Unfortunately, I tend to break out in a rash when I’m nervous or anxious, although it’s usually confined to my neck and chest. This was a full body itch so I guess that meant I was ultranervous about Beckett.
Arch tugged down the back zipper. I shimmied out of the gorilla suit, sighing when a breeze hit my sweaty skin.
He peered at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “Now that’s sexy.”
He was looking at my chest.
I glanced down, not getting a straight on view like him, but I could imagine. Initially, I’d been wearing layers, only I knew I’d be hot in the ape suit, so I’d peeled off the long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving my pale pink tank top. It was soaked and so was my sheer bra. I met his appreciative gaze. “So can you see my…you know.”
“Nipples?” He quirked his first grin in several minutes then reached into his backseat and produced a denim jacket.
“Thanks.” I didn’t care that it was too big for me. Through twists of fate it seemed someone, somewhere was always getting a peek at my boobs. So far everyone on the team except…No, wait. Everyone on the team had seen my boobs. I didn’t want to think about it.
Arch lit up a cigarette and I marveled for the zillionth time how I could possibly find the nasty habit sexy. I guess it’s because it accentuated his bad-boy persona. It also stunk up the air and blackened his lungs. Lungs I cared about more and more, along with every other organ and limb of the man’s hunky body.
“You should really think about giving those things up.”
“Noted.”
“And?”
“Thinking aboot it.”
I rolled my eyes. Conversation with Arch wasn’t always easy. But I wasn’t daunted. After all, I’d been married to a man who spoke in circles for a living. As an agent, Michael had to appease both artist and buyer which often led to embellishing, twisting, and spinning his words. Sometimes the best approach was to leave off and come back to the subject later. In some ways, Michael had been a valuable training ground for Arch. Weird, but true.
We fell into mutual silence—Arch smoking, me scratching—as we made our way up the wooden steps and onto the boardwalk. Waves lapped at the shore. The sun beamed in a clear blue sky. A beautiful spring day, except for the cloud of doom I imagined hovering over the club.
Arch snuffed his Marlboro then steered me through the front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I flashed on the disappointment I’d experienced the first time I’d entered this run-down building. I’d expected a super spy facility, not a dingy bar that looked like it hadn’t been modernized since the 1950s. It even had a beat-up cigarette machine and a jukebox. The pictures on the faded walls featured singers and musicians from days gone by. The only artists I recognized were Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. Then again, unlike Beckett, I wasn’t a big fan of jazz. You can imagine my shock when I was told it’s the only kind of music he allows in this joint. I sing pop, rock, country, disco and R and B. I do not sing jazz.
Although, I’d have to take a stab at it. When not in the field, Beckett expected me to perform here. A cover job of sorts. Just as this bar was a cover for Chameleon. Never mind that there wasn’t a stage and that the mini sound system had been appropriated by Tabasco. At least it was better than flipping burgers in the kitchen. Maybe.
I hugged myself, scratching at my itchy skin through the sleeves of the jacket as Arch and I bypassed vacant tables and targeted the bar. Business wasn’t exactly booming. Then again it was only one in the afternoon. I was pretty certain the two barflies buzzing over their draft beers were the same two geezers I’d seen in here during my last visit.
The bartender, an elderly dark-skinned gentleman with a fondness for vests and porkpie hats, was the team member who oversaw the club when Beckett was in the field. His name was Samuel Vine, but everyone called him Pops. He had a deep, soulful voice that seemed two sizes too big for his wiry body. Pops was also a man of few words. I didn’t know his background, but I’m thinking he and Beckett went way back. Unlike Arch, he didn’t hide his emotions. Clearly, he was rattled. Even so, he forced a smile and addressed me first.
“Welcome home, Twinkie.”
Unfortunately, everyone on the team, except Arch, had picked up on my unwanted moniker. Fortunately, I’d grown used to it. “Thanks, Pops.”
“Your ma and pa okay now?”
“Happily reunited. Thanks to…” I started to say Chameleon then remembered the barflies. “Friends.”
“Good. That’s good.” His gaze flicked to the man beside me. “Ace,” he said, gripping Arch’s hand.
Arch squeezed the man’s shoulder, smiled, and the old man relaxed a little. “Heard from Jazzman?” Arch asked.
Pops leaned in and lowered his voice. “All I know is he got hauled in by the AIA. Told me he’d be in touch later. That was—” he glanced at his Timex “—three hours ago.”
I scratched my neck, my chest.
“Others are in The Cave,” Pops said then moved back to his cronies.
Arch took my hand and pulled me aside. “Maybe you should wait here.”
“Why?”
“From the way you’re scratching, I’m not sure you can handle whatever’s going on, Sunshine.”
Of all the…“I can handle it!”
“Calm down,” Arch said with a glance to the patrons. All two of them.
“I can handle it,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “This isn’t a nervous rash. I’ve never broken out on my arms before. I think it’s a reaction to that monkey suit. The fur or whatever Fannie cleaned it with. I don’t know.”
“Right then. You should shower.”
“I will. As soon as I get home.”
“Now. Upstairs.”
“Beckett’s shower?”
“Aye.”
“Forget it.”
“He’s not there.”
“I don’t care.” No way, no how was I getting naked in Beckett’s apartment. I’d been there. Done that. Almost. Thanks to ODing on a combo of over the counter medication. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.”
He didn’t look or sound exasperated, but I’d wager I’d taxed his patience. “Fine,” he said then steered me to a storage room.
My pulse accelerated as we navigated the jam-packed room and pushed through a concealed door. A set of creaky stairs led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb illuminated a washer and dryer and a freezer. Workout equipment. Tools. Crates of liquor and soda. All perfectly normal. Well, except for the appliances. The avocado finish screamed early 70s. Hello, Brady Bunch. The old-as-dirt dryer was probably a fire hazard. The ancient wiring couldn’t be that safe, either. I immediately redirected my basement inferno thoughts.
I’d
