Mr. Perfect (Page 76)

"I swear," he said, holding up his right hand. "No more fucking around."

"Screwing," she said.

"What?"

"Screwing around."

"That’s what I said. Same thing."

"No, your language could use a little cleaning up. That’s what I meant."

"Babe, I’m a football player. We swear."

"That’s fine, when you’re on a field, but you aren’t on a field now."

"Man," he complained, but good-naturedly. "Already you’re trying to change me."

She shrugged in a take-it-or-leave-it manner. "My dad can peel your skin off when he’s swearing, but he watches his language around Mom because she doesn’t like it. I don’t care for it either. My friend Jaine is trying to stop swearing and has done a really good job. If she can do it, anyone can."

"Okay, okay. I’ll try." Suddenly he grinned. "Hey, this is kind of homey, isn’t it? Domesticated. You ragging on me, and me promising to do better. Like a couple." Luna laughed, and went into his arms. "Yes," she said. "Just like a couple."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Bleary-eyed at dawn on Saturday morning, Sam yawned and sat up on Luna’s couch. Around midnight the women had decided he could watch the apartment just as well from inside as he could outside, and insisted he come in. He was tired, so he did. He hadn’t had much sleep for two days and nights – he would have gotten more if there hadn’t been a certain smart-ass lying under him, insisting on wiggling her pretty butt – and was disgusted after a day chasing leads that turned out to be nothing on another case he was working, plus not getting anywhere on the files from Hammerstead. The computers hadn’t turned up anything so far on the names they had run, except for the odd unpaid ticket and a few domestic disturbances. By midnight, fueled by beer and chocolate, the four women were still going strong. Cheryl turned out to be a toned- down version of Marci, similar in looks and voice and with the same boisterous sense of humor. They had talked until they were hoarse, laughed and cried, drunk beer and eaten everything they could get their hands on. It had been an amazing sight.

They moved the wake into the kitchen, and he stretched out on the couch. He had slept, but with one ear attuned to the noise from the kitchen. Nothing alarming had happened, except he discovered that Jaine sang a lot when she was tipsy.

When he woke, he noticed immediately that the noise had died down. In fact, it was downright quiet. Quietly he opened the kitchen door and peeked in. They were all asleep, breathing with the heaviness of fatigue and alcohol. T.J. was snoring slightly, a delicate sound that didn’t qualify as a full-fledged snore. Having grown up in a house with four brothers and his dad, he knew exactly how a full-fledged snore sounded.

Jaine was under the table. Literally. She was curled up with her head pillowed on her folded hands, looking like an angel. He snorted; that was a real con. She had probably practiced sleeping like that since she was a little kid. Luna rested her head on her folded arms, like a child in grammar school. She was a sweet kid, he thought, though she had to have some grit to her to hold her own with the others. Cheryl’s head was on the table, too, but she was using a pot holder as a pillow – a flat one. With enough beer inside you, a lot of things made sense that normally wouldn’t.

He searched for and found the coffee and filters and put on a pot of coffee, not making any attempt to be quiet. They continued to sleep. When the coffee was ready, he hunted through the cabinets for the coffee cups, and got down five of them. He poured four of them only half full, in case there were some shaky hands, but his he filled to the rim. Then he said, "Okay, ladies, time to wake up." He might as well have been talking to the wall for all the effect his announcement had.

"Ladies!" he sounded, more loudly.

Nothing.

"Jaine! Luna! T.J.! Cheryl!"

Luna lifted her head an inch and looked blearily at him, then let her head drop back down on her arms. The other three didn’t stir.

A grin spread over his face. He could shake them awake, he supposed, but that wouldn’t be much fun. What was fun was finding a pot and a metal spoon and banging them together, then watching the four women bolt upright, wild- eyed. Jaine hit her head on the table and yelled, "Son of a bitch!"

His mission accomplished, Sam distributed the coffee cups, bending over to give Jaine hers; she was sitting under the table, rubbing her head and glaring. God, he loved that woman.

"C’mon, get it in gear," he said to the group at large. "The funeral is in roughly five hours."

"Five hours?" Luna groaned. "Are you sure?"

"I’m sure. That means you have to be at the funeral home in four hours."

"No way," T.J. pronounced, but she managed a sip of coffee.

"You have to sober up – "

"We aren’t drunk," came a growl from beneath the table. " – eat something, if you can, shower, wash your hair, whatever it is you have to do. You don’t have time to sit under the table growling."

"I’m not growling."

No, that was more like a snarl. Maybe some medicinal sex would sweeten her mood – if he lived through it. At the moment, he kinda knew how the male praying mantis felt when he was approaching Ms. Mantis, knowing the sex was going to be great but he was going to get his head bitten off.

Ah, well. Some things were worth losing your head. Cheryl stood up, very creakily. She had the imprint of the pot-holder loop on her cheek. She drank some coffee, cleared her throat, and said, "He’s right. We have to get moving, or we’ll be late."

A slender arm thrust out from under the table, holding an empty coffee cup. Sam got the carafe and refilled the cup. The arm was retracted.