"How was your flight?" I smiled up at Grace as she stepped into my office.
It was good to finally see her in the flesh after playing phone tag and travel roulette for the past few weeks.
"Long." She pulled me in for a quick hug before crumpling into the chair on the other side of my desk.
I knew all too well how taxing the two hour time difference between L.A. and Chicago was on a late-night flight. I'd made the journey several times over the years for various engagements, including the one right before Mr. Fantastic. Coming back from Florida was definitely easier because I gained an hour.
"I'm glad to be home. Mr. Jackson was a tough nut to crack, but once I got him to open up"--Grace paused to let the drama grow thicker--"he was a complete freak!"
"Really?" I grimaced at the thought.
"Uh-huh. I'm telling you the old white dudes love a little brown sugar." She turned in her chair and slapped her ass for emphasis.
"I'll take your word for it." We both laughed, and I went back to work answering an e-mail when Grace started fidgeting with her hair. "What?"
"So I talked to Patty on the ride over." She gave me a look. "According to her, that video of you and Eric Bennett was something else."
Fucking Patty. She was supposed to set us up with clients, walk them and their attorneys through the evidence we gathered, and cut us our checks. Gossiping about what we did to get that evidence wasn't in her job description. Too bad all the contracts and nondisclosure agreements we signed for our clients didn't apply when she was talking to us; us being me, Grace, Lydia and Bridget, the co-owners of Homewrecker Incorporated. Yes, the name was right on the nose, a sort of joke amongst us girls since we didn't exactly pass out business cards or have a storefront. Our work was by referral only but for official purposes, like our tax returns, we were Mason, Dawson, & Associates, LLP Private Investigators.
"Well?" Grace fished some more for details about my time with Alaina Bennett's husband.
It wasn't as though we weren't constantly talking about what we saw and did with our marks. The topic was standard when we got together, but the Bennett case was one I preferred to forget.
"It wasn't that bad, just some handcuffs and a leather strap or two." I hoped it would be enough to sate her curiosity.
"Oh shit! Eric Bennett is even kinkier than old Mr. Jackson!"
Kinky wasn't the word I would have used to describe it. He was something much, much darker.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish