Page 51 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Hey,” I say. “So what happened after? I mean, you didn’t really answer my question. How the fuck did you get to Denver?”

“Well… the FBI is a gang too. We cover for each other. And I’m pretty sure my father wasn’t the only dirty guy in the DC bureau.”

“So they covered for you?”

I nod. “Gave me some paid leave, then swept the whole thing under the rug and sent me out here.”

“Like a new start?”

“Brand-new city, brand-new partner, brand-new start.”

Do I believe him? I guess I don’t have much choice. I either believe him and stay here, or take my chances and leave.

“So… should I go on?” he asks. And he’s not talking about his story. The story is over. He’s asking about the costume.

I should get the fuck out of here. I should put my clothes back on, walk out that door, and never look back. Just leave.

But I nod yes, anyway. I give him permission to dress me up and keep the game going. Because this is a game. None of this can be coincidence. But if I’m gonna buy in, I need to go all in.

He chuckles under his breath as he hold the negligee up to study how it works, and mumbles, “OK, don’t make a fool of yourself, Murphy.”

In his defense, it does look a little weird, since, you know, there’s no cups. It’s just round open holes where tits go.

“Need help?” I say, trying to forget everything he just told me.

“Nope. Figuring this out is like the highlight of my life so far.”

“You must have a very boring life.”

He stops his lingerie analysis to look at me. “Hey, there ain’t nothing wrong with boring, babe. Not a damn thing wrong with boring.”

“So you don’t miss DC?”

He places the nightie over my head, pulls it down, totally messing up my hair, and then picks up one arm and fits it into the straps.

I almost die. This is fuckin’ hilarious.

“No,” he says, taking his attention to the other arm now. “It doesn’t matter where you are. People are the same.”

“So they’re corrupt here too? That’s what you’re saying?”

He pulls the nightie down, but it gets caught on my breasts, so he reaches underneath it, lifts my tits, fits them into the little cut-out holes until they spill out, and then straightens out the front so the lace ruffle on the edge is neat.

I absolutely die this time and there’s no way in hell I don’t laugh.

“What?” he says. “Did I do it wrong?”

I shake my head, still smiling. “No, it’s right.”

“Then why are you laughing at me?”

“It’s… it’s pretty adorable, actually.”

“That I dressed you up as a kinky slut?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, just to make it clear he’s joking.

“That you took it so seriously. I mean, your boot lacing is top-notch. Not too loose, not too tight— which is pretty hard to accomplish when you’re dealing with forty-seven eyes.”

He sucks in a huge breath of air, leans back on his heels, and raises his chin, proud as punch. “Thank you. And the answer to your last question—and I do mean that literally, since we’re gonna be too busy to talk in like, oh, ten seconds—is yes. Denver is as corrupt as hell. Everyone knows it, nobody cares to fix it, and I’m no better or worse than the rest of them, I guess. So I choose… indifferent witch. Because after wrestling with this shit for almost a decade, I’ve decided if you choose a side and stand for something, those people will disappoint you eventually and you’ll have to renounce them and choose another. So why bother?”