Killer Riff by Sheryl J Anderson

Author:Sheryl J Anderson [Anderson, Sheryl J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Amateur Sleuth
ISBN: 9781429949026
Google: wYgBZlNDuAEC
Amazon: B005SNH3PY
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2007-11-12T16:00:00+00:00

10

“Am I too old to be a groupie?”

The young lady behind the counter blanched, thinking that Tricia was directing the comment to her and wisely not wanting to enter into a conversation that began in such a treacherous place. I shook my head hurriedly and pointed at myself, but the poor girl still fled to the cappuccino machine with eyes averted while I responded, “No, but I do think you’re a bit mature to be this excited at the prospect.”

Daylight had not diminished Tricia’s giddiness over meeting Jordan Crowley. I couldn’t really blame her: He was handsome, charming, and famous. And she hadn’t been exposed to the venomous oddness of his inner circle yet, which was what was dulling his shine for me. Besides, Tricia had been single for a while now, and that increases your sensitivity to new and exciting potentials, the way not eating before a cocktail party makes that first drink hit you twice as hard. It was nice to see her buzzed. We were just going to have to make sure Jordan didn’t wind up being one huge hangover.

“The issue isn’t your age as much as it is the age of the boy,” Cassady pointed out with a snarky smile.

Tricia narrowed her eyes in warning. “He is not a boy.”

“If he’s younger than you are, he’s a boy,” Cassady said. “It’s an algebraic principle.”

“You’re just jealous because a man paid more attention to me than to you. For once,” Tricia insisted.

Key among the immutable facts of life as a friend of Cassady Lynch is you’re always going to be the second one people notice. Men in particular. Tricia and I have learned to accept that, but, as Tricia was revealing, it still chafes from time to time.

Studying the contents of the bakery case with feigned interest, Cassady looked as if she were going to be gracious and let it go, but then she returned the lob after all. “I don’t need to shop. My cart is full.”

“Really?” Tricia asked, eyebrows rising along with her voice. “How long since anyone scanned your basket?”

“Now, now, ladies, let’s be careful,” I said quickly. We were in line at the Dean & DeLuca by Rockefeller Center, a busy and very public place, not the most ideal location for this kind of discussion. We’d already frightened the barista and were well on our way to entertaining the other people in line, a prospect that didn’t entice me in the least, given my recent media exposure.

Following my workout with Gray Benedek, what seemed appropriate was a good stiff drink or a hot-fudge sundae, but it felt self-pitying and irresponsible to give in to either impulse when it wasn’t even noon yet. So I’d called Cassady and Tricia so they could talk me into eating vegetables or something equally saintly, but they’d agreed I should go for the most dessertlike coffee possible in the hopes that tapping into the twin wellsprings of caffeine and sugar at the same time would revive me. I

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