Blood Games. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
began to attack her face with the towelette, taking off gobs of gook. With each swipe, she smeared more and more makeup. Tears began to trickle down her cheek.
Gabe rolled his eyes. “Stop, stop, stop.” He took the wipe from her. “Just calm down. You look fine. Hold still.” Carefully, he started removing the paint from her skin until it was gone. “There you go.”
With trepidation, she looked in the mirror and said nothing.
“I don’t know why you’d want to cover your face in all this shit,” Gabe told her. “You’re much cuter without it.”
“I told you Persians dress up for occasions. Besides, now I look around ten.”
“But a very cute ten.”
She finally smiled and then carefully applied some lip gloss. “Thanks for bearing with me.”
Gabe shrugged. “You know, as long as you’re making changes, you should take your hair down. No one our age wears their hair like that unless they’re in a bridal party.”
She made a sour face and started pulling bobby pins out of her hair.
“Need help?” he asked.
“I think you’ve done quite enough, thank you—”
“You’re gonna tear your hair if you keep yanking on it like that.” He reached toward her, but she backed away. He rolled his eyes. “Hold still. I’m trying to help you, okay?”
She suddenly stopped, and her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Do whatever you want.”
Never say that to a guy. He stifled a smile. “You’ve got a lot of hair.”
“I can see you know nothing about Persian girls. We all have lots of hair and much of it in unwanted places.”
He let out an unexpected laugh. “Ever think about stand-up?”
“Glad I’m amusing.”
“Hold still.” He closed the distance between them as he carefully picked bobby pins out of her hair, one by one by one. His face was inches from her. He could taste her breath. He inhaled her perfume. Her dress was a scoop neck that had exposed her collarbones. After he took out all the clips, he pretended to smooth out her hair, letting his fingers dance over her bony protrusions. He raked his fingers through the long strands—downy soft, black and wavy. He pulled out a few loose tresses from the back of her sweater, feeling the nape of her neck.
And there it was: that all-too-familiar jolt below his waistline. Not that his pants were tight, but he was tall and, lucky him, he was proportional. All she had to do was look down to see it. Thankfully, she was too naive to notice. It was going to go to waste, but it did feel good to get a buzz from something other than porno.
“There you go.” He laid the strands over her shoulders and sat back. “Now you look hot.”
“Yeah, right!” Yasmine turned away. It was hard for her to look at his face without blushing. He was the most gorgeous boy she had ever seen in her entire life.
Gabe checked his watch and became irritated again. Which was good but it was hard to be aroused and angry at the same time. He tapped his foot as the taxi sped to its destination. He checked his watch as they approached the Music Center. By the time the taxi pulled over, they had five minutes to go.
They were at the Ahmanson Theatre side of the block instead of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where the opera was. Rather than redirect the cabbie, it was quicker to run it.
Gabe peeled out five twenties for a sixty-two-dollar bill. “Thanks.” He threw open the door. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”
He began to run across the pavement, assuming she was with him. But a moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, she was twenty paces behind. Her dress was too tight to allow unrestricted movement and her heels too high for her to run with any speed. He stopped and grabbed her hand, dragging her along, hearing the click, click, click of her heels.
“How much did you tip that guy?” she asked.
“I dunno. Who cares?”
“I’m splitting the bill with you so I care.”
“I said I’d pay for it, if you came … even though you were forty-five minutes late.”
She was panting. “I said I’ll pay half—”
“Forget it!” He pulled her forward. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
They made it to the entry at 3:04.
The lights were giving their final on and off blink, indicating that the show was about to start. Over the speakers, he could hear the orchestra tuning.
He started bounding up the steps, taking two at a time with Yasmine in tow, but her weight was dragging him down. He turned around and saw the problem. Her mouth was agape. She was gawking upward. “Look at the size of those chandeliers!”
“Yeah, they’ll still be here at intermission.” He yanked her forward. “C’mon!”
They made it inside just as the lights were dimming. He ran past the usher telling her he knew where their seats were.
Stepping over people.
Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.
Finally, he found the seats.
“Turn off your phone,” he told her.
“Right.”
Gabe slumped backward in his chair and exhaled out loud. He glanced at Yasmine who was unfazed by their in-the-nick-of-time arrival and seemingly unscathed by his churlish behavior. As soon as the orchestra launched into the overture, she sat at attention with her knees pressed together, her hands gripping her beaded purse, her body pitched slightly forward as if there was something to see besides a velvet curtain.
Unbelievable!
After several breaths, he rolled his shoulders and started to relax. They were in the first row of the loge so he had the luxury of a little more legroom for his six-foot frame. He sat back, spread his legs apart, and dropped his hands into his lap.
By accident, his knee touched hers. He pulled his legs together.
She glanced at his face and gave him an ear-to-ear grin, mouthing a silent thank you before returning her eyes to the stage.
He raised his eyebrows, a small smile of his own settling across his lips. He made himself comfortable in the seat, slouching back with his arms folded across his chest. Slowly his legs fell open until once again his knee found hers.
This time he kept it right where it was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SINCE THE STATION house was quiet, Decker was planning to rip through some of last week’s paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate; his mind was still on Gregory Hesse’s memorial service. A giant blowup of the boy’s face had been strung across the altar, young eyes without a hint of the disaster to come. To a packed church, the minister delivered wrenching prose about a life cut short by the deepest secrets of the heart. He had to stop several times to compose himself. Then friends and family spoke, dredging up memories about a child too young for the past tense.
The service ended at twelve, and the reception lasted another hour. Decker did note that there were a lot of kids in attendance. After waiting in line to offer condolences to the parents, Decker figured he made the right move by coming to the service because Wendy Hesse squeezed his hand.
Please don’t forget about my son.
“Knock, knock.” Rina was at his door, holding a paper bag. “Room service.”
“Sit down.” He grinned. “What’d you bring me?”
“Cold roast sandwich on rye with horseradish and mustard. I have