Jesus. I should have stopped her as soon as she said we were going to investigate this Jo-X thing, but that would’ve been like trying to catch a bullet in my teeth.
“And all this”—she waved a hand at the world—“the sun, this terrific heat, all this emptiness. I’ve never done anything like this before—I mean, not in a car like this. This is a first.”
“Well . . . good.” It was nice. Seventy-five on a highway with few other cars on the road, slipstream of wind blasting over our heads, gorgeous girl beside me, conversation humming along and a trove of fun new words being tossed around.
A few miles went by.
“Thirty-one,” I said.
“Yep. Maybe I don’t look old because I don’t think old. Getting old sucks, if you look around at all the people who are so serious they don’t have fun anymore.”
“I rode in the WNBR.” Okay, that just popped out. I’ll have to get a handle on my mouth someday. Or a zipper.
“Well, there’s hope then,” Lucy said.
I looked over at her and smiled. “You don’t have any idea what the WNBR is, do you?”
“Of course I do. World Naked Bike Ride.”
Sonofabitch. How out of touch was I? “How did you know that?”
“I’ve done it four times. Three in San Fran, once up in Portland. Did you do it totally in the buff or wuss out?”
Proudly I said, “All I wore was a little red body paint.”
“So you kinda wussed out, but I still take back most of it.”
“Most of what?”
“That thing about being totally out of your depth. Maybe you’re only eighty percent out.”
She dug a bottle of Banana Boat sunscreen out of her suitcase, put a dollop in her hand, and started to rub it over her face. “You’re a nice guy, right?”
“Nice?”
“Honest, easygoing, pretty laid back?” Still putting on the sunblock, ears, throat.
“I hope so.”
“Sure seems like it. Anyway, you’re not mean?”
“Not intentionally, no. I can get gruff at times.”
“Still a little hung up, though, the WNBR notwithstanding.”
Okay, she was thirty-one. Seventeen-year-old girls do not use the word “notwithstanding.” Ever. I felt better.
I glanced at her. “We’re back to my hang-ups again?”
“Just sayin’. What you need is a little something to loosen you up, untie a few knots.”
I shivered slightly. “Why do I get the feeling you’re building up to something?”
“Because I am.” She closed the cap and put the sunscreen on the seat beside her.
“Are you gonna make me regret bringing you along?”
“Hope not. Anyway, I’ve never had a chance like this before and I don’t know when or if I ever will again, and I couldn’t possibly do it while I’m driving, so now’s the time to experience life. There’s no way I’m gonna let this opportunity go by, so how ’bout you take it down to like fifty miles an hour.”
“Why? You gonna jump out, experience contusions and road burn?”
She laughed. “Fifty, okay?”
I eased off on the gas. The roar of wind tapered off. Sixty-five. Sixty. Fifty-five.
“Okay, now don’t flip out,” Lucy said.
She pulled her feet under her, then sat up on the back of the seat, up in the wind, and pulled her top off over her head. “Don’t forget to steer,” she said, then lifted her face, eyes closed, and let the hot, dry wind buffet her body.
I looked up at her, nice flat stomach, great little chest pushed out into a stiff gale, temperature at a hundred three degrees, then looked back at the road, thinking that this PI thing was still right on track, wasn’t wearing down a bit. Exactly one year ago, the IRS and I parted ways. After my divorce from Dallas, I’d lived a relatively celibate life as an internal revenue goon for Uncle Sam. Maybe this was catch-up, cosmic style. Maybe I hadn’t caught up enough yet and the books were still being balanced. Or—maybe this was part of what it meant to be a gumshoe. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth fighting. Sometimes you go along and enjoy the ride.
Lucy reached down, got the Banana Boat, squeezed some into a hand, and rubbed it over her chest and arms. When she was done, I treated myself to a two-second look.
Her nipples had hardened in the breeze. She caught my look and laughed. “Good. You’re not flipping out.”
“I’m gritting my teeth, though, trying to make the best of it.”
“Uh-huh.”
I kept my eyes on the road. That’s best if you don’t want to slam head-on into a semi. “You probably ought to know—the most impressive chest I’ve ever seen was on a guy at a beach up at Lake Tahoe a few years back.”
“A guy?” Her voice had a frown in it.
“Uh-huh. About thirty years old, long greasy hair. You know the type. He had two human ears tattooed on his chest. The ears were pierced and had rings in their lobes with a chain swinging between them as he walked.” I glanced up at her.
Lucy stared at me. “That’s brutal.”
“Memorable. You got any skin art?”
“Do you see any?”
“Can’t see all of you. Most, but not all, and I should point out that you didn’t answer the question.”
“Well, I don’t. No piercings, either, except for my ears. I’m not into that self-destructive stuff. You can change earrings or take them off, but you can’t do that with
