Pitchfork.”

Z