Page 7 of The Wedding Party

“Well, then, Jesus help us both,” Lana says. “No talking about assholes. The whole lot of them.” She shifts the topic. “Is your father still a badass?”

Good grief, she still has a crush on my father. But then, so does everyone I know who’s ever met him since I was a teenager, including the men, even if it’s just a manly-man crush. “I thought we weren’t talking about assholes?”

“Oh, come on. Your pops is a legend, not an asshole. A badass single father and widower.” She holds up a hand. “Sorry. I don’t mean to downplay your mom’s car accident.”

“I was ten.” I sip my martini. “I’m not that sensitive, not about her, but my father is another story.” Which is the truth. I’ve learned how to compartmentalize the death of my mother and the reactions of others to her passing. My father can’t be compartmentalized. He’s too in my face and everyone else’s.

Apparently unable or unwilling to catch a hint, Lana wiggles an eyebrow. “Did he remarry?”

“Do not even think about dating him.”

“That’s a no,” she says, smiling coyly. There is nothing about Lana that is coy.

“For all his faults, that man loved my mother. I don’t think anyone will ever win his heart again.”

She grins. “I’m not really worried about his heart.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I warn. “Stop now. He’s my father.”

The waiter sets Lana’s chocolate martini on the table and takes her empty glass. I accept my new drink as well with a thank-you to the waiter.

“And I’ll remind you that he rides all the Frank Castle / Punisher comparisons to the point of unhealthy,” I add. “Like he’s his own Marvel character. You don’t want that in your life. He’s just Eddie Castle, a PI who got kicked off the force for use of force. That’s not badass.”

“Isn’t he still contracted by the Denver PD?”

“To do all the dirty work?” I ask. “Yes.”

“And didn’t he get kicked off the force for beating up a guy who raped a woman?”

“Yes,” I say. “What’s your point?”

“Well, they didn’t want to kick him off. They were pressured. And he’s kind of a badass.”

“You weren’t there that day,” I say tightly, telling her what I’ve never shared with anyone. “I was.”

“You were there when he beat that guy up? No way. I thought that was back when you were in high school.”

“It was,” I confirm. “He’d picked me up from school when his case blew up. He took me with him.” I sip my martini, thinking back to that day, when I’d gotten worried about him and sneaked out of the car. I’d watched him beat the guy to a pulp. And then I’d watched him get cuffed and put in the back of a patrol car. Being my father’s daughter is exactly why I let the FBI recruit me out of college. It was my path. Not my father’s.

Except the Spider Man case threatened to prove that I’m just like him.

“A change of subject is obviously needed,” Lana says, drawing me back into the moment. “So here we go. On to another topic. I’ll lead. While I’m on dating sites meeting losers and feeling awkward, tell me something good about your love life.”

“Funny thing about hunting serial killers—it scares men off.” I leave off the part about me having an on-again, off-again thing with my boss, which is as inappropriate as it sounds. We’re on a special task force that operates outside the normal constraints of the bureau. And now, I think, I’m just making excuses for my behavior. Good Lord, maybe I’m more my father’s daughter than I realized.

“I hate to say it,” Lana teases, “but I can kind of see why. I’m honestly not sure why I’m your friend.” She sips her martini. “I guess because I’d date just about anyone now, even a serial killer.”

“If you ever do date a serial killer, at least I have handcuffs you can borrow.”

We both start laughing, chatting a bit before she says, “This is fun. I needed this girls’ night out, and I forgot how much we click, but we do. We really do. Therefore,” she adds dramatically, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh no,” I say. “Please tell me this is not like that time you convinced me to go to that frat party.”

“That frat party was fun.”

“You aren’t the one who was locked in a bathroom filled with sweaty guy socks for an hour as a joke,” I say. “You were off making out with some guy and didn’t even know. I think I decided that night to join law enforcement, with plans to arrest everyone who did that to me.”

“So, see. You can thank me. That night defined your career. And it’s not a frat party, but—”