“Hope your boyfriend thinks so, too.”
Kit realized she meant Grif. “Oh, no. It’s not like that.”
“With that type?” Bridget scoffed and started on the left hand. “It’s always like that.”
“Type?”
Glancing up, Bridget laughed at Kit’s perplexed expression. “Take it from a pro. You know a man by his thrust, and that one’s got it.”
“I generally get to know the man before I get to know his thrust.”
Unoffended, Bridget just snorted, and started cleaning up. “Not physically. I’m talking about a man’s drive. Plenty of men are good at acquiring money and cars and things, but only a few have real forward motion. You know. Thrust.”
Kit pursed her lips. Paul was certainly driven, but compared to Grif, and Kit had certainly been doing so the night before, Paul had the thrust of a Schwinn. She huffed, surprised she’d realized it only now. “You are so right.”
“ ’Course I am,” Bridget scoffed. “And you can lay odds that a man who’s driven in his life’s pursuits-whatever they are-will be equally driven when it comes to you.” Stilling suddenly, she looked up from her work. “You can lose yourself to a man like that.”
Kit swallowed hard, and thought of all the questions that remained about Griffin Shaw. She thought of the way her pulse throbbed harder, thicker, around him, too. The way her gut had kicked when she thought he’d been injured. The way it warmed when he’d stood up to Paul.
But the idea of losing herself entirely in another person? Sure, that idea spoke to the romantic in her. But so far it’d done so in a language she didn’t know.
“Anyway,” Bridget went on. “This case you and your girlfriend cracked open? It’s all about ambition gone sour. Sex isn’t about power or money.”
“No. It’s about love.”
“No, it’s about sex.” Bridget laughed wryly, and pushed her hair back from her face. “Sex drives us, love or no love. Power or no power. Money or no money. It’s the most powerful drug in the world. Some pay for it. Some die for it.”
“And others kill for it.”
Bridget held the questioning gaze for a moment, then jerked her head down at Kit’s nails. “I’d let them sit for a bit to make sure you don’t smudge. Or maybe let your man drive.”
Kit didn’t correct her this time. She’d been warming to the idea of Grif anyway, backing up to it like it was a cold night and he was a flame. Sex
They settled up, but Kit paused with her hand on the door. “What you were talking about earlier,” she said, frowning. “Maybe
“Maybe.”
“You think that kind of passion is meant for everyone?”
Now Bridget did look at her like she was foolish. But she also looked wistful. “Ideally.”
But they weren’t in an ideal world. And it was too bad, Kit thought, exiting the shop. Bridget might have talked to her if they were. Kit might have been able to trust her. And neither of them would have to fear a man with a whole different sort of thrust-corrupted, soured, rotting… and seemingly unstoppable.
She expected Grif to grill her as soon as she was back in the car, or at least chastise her again for getting a manicure while on the job, but he only tossed the phone in her lap and shifted to face her. “Tony called. Guess which little birdie finally flew his coop?”
“No way,” Kit said, eyes grown wide. She’d had a long conversation with the old man that morning, encouraging him, aptly, to spread his wings. It just seemed sad to waste what time he had left on this earth hiding from what was both possible and inevitable: death. What kind of life was that, anyway?
“Look, if I can walk around with a killer following me now,” she’d said to him, “why can’t you go out there after forty years?”
Tony gave her his death stare. “Have you ever had a bomb go off beneath the car you were supposed to be driving?”
“No. Have you ever been attacked by two men in your own bedroom?”
“Three. And more than once.”
Kit frowned. “Oh.”
Yet he’d done it. He’d left his safe house for the first time in decades and Kit liked to think something she’d said had contributed to that. “So where is he?”
“A coffee shop down on Western Avenue, one he used to frequent when he was still made. He wants us to meet him there. Have a celebratory ninety-nine-cent special.”
Kit knew exactly where it was, in the old industrial area now littered with auto shops, XXX movie houses, and a scattering of taco carts. It was closely watched by Metro, carefully ignored by the tourist bureau, and loyally frequented by old-timers despite the unchanging menu and dated decor. Maybe even because of it. One half- expected Lefty Rosenthal to suddenly saunter through the wooden door, and it was one reason Kit and her friends loved the place.
“So is she holding back?” Grif finally asked.
“Who, Bridget Moore?” She nodded at his sound of assent. “Of course.”
“Think she was the contact who lured Nicole to the Wayfarer?”
“I don’t know.” Frowning, Kit turned the possibility over in her mind. “I think it’s time to bring Dennis in. I think he can help.”
“I told you. No cops.”
“I trust him.”
“No.”
Kit tried on Tony’s death stare. When Grif only blinked, she filed his definitive “no” under “maybe” and let her expression clear. “Well, either way, I like her.”
Grif looked at her. “Even though she might be hiding something that can help you solve Nicole’s death?”
“Yes.”
“But… aren’t you angry?”
“Nah. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t do the same? Besides, much of the world’s problems could be solved if we were all just gentler with each other.”
She’d also run into too many reluctant sources to let them get to her now. Sometimes they came around on their own. More often they got tired of her nagging and just fessed up. It was rare that her ability to circle a source and dive back in from another direction didn’t create some fissure of opportunity she could crack.
So she’d do so again in this case. Maybe not until Saturday, when she’d hit the Chambers benefit-with beautiful nails and a fantastic dress-but for now she’d fortify herself with a veggie omelet, limitless coffee, and-most important-hope.
“Do you always have to see the best in everyone?” Grif said out of nowhere, watching her face with something close to a wince.
“Yes.” She swung into the triangle-shaped lot in front of the hash house.
“Why?”
Turning off the car, she almost laughed at his bemused expression. “You should just be thankful I do, otherwise I’d be obsessing over your presence in my bedroom on a night someone tried to murder me-”
Grif sighed dramatically. “Not that again.”
“-instead of thanking you for your help in the days since,” she finished, and that shut him up. Kit smiled. “I am thankful, Grif.”
He looked away. “I know.”
“I’m also still a bit obsessive.”
He sighed again, this time resigned. “I know that, too.”
Letting it go for now, Kit climbed from the car. “You know, I could ask the same of you. Do you always have to see the worst in people?”
