On the Rocks

Love Lies Beneath - Preview Excerpt, Chapter One

My locker is well stocked with aromatic soaps and lotions, but before I use those I take a few minutes to douche away feminine fragrance, heightened by the previous ninety minutes of effort. One of my exes called me fastidious. Another claimed I'm obsessively clean. But, as my late, great first husband once told me, "A sweet pussy invites the tongue to tango." I plan on plenty of oral dance in an hour or so.

Meanwhile, I run the water hot, perfume my hair with gardenia- scented shampoo, and soften my skin to silk with this fabulous vanilla-cedar shower gel. My eyes are closed against the final rinse of conditioner when a voice flutters softly within the tiled walls.

"What is that amazing incense smell?"

"It's body wash from Kiehl's."

"Expensive?"

"Not too." I blink away water, and when I identify the person on the far side of the conversation, I hope the shower head's splash disguises the serrated intake of my breath.

Penelope teaches yoga, and while she's something to see in a tank top and stretch pants, naked she is simply exquisite. In a side- by-side comparison, I can hold my own against pretty much any woman here. But Penelope is one of those rare young things whose obviously natural curves and fawn suede complexion rival anything my pricey plastic surgeon could accomplish. If I had hackles, they'd be bristling.

"You can find the body wash online. Vanilla and cedarwood."

I grab a towel, cover my imperfect assets, and try not to stare at Penel-ope as she and I trade places.

For the next twenty minutes, I work serums and moisturizer into my skin before applying foundation. Not sure why I'm bothering. It will all come dripping off in a little while. Oh well. At least I'll look attractive until then and turn a few heads on my way to the door.

December shrouds San Francisco in gray. I step out into the heavy, wet curtain and am happy I took the time to blow-dry my hair, which is long and thick and would stay damp otherwise. My stylist calls it problematic because it takes extra time to color. But I'm determined to keep it as close to its original fox red as possible. My sister is two years younger, and at not quite thirty-nine her hair has gone completely silver. It's actually striking on her, but the look would be wrong for me.

I stand back against the building beneath a wide awning, watch- ing sidewalk travelers hustle by. Everyone walks quickly here, wor- ried more about what's behind them than the appointments waiting for them up ahead. It's an eclectic stream—high school kids with prominent piercings, street dwellers of various ages and genders, a young black woman in short leather, an older white man in ankle- length mink.