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I opened the pleasure box, popped a cannabis-infused, chocolate-covered blueberry, and chose a toy.

I settled on the sofa and let my mind drift to thoughts of sexy half-undressed people and romps on the beach. I was on the edge of a much-needed release at the end of a long, testing day when I heard the front door open.

I guess I probably smiled again. Wider.

Am I interrupting something?his eyes said.

Please join, mine told him.

He took his T-shirt off first and even in the nonexistent light, I could see the lines of that tattoo of his that I was so surprised to discover six months before when our wordless, sex-filled game had started.

He’s definitely putting in more hours at the yoga studio. Or did he ditch yoga for some CrossFit?But I didn’t let those words reach my eyes. He didn’t need to know I liked this toned version of him so much more or how much I was obsessing over him even when we weren’t together.

I kept watching while he continued undressing. In the spirit of full disclosure, I wasn’t only watching. My toy was still humming earnestly. And yes, there are few things more arousing than watching your lover stripping while you are getting yourself off.

You know George complained about us being loud that night? My neighbor is a gossipmonger, and I can’t stand the sight of him—mainly because he always wants to talk to me. But he was telling the truth.

David approached from behind and I made room for his body. I kneeled on the sofa and, when his thighs surrounded my legs, I sat on his lap. His cock pressed against my ass.

He teased my neck with his teeth. The skin of his chest was lighting my back on fire. The heel of his left hand pushed against my breast and crushed my throbbing nipple.

He somehow managed to take control of the vibrator between my legs and pushed it hard against my clit. I shuddered in pleasure. He was so acquainted with all the gadgets in my collection, he knew exactly how to work that particular one for maximum efficiency. But I was close again and I didn’t want to be the one doing all the screaming this time.

My arm left the contour of David’s strong thigh for one moment and pointed to the one place in my living room where we both knew I kept condoms.

He chuckled, and I could feel his breathing in my whole body. But I wasn’t being lazy like he seemed to imply. His arms were simply longer. His chest left my back for one fraction of a second while he reached for the pleasure box on top of the coffee table.

I missed his body dearly.

He was soon back. I heard the foil package opening. And when I felt him inside me, I sighed in relief. Everything felt right.

I’m not sure how long the loudness lasted. I just know I wasn’t the only one to scream. We were still on the sofa, gasping for breath and interrogating each other’s eyes about what we could do to each other next when we were distracted by a screeching noise outside. It sounded like a car speeding on Broadway, leaving a trail of burnt tire rubber on the pavement.

The imitation midcentury digital clock on top of my media console flickered and I saw it was 10:21 p.m. I relished yet again at the idea of it being so early and bit his lower lip.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how vital that time stamp would be. I had listened to the voicemail Dashing Henry had left his lawyer. The police had told me Henry’s fatal hit-and-run happened right before that, at around 10:17 p.m. That car bolting at high speed on Broadway was the killer.

Even if he looked like one, David wasn’t that killer. He was a liar and the worst possible kind of ex, one who wouldn’t disappear, but not the person responsible for Henry’s death.

I warned you about red herrings.

33

Saturday, February 24th

It was early Saturday morning, and I was the doomedest woman in Hollywood. I was convinced I was never going to be allowed to sleep past 7 a.m. again. That’s what you get when you’re a bad woman who keeps two boyfriends and breaks up with them on the same day. All those thoughts were clouding my mind as my cell phone kept insistently ringing.

“Hello?” I finally managed to answer. I’d checked two things before answering it even in my heavy somnolent state: time and identity caller.

It was 6:34 a.m. on a fucking Saturday, and Beatrice was responsible for interrupting my dreams.

“Good! You’re up!” she said, way too much pep in her voice for that early in the morning.

“Not really,” I assured her, still lying in bed and sounding like a heavy smoker. My voice was coarse.

“If you leave now, you’ll manage to get there on time-ish,” she said, and she clearly didn’t realize I wasn’t following—or going anywhere outside of the confines of my own bed.

“And where am I supposed to be going?” The sarcasm was unmistakable in my tone. Yet she succeeded in ignoring it.