Tod had been talking while he entered the kitchen through the backdoor and grabbed himself a mug o’ joe. He stopped dead in the kitchen doorway and his mouth dropped open. He stared between Lee and Eddie. Back and forth. Back again, and forth.

Then his eyes swung to me.

“What’re you doing? Collecting the straight, super-macho Village People?”

Eddie burst out laughing and Lee looked down and to the side but I caught the fact that his eyes crinkled.

I clenched my teeth.

Once Eddie quit laughing I said, “Tod, Eddie, Eddie, Tod.”

They nodded to each other.

Then I didn’t hesitate, I was being ganged up on, I needed back up.

So I asked Tod, “What do you think of my outfit?”

Tod looked around again, but this time only between me and Lee.

“Uh-oh, is there trouble in paradise?”

“Just answer the question,” I snapped.

“Okay, girlie, keep your pants on.” Tod went into assessment mode, looking me up and down. “Very cute pants. You know I’m not fond of flip flops but they work. Pretty bra but I only say that because I can see every inch of it. Normally, my motto is, if you got it, flaunt it, but with your bazungas, you really got it. You in that top and bra might cause traffic collisions. Are you prepared to live with that on your conscience?”

Great.

I avoided looking at Lee and turned in a huff and headed to the stairs. “Fine. I’ll change. I wouldn’t want to cause bodily harm.”

I went back upstairs, changed the track bottoms for jeans, put on a fitted, plaid, cuffed-short-sleeved, Western Style shirt with pearl snap buttons up the front and on the two breast pockets and switched out the red flip flops for brown leather ones and stomped back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Tod was now sitting with the boys at the table, enjoying his coffee, Chowleena lying beside him on the floor. Chowleena followed me into the kitchen and I threw her a biscuit for her show of camaraderie.

“We girls have to stick together,” I told her as I rifled through my junk drawer looking for my crazy, thick-gold-Elvis-framed sunglasses that would be kickass with my shirt.

I found them as Lee walked into the kitchen. I threw him a glance that would pulverize rock and slid my glasses into the mess of hair on my head.

“Later,” I said, intending to walk right by him.

He stepped in front of me, advanced and backed me into the corner next to the fridge, by the coffeepot, a corner that you couldn’t see from the dining room.

“We haven’t talked about the second thing you forgot,” he said to me, his hands settling on the counter on either side of me.

Ignoring his fencing me in, I planted my hands on my hips. “And what’s that?”

His arms wrapped around me and kissed me.

After he finished, trying to recover from the kiss and not let it show, I said, “Move back.”

“You’re pissed,” he stated the obvious.

“Damn straight,” I said.

“We’ll talk about it tonight.”

“No we won’t, tonight is girl’s night out. I’m busy.”

“I’ll come and get you for lunch.”

“No lunch, no dinner, no tonight, today, you and me, we’re on a break. No talking, no seeing, no nothing. Maybe, if I’ve cooled down, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Indy, you can have space today but you’re in my bed tonight.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be here tonight when you get home.”

“I’m not coming home.”

His eyes got kind of scary and he leaned into me a bit. Considering he was pretty damn close to me, leaning in was seriously invasive.

“Honey, you forget, part of my job is findin’ people. Do you think you can hide from me?”

No, I didn’t think I could hide from him, but I was going to try.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I repeated, shoved through his arms, huffed through the living room giving a wave and a farewell to Eddie and Tod, who both wisely kept quiet, and soared on my anger all the way down the block towards Fortnum’s.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Friendly Neighborhood Serial Killer

I almost made it to the door of Fortnum’s when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that stapled to every telephone and light pole down Broadway, for as far as the eye could see, was an acid green piece of paper with what looked like a photo with some writing underneath.

I thought someone really, really wanted to find their missing cat so I stomped up to check it out and stopped dead at what I saw.

It was a picture of Tex, no night vision goggles (thankfully) but with wild hair, a crazy-ass smile on his face looking like your friendly neighborhood serial killer. The picture was obviously color, copied in black and white which made it blobby and grainy and even more frightening.

Underneath his picture it said, “Tex” and underneath that it said, “New Coffee Guy” and underneath that it said, “Fortnum’s”.

Holy crap.

I snatched the flier off the telephone pole and prowled into Fortnum’s.

There were five customers, three standing in line, two waiting at the other end of the counter for their coffee. Tex and Jane were behind the counter.

I shouted, “What the hell is this?”

Then I waved the acid green poster around.

Tex looked up at me, then looked out the window, then looked back at me and pointed the portafilter at me. Unfortunately, he hadn’t pounded out the used coffee grounds so they went flying in an arc in front of him and the customers stepped wide on either side to avoid them.

“What’re you doin’, woman? That was prime advertisin’ space, right outside the store. Why’d you pull it down?”

I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t want to tell him he looked like a serial killer.

But, for God’s sake, he looked like a serial killer.

“Tex, you look like a serial killer in this picture!” I shouted.

“Yeah, so?” Tex answered.

I stared.

“You think people wouldn’t pay good money to have a serial killer make them coffee?” he boomed.

He had a point. This was America, people would stand in line to touch the swastika on Charles Manson’s forehead.

I stomped to the back to get the mop to clean up the grounds. After I did that, I spelled Jane behind the counter. Tex cursed, banged, slammed and crashed through every cup of coffee he made, as if each creation had to be wrenched by force out of the seven thousand dollar machine. I tried to put this down to the fact that he was making coffee one-handed, due to the sling, but it took all my willpower not to put my hands to the sides of my head and scream bloody murder.