Guns Will Keep Us Together (3 page)

 

 

 

 

Publicity Network was a group I'd joined after college. Made up of local public relations and marketing professionals, I thought it would be a great way to work my cover and pick up women. I was right on both parts.

The meetings took place once a month at a local hotel and featured lunch, a speaker, and networking opportunities. Ironically, the next day was one of those meetings.

As I stood in line, wearing my khakis, blue shirt and tie with navy blazer, of course, I scanned the room. The trick was to make people think I worked as a consultant in their field. They had to believe I was committed to a life of telling people how great some eczema cream was or why they should invest in their children's education at a prep school. Actually, it wasn't very hard. PR is mainly bullshit, and I was the king.

"Bernie!" I sat down with my plate full of food and thumped the one guy I did like on the back. He was the Director of Communications for the Boy Scouts and a really funny dude.

"Dakota! Good to see you! Have you met everyone?" He motioned around the table of all men. I nodded through the introductions. Some of them I'd met before—some were new. I didn't really care. Maybe I'd glean something useful to take to Paris that afternoon.

Bernie and I chatted for a little while. He told me a funny story about a crisis at the Council involving a leader who recently had his Boy Scouts use poison ivy for toilet paper. I could've listened to him all day, but we were interrupted.

"May I join you?" asked a tall woman with flaming red hair. She looked annoyed more than anything, and I watched as the other men at the table tried to figure out what they should do. It reminded me of lemmings on the edge of a cliff.

Bernie pointed at the only open chair. "Please."

The woman turned to face me. For some reason, I was a little stunned. Tall and thin, she had long, curly red hair, light blue eyes, pale skin and freckles. Her features were elfin, with large eyes, a little, upturned nose with a cupid's bow mouth. I was so startled, I didn't know what to say next. Then I realized she was speaking.

"No other open seats," she said as she placed her napkin on her lap.

"No problem," Bernie smiled. He was the only one behaving like an adult. "My name's Bernie Paulson. I work for the Boy Scouts. And this is Dakota Bombay. He's a consultant." He then went on to introduce the other stunned men at the table.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Leonie Doubtfire."

"Seriously?" I asked before thinking (one of my less endearing traits).

Leonie looked right into my eyes, as if she was daring me to say something stupid. Something about those eyes made me start to sweat—and I never do that. No woman has ever made me nervous before. But this one was fascinating. I found myself admiring her fearlessness. In fact, I'm pretty sure I admired her throughout the presentation.  

The lecture was "Finding Your Brand," but I had a hard time keeping up with it. For some reason, I was completely focused on Ms. Doubtfire. I tried not to stare, but it was impossible.

Forcing my eyes away, I scanned the room. There were other women there—many blondes. I'd slept with a number of them. Of course, I would never work with them. Never bag a client—that's what I would say if I ever had clients, which I didn't.

Before I knew it, the lunch had concluded. Again, I tore my eyes away from Leonie to pretend I'd been paying attention. People were starting to get up and mingle before heading back to work. When I looked across the table, the redhead was gone.

"Good to see you again, Dak." Bernie shook my hand.

"Where did she go?" I fumbled.

He smiled. "She probably thought you were stalking her—the way you kept staring at her like that."

I winced, realizing he was right. I had been staring. And for some strange reason, I felt a little depressed that she was gone. I looked at the chair she sat in and spotted a small compact. Picking it up, I realized that Cinderella had left something at the ball. If I ever saw her again, I'd be able to return it. Of course, then she'd really think I was creepy.

I said my goodbyes and left, circling the parking lot twice to see if I could spot her. Shaking my head to clear it—I headed to Paris' place. And then I remembered last night and all thoughts of Leonie Doubtfire vanished.

"You're impotent?" Paris's eyes grew wide with amazement.

I
shhhshed
him and looked around—a weird thing because we were in his apartment. Still, six months ago, Gin had bugged mine and Paris's phone lines, so I didn't put it past the family to have their ears and eyes on us at all times.

"No!" I shouted, a little too forcefully. "No. I couldn't help it. She sounded like a man. And Mom was staring at me all through dinner. There was too much pressure to perform!"

Paris shook his head. "I don't know, man. You've never had a problem like this before."

"I know! It's making me crazy! What do I do?"

Paris looked around his apartment, like the answer would automatically materialize in the blender, lampshade or ceiling fan. He had a great place. Paris was an artistic sort. I'd recently found out he wrote poetry. The apartment was filled with artwork—paintings, sculptures and architecturally designed furniture. I used to think he had one hell of an interior designer, but after the poetry revelation, I figured he did it himself.

"You have to sleep with the other women your mom set you up with," he announced, looking pleased with himself.

"What?" My mind turned back to Dora and Millie. I shuddered again and realized I was doing that a lot. "Why can't I just spend the weekend in the arms of a couple of Swedish twins?" That seemed more reasonable to me. And I could find 'em too. Some people have "gaydar." Some people have "beerdar." I had "blondar."

"No. You have to prove that you can screw anyone. Not just your type." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Maybe blondes have ruined you. Maybe you can't have sex with any woman who goes against your type?"

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. I can do any woman. Hair color and legginess doesn't matter." It didn't.
Right?

"What about that Kelly girl?" Paris asked.

"The one who's afraid of trees?"
Hmmm.
Theoretically, there was nothing physically wrong with her. She was actually cute. A brunette, but cute. I'd just have to keep her in the bedroom and remove the bamboo plant in the corner, but I could do that.

"Okay. I'll give her a call." I picked up my cell phone and dialed.

You might think it's strange that I had her number, but I had every woman's number in my cell phone. Mom would text them to me, and I'd enter them before meeting them. I've never erased a single one. But I did code them. For example, Dora's number came up with a photo of Lee Harvey Oswald. Millie's had Quasimodo. Kelly had Woody Woodpecker. That kind of thing.
What?

 

 

The Criminologist:
I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.

    ~The Rocky Horror Picture Show

 

 

After Kelly agreed (a bit too eagerly) to my suggestion of dinner the next night, Paris and I got to work on the marketing plans for the Bombay Family business.

"Man, I can't believe we did work for the Republicans four times this century." Paris shook his head. "Although that kind of makes sense now that I think of it."

I leafed through a few pages of my binder. "I can't believe the Family actually wrote this shit down! I mean, look at this one!" I pointed at a high-profile hit of a politician in the nineteenth century. I'd tell you more, but I had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. You might think we'd forget something that happened when we were little, but there's something about a family blood ritual and Grandma in a goat skull headdress that sticks in your mind.

Paris nodded. "Yeah. Well, at least we have a record of who our main clients are."

"Are you even surprised? I mean we always suspected the CIA, the Feds, Interpol and the Yard, and here it is in black and white." And color too. Grandma did the pie charts as literal cherry pies and all the bullet points were little skulls.

"Okay," Paris said, "where do we start?"

"I wonder if it's hereditary," I mused aloud.

"What?" Paris cocked his right eyebrow.
Bastard.
I've never been able to do that.

"You know. E.D. I mean, Dad has it, right?"

Paris stared at me. "Will you give it up and concentrate? This presentation is important!"

I sat back in my chair. "And you're just eating it up, right?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Paris growled.

I stabbed my finger at him. "You love doing this. You've probably been waiting your whole life for this type of assignment."

He slapped my hand away. "Oh for Christ's sake. You're pissed because I didn't argue with Grandma about it."

Damn. He nailed it. I never could get away with anything where Paris, Gin or Liv were concerned. And you can bet one of my dazzling smiles wasn't going to get me out of this one.

"Fine." I was behaving like an immature jerk, but losing access to your favorite appendage will do that to a man. "Let's get this over with."

We spent the afternoon going through the binders, ass-deep in reports on the financial history of the Bombay Clan's Greatest Hits. And I'll grudgingly admit it was kind of fascinating. I'm pretty sure no one but the Council had access to the history of a family of assassins spanning 4,000 years. You couldn't find this stuff on geneology.com.

"All right." I leaned back in my chair and pushed the binder to the middle of the table. "I'm done for today." I looked at my Tag Heuer watch. "Got a hot date tonight with a tree hater."

Paris and I agreed to meet up again tomorrow, but from the look on his face, he was going to keep working.
Bastard
. He'd probably get the bigger gift from Grandma too.

Back at home, I stashed the bamboo plant and anything with a tree motif in the shed. I had to succeed tonight. My next dilemma was more difficult. It took me two hours, but I finally managed to find a restaurant with no trees outside or in. I didn't realize how hard it would be. After finding a route with the fewest trees from Kelly's house to the Flaming Lemur, I jumped in the shower and got ready.

Kelly answered her door with a big smile and a little black dress. We drove to the restaurant with no incident and even made it to our table without a freak out.

"I'm so glad you called, Dakota," she purred. "I was afraid you'd forgotten about me."

"Impossible." How do you forget about a woman who can't even go outside? "I've been looking forward to this." Not a lie! Of course, I was more looking forward to nailing her than talking to her, but first things first.

She took her napkin and placed it on her lap, "I suppose you're still wondering if I'm still dendrophobic?"

It has a name?
"Are you?" I asked.

"No. I have a great therapist. Actually, my fear of trees was related to a fear of sex." Before I could stop it, I immediately pictured a forest full of erections.

"Did you conquer that fear?" I asked, hoping the desperation wasn't obvious in my voice.

"Yes, I did." She grinned wickedly, and it was way cute. "In fact, I'm not afraid of sex anymore either."

I lifted my glass of wine. "Well, then we have something to celebrate." The glasses clinked, and I watched as she drank. Her gaze never left mine. The air was thick with sexual tension. Just the way I like it. This was going to be a breeze.

It was obvious that small talk wasn't her thing. Kelly mainly leered at me through dinner, her foot sliding up and down my shin. Oh, she was up for it. I was gonna get laid tonight and prove it was just Nora's masculinity that distracted me.

In fact, this chick was all over me while I drove home. Kelly kept kissing my neck, her hands on my groin the whole way. I guess I might have misjudged her. My tree was getting harder by the minute. Yay!

The door barely closed before she'd flung me against the closet, grinding her hips into mine, crushing my lips with hers. I did the only thing I could do: I carried her into my bedroom.

I unzipped her dress with great expectation and slid it to the floor. She was so hot and ready I thought I would burst.

"Hold on," Kelly said, pushing me back. "I need to freshen up first." She blew me a kiss; then in her adorable bra and panties took her purse into the bathroom.

I don't think I've ever gotten undressed faster in my life. I experimented with different lounging positions on the bed, keeping on my black silk boxer shorts. I was ready . . . beyond ready. I warned my dick not to fail me now as the bathroom door opened.

I can't blame my dick for this one. Really. It went from hard to soft in a split second as Kelly stood in front of me. I was more terrified than anything.

Apparently, she had lost her fear of trees by channeling another neurosis. There she was, dressed in a diaper and baby bonnet with a pacifier in her mouth.

"What the hell?" I asked.

"Baby wants Dak," Kelly pulled the pacifier from her lips and responded in a child-like voice, "Change Baby!" she demanded, tossing me a bottle of baby powder.

"What?" I repeated.

"Change Baby and powder Baby's butt!" she roared.

I'd heard about infantilism. I'm not sheltered. I know there are people who get off on this. Hell, one of Gin's college roommates wore footie jammies and carried a blankie. But I didn't have sex with her.

"Change B
aby
!" Kelly shrieked. Then she went into a full, toddler temper tantrum. I kid you not.

I watched in horror for five minutes, then handed back her dress. There would be no erection tonight. "It's past Baby's bedtime."

Kelly glared at me, then took the dress and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door. I waited in the hall, car keys in hand and tried to burn the image of what I'd just seen out of my mind.