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Kicking It(96)

By:Faith Hunter


It was in her large gray eyes, drinking you in as if you were the sun in her sky, her smooth, pale skin that defied the Vegas sun, the bird-in-flight eyebrows that were a Michelangelo arch of beauty. Her mouth shaded that perfect deep red that said expensive and secret instead of slutty. If I was to try that brand and shade, I would somehow manage to turn it into Bozo the Magic Clown crimson, but I still didn’t care. She was such a treat, such a perfectly hidden package of dishonesty and predatory energy wrapped in silk and shine, that nothing could ruin this day. I couldn’t wait to puzzle out what I could do for her.

People thought I hated liars. Wouldn’t I have to since I was so excellent at nosing them out? Wouldn’t it bother me to know that someone was lying to my face?

People thought . . . But the trouble is, people don’t think. Lying is an art. Poorly done, of course, that’s a shame and annoying as hell. But brilliantly done, bless, you just have to stand back and applaud the artist.

Elizabeth Rose was an artist. I’d heard the lies on the phone when she made her appointment with me, referred by a past client. Elizabeth Rose, with a husband one year in the grave, had said she needed my help. Not information, which was simple, but my help, which was something not many asked of me. I wanted to do right by her for that alone.

For asking, for being interesting, for chasing away the boredom, and for giving me a chance to watch an artist at work—for all that, I would definitely do my best to do right. If the money was good, that would just be a big, fat, juicy cherry on top.

Elizabeth I-am-certainly-not-boring Rose deserved my best.

“Elizabeth”—I didn’t do formal with any of my clients; that they could take or leave—“would you like a drink before you tell me about your situation? I can whip you up anything from a brandy to a mint julep, but unless you’re wearing a hat and watching the horses race, I wouldn’t recommend the second. Without the sound of cheering and the smell of money in the air, it just doesn’t taste the same.”

“The Derby.” There was a mist of memories clinging to her, the same as the smell of mint would. “I’ve been. It was wonderful.” The memories fled as she focused on me. “You’re from the South. I could tell, from your accent, but Derby . . . If you haven’t been, you can’t know, can you?” There it was again—that sun in my sky, only person in this world, this time, this moment pull in her gaze. Elizabeth was a pitcher and she was filled to the brim with charisma.

As only the cream-of-the-crop liars ever are.

“Honey, I’m from everywhere.” I spread my arms to indicate the vastness of that everywhere. “I never settle too long. Born to hit the ground running—that’s me.” I also knew Derby was more wonderful if you were rich and sitting in Millionaires Row and not rolling around drunk in a muddy infield. “Now, how about that drink?”

She put her hands in the lap of a dress that probably cost more than the Titanic and stopped as many hearts. It was as red as her lips and for a magpie moment I wanted it greedily for myself. I did adore red. “Thank you for the offer, but no. The sooner I see if you can help me, the better I’ll feel.”

It was finely done, how she didn’t sound at all like my grubby little bar glasses would never touch her painted lips if she could help it. You couldn’t hear it, not one bit. Elizabeth, I thought fondly, lovely and unloving Bethy Rose, we could be such good friends. Our girls’ nights would leave men crying in their drinks for months. You are such fun.

“Then, tell me, Elizabeth.” I took a coolly sweet swallow of mango from my glass, and if it was grubby, I didn’t notice. “What can I do for you, sweetie? You seem like you want something more than information or a little help. You make me sound as if I can change your life. Do something big.” I put the doubt in my voice—it never hurt when it came to the dollar price. But inside, I had no doubt.

Go big or go home—isn’t that how it goes?

Big I could do.

“Go on, Elizabeth.” I nudged her with a sympathetic curve of my lips and tilt of my head. “Tell me what you need.”



I was wrong.

Elizabeth was boring.

I hated being wrong almost as much as I hated being bored. Still, I could take her problem, one I’d heard too many times, and make the solution entertaining. Making my own challenge. And why not? Someone had to do it.

I sulked—it’s not pretty to say, but I did—drank my margarita, and read Elizabeth’s face as she carefully laid out what she wanted piece by piece, artfully jumbled, because she thought if I saw the picture of the puzzle clear and bright as the North Star, I’d think her vain.