Actually, it proved things had to change.
Kylie dragged her tired bones off the sofa and made her way to her closet-sized bedroom. She turned on the light and dropped her bag on the floor inside the door. Her phone tumbled out, and she saw she had a missed call. Three guesses as to the mystery caller, she thought as she picked up the phone, plopped down onto her bed, and listened to the voice mail message. Sure enough, Stacy’s voice came over the line.
“Sorry, can’t make it home tonight. My ride fell asleep, and I don’t have enough cash for a cab. I hope you made it back to Deuces in time to grab the boots, but I’m not holding my breath ’cause I couldn’t reach anyone at the club when I called. Oh well. You can get them tomorrow after your morning classes. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
Kylie hit delete. Tonight, while she’d been risking her dignity—and, oh yeah, her neck—to keep them from hurtling off their own fiscal cliff, Stacy had only managed to break away from her latest bar-hound long enough to worry about overpriced boots?
Enough was enough. Kylie had worked hard to build a following for her yoga classes, and recently accepted a teaching slot at one of the biggest, most respected studios in West Los Angeles. Professionally, things were starting to come together. If she continued to fill her classroom, she’d earn real money for a change, which in turn meant she could start planning the next step—her own studio. But she couldn’t very well plan her future if she constantly allowed Stacy and her habit of getting into trouble distract her. And working at a strip club for the next six to eight weeks qualified as one big, messed-up distraction.
Anger fueled her through her shower, her commute, and her morning classes. Not a terribly enlightened motivator, but surprisingly effective. She was driving back to her apartment for a much-anticipated nap—without a stop at Deuces for the stupid boots—when her cell phone rang. She grabbed the earpiece from the dash, inserted it, and said, “Hello?”
“Hello,” a deep, familiar voice replied. “This is Trevor McCade.”
His cool, sexy smile swam before her eyes as her heart stalled and then nose-dived straight to the pit of her stomach. “Detective,” she replied on a rushed breath. “What can I do for you?”
“We have some follow-up questions. Can you come down to the station?”
Her blood chilled. Down to the station? That sounded bad. “Today?”
“Yeah. I know your shift doesn’t start until ten tonight. I’m betting you can work us in sometime before then. If not, I’m sure if my partner and I come down to Deuces, management will let you take a break to speak with us.”
The traffic light up ahead turned from yellow to red, and Kylie hit the brake just in time to avoid slamming into the car in front of her. Concentrate!
She took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. Nothing good would come out of making the police question her at Deuces. Better to meet with them this afternoon. How long could it take, given that she didn’t know anything?
With her fantasy of a long nap evaporating before her gritty eyes, she watched the signal change, hit the gas, and replied, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Three
Trevor tapped an evidence folder against his leg and watched from the monitoring room as Ian escorted Stacy into an interview suite. The days of the stark white sweatbox with a two-way mirror were gone, replaced by superior technology and psychology. With its integrated audio and video components and blue-toned corporate conference room decor, interview subjects enjoyed the illusion of privacy, and might forget they were participating in a police interview long enough to let their guard down and give up information.
All smiley, friendly good-cop, Ian pulled out a chair for their guest. Once she was seated, he perched on the conference table and attempted some small talk. With his rolled shirtsleeves, loose tie, and easy charm, he exuded relaxed calm. More like a desk jockey at happy hour than a homicide detective conducting an investigation.
Stacy’s replies, on the other hand, were stiff and cautious, and her body language matched. She kept her arms folded protectively across her chest. Although dressed in a casual white workout tank and stretchy cropped pants the exact color of her eyes, she somehow managed to look uncomfortable.
After wearing her guard down infinitesimally with his relentless pleasantness, Ian left to fetch her a bottle of water. Her stiffness gave way to fatigue almost as soon as he left. She straightened her long legs, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned back in her chair. A moment passed. She shielded her mouth with her hand and surrendered to a jaw-dropping yawn. The gesture coaxed a smile from him. Who covered their mouth when yawning in an empty room?
Finally, she leaned forward, rested her arms on the table, and pillowed her head on her biceps. Within minutes her slow, regular breaths told him she’d fallen asleep. Poor baby. She probably hadn’t gotten much last night. Stumbling over a homicide victim tended to have that effect on people.
Ian sauntered in and nodded to Trevor. “How’s our girl? Aw, look at that…a sleeping angel.” He palpated a hand over his chest and grinned.
“Yeah, she’s a heart-stopper.”
“That she is,” Ian agreed. “But while she looks like a slice of heaven, she lies like hell. Nothing Vernon Firth told me this morning jibes too well with her ‘never heard of him, don’t know him’ line on Carlton Long. She’s eit
her a liar or an idiot.”
“She’s no idiot. What’d you find when you ran her?”
“Not much. Drives like a maniac and parks wherever she wants, but other than the parking violations and speeding tickets, her record is clean. I found a sealed juvie, but it’s nothing.”
“How do you know?”
“I spoke to the local deputy and he remembered her well enough. They picked her up for partying a few times—underage drinking, a little weed. She’s trouble with a lower-case t.”
“Local deputy, meaning not here in LA?”
Ian nodded. “She’s a transplant. Born and raised on the wrong side of the tracks in Two Trout, Tennessee.”