Page 62 of The Oscar Escape
Oscar resisted the temptation to dance around and pump his fist. This might not be as damning as he’d originally thought. What’s a little trespassing? He checked on Aria. She’d won the battle with the tank top and had her panties halfway up her legs. Good, good! She’d be decent in a few seconds. He returned his attention to the judge. “Yeah, about that. That was Aria and me up in the lantern room. We rode out the storm here and wanted to take a peek.”
It wasn’t a lie.
“Mr. Elliott?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you in your underwear and holding a plastic lobster?” the judge tossed back.
Answer: Because the lobster in question was hiding his giant erect cock—a cock that, less than a minute ago, was ready to bang his fake wife into oblivion again.
He sure as hell couldn’t say that.
Oscar cleared his throat and forced himself to picture the least sexy thing he could imagine. And what did he picture? He imagined his dad’s face when he saw on the news that his son had gotten arrested for lewd behavior in the great state of Maine. And then another possible shitstorm popped into his head. He eyed Clawdia. “Is this lobster an important historical item like the bench?”
The judge cocked his head to the side. “No, kid, it’s a plastic lobster.”
“Right, that’s exactly what it is,” he confirmed like a moron. He flashed what he hoped wasn’t the smile of a man who enjoyed getting kinky with artificial sea life. But he couldn’t read the jowly judge. Was the man amused or angry?
He shifted his stance. “About my lack of clothing.”
“Our clothes got wet when we were hiking to the lighthouse,” Aria chimed, coming to his side fully dressed—thank Christ. “We came inside the cabin to dry them.”
“It’s not a cabin, Mrs. Elliott. It’s a museum,” the judge corrected, straight-faced.
“Okay, we entered themuseumand made a fire to warm up and wait for our clothing to dry . . .sir.”
Look at her dropping the pleasantries. This was positive. Aria was direct but not confrontational. And he was right there, ready to back her up. “Uh-huh, that’s what we did. I am a man, and I made fire.”Fuck, fuck, fuck!He sounded like a boneheaded caveman. “Are we in trouble?” He flicked his gaze to Aria. “More trouble?”
“No, son, you and your wife were right to get out of the rain. The museum is open to visitors and residents. We get quite a few lightning strikes on the island. It was smart to take shelter. But I don’t believe you’ve been completely forthright with me.”
Oscar shared a look with Aria. She eyeball asked him what the judge was talking about. He eyeball replied hell if he knew.
But they were about to find out.
The judge unbuckled the leather straps on his satchel. What had he brought with him? Had the man done some digging and learned that he and Aria weren’t married? Had he uncovered her true identity?
“You said your wife worked in the entertainment field,” the judge said, pawing through the bag.
Oh no! Where was this going?
“She’s a musician.”
“I am,” Aria affirmed.
“That’s all?” the judge pressed.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir?” Aria asked with another well-placed sir.
“You didn’t mention you were also a composer,” the judge continued and removed Aria’s notebook from his satchel. “You left this on the table, Mrs. Elliott.”
Aria’s posture stiffened. “You looked inside my notebook?”
“Someone bumped into the table where you’d left it, and it fell to the ground. I merely retrieved it. Are you a composer?” he asked and handed her the item.
Aria held the notebook to her chest. “Do you read music?”
“No, but I know people who do.”
