Dream Maker (Dream Team 1)

I turned my eyes to Ally, who seemed the most sane of the crew.

“Hot Bunch is how we refer, collectively, to our husbands. And they don’t shoot at people or shove them in trunks.” She paused and finished, “Normally.”

Oh man.

“We’re harmless,” Indy promised. “So are our men.”

“Unless you can expire from bein’ cool as shit, hot as fuck and havin’ too much fun, am I right, sugars?” Daisy proclaimed.

“She’s right,” Roxie said.

“So right,” Ava added with a smile.

“In other words,” Lottie called from the stove, “we got you.”

She smiled at me happily, in her element, with her people, engaged to a great guy, financially stable and thinking she’d finagled an epic setup between two friends that was working fantastically, regardless (or maybe because of) the circumstances.

I just didn’t have the heart to tell her she was very, very wrong about that last part.

Breakfast done, cleanup done, they took me to my place and made me stand outside on the landing and shout at Indy, Jet and Roxie, who were inside, getting my stuff.

I was disheartened to note that a lot of stuff I called after, they called back, “Do you have another choice?” or “We’ll swing by Walgreens.”

They packed a measly bag that was, I didn’t fail to note the irony, a Trader Joe’s bag, with some clothes, Roxie mumbling, “I’ll corral Tod and Stevie and do a little shopping,” and they took me to Lottie’s, where I showered and changed.

They then took me to the police station.

Now, I was no stranger to police stations.

However, I’d never been in one with people who belonged there and not in the way of criminals, witnesses to criminal acts or victims of the same.

Jet and Roxie were married to cops.

Indy and Ally’s dads were cops.

This was family.

I met Eddie (a gorgeous Hispanic man who belonged to Jet) and Hank (a handsome boy-next-door type, but he was way no longer a boy, who belonged to Roxie).

I also met men named Mitch and Brock, who were particular friends of the Rock Chicks, not to mention “tight” with Hawk, Mag and Mo’s boss.

We were brought coffees by uniformed officers.

The girls shot the shit with practically everyone who crossed our paths.

And both Eddie and Hank stood vigil, like I needed moral support, while I gave my statement to a young detective who told me to call him “Gav.”

Hank (incidentally, Ally’s brother and Indy’s brother-in-law, totally all in the family) pointed at Ally when we were leaving and asked, “You got her?”

Which received the little sister response of “Don’t be an ass.”

“I just asked a question,” Hank retorted.

Which gave Ally pause to say, “Is there something I need to know?”

Which I thought might be something I needed to know.

“Not yet,” Hank answered.

And this was a relief, kind of.

“Then don’t be an ass,” Ally repeated.

To which Hank moved his attention to Roxie and asked his wife, “Do you feel like moving back to Brownsburg yet?”

She did not respond except to shoot him a bright smile and blow him a kiss.

Wherever Brownsburg was, they weren’t moving there, I knew this even before Hank heaved a visible sigh and strolled away.

Roxie linked arms with me and guided me out, saying, “It’s part of the reason I love him. Lee and Ally were so wild, the big brother gene got so ingrained in him he can’t stop himself. If Lee was here, he’d ask the same question even knowing they both have their shit tight. I mean, Ally’s the second-best private investigator in the city, but only because she goes it alone and Lee has a team. Like, in most cases, Hawk calls her first if he needs added firepower.”

Added firepower.

Geez.

So, Ally was a PI, she sometimes worked with Mag’s boss, and this was why everyone acted like she was Rambette.

I could see this. She was trim and gorgeous and exuded competent badass.

I envied her.

Hell, I envied all of them.

After this, they took me to Fortnum’s.

I barely got through the doors before Tex was shoving a coffee drink in my hand (he was, I’d learned, the barista at Fortnum’s) and booming in my face, “I call that the ‘Textual.’ Because, first, you ain’t gonna be fuckin’ texting when you’re drinking that because you’ll be about nothin’ but drinkin’ that. And second, it’s my signature and it’s got the word Tex in it. Get it?”

“I get it,” I replied.

“So, take a hit and tell me what you think,” he ordered.

I would take a hit because I liked coffee (though I preferred tea). But I took that hit knowing I was going to tell him I loved it even if I loathed it mostly because he seemed kinda friendly, but he also seemed loony and proud of his coffee, and I didn’t want to see how friendly could turn in the way of Tex.

Then, after I took a sip of a latte flavored with almond, cherry and chocolate, my eyes rolled back into my head.