The Last Cheerleader

“What kind was it?”

“One of those Hollywood tell-alls,” I said. “Nothing especially new or original.” I remembered that the manuscript had seemed familiar to me, and suddenly I thought I knew why. Not for certain, but I had my suspicions. I’d have to go online and see if I was right.

“What about Tony Price?” Dan asked. “He was a best-seller, right?”

“Not if you want to be grammatical. A best-seller is a book. An author is a ‘best-selling author.’ Or to be even more grammatical, a ‘writer of best-selling books.”’

“I stand corrected,” he said, smiling. “Does it make a real difference?”

“Not unless you’ve got a tiny little editor sitting on your shoulder and you get bugged by those things.”

He shook his head. “Living with you must be a challenge.”

“Well, no one’s ever had to come up to that challenge,” I said, smiling sweetly, “so no problem.” Then, sobering, I added, “Except, of course, poor Arnold.”

Rucker was silent a moment. Then he said, “To get back to Tony Price, I would imagine that losing him will put a dent in your income.”

“Eventually,” I said casually, with more bravado than honesty. “There are still royalties to come in on his last book, and option money if a movie is made from it.” I took a sip of my coffee and shrugged.

“And Craig Dinsmore?” he asked. “He wasn’t making any money for you at all?”

I shook my head. “Not much lately. A few royalties from his older best-selling books. Some from foreign sales. The book that’s at the publisher’s should do quite well, though. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

“Okay. But while you’re wondering about that, enlighten me, please, about the Chinese dildos.”

He seemed surprised. “You recognized them as that?”

“Sure. I have a couple of gay authors and they’re a hot item in West Hollywood right now. Word goes around at parties, so yes, I’ve heard about them. Ancient Chinese sex artifacts, quite expensive. They were the murder weapons, right?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he answered, looking away.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You may take it as that, but like I said—”

“You’re not at liberty to say. But you know, I’ve been thinking. It’d take a lot of strength to bash someone in the forehead with one of those. Hard enough to kill them, anyway. And here we’ve got three someones. It would almost have to be a man.”

“Or a very strong woman,” he said, looking at me. “Someone who works out a lot, for instance.”

“Ah…so you are here on a fishing expedition. You think I killed them.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not saying much of anything. So what can you tell me? This little ête-à-tête has to be mutual, or I’m clamming up.”

“You’ve already clammed up,” he said. “You haven’t told me a thing I can use to find the killer.”

“Well, that shouldn’t bother you too much, since you half suspect that I’m it.”

“You think it’s only half?” he asked, looking me intently in the eye. It was hard to break away because my breath caught and my hands were beginning to shake.

“Are you married?” I asked, setting my coffee cup down carefully.

“Nope. Never have been.”

“Engaged?”

“Nope.”

“Gay?”

“Not so far as I can tell.” He grinned.

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you’re attainable?”

He laughed softly. “I’d like to think I am.”

“Hmm. So then, about that sex stuff. Can we get down to it now?”

The grin widened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

For my part, I’d ventured into this with one thing in mind—well, almost one thing—to get information out of Dan Rucker. But we didn’t talk at all, aside from some rather wild and passionate utterances that would have embarrassed me if I’d had neighbors on the other side of the wall.

He was a pretty good lover, quite skilled in the ways of pleasing a woman. But he still wasn’t my type. And his beard scratched. He turned out to be cleaner, though, than I’d expected—and he still smelled like oranges warming in a noonday sun.

I never did get any information out of him, but never in my life had I felt anything like the way I’d felt with him. It seemed we matched in all ways physical, as if we’d rehearsed a thousand years ago for this moment—corny as that sounds.

When it was over, we both leaned back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. He was the first to speak. “That was really…different,” he said.

I was lying in a pool of sweat, and only half of it was from the hot Santa Ana winds. I cringed. “Different good? Or different bad?”

He leaned on an elbow and kissed my lips, rubbing his lightly back and forth over mine, and ending at the tip of my nose. “Different like…well, like your Poor Man’s Lasagna.”

I struggled to remember what he’d said about that. Thick? Fatty? Greasy?

No. Absolutely wonderful was what he’d said. I smiled.

“Do you have any orange juice?” he asked.

“Second shelf. Fridge.” I turned on my side and snuggled under the down comforter.

“Well, don’t get up,” he said pointedly. “Let me get it.”

“You’re a prince,” I murmured, yawning.

He swatted me on the ass.