TV Game Show: Winter Jennings
Chapter 1: Matt Striker

Copyright 2018

Thriller Sex Story: Chapter 1: Matt Striker - This story is rated R. All minors - 18 and younger - must be accompanied by a parent or legal guardian. There's a television-addicted maniac loose in Kansas City. Add in ten hunky male strippers - such bad-boys. Full frontal. Gratuitous sex. Plus a morose KCPD crime scene photographer with a romantic streak. "Risk" features Winter Jennings, private eye. Co-staring Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, Hobo. And a psychopath to be named later. But television programs ... seriously?

Caution: This Thriller Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers   BiSexual   Crime   Mother   Son  

Vanessa cupped my cheek with her palm. She smiled and said, “Mary Oliver.”

I smiled back and recited those haunting lines from Vanessa’s favorite poet,

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”


I said, “Emile, I need a sniper. With a laser sight.”

“When?”

Typical, straight-to-the-point response from Emile Chanson. Bulldog Bannerman’s ... um, associate. Driver, bodyguard, man of mystery. A fixer for the fixer.

Most people would have responded, “Are you fucking nuts?” Or looked for the nearest exit. Emile isn’t most people. He didn’t ask why. Nor who, nor where. Just the most practical question of all ... how soon?


My new cowgirl boots saved my butt.

I was admiring my tush — well, all of me really — in a window reflection just outside the LeEnfant Plaza train station. It was Friday night, dark for about an hour. I’d just taken the Fredericksburg train from Quantico, Virginia into DC. In mid-September the air here is still soft, as it is in the South, not even a hint of Fall.

I saw a reflected shape loom behind me and heard a raspy whisper, “Your turn, bitch.”

I whirled. Gasped and stared. At a wicked-looking knife that was being casually tossed from right hand to left, back and forth.

It bothered me a lot that this particular knife was being juggled at about knee level. Underhand, the way the pros go at it. But what terrified me was how casual this stringy-haired guy was. He wasn’t hyped up, wasn’t a mugger, wasn’t the least bit nervous. Calm demeanor, calculating eyes.

Without thinking, without a glimmer of a plan, I whipped my head to the right and terror-screamed, “DON’T SHOOT HIM!”

The guy reflexively jerked his head to his left and I lunged forward, drop-kicking his balls as hard as I could. An adrenaline-laced punt fueled by hysteria. I wanted my right ankle to sever him in half.

By luck, the side of my boot caught the knife in mid-flight and sent it flying off to my right. My scumbag shrieked out a high-pitched scream and collapsed onto the sidewalk, rolling to his side, bringing his knees up to his chest, clutching his crotch with both hands. Thrashing his head from side to side in astonished agony.

Still scared to death, I jumped one step closer and stomped on his face, barely keeping my balance. I bloodied his mouth, splintered his nose. I wasn’t thinking — just reacting. Something manic was loose in me. There was a roaring noise in my head, and I drew my leg back and kicked him in the chin, falling backwards on my butt. I hopped back up, gasping for breath, heart racing. His jaw was lopsided, hanging half-hinged off to one side. Blood streamed from an eye socket.

Three men, strangers, had come running; two of them grabbed the assailant — would-be assailant — and held him down. The third guy, panting and leaning over from the exertion, placed his foot on the knife. He had a Burberry raincoat draped over his left arm; odd the things that register when you’re this frightened.

Two women had called 911 and I could hear sirens. I hugged myself, trembling and crying. Then Matt Striker, seven minutes late, traffic, pulled up to the curb.


Matt jumped from his gleaming black Audi and embraced me, hugging me so tightly. My sobbing was slowing, my shivering was easing. Gasps were morphing into heavy breathing. It felt so fucking good to be in his arms. He silently took in the scene.

Confident that I was okay, or that at least I wouldn’t faint, Matt strode back to his car, reached inside the passenger side and winked at me. Plastic handcuffs. Injection-molded nylon. About ten cents per. He jerked the fucker’s wrists behind him and immobilized the arms just as the first Metro squad car pulled up. The siren Dopplering away into the night.

A beefy cop, face the map of Ireland, heaved himself out and said, “Striker. What the fuck?”

It was dawning on me that maybe I was in some kind of procedural soup. I had acted in self-defense, no question. Nevertheless, there was serious testicular injury involved. And not one, but two, severe face-kicks. Civilian interference from Matt Striker. Bureaucracy. Paperwork.

Matt nodded at me, “She’s one of the good guys, Costello. Taking a course at Quantico.”

“Fucking Feds.”


Daddy told me, “Something odd about this one.”

He handed me a KCPD report on last night’s only local murder. We were sitting at the bar in BEAR’s on Broadway, sipping a smoky German beer — Rauchbier. My best friend Bear rotates different craft beers in and out on a regular basis.

It was late August, the Kansas City temperature still in the 90s at eight this Wednesday evening. The beer was both tasty and refreshing.

This particular killing had been especially gruesome. A young woman’s nude body was found on a muddy patch of ground a few yards south of the Missouri river. I know that neighborhood — it’s not that far from the Unicorn Club.

The Medical Examiner reported — in dry, technical language — that the victim appeared to be in marvelous physical shape. Except that her entire body and face had been ravaged by a savage dog. No, two dogs. She’d been alive when they attacked.

A footnote: “Victim suffered severe hemorrhaging from blood vessels that burst within the vocal folds and leaked onto the vocal cords.”

Screaming.


I had been flattered, inordinately pleased, when the legendary FBI special agent, Ash Collins called me personally. At our loft in the Wrigley. “Winter, if you can free up a month, I can get you into a BAU course at Quantico.”

Behavioral Analysis Units. Mine would be BAU Crimes Against Adults.

And, boy, were there Crimes Against Adults in Kansas City. The most public, the most bizarre ... perpetrated by a serial killer the Kansas City Star dubbed Mr. Television. But all that would come out later.

Mr. Television.

Ash said, “I cleared Quantico with Sandra.” Sandra Fleming, the new SAC in Kansas City. Special Agent in Charge. Down from the Chicago office. KC is smaller, but heading things up here is a promotion.

“How’d she take it?”

He laughed, “Like she should. Irritated. Didn’t want the complication. But she’s a pro, didn’t go all defensive. She’ll live with you in the picture. She knows your past contributions.”

The Gunthers. First Greta, then her cousin, Gunner.

I said, “I can clear my schedule. Thanks, Ash.”

“You’ve earned it.”

Neither Ash nor I mentioned the bonus. Matt Striker lives in DC. A fella I’m sorta fond of.


This is the life I’ve chosen. Winter Jennings, private detective in Kansas City, Missouri. I’d followed my father into a law enforcement career. Retired KCPD Homicide Captain, Dave Jennings. Now a regular consultant to the FBI. Mostly here in town, but he’s called to DC every once in a while.

I’d grown up admiring Daddy, fighting my older sister Autumn for his attention. Affection. He’d been a mythic figure to me as a child. And my admiration didn’t fade as I became more aware of the world around me. Kansas City adores Captain Dave. Quiet, never boasting, doing whatever it takes to get the job done. He had been the face of the police force whenever the mayor was confronted by a particularly vexing criminal challenge.

So. Law enforcement.

I graduated from John Jay College of Criminal Justice on, ahem, time. Then spent three restless years as a nobody in the KCPD before hanging out my own shingle in the Stockyards.

On the personal side ... well, to the outside world my family is probably perceived as being as unconventional as my vocation. I was happily single, then happily married to Richie. Thrilled to become a mother — Walker, now 15. Having a child, such a good boy, has been a life-changer.

A couple of years after Walker was born, Richie traded me in for a younger version. Cliché, but clichés happen.

Thankfully, about ten years after my divorce, Vanessa Henderson agreed to marry me. The former Miss Indiana is more than a Slavic beauty, she’s a miracle.

Vanessa, Walker, and I live in a huge floor-through loft in the gloriously restored Wrigley Hotel. It’s on Main Street in the artsy Crossroads. Just south of downtown, now christened the Power & Light District.

Over the past couple of years, Walker has acquired a live-in girlfriend from Hondo, Colombia. The amazingly self-contained Pilar Paloma. Along with her Border Collie, the competitive Hobo. The very protective Hobo.

I used to worry, not a lot, but some, about Pilar. But sex just seems natural to her. Her co-conspirator, Walker ... well, he’s as unconcerned as she is. As for me, I’m trying to stay cool about the whole thing. I can sang my froid with the best of them. I don’t even need to pop a Molly. Probably not.

Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, and me. Hobo. That’s us.


My first time in Matt Striker’s condo. Georgetown. His crib is sort of small, but very trig. One bedroom and one bath. Not exactly Spartan ... minimalist, I’ll call it. Needs a woman’s touch, obviously. And fortuitously. Mentally, I’d already made three artwork decisions. Hope he can afford me.

We were eating curry at his comfortable breakfast nook in the sun-dappled kitchen. Sitting, shower-fresh, on an L-shaped banquet bench. Red leather. My thick blonde hair and caramel tan looked good against the leather. In the sunlight. I felt pretty.

I glanced down at my new cowgirl boots. And what beauts they are. Reddish-orange, soft, supple leather. A surprise gift from Vanessa, a no-special-occasion present. One of the last hand-crafted pair from the legendary Wheeler Boots family business in Texas. Retirement.

There was a slight nick where I’d kicked that fucking knife away. I could have it burnished out, but I won’t. It’s sort of a badge of pride to me. Like the three Greta Gunther bullet holes in our hardwood floor. We decided to leave them there as a testament to the courage shown by Walker, Pilar, Hobo.

Matt had ordered oceans of Indian food the night before — Tandoori lamb chops as well as chicken from that same oven, veggies, lentils. One of my favorites — kadhai, this version with goat. Steamed rice of course, and onion kulcha. The aromas teased their way out of the white containers — coriander, cumin, turmeric — and had me salivating.

But there was an even more tempting ... um, temptation in the air last night. It involved relief at besting that fucking knife guy, a hasty shower, tangled bed sheets (clean), and two adults eager to re-explore each other.

Last night’s two-bear mambo had been our best ever. Both times. Plus, first thing this morning. We’re getting to know each other; becoming more comfortable. Physically of course. But also mentally, emotionally.

I shall neither confirm nor deny that Matt employed a pair of FlexiCuffs for the second time in one evening.

He had gotten up sometime in the night and stowed our unopened repast in his red Smeg refrigerator. Score!

This morning I reconstituted the rice, warmed everything that needed it. Matt opened two bottles of breakfast beer — Bira 91. On trend, that’s my Matt. A newish craft beer that Vanessa had told me about. For those who think scarfing spicy lamb chops and cold beer for a matutinal meal is odd, here’s a suggestion: don’t knock it until you’ve scarfed it.

Matt smiled across the table at me and that sad Nathan Lane face turned merry, “Leave you alone for a couple of minutes...”

I shrugged modestly, “I try to kick at least one ballsack a week.”

The night before he had told me who I had ruptured. And face-deformed. An underground legend in the wrong circles. The locally infamous Nip Clipper. “Name is Herman Gottlieb. He doesn’t save the nipples, doesn’t take trophies. Just ... slices them off. Monster.”

Just thinking about it made me shudder. I pushed my plate away. God, the damage that would do. Physically of course. I guess there could be reconstructive surgery. But emotionally, mentally ... I couldn’t comprehend the devastation it would cause. I thought about all the pleasant, naked time I’ve spent in front of a mirror. It would never be the same if he had...

I sighed, gathered myself. Buttered another piece of warm kulcha. There, that’s more like it. Gottlieb hadn’t gotten to me. And wouldn’t attack another girl. Not for a really long time anyway.

Matt opened two more beers and the cloud scudded away.


I first learned about Mr. Television before the Kansas City Star bestowed that moniker on him. Even before the Star was aware that a serial killer was loose among us. Vanessa, in an intuitive leap, made the original connection.

But before all of that emerged, before Mr. Television became the talk of the town, I faced a more immediate challenge.

Dragon Lady # 1 called me, “He’s on his way.” Then, uncharacteristically chatty, added, “It’s important, Winter.”

I looked out my office windows in the Livestock Exchange Building on Genessee. Like the Wrigley, this century-old building has been redone, top to bottom. I saw Bulldog Bannerman’s driver, the mystery-shrouded Emile Chanson, open the back door of that long, long, black Cadillac.

I waved, Emile didn’t bother.

Bulldog, as usual, didn’t waste any time, “Tom has a problem.”

Tom. Tom Lynch. Mayor Tom Lynch. In his second, and final, four-year term. He’s already announced for Governor. Which, political gossip has it, would be a stepping stone for his Senatorial bid. He’s popular, around here at least, but it’s tough being a Democrat in Missouri these days.

I asked Bulldog, “How can I help?”

“Make it go away.”

Bulldog Bannerman is the ultimate behind-the-scenes power broker. Quietly pulling the levers of Kansas City government for four decades. A civic fixer extraordinaire. In his 70s, still trim. Probably the same weight as he carried back in his Golden Gloves days. Same Marine Corps brush cut, white now.

“I’ll do whatever I can.” More for Bulldog than Mayor Lynch. I’m in Bulldog-arrears in the Favor Bank.

“Tom’s younger daughter. Amelia. Sex tape.” Bulldog shook his head. Not about the sex; about the stupidity.

“Blackmail?”

“Possible. The tape was hand-delivered to Tom’s office... 42 minutes ago. Marked Personal and Private. Messenger service is clueless.”

“Who’s the sex boy?” I’d met the Lynch family. Amelia, Amy, is shy, especially with such an outgoing father.

“It’s a woman, 20-something.”

Good news and bad. It’s not some hormonal teenager. But it is someone who should be old enough to know she’s playing with nitroglycerine. And someone who has gone ahead and decided to dance with that unstable substance.


Walker said, “Well done, you.”

I suppressed a sigh. My son is still affecting his terrible, really atrocious, British accent. Pilar usually ignores it — she merely nodded at the cooking compliment. Grilled cheese with pepper bacon. Spices in the melted butter.

As usual, Vanessa is amused with Walker’s shenanigans. I’m not since I personally have an impeccable faux Oxbridge in my repertoire. Well, he’s 15. He’ll outgrow it. Or else I’ll have to shoot him.


Bulldog left the flash drive with me. I wondered if he’d watched it. Of course he had. He didn’t rise to where he is by ducking the unpleasant. I watched Emile open the back door of the Caddy, then drive smoothly away. Off on another civic mission. This Mayor Lynch errand probably wouldn’t even be Bulldog’s most important event of the morning.

I inserted the flash drive into the USB port of my MacBook Pro and watched seven minutes, sixteen seconds of woman-to-girl sex. I viewed the video calmly, analytically, without pleasure. Without the remotest hint of sexual titillation.

In a faint, almost subconscious, echo, Amy was me. And the woman in the video was my first sexual partner, my babysitter, Peggy Rawlings.

This setting was a young girl’s bedroom. Amy’s, I imagine. The lighting was natural — afternoon sunlight. The woman was sort of Plain Jane, nothing steamy about her. Plain Juanita I guess. The Latina mystery woman was the aggressor, start to finish. But she seemed to be sort of an unenthusiastic instigator. Hesitant.

There was faint background music, “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Swell.

The camera didn’t move, suggesting that no one else was in the room. I imagine it was a cell phone camera. And that the video might have been shot without Amy’s knowledge. Amy was awake, but ... lethargic. Odd.

I watched a second time and froze it to examine Amy’s face. Confirmed my suspicion. One pupil was tiny, the other larger than normal. She’d been drugged. Probably a roofie or something like it.

Well.


Matt took me to the Hill. To the United States Capital. To meet the junior United States senator from Wyoming. Gulp. Matt freelances just as I do. But at a higher level. He’s on call to Senator Harper Wainwright. Well, more accurately to his chief of staff, a formidable power broker named Constance Grayson.

Pretty high cotton to this cornfed Midwesterner.

But that’s okay, I’m almost cool. Plus, I can fake it. Usually.


It probably doesn’t mean anything. But because it was one of those loose ends that had been quietly nagging at me, I was glad to learn where the Three Amigos had gone to ground. Strom, Sam, and Sarah Meriwether had simply disappeared the day David and Charles Meriwether had been arrested. Reclusive billionaires with a strong anti-government agenda.

Apparently the Meriwether disappearances had been gnawing at the FBI too, because an agent in Billings, Montana had found the trail. Using fake passports they had taken refuge in Victoria, on Vancouver Island. Far western Canada.

From what the follow-up analysts could determine, the three of them received visitors on a regular basis. And it was there that they planned the growth of their conservative PAC, RightWorld. And the PAC’s move from Billings to DC.


If Mr. Nip Clipper — Matt had been right, his name is Herman Gottlieb — 29 years old, had attacked me in Kansas City, chances are I would have been armed. Heckler & Koch .40 with its four inch barrel in my left shoulder holster. Even panicked, I would have been pretty fast. But who knows for sure?

Instead, facing a knife —- what’s that saying about what not to bring to a gunfight? — I used panic, quick reflexes, and those new cowgirl boots.

In an unspoken kindness, Vanessa didn’t mention that besides looking chic as hell, the handsome boots brought me up to her height, 5’ 11”. Since she usually wears flats when the two of us go out and about. Small kindnesses.

I thought briefly about not telling Walker and Pilar about Gottlieb, that DC fucker. But no, that’s reinforcement information they should have. An awareness reminder.

Not that Pilar really needs to take her self-defense classes any more seriously than she already does. She and I try to go at least twice a week. Pilar has grown tall for her age. Sinewy. Quick also — she usually acts, and reacts, without much hesitation.

I guess I did too, back outside that L’Enfant Plaza train station. Our instructor, Phyllis Armstrong tells us, drills it into us, “Avoid a fight if you possibly can. Do anything to get away.” I’d have no chance, and Pilar certainly wouldn’t either, if a guy gets his hands on me.

But Phyl also says, “If you can’t run, strike first.” And Pilar and I know the vulnerable areas — eyes, nose, knees. Balls. A head slam into the face could do the trick. If he’s not too tall. And if I can get close enough.

In the nanosecond before I screamed, it never occurred to me to slam into the fucker. Besides Gottlieb is over six feet tall; I’d have had to leap up to face-butt him.

Matt obtained a copy of the Metro Police Report. Gottlieb carried a rusty, SOG Seal Team Fixed Blade S37K. A 7-inch powder-coated blade. Which made it four inches past the legal limit in DC. But Gottlieb has deeper problems than illegal weapons charges. Three girls, so far, have picked him out of a lineup.

Matt told me, “Gottlieb won’t last inside.”

“Good.”

“Too many guys will identify with his victims. Their girlfriends, mothers, wives. Sisters. He won’t get much sympathy.”

“I hope they slice his nipples off ... no, I don’t.”

Matt smiled understandingly.

I won’t speculate, unusual for me, on Gottlieb’s motivation. Okay, I will. His mother didn’t breastfeed him? Or kept doing it until he was 10 or 12? He hated her? Loved her? But those details are not my concern, not really. Let the system handle the analyses.

I wasn’t named in the media coverage. Someone saw to that. Matt didn’t say, but I imagine it might have been Constance Grayson. However, I would go back to testify at the trial. Fuck, I’d jog from KC to DC to put that scumbag away.

I looked up that particular knife. Under $90 on Amazon.


The Capitol Building looks like it should look. Impressive. That famous dome. I like it that there are very few buildings in DC that are taller than the Capitol. Matt told me it’s because of fire and safety concerns dating back over a hundred years. Old laws that were never repealed as in other cities.

Inside, it’s polished marble, soaring ceilings, sturdy columns, solemn statues, huge paintings. There’s a hush in certain areas. When guided tours aren’t ... um, touring about.

Matt introduced me to Constance Grayson, respect for her in his voice. He’d told me about Senator Wainwright’s chief of staff on the train to the Capitol Building. “Connie shuns the spotlight, but the list of politicians and lobbyists who want to hire her is a mile long.” He thought about it. “White House too. In the past, not these days.”

Constance is around 50, trim and neat. My association neurons don’t always click in logical sequences — she instantly reminded me of Pilar. Self-contained, confident, no need to prove anything.

Constance smiled at me, “So you’re stealing my guy.”

Matt studiously didn’t react. I like it that he’s talked about me. To someone he admires. I said, “Trying to. But he’s shy.”

“Come on, the Senator wants to say hello.” She glanced at her cell, “He has four minutes.”

I’d done a little homework. Well, Sullivan & Sullivan Research had. Harper Wainwright is the junior senator from Wyoming. I knew, sort of, that he’d been a behind-the-scenes mover in providing both the green light and the government funds for Hank Morristown’s raid on the Klaus Gunther compound outside of Coeur d’Alene.

Wainwright was, still is, a rancher, from a family of ranchers. Had served in Vietnam. Later he’d been posted in Europe on some undisclosed missions for some undisclosed governmental bodies.

Only in the Senate would a man in his 70s be a junior. But Harper Wainwright looks fit. Brush cut like Bulldog Bannerman. Firm handshake and the same no-nonsense attitude as Constance. To the point, “What’s your impression of the Meriwether kids?” Strom, Sam, Sarah.

Whoa! There’s a conversational opener.

I glanced at Matt; he nodded to me.

I said, “They scare me.”

“They should. They scare me.”

Well, maybe.

I’d hoped he’d elaborate, but instead he drew me out. Asked a couple of questions about the Gunthers, but mostly focused me on the Three Amigos, the children of Charles and David Meriwether.

Odd in a way, since I’d never even seen them. Not in person. But later Matt filled me in. We’d Ubered our way to U Street and were noshing at the renowned Ben’s Chili Bowl. Even this early in our relationship, Matt knows my weaknesses.

I was inhaling a spicy half smoke — beef and pork topped with chili — and trying to concentrate on the conversation. Ben’s was savvy enough to also drench their fries in chili, which made dialogue-focus even more challenging.

Matt smiled, “As you could tell, I’ve told Connie about you.”

I flirted, “Everything?”

“In detail.”

“Good. Write my number on a few bathroom walls.”

“For a good time call...”

“That’s right. Include my office number too.”

Serious, “Connie was impressed with your ... Gunther activities.”

A coal black man with an accent from somewhere in the Caribbean came out of the back, “What’s by you, Matt?”

“Clarence, this is Winter Jennings. Watch yourself, she’s a cop.”

Mock bow, “Ms. Jennings, you in lowlife company.”

Clarence checked out my rack; I’m used to it. It’s hard to explain — some guys ogle. Annoying. Others, like Clarence, are good natured.

Some felon had snuck away with my half smoke. Clarence noticed my empty plate and held up two fingers. Must have snatched Matt’s at the same time.

Later, while ordering four portions of that same meal to be overnighted to Kansas City, I said, “Why did Senator Wainwright ask so many questions about the Meriwethers?”

He looked at me, considering. Decided. “He half-overheard a barroom conversation that the Meriwethers — it was Charles and David back then — were planning to fund the Gunthers. Major anti-government rallies. It was unspoken, but understood, that violence — riots — would break out.”

“And that led to the Idaho raid.”

He nodded, “Eventually. In any case, Senator Wainwright had Connie open a file on the Meriwethers. It’s still active.”

“Even with the old boys in jail.”

Nodded again, “Even with.”


Pilar: “You feel me, nigga?”

Walker: “Word.”

Well, Pilar recently discovered “The Wire” and the kids have been streaming an episode almost every day after school. Walker pointed out that two of my favorite writers — George Pelecanos and Dennis Lehane — are contributors.

Word.


Pillow talk.

When I really like a boy, like I do Matt Striker, I wait until the fun and games lead to a respite before initiating a conversation. It’s hard for them to concentrate when anticipating ... okay, it’s a challenge for me as well.

I sat up in bed, smiled down at Matt, “I really don’t know much about you.” An invitation. Most people like to talk about themselves. Unless they just want to go to sleep after scoring some pussy. Fuckers.

Matt smiled back, “Basically what you see is what you get.”

“How did what I see get to be what I see?”

He sat up to be eye level. Nice chest. Very nice. His isn’t bad either.

“I didn’t have a life plan.” A lot of people don’t.

Matt got a sort of faraway look in his eyes, “My dad was a structural ironworker here in DC. I followed in his footsteps.”

Just like I did with Daddy.

“I dropped out of high school my junior year. My dad was a union VP. Local 5. Pretty well respected. Got me an apprentice card.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“I was 16, making $36.50 an hour. Old man pulled in over $80. Plus overtime. I couldn’t afford to pass up the money.” He smiled, “Hey, I was 16.”

I patted his thigh under the sheet. I understand temptations. Have for years.

“In DC we were limited to 12-story buildings. But we worked Virginia, Maryland — 50, 60 stories high.”

“God.”

Shrug. “It’s psychological. A forty foot fall is just as deadly as several hundred feet.”

“God.”

“Usually they deck out every floor, or every other. So if you’re going to fall, do it on the inside.”

“Did you ever... ?”

“Nope. Neither did my father. He retired accident-free. Then cancer. Pancreatic.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Good guy.”

“Your mother?”

“Ran off. I was five, just starting kindergarten. Don’t remember her much.”

“Oh.”

He smiled again, changed the subject. “I still have my gear, want to see?”

“Sure.”

We slipped out of bed and he pulled on a pair of jeans. Some guys get modest after ... afterwards. Matt has nothing to be modest about, but I didn’t tell him that. Myself, I didn’t bother, just padded nude after him. Hey, I work hard to look like I look.

He opened the door that leads from his kitchen to the garage. Down three steps. Like his crib, the garage is tidy. Everything in cabinets and neatly stacked cartons around his Audi. Tools in designated places on square pegboards. He unfolded one cardboard box and hefted a laden tool belt. The rig smelled pleasantly of leather and well-oiled equipment. Not a spec of rust.

Matt winked at me and buckled it around my waist. Had to cinch it to the last notch. Fuck! “This must weigh a hundred pounds.”

“Not quite.”

I pulled out some ... something. “What’s this?”

“Spud wrench.”

One by one I examined his tools. “This?”

“Bull pin.”

“Sleeve bar.”

“Impact wrench. Called a yo-yo.” I had trouble lifting it to shoulder level. Heavy fucker.

Matt placed a yellow hardhat on my head. Way too large; I had to tip it back to keep from looking like a turtle. Then something changed in his eyes. I know that look. He unbuckled the tool belt; I took off the hardhat. We held hands and hustled back to bed.

My concupiscence isn’t my fault, not at all. It’s a defective gene, y’see. Nothing can be done. You can ask my doctor. No, you can’t.

Later I kissed Matt on the shoulder, “You know if this investigative gig doesn’t work out, you can always stand at stud.”


Back in KC, I burst into laughter when I unpacked my case. Matt had slipped in a pair of FlexiCuffs. Vanessa smiled sweetly. Walker stared, then looked at Pilar. She winked at him. Hobo cocked his head, thinking things through.

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