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“Satan.”
“I always thought he’d look a little more obvious.”
“Apparently he only wears the red devil suit in movies.”
Fiona suppressed a smile. “Okay, so is Satan masquerading as any particular human today?”
“Martin’s ex-landlord.”
“He looked kind of hot—and not in a fire-and-brimstone sense. While you look like hell,” she said, staring at Skye’s cheeks. “You’ve got mascara trails.”
Skye glanced at herself in the mirror next to the door and saw exactly how ridiculous she looked with her eye makeup streaked down her face. “Just freaking perfect.”
“And Satan disguised as Martin’s ex-landlord is outside our door because…?”
“Because he thinks I have information that could help him find Martin.”
Fiona frowned, then started absentmindedly fiddling with her toe rings. That’s what she always did when she was deep in thought.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.” Skye had learned the hard way that Fiona’s advice on life matters great and small often led to unexpected results. Skye’s recent highlighting debacle at the hair salon was a case in point.
“You don’t even know what I was thinking about.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to hear about it.”
“You’re still mad at me about those highlights, aren’t you?”
Skye ignored the question, took off her shoes and headed for the kitchen, praying there was still a Diet Coke left in the fridge.
“I still think platinum is a good color on you,” Fiona called after her.
One lonely bottle of Diet Coke stood in the refrigerator door, as if the beverage gods knew she’d need some caffeinated comfort. She grabbed it and returned to the living room, where Fiona had moved on from her toe rings to wrapping one of the two braids she had her hair in today around her fingers. Hair fiddling represented Fiona’s deepest level of thought and was normally reserved for creative endeavors, such as when she had an idea for a new collage.
“I hope you’re deep in thought about art and not my life.”
Skye sank into her favorite purple chair and propped her feet on the matching ottoman. For the first time, she noticed that Fiona was listening to some strange jungle-sounds CD and watching CNN at the same time. An assortment of odd objects—everything from boa feathers to bottle caps—lay scattered on the coffee table in front of her. This meant she was trying to get new ideas for her work.
“Sorry, I’m interrupting your brainstorming with my life drama, aren’t I?” That was the thing about living with an artist—it was hard to tell if she was working or just sitting on the couch.
Fiona shrugged and stopped playing with the braid. She had long black hair, pale skin and luminous green eyes, but what turned heads everywhere she went was her confidence. She was so self-possessed, so comfortable in her skin, she could wear her hair in pigtails and make it look sexy. Skye envied that.
“What would I have for entertainment if not your guy problems?” Fiona said.
“I am so screwed.”
“Because of Satan? Why don’t you just talk to him and tell him everything you know about Martin. Then he’ll leave you alone.”
“That’s not why I’m screwed. I just got fired.”
Her eyes widened. “Fired from Dynasucks? What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about the lurid details right now.” Skye took a long drink of her Diet Coke, blatantly breaking her recent pact with Fiona to drink only natural, unprocessed fluids.
“Does it have something to do with that Satan guy?”
“Yes—well, no. I don’t know,” Skye said. Not that she’d helped matters by giving her boss every reason in the world to fire her.
“Did you tell Nelly to go screw himself?”
“No, I totally wimped out.”
“Why?” Fiona had been subject to enough of Skye’s rants about what she’d say to Nelly on the day she left Dynalux to deserve an answer, but Skye wasn’t sure she had a decent one.
She shrugged. “Because I want to be polite to the people who attempt to ruin my life?”
Fiona shook her head but said nothing.
“Stop with the disapproving silence!”
“You’ll find a better job. I saw a help wanted sign at Starbucks this morning,” she said. It was Fiona’s lame version of a joke.
“You went to Starbucks? What happened to your disavowing all unnatural beverages?”
Fiona managed to look chagrined—not one of her more common emotions. “Coffee beans are natural. Sort of.”
“I can’t take another sales job. I think I’d rather turn tricks.”
“You’re way too much of a wuss to be a hooker.”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“There’s always waitressing. I could talk to Tommy at Club Sunset and beg him to give you a job again.”
Skye sighed. She’d be back where she’d started in college. She and Fiona had met five years ago when they were both waitresses at the bar and grill where Fiona still worked. But what other option did she have?
None at the moment.
“I’ll be forever in your debt, Fi.”
“I’m working tonight. I’ll talk to him then,” she said, but the ironic look she gave Skye told the truth about the situation.
It sucked.
Skye had left the job and Club Sunset three years ago with a vow never to go back, she’d been so sure she was moving on to bigger things. The thought that all this time had passed and she still hadn’t sold a book…
It was too depressing to dwell on. Maybe she’d never sell a book. Maybe being a sales consultant for Dynalux Systems was the best job she’d ever have, and she’d just thrown it away because she was too proud to grovel.
“I’ll talk to Tommy on one condition—you spill the story of how you got fired.”
A few more gulps of Diet Coke, and the soothing effects of caffeine began to calm Skye’s nerves. She told Fiona about everything except the bra—which she was reserving for dramatic effect.
“Okay,” Fiona said when she finished. “You’re leaving something out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a glimpse of Satan,” Fiona said, her tone pregnant with meaning.
“And?”
She narrowed her eyes at Skye. “And you know he’s a hottie.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“We both know how you get around gorgeous men.”
“So?” she asked, but she knew what Fiona meant.
Skye’s faulty instincts were at their worst when a beautiful man was involved. Martin had been the kind of guy women stopped and turned around to admire when he passed them on the street, and he’d also been her biggest guy disaster.
“What are your instincts telling you to do about him?”
“Run, run, run, as fast as I can.”
Fiona’s brow furrowed. She’d helped Skye develop her new do-the-opposite strategy. “That’s weird. Then… you have to give him a chance.”
“A chance to what? Ruin what’s left of my sad little train-wreck life?”
“I mean you have to cooperate with him, if your instincts are telling you not to. Besides, you said yourself Martin is nowhere near the top of the police’s priority list. If someone doesn’t find him soon, he’ll probably never be found.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“In fact—a guy as hot as Satan, and your instincts are telling you to run? You may need to take him straight to bed and screw his brains out if you really want to stick with the rule of opposites.”
“Fiona! That’s insane.”
“Think about it. You’re always taking things slow, getting to know the guy before you do the deed, waiting for love, blah, blah, blah. Maybe that’s all your crappy instincts leading you astray.”
“Or maybe it’s just, like, common sense. Like, what ninety percent of the human race calls the courtship process!”
“I’m just saying, with your track record… This is your first chance to test out your theory. You ought to do it right.”
“Right,” Skye said, panic settling in her belly.
She didn’t want to test out any theories, especially not with a guy who’d practically gotten her fired from her crappy job. Although…
It was possible she needed to face the fact that her own actions, more than anything else, were what had caused her to lose her job. Nico’s appearance had simply hurried the process along.
“Go talk to him. Maybe between the two of you, you really can find Martin and get your money back.”
“Or maybe he’ll turn out to be a psychopath, and weeks from now the police will find pieces of me scattered around the foothills—the pieces the mountain lions didn’t eat, anyway.”
“If he were a true psychopath, he wouldn’t have approached you in broad daylight, at your office, with a zillion witnesses to ID him and describe your heated exchange to the police.”
“You haven’t seen what he brought and left on my desk.” Skye retrieved her bag and pulled out the red bra, then held it up in all its glory. “Would any sane man think this belongs to me?”
Fiona gawked at the size of the thing. “Why would he bring you that?”
“He thought it was mine, left behind in Martin’s cottage. It was his excuse to pay me an office call.”
She frowned. “I thought Martin didn’t leave any traces when he left.”
“Actually, he did leave a weird assortment of junk at his place, but nothing that could really lead us to him.”
“Why’d you bring that home?”
Skye frowned at the bra. “I thought we might want to perform a ritual burning. You know, to rid my life of the last physical trace of Martin.”
“Sorry, but ever since the drunken flaming-dildo incident, I’ve sworn off ritual burnings.”
Skye laughed in spite of her bad mood. Fiona had nearly burned down their apartment getting rid of the evidence of a previous boyfriend, who’d surprised her with an oh-so-romantic gift-wrapped dildo for Valentine’s Day—that he’d wanted her to use on him.
“Let me see that,” Fiona said, reaching for the bra. “Maybe it’ll fit me.”
“Right.” Skye tossed the bra to her. “In your porn-star dreams.”
Fiona held the triple-D-cup bra up to her C-cup chest. “It’s close.”
“Right. If you talk into it, there’ll be an echo.”
She turned the bra around and read the tag. “Lolita’s Creations, Las Vegas, Nevada. Size 34DDD. Wow, I’d be surprised if the owner of this can stand upright without assistance.”
“That’s kind of odd—a city name on a bra tag?”
“Maybe it’s a custom lingerie shop. I mean, look at this thing. It’s got some unusual details.”
There was a tiny beaded butterfly between the cups, and the edges were trimmed in sequins.
“I wonder…” Skye said, not quite ready to get her hopes up.
“If this is a clue to Martin’s whereabouts? It could be.” Fiona looked at the tag again. “The only other information is Dry Clean Only.”
“Why would anyone wear a dry-clean-only bra?” Skye asked as Fiona handed the bra back to her.
“Maybe if it’s, like, their professional attire?”
“So my ex was screwing a stripper, a show girl or a prostitute. That makes me feel so much better.”
“Don’t forget porn star.”
