Dirty. Megan Hart

through her teeth, “is perfectly capable of painting her own dining room.”

      “Yes, Gavin,” I said quietly, meeting her gaze without looking away. “I am. You should do what your mother says. You can help me after I get home from work this week. I’ll be taping off the moldings.”

      He muttered and grumbled but hopped down my two concrete steps and took the ones to his house in one stride. He pushed past his mother without a word. She didn’t look at him as he went inside.

      We looked across the narrow gap between our porches. She didn’t seem much older than I, despite having a fifteen-year-old son. She still smiled, and at last I relented and smiled at her with as much sincerity as she’d given me.

      “Have a good time at the museum,” I told her, finally fitting my key into the lock and opening my door.

      “We will. My fiancé, Dennis, is taking us.”

      I couldn’t have cared less about her fiancé, but I nodded at her anyway and started inside my house.

      “Gavin spends a lot of time with you,” she said, stopping me.

      I turned to face her as I took my key from the lock and put it in my purse. “He likes to borrow my books. And he’s been very helpful with my renovations.”

      She glanced inside before looking back at me. “I have to work long hours. I can’t always be here for him.”

      I couldn’t tell if she was explaining herself to me out of guilt or warning me off. “He’s always welcome to come over here, Mrs. Ossley. I appreciate his help.”

      She looked me up and down again. “I’m sure you do.”

      I waited for her to say more and when she didn’t, I repeated my hopes they’d enjoy the museum, and I went inside. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment. We’d never shared more than a wave in passing before, even though we’d been neighbors for five years. I supposed there were better conversations we could have had. Then again, there could have been worse.

      I didn’t care to ponder on it too much. My bed called me, and I went to it to seek a few hours rest before I got on with the rest of my day.

      There was no hiding from Marcy on Monday. She took one look at me and squealed like she’d been stuck with a cattle prod.

      “Ooooh, girl! You’ve done it!”

      I kept my eyes on my reflection as I carefully applied sheer lip gloss and powdered my nose. “Done what?”

      Marcy was touching up, too, though she’d brought a fully equipped tackle box into the bathroom. She had every color of eye shadow known to man and some I was convinced came from an alien planet, all with matching lip and eye pencils, blush, foundation and powder. She had so many lipsticks laid out the counter bristled like a coral reef full of tubeworms. She shook one at me.

      “You’ve gone got yourself a man.”

      Her words took me aback, so I smeared instead of smudged. “I beg your pardon?”

      She raised a plucked-to-perfection brow. “A man, honey. Don’t deny it. You’ve got the FFG all over you.”

      I shook my head, laughing. “What’s FFG?”

      “Freshly fucked glow, honey,” she said, lowering her voice in deference to the bathroom acoustics, but only for a moment. “Spill it.”

      “I don’t have anything to spill.” I swiped the sponge from my compact over my nose and cheeks, then tucked it and my gloss back in the small emergency kit I keep in my purse.

      “C’mon. I told you about Wayne.”

      She was right. The bonds of feminine friendship did require reciprocation. And truthfully, I wanted to talk to someone about Dan. Marcy, sad to say, was my only friend.

      “His name is Dan Stewart. He’s a lawyer. I met him at The Blue Swan.”

      “I knew it!” She didn’t seem to mind that I’d lied to her before.

      Marcy owned more brushes than Picasso, all shapes and sizes and kept in a rolled-up leather case. She whipped out one now and used it to dab at the lipstick. I watched, fascinated as she drew in her lips like a paint-by-numbers picture.

      “So he’s got a good job. Big deal. Has he got a big dick?”

      I coughed and blushed. I don’t know why. I’ve heard worse. Said worse.

      “It’s adequate,” I said.

      “Oh,” she said sympathetically, blotting her lips on a square of tissue. “Small?”

      “No! Marcy, good Lord!”

      “Adequate? C’mon, Elle.” She turned to face me. “Cut? Uncut? Long? Short? Thick? Thin? What?”

      “Jesus, Marcy. Who looks that closely?” I bent to scrub my hands.

      “Who doesn’t?” She began packing away her box of paints and powders.

      “He has a very nice penis,” I told her. “Aesthetically pleasing and fully functional.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Spare me, would you? You’re acting like this is no big deal.”

      I pushed open the door to the bathroom and started for my office. She followed. She didn’t stop at my doorway, either, but came right in and made herself at home.

      “Have a seat,” I offered wryly. “Can I get you a drink?”

      “Give me one of your diet sodas,” she said. “I know you hide ’em in that minifridge.”

      I handed her a can and settled behind my desk. “Don’t you have work to do?”

      “Yes.” She cracked the top open and drank, not seeming to care she was ruining the lips she’d just worked so hard to paint.

      “Shouldn’t you go do it, then? Instead of interrogating me about my sex life?”

      “Who’s interrogating?” She cried. “I’m just asking.”

      I had to laugh at her. “Marcy, we had sex. It’s no big deal.”

      She frowned. “Sugar, that’s just sad. It should be a big deal, otherwise why bother?”

      She had a point, one I’d made for myself when I’d sworn off the act altogether. “It was worth the bother, all right?”

      “So he was good.”

      “He was good, Marcy!” I shook a pen at her. “You nosy bitch!”

      She put a hand over her heart and looked wounded. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

      I sighed, resigned. “He took me to the movies, and we went to his place, after.”

      I didn’t mention the dance club or the bathroom at La Belle Fleur. Marcy oohed, anyway. She leaned forward on her seat.

      “Did he put the moves on you right away, or did he pretend he wanted to show you his soda can collection?”

      “I think we both knew why I was going back there. And he doesn’t collect cans, at least that I can tell.”

      “Phew,” she said. “Because that’s total turn-off.”

      I laughed again and shook my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

      Marcy drank some soda, then set the can on the edge of my desk. “Elle, if you don’t mind my saying so—”

      “Would you stop if I did?”

      “Hell, no.”

      I waved my hand. “Then by all means, carry on.”

      “I think it’s good you got out.”

      Her