Free The Ophelia Cut by John Lescroart Page B

time with her dad and the Beck, and Rick had appeared, dressed up in coat and tie and looking every bit as hot as he did during the week when he stopped in at Peet’s. Seeing her, he lit up. He and Brittany and the Beck went into the back room and shot darts and drank some whiskey, and everybody was getting along great, Brittany thinking that the night was going to work out, textbook—she knew she would have her hands and everything else all over Rick Jessup tonight and as far into the future as she wanted to hold on to him.
    It got to be around nine o’clock, and she’d had a couple of cosmos and learned more about Rick. On the positive side, he had a real job, chief of staff for Liam Goodman; he wasn’t and hadn’t been married; he was twenty-seven. Not so good was that he wasn’t wild about dogs or cats or country music, although he could tolerate . . .
    “. . . Taylor Swift.”
    “She’s not even country anymore,” the Beck said.
    “No,” Brittany put in. “She is country. She’s just not stupid country.”
    “Well,” Rick said, “stupid country is what I mean by country. Which is why Taylor Swift is okay. Because she’s not really country. Like”—he turned to Brittany—“who’s this playing right now?”
    “Carrie Underwood.”
    “There you go. Totally country, totally stupid. ‘Jesus, Take the Wheel.’ ” Rick was getting into it. “Give me a break. Drive the damn car yourself! Don’t give it to Jesus! How’s Jesus supposed to know how to drive? Does she think they had cars back in ancient Israel? I want to punch her.”
    “No punching women allowed,” Rebecca said.
    “Not unless you have to.” Rick gave the Beck a flat look, dead serious for a split second before breaking into a teasing smile, then continuing, “But country? Really? Totally LCD.”
    “How can you say that?” Brittany cut between them. “Carrie is not the lowest common denominator. To say nothing of Brad.”
    “Who’s Brad?”
    “ ‘Who’s Brad?’ he asks. Paisley? Only the best guitar player in the world? And singer and songwriter, while we’re at it.”
    “Nope. Sorry. He’s the tick guy, right? ‘I Want to Search You for Ticks’?”
    “A great song.”
    Jessup shook his head. “LCD.”
    “Blake Shelton?”
    Rolling his eyes. “No.”
    “Miranda Lambert.”
    “Please.”
    “Get out! Kenny?”
    Rick turned to the Beck. “What’s this with the first names?” Back to Brittany. “Kenny?”
    “Chesney? Hello?”
    Finally, Rick let himself grin. “Okay, beach stuff only, not bad. But that’s as far as I’m going. At least until I get another drink. And speaking of that, what’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?”
    In the bathroom, washing her hands, the Beck said, “I’m glad neither of our dads was around to hear him say that sometimes you had to punch women.”
    “That was a joke.”
    “Really? Not the funniest one I’ve ever heard. And you didn’t pick up just a little tiny bit of condescension?”
    “Why? Because he doesn’t like country music?”
    “No. Just the general attitude.”
    “He’s got opinions, Beck. That’s a good thing.”
    “Kind of depends on what they are, don’t you think? I can’t say I’m really taken by the way he got you to order another round for us all. And you went.”
    “I’m a nice person, Beck. I went to get us drinks. Big deal.”
    “I don’t know. You combine arrogant and impatient, and okay, he’s good-looking, but he’s a politician, and I bet he’s used to getting his way. At least that’s the way he comes across. Don’t you think?”
    “I think somebody might be a little jealous here.”
    Drying her hands, the Beck turned to face her. “Get real, Brit.”
    “Y OUR DAUGHTER IS beautiful,” Jessup said.
    McGuire leaned over the bar, close to the young man wearing a suit and tie on a Friday night. “She is,” he agreed. “She’s a wonderful person. How’d you two meet each other again?”
    “I’m a