Page 27 of Tested
Chapter Eight
David
Next time Trajan casually asks me to run to the club with him, I’m going to be busy getting a manicure or organizing my lipsticks by age and brand or something.
FFS.
It’s not like I don’t enjoy sex, becausehello, I totally do. Watching that relatively ordinary-looking guy taking it in the ass from a woman whose big hair had come straight out of 1988, though? Not my thing.
Although Trajan’s little unconscious squirm when I said I might want to top him is the high point of my night. Such a funny guy, my vampire. Trying to be all tough and hitman-adjacent, but underneath the brooding stare and the hair product, he’s kind of a cinnamon roll.
I’d topped guys before, and I might do Tray under the right circumstances. In the meantime, there’s a dead kitsune and who knows what all murder and mayhem to try to solve.
The next day I get up as soon as I hear someone moving around. I’m in my own room, for once, and the sun’s still up so those footsteps must belong to Connor. I throw a silk robe over my nonexistent sleepy-time clothes and find him in the kitchen, making one of his gourmet smoothies. I make a face at the color – a vaguely beige shade of grey – but when he offers, I grab a glass.
“Don’t tell me what’s in this,” I say, and take a swig. It’s…not bad. I can almost feel the vitamins and minerals racing to buff my muscles. He looks tired, no, more than that. Weary. His hair is damp and combed straight back from his face and his stubble is as long as George Michael’s on the cover of Faith.
Because yes, I am familiar with the classics like that.
I let him take a couple swallows before hitting him with my questions. Or at least some of my questions. There are some things that I don’t want to ask unless I’ve had time to soften him up first. But then he beats me to the punch.
“What’s on your agenda for today?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing. If you need a sidekick, I’m happy to play Boy Investigator.”
He gives me a sharp nod, as if he’s satisfied with my offer. “Always happy to have a partner, but maybe”—he gives me a once-over that’s way too hot—“put some clothes on. I have an appointment to meet with Adaline Nosaka’s best friend, and I was hoping you could come with me.”
While I can’t imagine a reality where I’d be helpful in that kind of situation, I down the rest of the mystery smoothie and head for the stairs. Adaline was a respectable woman, so her best friend must be, too. With that in mind, I comb my hair into a neat ponytail at the nape of my neck. I put on jeans that only have one knee ripped out and a vintage motherfucking pinstriped button-down.
A pair of penny loafers complete the look in a way that makes me smile, and I strut downstairs, already grinning because I know Connor will be amused.
Connor’s waiting for me in the kitchen. “You ready to”—he pinches his lips together and I know he’s trying not to grin—“go?”
“Lead on, Sherlock.”
He does, and as I follow I wonder how he managed to find a pair of plain khaki pants that fit his ass so beautifully. His own button-down broadens his shoulders and his brown belt narrows his waist.
“There oughta be a law,” I murmur.
He glances at me. “What?”
I just laugh. Then we get to his car and I laugh harder. “You willingly rented a Ford Taurus? I can’t even with you, Connor MacPherson. Don’t you have any pride?” Connor just smirks at me, the saucy bastard, making me roll my eyes. “Clearly you have none whatsoever. What am I going to do with you?”
It’s a rhetorical question and wisely, he doesn’t answer. “You cannot expect me to ride in that thing.”
He notches his hands on his hips and fakes a scowl. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal. When our murderer is safe in jail, you and I can go out and test drive a few new vehicles.”
“Oh honey, we most certainly will.”
We climb in and I sniff at the stale scent, hoping Connor’s sexy whiskey aroma will take over soon. There’s a dark spot on the floorboard, a spill left by a previous occupant. Connor’s not terribly talkative, other than to tell me that first we’re visiting a contact he got from Stone, so I spend the drive imagining what could have left that stain. Blood, most likely. From there, I progress to reasons blood gets spilled, and then I move on to the body we’d discovered.
That leads me to all kinds of unpleasantness, and I’m grateful when Connor pulls into the parking lot of a strip mall on Ventura Boulevard, becausewowmy thoughts got depressing.
“Do we have a strategy? Like, is one of us the good cop and the other the bad cop?”
“Not sure.”
“Well look, let’s keep things simple. I am definitely the good cop. Remember that.” I climb out of that sad Ford Taurus. If Connor responds, I don’t hear him.
