Drop Dead Gorgeous (Blair Mallory #2)

Chapter Eleven

I woke up when Wyatt got into bed beside me. He had his own key to my place, and the code to the security system, so he didn’t have to wake me to get in, but he definitely woke me when he pulled me close against him because his skin was cold. The red numbers on the clock read 1:07.

“Poor baby,” I murmured, rolling over to hold him. He wouldn’t get much sleep; he was usually at work by seven-thirty at the latest. “Is it that cold outside?”

He sighed as he relaxed, lying heavily against me. “I had the air-conditioning in the truck on high, blowing in my face to keep me awake,” he muttered. His hand slipped over the T-shirt I was wearing. “What the hell’s this?” He didn’t like for me to wear anything to bed; he wanted me naked, maybe for easy access, maybe because men just like naked women.

“I was cold.”

“I’m here now; I’ll keep you warm. Let’s get rid of this damn thing.” He was already pulling the hem of the shirt up, preparing to tug it over my head. I caught the shirt and took over the job, because I knew exactly where those stitches in my head were. “These, too.” He had my pajama shorts down around my thighs before I got the shirt completely off, sitting up in bed to strip them the rest of the way down my legs. Then he lay back down and pulled me close again. He sort of automatically ran his hand over me, cupping my breast and thumbing my nipple, before reaching between my legs; it was as if he was reassuring himself all his favorite parts were still there even if he hadn’t been able to avail himself of them. Then he sighed again, and went to sleep. So did I.

My alarm went off at five. I tried to turn it off before it woke him, but didn’t succeed. He groaned and started to throw the covers back, but I kissed his shoulder and urged him down on the pillow again. “Just go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll reset the alarm for six-thirty.” He’d have to grab something to eat from a fast-food joint on the way to work, but he needed the sleep.

He muttered something that I took for agreement, burying his face in the pillow, and he was asleep again before my feet hit the floor.

I had put my clothes in the bathroom the night before, thinking he might be really late getting in, so I dressed in there. I didn’t need makeup today, since I’d be in Great Bods all day; I brushed my hair but left it down—I wouldn’t be working out today, either. The concussion headache wasn’t quite gone, damn it. I’d really hoped it would be.

When I was dressed, I took my toothbrush and toothpaste with me downstairs, to brush my teeth after I’d had breakfast. The automatic timer had turned on the coffeemaker and coffee was waiting for me. I had a quiet twenty minutes at the table, eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Then I brushed my teeth in the downstairs half-bath, poured the rest of the coffee into a big travel cup, and prepared the coffeemaker again and re-set the timer for Wyatt. I dropped an apple in my bag for lunch, grabbed a sweater, and was out the side door that opened into the parking portico. Well, almost. I had to stop and re-set the alarm, because Wyatt was a fanatic about things like that.

The morning was cold enough that I needed the sweater. I shivered a little as I went down the steps, using the remote to unlock the car. The normal routine was comforting, a signal that things were indeed normal again, or getting there. I’ve been injured plenty of times; cheerleaders get hurt as often as football players do. It’s always a pain in the ass. I’ve learned to be patient, because even though you can do stuff when you’re injured, that doesn’t mean you should—additional stress on an injured muscle or broken bone slows the healing. Since I always wanted to get back to performance level as quickly as possible, I’d learned to do exactly what I was supposed to do—and I hated every minute of it. I wanted to be at Great Bods, overseeing every little detail. The place is mine, and I love it. I wanted to be exercising, using the muscles I’ve worked so hard and so long to build and maintain. Besides, keeping myself in shape is great advertising for Great Bods.

There was almost no traffic on the streets; even in summer, opening Great Bods at six in the morning meant driving to work in the dark. In the middle of summer the sky would be beginning to lighten just about the time I arrived to unlock, but the drive itself was always in the dark. I kind of liked the emptiness of the streets, the early-morning quiet.

As I pulled into my parking space in the employee parking lot in the back, the motion sensor lights came on. Wyatt had installed those himself, just last month, after meeting me here one night and noticing how dark it was under the long awning that protected the employees’ cars from the weather. I still wasn’t used to those lights. They seemed unnaturally bright, as if I were standing on a stage as I unlocked the back door. I had a small LED light on my key chain that I’d always used before to see the lock, and to me it was perfectly adequate. Wyatt, however, wanted the place lit up like a runway.

The darkness under the awning had never bothered me. It had, in fact, concealed me from Nicole Goodwin’s killer when she was murdered right there in the parking lot. I hadn’t argued against having the lights installed, though—I mean, why would I?—and was glad when Lynn confessed she felt safer locking up at night, knowing those lights would come on the second she opened the door.

I unlocked, then went through the building turning on all the lights, setting the thermostat, starting the coffee both in the employee break room and in my office. I loved this part of my day, seeing the place come to life. The lights reflected in the polished mirrors, the exercise equipment gleamed, the plants were lush and healthy; the place was just beautiful. I even loved the smell of chlorine in the lap pool.

The first client arrived at six-fifteen, a silver-haired gentleman who’d had a mild heart attack and was determined to stay in shape and stave off any more attacks, so he spent some time on the treadmill every morning, then swam laps. Whenever he paused to chat, he’d tell me what his blood pressure and cholesterol levels were down to, and how pleased his doctor was. By six-thirty, three more clients had joined him, two employees had arrived, and the day was in full swing.

While Mondays were usually busy days for me, the added paperwork after missing two days kept me hopping. The headache rebounded a little so I tried to limit how much I moved around, but when you’re the one in charge you can’t just sit in an office.

Wyatt called to check on me. So did Mom, Lynn, Siana, Wyatt’s mom, Jenni, Dad, then Wyatt again. I spent so much time on the phone assuring everyone that I was fine that it was almost three o’clock before I had time to eat my apple, by which time I was starving. I also needed to go to the bank and make a deposit, which should have been done on Friday. Things were a little slow right then, or as slow as they were going to get; the lunch rush was over, and the pace wouldn’t pick up again until the after-school and after-work crowd arrived to work up a sweat, so I multitasked by going to the bank and eating my apple at the same time.

I admit, I was a little paranoid about watching for Buicks that were driven by women, but I think that’s understandable. There was no way I could recognize the psycho bitch, but I wanted to give any possibles a wide berth. And because I was watching, things I likely wouldn’t have noticed before got on my nerves, like the woman in the white Chevy who stayed on my bumper for a couple of blocks, or the one driving a green Nissan who changed lanes right in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes, which jarred my head and forced me to call her a fucking mongreloid. I hate when that happens, because people who aren’t paying attention think I’m throwing off on people with Down Syndrome. Thank God my windows were up, you know?

I went through the drive-in at the bank, then threaded my way through traffic back to Great Bods. I kept an eye out for that green Nissan, and Buicks, which is why I noticed the white Chevy again. Well, a white Chevy, and it was driven by a woman, but that isn’t uncommon, so I couldn’t say it was the same white Chevy. What were the odds the same woman would be reversing her earlier path and would get behind me again? Not very high, but hey, I was reversing my path, wasn’t I?

When I got to Great Bods I turned down the side street to go to the rear parking lot, and the white Chevy continued going straight. I breathed a sigh of relief. I either had to get over this newfound paranoia or start paying more attention so I’d know if the same car or just a look-alike turned up behind me. There was no point in imprecise paranoia.

My head was still pounding from being jerked around, so I went to my office and popped a couple of ibuprofen. Ordinarily I love what I do, but today hadn’t been a great day.

Around seven-thirty, the end-of-the-day influx was beginning to outflux, to my relief. I got a pack of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine in the break room, and that was supper. I was so tired, all I wanted to do was sit down and not move for, oh, ten hours or so.

Wyatt showed up at eight-thirty, to stay with me until closing. He gave me a sharp look that made me think I probably didn’t look my best, but all he said was, “How did you make it?”

“I was doing okay until I went to the bank, almost rear-ended a nitwit who cut in front of me, and had to slam on my brakes,” I said.

“Ouch.”

“How did your day go?”

“Pretty normal.”

Which could mean anything from dead bodies turning up in a dump to a bank robbery, though I was pretty certain I’d have heard if one of the banks in town got robbed. I needed to get my hands on his paperwork to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.

The last client left, and the staff began cleaning up and putting everything to rights. I employ nine people, counting Lynn, with at least three people on each seven-and-a-half-hour shift, and four on each shift on Fridays and Saturdays, the busiest days. Everyone gets two days off, except me. I get one. That would have to change soon, and with that in mind I wrote a note to remind myself to hire an additional person.

One by one the staff finished and called out their good-byes as they left. Yawning, I stretched, feeling the echo of soreness caused by my collision with the mall parking lot. I wanted a long soak in a hot tub, but that would have to wait because most of all I just wanted to go to bed.

I did a walk-through, checking that everything was in order, double-checking that the front door was locked. I always left a couple of dim lights burning in the front. Wyatt waited at the back door for me. I set the alarm, then he opened the door as I turned out the hallway lights and we stepped outside. The motion sensor lights came on immediately, and I turned to lock the door. When I turned back around, Wyatt was crouched beside my car.

“Blair,” he said, his voice taking on that flat tone cops use when they don’t want to give anything away. I stopped in my tracks, panic and fury both rising in equal force and making a potent mixture. I’d had enough of this crap, and I was damn tired of it.

“Don’t tell me someone has put a bomb under my car!” I said indignantly. “That’s the last straw. I’ve had it. What is this, let’s-kill-Blair season? If this is just because I was a cheerleader, then people need to get a grip, there are a lot worse things in this world—”

“Blair,” he said again, this time with rueful amusement.

I was on a roll, and I didn’t like being stopped. “What!”

“It’s not a bomb.”

“Oh.”

“Looks like someone keyed your car.”

“What? Shit!” Furious all over again, I rushed to his side. Sure enough, a long, ugly scratch ran down the entire driver’s side of my car. The motion lights were bright enough to plainly see it.

I started to kick the tire. I’d already drawn back my foot when I remembered my concussion. The headache probably saved me from broken toes, because have you ever really kicked a tire, hard, as if you were trying to punt the car between the goalposts? Not a good idea.

Nor was there anything else around that I could kick that wouldn’t break my toes. The wall, the awning posts, things like that were my only available targets, and they were all even harder than the tires. I had no way of relieving my temper, and I thought my eyes would bug out from the internal pressure.

Wyatt was looking around, assessing the situation. His police-issue Crown Vic was sitting at the end of the row; the staff’s cars would have been parked in the slots between his car and mine, effectively blocking his view of the damage, when he arrived.

“Any idea when this could have been done?” he asked.

“Sometime after I got back from the bank. That was about three-fifteen, three-twenty.”

“After school was out, then.”

It was easy to follow his line of thinking. A bored teenager, walking through the parking lot, might have thought it’d be fun to mess up the Mercedes. I had to admit that was the most likely scenario, unless Debra Carson was on the warpath again, or the psycho bitch in the Buick had somehow tracked me down. But I’d been through those possibilities before, when I got that weird phone call that had creeped me out, and they were no more plausible now than they had been before. Okay, Debra was a stronger possibility, because she knew where I worked, and she knew which car was mine. The Mercedes had been a big sore point with her, because Jason had thought it would look good with the voters if she drove an American-made car.

She would be taking a risk, though, because she was already up on a charge of attempted murder—though God only knew when it would get to trial, given Jason’s family connections—and harassing the victim wouldn’t win her any points.

On the other hand, she was nuts. Anything was possible.

I said as much to Wyatt, but he didn’t leap on it as a brilliant theory. Instead he shrugged and said, “It was probably some kid. Not a lot you can do about it, since there aren’t any surveillance cameras back here.”

Since he had mentioned surveillance cameras when he installed the motion lights, and I’d said there wasn’t any need going to that expense, there was a slight edge to his tone.

“Go ahead,” I said, and sighed. “Say ‘I told you so.’”

“I told you so,” he said with grim satisfaction.

I couldn’t believe it. I gaped at him. “I can’t believe you said that! That was so rude!”

“You told me to say it.”

“But you weren’t supposed to! You were supposed to be magnanimous and say something like there’s no point in crying over spilled milk! Everybody knows you don’t actually say ‘I told you so’!” Well, there was an item for his troublesome list of transgressions: rude. And unsympathetic. No, I’d have to scratch “unsympathetic,” because after all the man had just spent his weekend taking care of me. I’d settle for “Gloated about my car.”

Rising from his crouch, he dusted off his hands. “I take it this means you’ve giving in on the surveillance system.”

“Fat lot of good it’ll do now !”

“If anything else happens, you’ll be able to tell who did it. With your track record, I think you can pretty much count on another incident.”

Wasn’t that a happy thought? I glared at my beautiful little black convertible. I’d had it just a couple of months, and now someone had deliberately damaged it.

“All right,” I said sulkily. “I’ll have a surveillance system installed.”

“I’ll take care of it. I know what works best.”

At least he hadn’t said “If you’d listened to me before…” I probably would have screamed right in his face.

He said, “If you’d listened to me before—”

“Aaaaaaa!” I screamed, so frustrated I thought I’d explode. Now I could add “rubbing it in” to his list.

Startled, he jerked back a little. “What’s that about?”

“It’s about…it’s about everything !” I shouted. “It’s about nitwits, and jerks, and psycho bitches! It’s about not having anything here I can kick without hurting myself! It’s about having this stupid concussion so I can’t even stomp around! I need to stomp. I need to throw something. I need a voodoo doll that I can stick pins in and set its hair on fire and pull off its little legs and arms—”

He looked mildly interested in my temper tantrum. “You do voodoo, do you?”

Just as a matter of information, you can’t keep up a rant and snort through your nose at the same time. I didn’t want to laugh because I was mad about my car, but what the hell, sometimes a laugh is going to come out no matter what.

I had to pay him back, though. I said, “I’ll need to borrow your Avalanche while my car is in the shop.”

He stilled, thinking back over the track record he’d mentioned just a moment before. “Oh, shit,” he said, sighing in resignation.