Free Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog Page B

filet of salmon. All were sitting on a bed of dirty rice, garnished with a sprig of parsley and two lemons. I wondered if Alex was trying to impress me or if she’d had an internship with Wolfgang Puck after college.
    Alex had the bottle of wine open and breathing, and while she poured us both a glass I took the time to focus on the message I wanted to convey to this woman. I desperately wanted to scold her for writing the book, but could I blame her, it was a hell of a story and she was paid a substantial amount for the trade.
    Alex pushed a full glass of scarlet Cabernet Sauvignon in front of me and said, “Let’s clear the air. You first.”
    Here went nothing. I cleared my throat and said, “The man who killed those eight women is still out there.”
    Alex sat in stunned silence, obliviously popping a mushroom in her mouth and garbled, “All right, let’s hear it.”
    I replayed the events that transpired on that fateful day almost a year ago, Alex soaking up each detail like a thirsty sponge. She was a journalist at heart and I could see she was twitching to run and grab a pen and pad. I finished with a tirade of sorts, hitting a high with, “ Eight in October is a death trophy to Tristen Grayer.”
    In my conclusion, Alex asked one of the few questions I hadn’t seen on the night’s docket, “Can I see the scars?”
    I showed her the nickel sized scar on my left shoulder and said, “The other one isn’t as easily accessible.”
    “I thought the second bullet shattered your femur?”
    “It did. High femur.” I raised my eyebrows. “High—inner—femur.”
    A pained expression blanketed her face and she covered her mouth, “Did it nick the old twig and berries?”
    Did I hear her correctly? Did an acclaimed investigative journalist just use the phrase, “Old twig and berries?”
    I tried valiantly to hide a smile and as if reading my mind, Alex said, “Sorry, cock and balls.”
    I laughed, and said, “It’s your turn.”
    Alex shook her head, “Let’s take a twenty.” She tapped her shoulders with her fingertips twice, indicating a time-out. “For the next twenty minutes this is a date.”
    “A date? Why not a prune? Or a raisin?”
    She rolled her eyes at me, “Are you always like this?”
    No, only when I’m in the presence of a beautiful woman, tipsy, and am wearing Maxi-pads. “Okay, it’s a date. And by the way, tapping your shoulders is the signal for a full time-out, not a twenty.”
    We argued over a couple referee calls (by the way, she was right about the time-out), until I ejected her from the conversation, which she thought was hilarious. The way to a woman’s heart is through her funny bone and I was having an inner strife whether I wanted to tickle Alex’s. I decided to tone it down a bit and said, “So, two cowboys are on the edge of a cliff when they hear the sound of war drums. One cowboy looks at the other and says, I don’t like the sound of those war drums. From below they hear someone shout, He’s not our regular drummer.”
    When I pulled my hands away from my mouth (I’d cupped them to give an echoing effect), Alex was crumpled behind the bar. I was a third of the way into my salmon when Alex popped up wiping tears from her eyes, “That is the stupidest joke I’ve ever heard.”
    We ate and traded jokes—for the record, hers were much dirtier than mine—for the next twenty minutes. We moved onto sailing. Turns out, Alex was an avid sailor and offered to give me a lesson sometime. After we finished the meal and the bottle, Alex disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a large slice of cheesecake. The two of us devoured the rich, creamy, almond swirled cheesecake, and I’d be fibbing if I said the orgasmic tremor at the end of my fork was the only one on my mind.
    After we’d licked the plate clean, I looked at my watch, it was close to ten, and I said, “Dates over, babe.”
    She threw me a look daring me to call her babe again, then after clearing her