Page 44 of Art of Sin

19isolation

When I walkinto work Monday morning, Trent almost spits out his coffee. “Shit, Deirdre, you look like a different person!”

Maggie elbows him, then grins at me. “It’s gorgeous. I can’t believe you’ve never gone brunette before. It’s perfect.”

I listen with half an ear as her compliments and Trent’s backpedaling continue, saying thank you at appropriate times, while dumping my purse and settling behind my desk.

When I walked into the salon yesterday for my standing appointment, I had no idea I’d walk out with my natural color. But I do know who’s to blame.

We have to let the animals inside us off the leash or bad things happen.

Lying alone in my bed last night, Gideon’s pronouncement found a home inside me. A key fitting in a forgotten lock. I slept all night without a pill and woke up feeling… different. Calmer. Sharper. Like some of the jagged pieces inside me were filed down to slick, smooth glass.

Or maybe it was the epic orgasm I’m doing my best not to think about. Especially since it was clearly a one-off, a freakish detour in our unorthodox relationship… friendship… partnership?

Who fucking knows. All I know is that it can’t happen again, regardless of whether my body clamors for more.

“Uh, boss?”

I clear my throat, focusing on Trent. “Sorry, lost in thought for a second. I’m listening now.”

Maggie chuckles. “Who are you and what have you done with Deirdre Moss?”

I roll my eyes, keeping a blush away from my neck and face by sheer force of will. “What’s on the agenda today? Please tell me it’s packed.”

“It’s packed,” confirms Trent.

Thank God.

* * *

I stay busy until six.So busy I don’t think about Gideon at all—well, not often. I’m so proud of myself that when Maggie throws out the usual drink-invite, I say yes.

After she and Trent get over their shock, we step into the hazy evening light and walk two and a half blocks to a popular boutique hotel. On the roof is Bar Blue, Santa Monica’s newest it-locale for happy hour. At least that’s what Maggie and Trent tell me as we join a crowd of suits in an elevator.

The rooftop is already packed with businessmen and women, voices loud and glitzy watches flashing. Trent finds us a café table before disappearing with our drink orders.

“Okay, spill it.”

My wandering gaze snaps to Maggie’s grinning face. “What?”

She gives me a pointed look. “Come on, who’s the guy? I’ve known you, what, five years? Is it Frank from accounting? He’s been following you like a puppy for months. Always thought he was cute—has that Clark Kent thing going on.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Who the hell is Frank?”

Maggie throws her hands up. “Fine, don’t tell me who it is.” She grins, shaking her head. “I’m just glad you’re getting some.”

“I’m not—”

“Ladies?” asks a svelte, black-clad server, not waiting for a response before setting two drinks on the table. “Our signature cocktail, compliments of the gentleman.”

She gives a suggestive head tilt, and we turn as one to see a group of three men and one woman sitting on low profile couches around a totally superfluous, blue-flamed fire pit.

“Is that—” begins Maggie in a hush.

I scan the faces, settling on one in particular.

“Gideon.”

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