Body Copy - Michael Craven [62]
Tremaine could see others in the bar, men and women, thinking, who’s the lucky guy? Who’s the guy who gets to have a drink with the bombshell?
Tremaine said, “Heather, you’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Donald.”
It was honestly hard for him to focus. If someone of-194
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fered him a million bucks to add two and two, he might not be up to the challenge.
“What did you do to Tyler?” Heather said. “When he got back the other day, he seemed . . . scared.”
“I just asked him some questions.”
“Well, do that more often. He gave us the rest of the day off, and I went to the beach.”
Heather stepped over to Tremaine and put her arm up against his and said, “See my tan?”
“Pretty good,” Tremaine said. “But I might still have you beat.”
She smiled at him, her eyes smiled, too, and she said,
“You’ve had more years in the sun than me.”
“I was afraid you might point that out.”
They settled into two seats down at the corner of the bar. Tremaine looked around. Tremaine enjoyed a nice hotel bar. And Casa Del Mar was a good one. Big rugs, big chairs, and those big windows out to the beach. And locals came here, too, after work, to see people, wind down, chat a little, maybe do some Westside networking.
“By the way,” Heather said, “what case are you working on? Can you tell me?”
Heather. She was cool. She respected the fact that maybe he didn’t want to tell her, so, because of that, he would.
“I’m investigating the murder of Roger Gale.”
“I remember when he was killed. I was just getting started in advertising. So, does Tyler . . .”
“He has nothing to do with it,” Tremaine said. Then, with a grin, “But I still don’t like him.”
Heather returned the grin and said, “Me neither.”
Tremaine bought them another round, then another, 195
Michael Craven
then another. And then there was that Drop Dead Heather smile again, coming toward him. She leaned in as she said,
“I looked you up online again. Why’d you quit surfing right after you won the title?”
Tremaine said, “It was time.”
Despite her buzz, she didn’t push him, she just said,
“You know, you can buy that video, Insane Tremaine, online.”
“That’s a really dumb name.”
“I like it,” she said.
“I didn’t do anything insane on that video. I was just trying to catch waves.”
Heather got off her barstool and stood up in front of Tremaine. He looked at her, standing there in her work clothes, gray pants and a black oxford, unbuttoned a few buttons down. She moved a little closer to him and grabbed his hand. He couldn’t help but look at her, check her out again. The blonde hair, the white teeth, the tan arm touching him.
“Let’s go to my apartment.”
“I’ll race you there,” he said.
They got to her apartment, a really nice place, tucked away on a quiet little street just blocks from the beach. Tremaine had almost forgotten that she was in her early twenties, then he saw the Monet print on the wall.
“I still have that from college. Don’t make fun of me. I needed to fill up some wall space.”
Heather, he thought. Just as I’m about to pin the foolish-little-girl rap on her, she comes up with something like that.
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Then Heather did something that really surprised Tremaine. A genuine surprise, the kind that only comes around a couple times in a lifetime.
She said, “I want to show you something.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Stay right here.”
She walked into the back bedroom, and then, moments later, came back out. She was wearing nothing but a black bra and black underwear.
Tremaine was having some trouble breathing. He said,
“You look terrific.”
She walked closer to him. She was now standing right in front of him.
“Question,” Tremaine said.
“Yes,” Heather said.
“Why are you making this so easy for me? Most guys . . .
no, every guy on the face of the earth would give an arm and a leg—and then another