Молли Харпер - And One Last Thing...

My jaw dropped. “You got shot in the ass?”

Well, that explained the limp. And now I was thinking about his butt again.

“Left cheek.” He nodded, taking a long pull of his beer. When I laughed, he got indignant. “You know, some people have died from being shot in the ass.”

“Well, I can’t call you Lefty, especially not now that I know how you got the name. Can’t I just call you Francis?”

“Nobody calls me Francis,” he growled, flopping on his couch.

“Wolverine?” I suggested.

“Huh?”

“Never mind, I’m just going to stick with calling you Monroe,” I told him, carefully sitting so my wet jeans didn’t rub against his upholstery. We were sitting in opposite corners, as far from each other as humanly possible. It was like a first date, only he’d already seen me naked, which served as an incredible ice breaker. There was no way I could be further embarrassed after that.

“I read your first book,” I said.

“So you’re the one,” he snorted.

“Tragic coming-of-age tiles are a hard sell these days.” I shrugged. “But I liked it. I’ve never spent time with a homeless teenage boy before, but somehow I feel like I’ve known one. Besides, you can’t be too bitter; you seem to be doing really well with your sardonic crime stuff.”

“People love inept criminals.”

“It’s more than that, Mr. False Modesty,” I teased. “The New

York Times called you a softer Elmore Leonard. It says so, right on that poster.”

He made a face, but I could tell he was pleased that I’d noticed. “I hate that quote. It’s irritating as all hell. Just because I don’t write about drag queens getting dismembered with a hatchet doesn’t mean I’m soft.”

“I said softer.”

“So I take it you’re adequately impressed?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t read anything you’ve written since Cross Creek,” I assured him.

“Well, thank you for your support,” he muttered.

“It’s just that the crime books seem so macho, I guess,” I said. “I thought about buying Karma Collects. But then I saw the cover and didn’t know if I would like it.”

“I knew it!” he cried. “I knew the puddle of blood shaped like a peace sign was too much. I told my editor I didn’t like it, but, no, he said it fit the market.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “Loan me a copy and I’ll read it, I promise.”

He grumbled. “Now you’re just humoring me.”

“A little bit,” I admitted. I grinned at him. He smiled back. Monroe wasn’t really such a bad guy when you got to know him. He was actually very funny and helpful and … Gah! No penis policy. I had to remember the no penis policy. I would think of something else. The ocean? Too subliminal. Wombats? Well, that’s just weird. Johnny Depp? No, that won’t help matters. Urn, Leslie Nielsen… He’s not exactly my type. He was in, uh, Tammy and the Bachelor, Prom Night. The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad! Naked Monroe. Damn it!

Monroe was waving his hand in front of my face, trying to snap me out of my trance. “Not used to being up this late, huh?”

“Here, lately, I’ve had to get used to it. Why are you up at three am.?” I countered.

“Because I have a rare genius that works best when I’m the only person on the planet who’s awake. Your being awake is obviously what’s throwing me off. So what’s your excuse?”

“Oh, that’s easy - I’m insane,” I said. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep.”

“That tends to happen when you close your eyes … in bed … at night.”

“Yeah, but if I fall asleep, I’ll dream,” I told him. “And if I dream, I’ll dream that I’m stuck in an unfulfilling, endless hamster wheel of a life with financial stability and security, but no love life to speak of, bad sex, and an inability to trust men not to screw me over.”

Monroe absorbed that with the stunned expression of a fish that had been dynamited out of the water. “Wow.”

I laughed, running my hand over my face. “I’ve ruined your life. You had time to yourself, quiet. I wrecked your whole Fortress of Solitude thing.”

“Oh, now you did it, there’s nothing as sexy as a woman who knows her Superman.” He grinned. “I liked the solitude, don’t get me wrong. It was easier to work when it was just me. I didn’t have to worry about being sociable or answering questions. I didn’t get distracted by bottomless ladies parading around on the front porch. But it’s kind of nice to know there’s someone more screwed up than me right outside my door.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that,” I said primly. ‘But I didn’t parade. I never parade.”

“And you’re not crazy,” he said. “Your whole life’s been turned upside down. And you’ve isolated yourself by coming up here. And you’re just processing all this information. I went through the same thing after I got shot.”

“In the ass?” I just liked throwing that out there as much as possible.

He glared at me. “After I got shot, in the ass,” he conceded. “The administration couldn’t clear me for street duty anymore. I was still walking around, but I couldn’t sit in the car for long periods, couldn’t pass the physical fitness exam. I was looking at early retirement or a permanent desk job. So I picked retirement, holed up in my apartment, and stared at the walls for days at a time. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I almost ordered something off a Tony Robbins infomercial, for God’s sake. That was the low point. Eventually I got out my special doughnut pillow, turned on my computer and started writing.”

“So you think I should order something from Tony Robbins?” There seemed to be a pregnant pause in there somewhere, “You think I should write a book?”

“You have a strong voice,” he said. I arched my brow. “I read your e-mail on The Smoking Gun.”

“Of course you did.”

“You just need to find the right idea and run with it,” he said.

“Just so you know, writing your first novel can also drive you crazy.”

“So you’re saying..

“If I see you typing, ‘All work and no play makes Lacey a dull girl’ over and over again, I’m running like hell.”

I snickered and sipped my beer. Writing a book was an idea I’d toyed with off and on for years, but I’d figured everybody thought they had the next Harry Potter bouncing around in their heads. I never got past the first few pages of any story. There was always some committee meeting, a fund-raiser, something else that needed to be done. Okay, those were excuses. I just didn’t want to finish them and become another failed, frustrated novelist. But at this point I was already a failed, frustrated housewife, so what the heck?

I nodded. “That seems fair. So tell me something about yourself. Something not glib.”

“I’m not glib.”

“If glib were a country, you would be its king,” I informed him.

He seemed to search through his massive memory bank of secrets. “Okay, I was engaged once.”

When I made my own stunned face, he asked, “You don’t think a woman would want to marry me?”

“No, once you stop cursing and scowling at a gal, I’m sure she’s putty in your hands. So what happened, did she hook up with Uniball behind your back?”

His voice was flat, serious as he said, “No, she’s dead.”

I gasped. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.”

He let me stew in my own embarrassment before bursting out laughing. “I’m just kidding, Lacey.”

“Asshole!” I yelled, slapping his arm.

“I’m sorry, you’re just so gullible,” he said, dodging the pummeling that rained down from my fists of fury.

“Yeah, it’s a character flaw.”