Hot Lava (14 page)

I shook my head. “Dickknobs. That hurt like fucking hell. Next time I see a stone, I’m gonna give it a good, swift kick.” I sat on the grass, trying to avoid looking at the all-encompassing pink. “Oh, and Lenny was a hooker who used Jed, who’s now working out of La’ie, wherever the fuck that is.”

“North from here, along the western coast,” Koni informed me, before adding a “Huh?”

“Yeah,” said Brandon. “Huh?”

“What happened in there?” It was now Briana’s turn. “All that new-age crap give you channeling abilities?”

“No,” I replied. “That behemoth back there used to work for Jed. From hooker to masseur -- like that’s never happened before. Anyway, chatty Klaussy spilled the sauerkraut. Lenny met Jed when he was working for him. He liked the lifestyle and moved on in, apparently.”

“Ah,” Briana ahed.

“What
ah
?” Brandon asked her.

“Ah,” she explained, “Lenny lives with Jed, but loves Liko.”

“But Liko’s loaded, too,” I reminded her.

“Doesn’t matter,” Koni chimed in. “He probably met Jed first, and there’s no breaking up with Jed if Jed doesn’t want to be broken up with. I told you guys, Jed has a rep. And a bad one. Meaning, no double-crossing. Either in work
or
play.”

“Ah,” Briana ahed yet again. “And before you ask -- ah, as in, ah, maybe that’s why Jed set Lenny up to take the fall.”

“Maybe,” Koni allowed, “but if he knew about Lenny and Liko, it would probably be Liko in hiding now and not himself. Plus, no one knew where Lenny would be just before he met his untimely end, not even Jed, who was at the North Shore at that time. Something’s definitely missing here. That puzzle you guys keep mentioning still has some big gaps in it.”

“Kid’s right,” Brandon said. “So we have to hope that our attorney friend tonight has some of those pieces.”

“And is willing to hand them over,” I added. “However unlikely that seems.”

We remained there in silence, our brains officially exhausted. Still, at least we knew where Will was probably being held, and that gave me the tiniest iota of hope.

It was Briana who finally broke the silence. “Anyone up for a shower? I smell like a fucking musk ox.”

“Oh, good,” Brandon said. “I thought that was me.”

She glowered and marched off, the three of us trailing close(ish) behind her. “Now you did it,” I whispered in his ear. “She’s mad.”

“Shit,” he groaned, hollering after her, “Dinner’s on me tonight.” She continued onward without a peep. “And drinks,” he quickly amended. And still there was nothing, though I could’ve sworn I could see the heat radiating off of her. “High end labels, no well-brands,” he smartly offered.

She paused for a moment. “Forgiven,” she muttered, then again moved forward. “For now.”

We breathed a sigh of relief.

Koni leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Are we really that scared of her?”

“Yes,
they
are,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“Ah,” Koni ahed.

“Yeah, ah,” I agreed. “Fucking ah.”

Chapter 6

Lawyers Screwed

The shower was great, the cold water like heaven against my steaming skin -- though the oil still lingered. In other words, I felt and smelled like a wet salad. And, to top it all off, we still had to play girly dress-up. Okay, so normally I might not have minded that, but to do so in order to intentionally trick a straight man, well, even that was out of my realm of common decency.

“Yippee,” shouted Brandon from the adjoining room. “Girly dress-up.” See, Brandon has no decency -- common or otherwise.

I put my robe on and joined my three friends, all of us glowing from the oil and stinking just slightly less than before our showers.

“Only for Will’s sake,” I proclaimed, allowing Briana to pick out my short skirt and tight blouse before adding the fake boobs, fake eyelashes, and fake hair.

“Yep, for Will’s sake,” Brandon half-heartedly agreed, diving into the pile of clothes and emerging with the sluttiest outfit he could color coordinate.

Despite his pleading, we put our high-heeled feet down and didn’t allow Koni to join in the festivities. He could come to the bar and order a Coke, but “Madonna” would not be making an appearance. He frowned but, with little choice, soon relented, especially when we told him that he could order anything he wanted off the Hula Grill menu.

In retrospect, we should’ve just let him go in drag; it would’ve been a hell of a lot cheaper.

Within ten minutes we were seated at a balcony table with a spectacular view of the beach down below, at the swaying palm trees, and the sun as it made its gradual descent, turning our al fresco sojourn into a multi-media extravaganza.

The restaurant itself was like a comfortable home that was missing its façade, the main dining room looking more like a beach house than anything else. And, man, the menu looked yu-fucking-um.

Koni, heeding our generous offer, ordered the cold water lobster tail. Brandon groaned, but bit his lip. Briana, our power diva, ordered the baby back barbecue ribs, with Brandon opting for the healthier fire-grilled Ahi steak. My mouth watered at the selection, but each time I tried to order something rich and delicious, my so-called friends reminded me of my tight attire, which would only continue to get tighter the more I ate.

Glumly, I told the waiter, “North Shore vegetable stir fry, please. Made without butter.”

The same so-called friends nodded their heads in agreement with my healthy yet bland choice. I kicked each of them under the table. Accidentally, of course. (And accidentally again when, thirty minutes later, they ordered pineapple coconut crème brulee for three, but urged me to go with the sorbet trio. My dress was happy; I, however, was not. Fuckers.)

And then seven o’clock rolled around. “Show time,” Brandon muttered, paying the bill, his smile vanishing in an instant.

We trudged out, our meals going sour in the pits of our stomachs. Duke’s Bar was just downstairs and noticeably quiet, what with everyone eating dinner and all. So we pulled up four stools and stared out at the crowd, the beach and ocean just beyond.

“What’s this guy look like, anyway?” I asked.

Koni grinned. “I think I remember seeing his picture in one of the local rags a while ago. You’re in for an unusual treat.”

“Cryptic response,” I said. “What, does he have one leg? Three ears? A Siamese twin dangling off his side?”

He nudged me in the ribs and nodded his head toward the side of the bar. We all followed his gaze. “Oh,” I ohed, feral drool instantly forming at the corners of my mouth.

“
He’s
a lawyer?” Brandon whispered.

“Apparently,” Koni replied, also sotto voce. “Maybe it was a backup occupation -- in case the Mister Honolulu pageant fell through.”

“Mister Hawaii,” I corrected. “Or make that Mister World, because he’s rocking mine.”

We all sat up straight. (Well, considering half of us were in drag, make that vertical.) Then three of us reapplied our lipstick. (Yeah, the word
straight
definitely wasn’t correct.) And then fixed our dresses and repositioned our wigs. (
Definitely
not straight.)

David, the lawyer/demigod, ordered a drink and sat down two stools over from us. He looked our way ever so briefly, then stared at the entrance, obviously waiting for the mayor to arrive. Good luck with that, I figured. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him as he fiddled with his drink and repeatedly checked his watch. When twenty minutes had gone by, and with him obviously growing more and more impatient, I went for broke. “Did your friend not show up?” I asked, leaning across an empty barstool.

He forced a smile and replied, “Probably just running late.”

“Yes, probably,” I said, batting an eyelash (and praying it wouldn’t fall off). “Well, you can join our little party if you like. I mean, it beats sitting there waiting all by yourself.”

Again he looked up and over, taking each of us in one at a time. We must’ve looked an unusual foursome, but he relented just the same. “Sure,” he told me, sliding over with a glowing grin that made even the sun jealous. “Just don’t be mad if my friend eventually does indeed show up.”

“No problem,” we all somehow said at once, causing him to jump.

“Sorry,” I apologized for the four of us. “Sometimes our minds are strangely in sync.” I then introduced each of us in turn, his hand reaching out for a shake all the way down the line as he introduced himself.

“Strong grip,” he said to Liza/Brandon.

“I work out,” came the reply, along with a nervous smile.

We all then turned to stare at him, clearly at a loss for words. Perhaps we should’ve planned beyond our not-so-chance encounter. That meant only one thing -- we had to grease the wheels. Thankfully, we were sitting at a bar; there was ample grease in every bottle.

“So, David, you’re in luck.” I said, offhandedly, thinking fast.

“Really, Judy, how so?” he asked, leaning in, his breath as sweet as a bee’s ass.

I forced a smile and crossed my newly-shaven legs. “Today’s my birthday; everyone has to buy me a round.”

My friends looked at me in relief, since their minds were as twisted as my own and they knew what I was up to. “First one’s on me,” shouted Briana, again causing poor David to jump. Luckily, he didn’t object. Then again, we didn’t give him much of a chance. Briana ordered the tallest, kick-assingest concoction they made.

Wheels in motion, the cogs now all greased and rarin’ to go, we were set.

One drink down -- rapidly down -- and our ensemble was noticeably cooler, calmer, and collecteder. David fit right on in, chugging his potion and eagerly waiting for the next one. It was obvious, by then, that his “date” had stood him up, so why not hang with this fun bunch? Which is why we moved to a nearby round table, our drinks following us, and proceeded to get rip-roaringly shitfaced. (No, not Koni. See how adult-like we were? Okay, ignoring the dresses and the wigs, see how adult-like we were?)

Five rounds later -- I think it was five, but it was hard to count by that point -- we were completely and utterly wasted, and David was our new best friend. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be friends with two Hooters waitresses, a nuclear physicist, and an American Idol contestant who missed it by one to make it on the show? Luckily, he was too drunk to ask any probing questions, or we might’ve been completely screwed.

A nice, cool breeze blew in off the coast, making the tiki torches flicker just outside the restaurant, their flames dancing in David’s deep brown eyes. How, you may ask, did I know this? Well, now, with each passing drink, his chair scooted closer and closer to my own, his knee bumping and grinding against mine, his hairy forearm brushing against my rather bare one. Drunk as I was, none of this went unnoticed, either by me or my motley crew. Jealous as they were -- and who could rightly blame them? -- at least our plan was working. (And this time I did indeed tuck and tape, and tape again, meaning my throbbing prick would remain thankfully well-concealed.)

Several hours into our evening, he leaned in, his breath syrupy and potent, and whispered, “Are you having a nice birthday, Judy?”

“What the f... Oh, oh yes, I am. Best birthday ever,” I replied, suddenly remembering my original ploy, not to mention my female(ish) voice.

“But I haven’t given you your gift yet,” he again whispered, his soft, full lips gently tickling my tender ear.

“Yes, you did,” I reminded him. “You bought a round, oh, a good couple of rounds ago. I seem to recall they were flaming and nearly caught my blouse on fire.”

He chuckled and pointed to my charred sleeve. “They did catch your blouse on fire. And we didn’t have to pay for that round. Anyway, I meant the other gift, the one back at my apartment.”

“But how could you have gotten me a gift? You didn’t even know me before tonight.” I paused, my eyes locking on to his. “Oh,” I ohed, figuring out what he was getting at. “Is it something I can
unwrap
?”

He smiled and nodded. “Uh huh.”

“Okay,” I told him. “Besides, it’s bad luck to turn down a birthday gift.” (Even when it’s not your birthday, and you’re not really someone named Judy who’s not really a Hooters waitress. Meaning, in terms of luck, I was already pushing mine to its limit.)

So I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Briana and Brandon/Liza quickly jumped up to join me, as girls frequently and inexplicably do.

“I can’t believe it,” I practically squealed behind closed doors.

“I know,” Brandon said, reapplying his/her lipstick. “He picked you over us. So he’s either farsighted or too drunk to realize.” I jabbed him one in the ribs. “Very ladylike,” he added.

“Um,
girls
,” Briana wisely broke in. “May I remind you that we’re here to garner information, not bed-notches.”

My stomach sank at the comment. “Oh, yeah.” I groaned. “Fuck, now what? He obviously wants to sleep with Judy, and Judy is only skin deep. Or dress deep, as the case may be. Is be. Is.” I was confused. And drunk. “I think I should’ve stopped three rounds ago.”

Brandon smiled, his ruby-red lipstick glinting in the overhead light. “Ah, the perfect excuse, then. Too drunk to fuck. Just drag, no pun intended, the information out of him and cuddle until he falls asleep. Then run as fast as your Ferragamo heels can carry you out of there. Problem solved.”

I took what he said in. “That could work,” I reluctantly agreed, looking at Briana for backup.

“Or clobber him over the head and ransack his place until you find the information we’re looking for. Then run as fast as your Ferragamo heels can carry you out of there,” she offered.

I took into consideration what she said as well, then replied, “I think I’ll go with the cuddling.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, leading our trio out of the bathroom.

Our two “male” companions sat there patiently waiting. When David saw me approaching, he jumped up, said his goodnights and nice-to-meet-yous, grabbed my hand, and led me out of the restaurant. We quick-stepped it through the hotel and back to the main strip, the fresh air feeling great on my flushed skin. Suffice it to say, so did his grip in mine. Great and nauseating at the same time -- a heady mixture, to be sure.

He lifted his hand and hailed a passing cab. A minute later, we were on our way. A minute after that, I was at a complete loss for words and sobering up mighty fast. A minute after that, his roving palm was on my knee and those supple lips were nibbling on my earlobe. I held him off with small talk and lightning-fast reflexes; he laughed, but took the hint. Thank God. (Though, by then, it didn’t seem like
God
was listening anymore.)

The cab, fortunately, didn’t have far to go. His apartment building was maybe fifteen blocks away, a towering mess of glass and steel, slick and new and obviously costly to inhabit.

He greeted the doorman with a perfunctory nod and led me upstairs. Way upstairs. Thirty floors later, we emerged in his high-rise abode, the furnishings spectacular, the view even more so. Him included. He had me in a lip-lock in seconds, his mouth pressed firmly on mine, his hands roaming up and down my flimsy dress.

“Um,” I tried, in between heavy breaths. “I, um, may have had too much to drink tonight, David.”

“Ditto,” he dittoed, his mouth traveling up and down my neck and over my clavicle.

Clearly, he wasn’t familiar with this tactic. “No, I mean, I don’t think I’m, er, up for this tonight. Couldn’t we just talk and cuddle?”

He pulled away, a mischievous smirk playing across his face that only added to his overall handsomeness. With a wink, he blurted out, “I already know.”

“Huh?” I huhed. “Know what?”

He moved away to sit on a couch, one of several, all in tan suede. (No red wine in this apartment, I figured.) Again he looked up at me, still smiling widely. “Judy, I graduated twentieth in my class.”

“Oh, okay. Well, that’s pretty good. Congratulations.”

“At Harvard Law School.”

I scratched at my wig. “Ah, well, that’s
really
good, then, I suppose.” I hadn’t a clue where he was going with all this, but at least he’d stopped mauling me and was talking instead.

“Meaning,” he continued, “I’m smart enough to know a man in a dress when I see one.”

I gulped, choking on my spit. He jumped up and patted me on my back. “It’s okay. No worries, dude. You see, I
like
that.” The last three words came out raspy, husky, full of, if I wasn’t mistaken, desire.

“You... you like guys dressed like girls?” I managed. “But you graduated twentieth in your class at Harvard Law School.”

Again he laughed. “Which means I like guys in expensive dresses, but it doesn’t change the facts.”

“But, but, you’re straight. You’re wearing a wedding ring, for Christ sake.”

He held up his hand and pointed at the ring in question. “
Was
married, twice. Until they found out about my, well, pastime. See, gay transvestites don’t exactly bring in high-priced clients, nor do they make for happy husbands, especially ones that look better in their wives’ clothes than they do.”

Again I coughed. “Wait,
you
wear dresses, too?”