Sin With Me

16

“Gah. You’re such a bitch.”

She says it with love, though, so I know I’m forgiven. “Do you want me to drive? I can pick you up around six?”

“Fine. See you at six.”

We say good-bye and hang up, but I have a bad feeling this conversation isn’t over.

The next night promptly at 6:00 p.m., I push the button on the call box at the bottom of the long, gated drive that leads to Nico and Kat’s place in the Hollywood Hills. When the buzzer sounds, I pull through the gate. When I get to the top of the drive I start to laugh, as I always do when I see their house.

“The Shack,” they jokingly call it. It’s an enormous compound of glass and stone, perched on the side of the hill with a spectacular view of the entire Los Angeles basin, from downtown to the sparkling Pacific to Malibu, far north. It’s about as shack-like as the Taj Mahal.

I park next to the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway and head to the front door, a massive slab of redwood twice as tall as I am. It opens before I’m even halfway across the cobblestone drive. Barney stands there waiting. He’s looking at me over the rims of a pair of mirrored sunglasses, with his brows lifted and an expression like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

“Hey there, big boy,” I say playfully when I reach the front step. “How’s it hangin’?”

He smiles, exposing a set of gleaming white teeth. “To my knees, Angelface.”

“Oh my. And I thought that was just a big gun in your pocket.”

“Oh, it is big. And fully loaded.”

We grin at each other.

“Your girlfriend’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Then, just to see if he’ll play, I add, “I’d ask you why you’re wearing sunglasses indoors but then you’d probably tell me something dumb like your future is so bright you have to wear shades and I’d lose all respect for you.”

His smile is blinding. He slides his sunglasses farther down his nose, looks me up and down, and drawls, “I know that’s a line from a song. And honestly, sweetheart, it’s not your respect I’m interested in.”

“No?” I blink coyly, thoroughly enjoying myself. There’s nothing like a little harmless flirting with someone who can give as good as he gets. “Then what are you interested in?”

I half expect him to say something creepy, but he surprises me when he deadpans, “I just want to say one word to you. Just one word. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“Plastics.”

It’s a famous line from a movie. He’s testing me to see if I’ll get it. Which, because I’m a huge film buff, I do.

“Exactly how do you mean, Mr. McGuire?” I answer, playing the part of Dustin Hoffman’s character, Benjamin.

Barney’s face lights up. “You know The Graduate?”

“What, you thought I was just another pretty face?”

“I thought you were a pretty everything,” he answers instantly. “But getting my stupid movie references makes me think you might actually have a brain, too.”

I pretend to be insulted. “I’m a licensed therapist, Barney. I’ll have you know I have an advanced degree!”

He’s clearly not impressed. “Some of the stupidest people I’ve met have advanced degrees. Also, therapists are generally as much of a whack job as their patients are.”

“Usually more,” I agree, taking no offense because he’s right.

“I’m glad we had this conversation,” he says with a straight face, nodding. “Now I can masturbate to the thought of your enormous brain and not just your beautiful body. I’ll feel much better about myself afterward. You know, women’s rights and whatnot. I know you ladies like to be taken seriously.”

“You’re fun,” I declare, charmed by this Armani-wearing, smart-mouthed thug. “Why didn’t I know this about you?”

“Probably on account of the huge cloud of testosterone that surrounds me. Makes it hard to see me through all this”—he swivels his hips and waggles his eyebrows up and down—“machismo.”

I throw back my head and laugh. “Yes. That’s definitely it. Now let me in before I throw myself at you and ruin a beautiful friendship.”

“Goddamn. Don’t tease me like that, woman,” he says, his voice gravelly and his dark eyes alight.

“You can take it.”

I place my hand on his broad chest and gently shove. He steps back, grinning, his gaze raking over me, and lets me inside. As I walk by him, I say over my shoulder, “I know you’re staring at my ass, Mr. Machismo, because I can feel it burning.”

His husky laugh follows me all the way into the kitchen.

I find Kat perched on a stool at the huge marble island in the middle of the gourmet kitchen, staring at an open cookbook on the counter as if it just arrived from outer space.

I say, “Hey.”

Without looking up she asks, “Lobsters can feel pain, right?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked one.”

She glances up at me, distress in her eyes. “Seriously. This recipe”—she points at the book—“calls for a live lobster to be thrown into boiling water. That’s, like, torture!”

“Your warped sense of morality is torture. Where do you think those juicy steaks you like so much come from? Murdered cows.”

Kat puts her hands over her ears. “Stop it. I’ll have nightmares.”