Missing You(2)
“Go.”
He shrugged, turned, spotted Stacy, figured why not. He looked her long body up and down and said, “The word of the day is legs. Let’s go back to your place and spread the word.”
Stacy was still loving it. “Take me, Ass Waffle. Right here. Right now.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Ass Waffle looked back at Kat. Kat put her hand on the butt of her gun. He held up his hands and slinked away.
Kat said, “Stacy?”
“Hmm?”
“Why do these guys keep thinking they have a chance with me?”
“Because you look cute and perky.”
“I’m not perky.”
“No, but you look perky.”
“Seriously, do I look like that much of a loser?”
“You look damaged,” Stacy said. “I hate to say it. But the damage . . . it comes off you like some kind of pheromone that douche bags can’t resist.”
They both took a sip of their drinks.
“So what won’t I like?” Kat asked.
Stacy looked back toward Ass Waffle. “I feel bad for him now. Maybe I should throw him a quickie.”
“Don’t start.”
“What?” Stacy crossed her show-off long legs and smiled at Ass Waffle. He made a face that reminded Kat of a dog left in a car too long. “Do you think this skirt is too short?”
“Skirt?” Kat said. “I thought it was a belt.”
Stacy liked that. She loved the attention. She loved picking up men, because she thought a one-night stand with her was somehow life changing for them. It was also part of her job. Stacy owned a private investigation firm with two other gorgeous women. Their specialty? Catching (really, entrapping) cheating spouses.
“Stacy?”
“Hmm?”
“What won’t I like?”
“This.”
Still teasing Ass Waffle, Stacy handed Kat a piece of paper. Kat looked at the paper and frowned: KD8115
HottestSexEvah
“What is this?”
“KD8115 is your user name.”
Her initials and badge number.
“HottestSexEvah is your password. Oh, and it’s case sensitive.”
“And these are for?”
“A website. YouAreJustMyType.com.”
“Huh?”
“It’s an online dating service.”
Kat made a face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“It’s upscale.”
“That’s what they say about strip clubs.”
“I bought you a subscription,” Stacy said. “It’s good for a year.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t kid. I do some work for this company. They’re good. And let’s not fool ourselves. You need someone. You want someone. And you aren’t going to find him in here.”
Kat sighed, rose, and nodded to the bartender, a guy named Pete who looked like a character actor who always played the Irish bartender—which is what, in fact, he was. Pete nodded back, indicating that he’d put the drinks on Kat’s tab.
“Who knows?” Stacy said. “You could end up meeting Mr. Right.”
Kat started for the door. “But more likely, Mr. Ass Waffle.”
? ? ?
Kat typed in “YouAreJustMyType.com,” hit the RETURN button, and filled in her new user name and the rather embarrassing password. She frowned when she saw the moniker at the top of the profile that Stacy had chosen for her: Cute and perky!
“She left off damaged,” Kat muttered under her breath.
It was past midnight, but Kat wasn’t much of a sleeper. She lived in an area far too upscale for her—West 67th Street off Central Park West, in the Atelier. A hundred years ago, this and its neighboring buildings, including the famed Hotel des Artistes, had housed writers, painters, intellectuals—artists. The spacious old-world apartments faced the street, the smaller artist studios in the back. Eventually, the old art studios were converted into one-bedroom apartments. Kat’s father, a cop who watched his friends get rich doing nothing but buying real estate, tried to find his way in. A guy whose life Dad had saved sold him the place on the cheap.
Kat had first used it as an undergrad at Columbia University. She had paid for her Ivy League education with an NYPD scholarship. According to the life plan, she was then supposed to go to law school and join a big white-shoe firm in New York City, finally breaking away from the cursed family legacy of police work.
Alas, it hadn’t worked out that away.
A glass of red wine sat next to her keyboard. Kat drank too much. She knew that was a cliché—a cop who drank too much—but sometimes the clichés are there for a reason. She functioned fine. She didn’t drink on the job. It didn’t really affect her life in any noticeable way, but if Kat made calls or even decisions late at night, they tended to be, er, sloppy ones. She had learned over the years to turn off her mobile phone and stay away from e-mail after ten P.M.
Yet here she was, late at night, checking out random dudes on a dating website.
Stacy had uploaded four photographs to Kat’s page. Kat’s profile picture, a head shot, had been cropped from a bridesmaid group photo taken at a wedding last year. Kat tried to view herself objectively, but that was impossible. She hated the picture. The woman in the photograph looked unsure of herself, her smile weak, almost as though she were waiting to be slapped or something. Every photograph—now that she went through the painful ritual of viewing them—had been cropped from group pictures, and in every one, Kat looked as though she were half wincing.