“Fine. She has a nice ass and great legs and she was always wearing tops that let you see practically everything.”
Satisfied, she nods. “So you’re into legs?”
“Maybe I am. She has great legs. Dancing will do that for you. Running, too. Chicks that run — that’s a surefire way to a great ass and sexy-as-hell legs,” I say, and, thinking about how it felt to kiss her and have her tight body pressed up against mine, I fix her with a long look that makes her cheek color. “I can think of a couple examples.”
“Oh, yeah?” She says, then she turns and heads toward my closet. “We can talk about that later. Let’s get your disguise picked out.”
For a fifteen painful minutes, we go through my old clothes. And I have the urge to take everything from this closet, toss it into a barrel, douse it in gas, and burn it to ashes. But we finally pick out an outfit that has the dual effect of both concealing my identity — making me look like some high school washout who is still holding on to his glory days playing second string quarterback for the JV football team — and bringing a giant smile to Tiffany’s face. It sucks, but if it’ll make her smile and help save my mother’s house, I’m all in.
“I think this will be the pièce de résistance,” she says, holding up a shirt I’ve kept buried in the back of my closet for years.
“No. Out of the question. Pick something else. Like the Metallica shirt.”
“Come on, I think it will be perfect.”
Then she does something that completely disarms me; she giggles. It’s bouncy and light and the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
“Are you serious?” I say. My resistance is already fucking gone, but I need to keep up appearances.
“I mean, a grown man like you, wearing a Backstreet Boys shirt?” Then she squints and holds it closer. “Wait, is this thing autographed? And personalized? How did you get this?”
“I won a radio contest.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“And, are you going to say anything more?” She says. Her grin is so wide it would give the Grand Canyon a run for its money. “Because I need details about how you have a shirt with autographs and personal messages from each of the Backstreet Boys.”
Whatever it takes to keep the pain from earlier off her face. I’d do anything for this girl.
“Look, I’ve always been a badass. You know that, right?”
She laughs. “Of course. Fighting fires, robbing banks, you’re an impressive man, Blaze.”
“I became a fan of the Backstreet Boys when their Millenium album came out,” I start. And I can already feel my voice starting to shake with enthusiasm — I can’t help it; I love that damn album, I’ve been in fistfights just to keep their songs on the jukebox at the clubhouse, and I sure as hell ain’t going to hide my feelings from Tiffany. “Anyone — even guys who are almost as tough as me — will tell you that that album is a banger. There’s no one out there who doesn’t like ‘I Want It That Way’. It’s just fucking magic.”
“It’s a good album, I’ll give you that.”
“No. It’s a fucking great album and you know it.”
She holds up her hands and takes a step back, still grinning. “OK, Blaze. No need to get angry.”
“Shut up. I’ve been through this kind of discussion before. I’ve had to kick more than a few asses just because I want to rock out to ‘I Want It That Way’ or ‘Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely’ during karaoke.”
“Fine, fine, I recant any sarcasm. Tell me how you got the shirt.”
“They’d just released their Never Gone album, they were doing their tour, and they were coming to LA. There was a radio contest to find a ‘super fan’ to get front row seats, a backstage pass, and to hang out with the band. I won.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She holds up the shirt, squints at it, and my heart sinks as her eyes suddenly fly open wide. “This note from Lance mentions a tattoo. Is that how you won?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Please?”
I shake my head and give her a look. “Not a chance. Listen, I don’t think this disguise idea is going to work out. I’ll just follow these guys my way.”
She puts a hand on my chest. Her smile is bright enough to blind, and her touch freezes me in place. This girl does not understand the effect she has on me.
“Blaze, those guys out there are thugs; they only know how to solve things with violence, and if they see you how you normally look, they will see a threat. Because you are one. We have to make you look like you’re not a threat, like they don’t even want to deal with you. Clearly, you’re used to fighting your way through problems and, when you’re as tough as you are, that works. But you need to think your way through this problem. Trust me.”
She flatters me and sets me on fire with just a touch. This woman’s impossible to argue with.
“OK, I’ll wear the damn shirt.”
“There’s one last thing, Blaze,” she says, and, from the way her smile shines and her voice barely conceals another giggle, I know I’m not going to like it. “You can’t go riding your motorcycle. You will need a different vehicle.”
“I’ll make a few calls, I’ll find a ride.”
She shakes her head. She’s already got something in mind.
“The more people you bring in on a secret, the more likely it is to get out. Calling any of your contacts just raises the chances of you getting
