Blake nods but looks determined. “Looks like we’ve got some investigating to do on our own.”

*

Thirty minutes later, we’re driving in Blake’s car. The sun’s almost down, and even though we’re not speeding or anything, I feel like I’m hurtling uncontrollably into madness. “Tell me again how you talked me into this? I’m not Nancy Drew!”

Blake grins, all sure, calm, and collected, which irritates me. “Of course, you’re not. You’re Velma. Smart, sexy, and I bet you’d look fucking awesome in knee socks and nothing else.” His eyes scan down my body quickly before safely returning to the road, but it feels like he’s creating that very image in his mind.

“Oh,” I say, coming up short on a reply for that. What was I arguing about again? I’ve totally forgotten, lost in the sparkle in Blake’s eyes. And oh, God, when he lays his hand on my thigh and squeezes, I reach out and touch the wood-veneer again, closing my eyes as I whisper, “Don’t let him die before we have sex. Please, God.”

Blake chuckles. “Did you just pray for sex?”

I crack one eye open to glare at him. “No. I wished. It’s totally different.”

He nods his head with a cocky smirk. “If you say so. But now I wonder what you look like in a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.”

The joke calms me some and I ask again, for the tenth time, “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if she recognizes your car? Or you? Or me? Shit, I’m going to be Stalker Barbie next, aren’t I?”

Okay, maybe not calm, but slightly less hysterical.

“Yvette Horne has never seen my car. And even if she saw us driving by, there’s nothing that says two people can’t drive down the road together. It’s only suspicious if you make it suspicious.”

I nod, singing a TikTok song under my breath, “Don’t be suspicious . . . don’t be suspicious . . .”

I guess it doesn’t work because Blake squeezes my thigh again, ordering me, “Relax. Breathe. We’re just two people out for a drive.”

“A drive. Just a drive. I can do that.” I nod, but my back is still ramrod straight until Blake turns that squeezing into a massage, working his way up my thigh and back down to my knee. Up and down he goes, over and over, and of their own volition, my legs spread a little more as my breathing ratchets up. The next pass, he pauses high on my thigh, his pinkie teasing at my core. Even through the layers, it feels amazing, bringing all my focus to a singular point between my legs.

Oh, God, he’s ‘jilling’ me off in the passenger seat of his car . . . and I fucking love it.

“We’re almost there,” Blake whispers huskily, and I am.

So close.

I hum in agreement, biting my lip. “Mmmhmm.” Yes . . . just a few more strokes . . .

“I meant to Horne’s house,” Blake says, a smile in his voice. I whimper, swallowing back my desire and forcing my eyes, which I didn’t even realize had closed, to open to find us driving down a smooth, well-paved, two-lane road in Williamson County.

It’s Horne’s subdivision, twenty or so houses, each with an acre or two between them and the neighbor. But they’re set up close to the street, with fenced-in front yards and large expanses of back yards. Last time I was here, the street had been dotted with cars.

Now, it’s empty and quiet.

The orgasm, which had been close enough to taste, retreats, at least temporarily. “That one,” I say, pointing at the Horne house. It looks much the same as the last time I was here, a cute ranch-style house with nothing on the exterior giving a hint to the death inside.

“Duck!” Blake snaps, grabbing behind my neck and shoving me toward his crotch.

“What?” I snap right back, squirming against his hold.

But all it does is rub my cheek up against his cock. His very thick, very hard cock. I freeze when I feel it jump. “Blake?”

He doesn’t take his eyes from the road, I can see that much as I look out of the corner of my eye, but his thumb gently caresses my cheek.

“Just stay down for a second. There’s someone coming out of the house.”

I feel the car slow down and don’t dare to breathe.

What if we get caught? What if Yvette Horne is coming out of the house right now, sees Blake, and waves him down?

What if she asks what the hell I’m doing face-down in his lap?

Fuck, the gossip grapevine is going to go haywire again . . . first with Alver’s tale of morgue table oral sexing and now, road head.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, as though Yvette might hear me.

“It’s a guy. Blond hair, muscled, late thirties, mustache. He’s taking out the trash,” Blake tells me.

If anyone saw him, they’d probably think he’s singing along to the radio, right? I can work with that. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know.” The ‘duh’ is implied.

“Well, neither do I since I can’t see and all,” I hiss. Then, just to torture him a little, I run my nose along the length of the bulge I can see filling his slacks.

“Oh, fuck, Zoey.” It’s half-warning to stop, half-plea to not. I do it again, adding in a caress against my cheek.

“Tell me what you see.”