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I leveled a glare at him. “There is no way that I will ever wear a corset on duty.”
Ryan summoned an i
“And think of how well I could manage in a foot pursuit wearing a leather miniskirt and red Mary Janes with five inch heels!” I shot back. Zack had enthusiastically produced the aforementioned “undercover” garb, and my reaction had been less than gracious. I’d very reluctantly allowed Zack to lace me into the corset, simply because I was curious to see if it could actually give me something resembling a figure. I tended to think of myself as shapeless—waist and hips damn near the same size, with the boobs barely edging them out. I wasn’t fat by a long stretch, but I had zilcho muscle tone, and I wasn’t going to be wearing midriff-revealing tops anytime soon. But the corset had given me a shitload more figure than I was prepared for. I’d taken one look at my corseted self in the mirror and then yanked it off, informing Zack that I couldn’t possibly wear it since I couldn’t breathe in the damn thing. But the truth was that I’d been stupidly and prudishly mortified at the thought of going out in public with my boobs shoved up and out like that—even though I was secretly tickled to see how I looked with actual cleavage and a defined waist.
I’d tried the shoes next. They were utterly lovely, but even though I’d enjoyed the sensation of being five foot ten, I was completely incapable of taking more than three steps in them without wobbling. And I’d flatly refused to try on the miniskirt, since there was no way in all of creation I was going to let the general public see my pale and out-of-shape legs.
Zack had finally exchanged everything for an outfit that I was far more willing to wear in public—a pretty nifty quasi-Victorian ensemble with ruffled blouse, fitted pants, and brocade jacket, along with a pair of gorgeous ass-kicking jack boots. My deeply buried i
For his part, Ryan was decked out in a black T-shirt with buckles along the shoulders and black industrial pants with more buckles and rivets down the sides. The shirt was tight enough that I could see the ripple of his abs through it, and I had to admit—privately—that he looked awfully damn good in black. Every other woman apparently thought so too, judging by the gazes cast his way.
“It’s too bad you can’t pull off the goth look,” I said with a shake of my head.
He looked down at what he was wearing and frowned. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “But no matter how hard you try to dress the part, you still carry yourself like a federal agent.”
His mouth twitched in a smile and he slouched against the wall. “Better?”
I shook my head. “Now you look like a fed trying to look casual. I still think you could have shaved your head into a mohawk, like I’d suggested.”
He gave a mock-shudder. “I’ll take a lot of risks in this line of work, but that’s one thing I don’t plan to do.”
“Chicken shit,” I teased.
“My current style’s not good enough for you?”
My gaze flicked up to his hair. His natural color was brown with hints of red-gold highlights, and he kept his hair short enough to comply with FBI regs but long enough that the barest hint of curl showed. I’d never admitted it out loud—and probably never would since we seemed to be locked in a sometimes awkward “just friends” mode—but there were times when I really wanted to run my fingers through his hair.
Now was not one of those times. He’d used a frightening amount of hair product in what looked like an attempt to make it spiky. Unfortunately his hair was too short for him to achieve the desired look. Or rather, I hoped that what he’d achieved was not the desired look. And then there was the color.
“Ryan,” I said grimly. “Your head looks like a hair-brush that’s been soaked in grape juice. What did you dye it with? Kool-Aid?”
“Now that was just plain mean,” he said with a sad shake of his head.
I sca
I hated it, but I understood it.
My gaze was drawn to a black-clad figure smoking a cigarette against the wall near the bar. He wasn’t dancing or even twitching to the music, and when my eyes rested on him he turned his head to give me a lazy smile, as if he could feel me looking at him. For all I knew he could. This was the fourth member of our little team tonight. Marco Knight was a detective with the New Orleans police department, and since we were in the city, we needed someone with local jurisdiction in case anything happened. He’d apparently worked with the team before, when they’d worked cases in the city. Ryan hadn’t told me much about him, except to say that “he got it.” And I hadn’t picked up much more when I’d met him, though after he shook my hand in greeting I had the odd feeling that he knew a lot more about me. One eyebrow lifted and then a sardonic smile crossed his face as he murmured, “Complicated,” before releasing my hand.
Complicated? Yeah, that pretty much described my life.
I looked away, a
I returned my attention to the stage. Lida Moran was the lead singer for Ether Madhouse as well as one hell of a guitar player. Her fingers flew over the strings as she threw herself around the stage with gusto, belting out something that might have been lyrics. I really couldn’t tell, but the crowd didn’t seem to care whether they understood what the words to the song were. She was good, though. I had to give her that. Nineteen years old, five foot ten, and with the kind of body that most of the guys I knew would dub “smokin’ hot,” she had a powerhouse voice that wowed everyone who heard her, whether they liked her style of music or not. The other three members of the band had some decent musical chops as well, though I wasn’t much of a judge of that sort of thing. But I could tell that they didn’t suck.
“Isn’t she a little young for Zack?” I asked, casting a dubious glance at the singer. The purple streaks in her long, jet-black hair seemed to glow under the lights, and I could see the flash of metal from the numerous piercings in her ears, nose, and eyebrows. “How old is Zack anyway?”