Numbers

Chapter 1 - "Just Friends"

Sometimes, you just have to settle for the best you can get. That can include a relationship that is 'just friends' even if you could have wished for something more. The Greeks had three words for love: Agape (sacrificial love), Philios (brotherly love), and Eros (erotic love). Getting two out of three wasn't all bad. Ryan Hill felt he shared philios and even agape with his best friend, Chrissy Hunnicutt. They were both smart, caring, and creative people who could find laughs in each other's company any time they were together. And they would each do just about anything for the other. However, they never found the spark of Eros between them. That was because they were each too far from the other's ideal of beauty.

Ryan liked girly-girls. He liked women who were not only inherently pretty, but who also took the trouble to do the things to enhance their attractiveness. This included fashion things like clothes and makeup, and it included physical things like fitness and a good figure. He wasn't entirely hypocritical about it, requiring of himself the masculine equivalents. He ran every day, dressed a step above jeans-and-a-t-shirt most of the time, and though he chose longish hair (especially for a guy) he was careful to keep it clean and shining. Unfortunately for his relationship with Chrissy, he was on the short side of average, slim, and had too-graceful features with an almost delicately long neck and fine cheek bones.

Chrissy, on the other hand, was almost a textbook endomorph. She was big. She legitimately had the 'big bones' that is so often used as an excuse for being oversized, but they were well hidden within padding that was not due to bones alone. The nightmare of high school had driven her to reject 'conventional' standards for appearance and while she was meticulously clean at all times, she chose short hair, 'sensible' shoes, and shapeless styles. And, since she was quite tall for a girl, her Prince Charming needed to be very tall, strong enough to sweep even her off her feet, and satisfied with the bright wit within the disappointing exterior.

So they remained 'just friends' since they had met in high school. They were probably the two smartest students in their class, and that included a healthy dose of wisdom as well as intelligence. They decided good grades and a solid preparation for college were more important than propping up the "beautiful" students who didn't want to work as hard, so they teamed together on projects or labs despite offers from others - even others who met the standards for attractiveness each held.

They stayed friends through college as well, though they didn't share many classes. Chrissy enjoyed words, selecting pre-law for a major but taking all the literature and history courses she could handle.

And Ryan enjoyed numbers. He skated through an undergraduate degree in mathematics, discovering an ability to analyze patterns in numbers that was almost intuitive. It was also profitable. He started on the stock market as part of a mundane class assignment. To his surprise, his predictions for future values of stocks were accurate way more often than not; enough so that he started playing with real money instead of just columns of numbers. By the time he finished his bachelor's degree, he was making more money than his professors and turned down several offers to go to graduate school. Patterns of numbers became his passion, his source of income, and - ultimately - his downfall.

Chrissy Hunnicutt woke to the sound of pounding on her apartment door.

"Chrissy, let me in!" she heard, and recognized Ryan's voice.

"What's the matter?" she asked when she opened the door. She almost didn't recognize the person who went with the voice. Unlike the normally neat and stylish Ryan she knew, the person in her doorway looked like a street person, with torn jeans, a rock band t-shirt too faded to identify the band, and the out-of-place flash of very expensive running shoes.

"You gotta let me in," he repeated. "I'm . . . in trouble."

"What sort of trouble?"

"Someone wants to kill me!" he said. To his surprise, Chrissy laughed.

"I've wanted to kill you any number of times," she said. "Who is it? I may help."

"I’m not kidding, Chrissy," Ryan declared. "I saw someone get murdered, and they're after me next."

"Really?" she said, then frowned. "Sorry. I'm not really doubting you. It's just . . . what time is it anyway?"

"About 2:00AM," supplied Ryan. "I've been on the run since . . . about 10:00, I guess."

"I think you need to tell me about it," she said, but she let him in and closed the door. "Are they likely to come here?"

"I don't think so," Ryan said, looking around guiltily. "I'm sure they didn't follow me, and I don't think anyone - anyone that matters - knows we're friends."

"Thanks," she said dryly.

"Oh, sorry," he said, too upset to build on the humor. He began to pace around the room, pulling savagely at a rubber band tangled in his hair and almost wincing at the oily feel that came with it.

Chrissy started making coffee and said, "Why don't you tell me about it?"

"Um, could I take a shower first?" Ryan asked. "I've gotta get this gunk out of my hair."

"Oh, sure," she said. "You know where things are."

Ryan's overnight visits were infrequent and never sexual, but the two friends shared a mutual amusement at the joke that others might think they were, in fact, lovers. So sometimes, when they were talking and it got late, Ryan would just crash on the couch. Those overnight visits - in an apartment with only one bed since Chrissy used the apartment's second bedroom as an office - also kept other sorts of rumors away from both of them. As a convenience, he had brought a few changes of clothes and the better shampoos and conditioners that he preferred. And a toothbrush.

It still took a while for him to wash his hair. It was most of an hour later when he walked back into Chrissy's living room, still running a brush through his hair in long, slow strokes to keep it from tangling as it dried. Chrissy had his coffee ready, but it was cold. She had fallen back to sleep in one of her easy chairs.

"Chrissy?" he said gently, then a little louder, "Chrissy!"

"What? Oh, what's up?" she said fuzzily.

"Oh, yeah," she said, waking more fully. "Are you ready to talk, now?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he said. He laid a towel on the back of her couch, sat, and flipped his hair back over the towel so that it would spread to air dry.

Before he started, Chrissy made a suggestion. "Why don't you start by telling me why you showed up looking like someone allergic to soap?"

Ryan grimaced, but actually smiled just a little, which is what she was really after anyway.

In what seemed to be a non sequitur, Ryan said, "The problem with most get-rich-quick schemes is that they involve risk."

"Um, yeah, and that applies . . . . how? You were getting pretty rich in the stock market. Did you lose it all?"

"No," he said quickly. "I've got quite a bit of money, but . . ."

He sighed, then continued, "It was just too slow. The last Kentucky Derby was on all the news and I got to thinking about horse racing."

"There's a narrative hook if I ever heard one," Chrissy said, smiling to keep the tension down.

"Yeah, well, the short form is that horse racing shows a lot of patterns, too. I started playing the horses. And winning. A lot, and much more quickly than waiting for my stock predictions to mature. Anyway, I was winning enough that I started increasing my bets, and winning still more to the point that I even got barred from the tracks around here. So I started going to bookies."

"Ah," she said. "The light begins to dawn. The 'risk' you took was not related to whether you'd win. It was the people you had to deal with."

"Exactly," he said. "It started like this . . ."

****************

The problem with illegal off-track betting is that it's illegal. The bookies have already decided that they were willing to break the law so you're between a rock and a hard place if anything goes wrong. On the one hand, they might stiff you because - after all - they're crooks, and on the other hand you can't go to the cops for help if they do. They have a similar problem. If you're a cop, then they're hosed if they do 'business' with you. And while they have enforcement options if you stiff them on a bet - that doesn't automatically get them their money back.

The workaround for that is to have a mutual acquaintance that can vouch for both people. I decided I needed to have an 'identity' that the bookies would trust. So I started hanging around bars and diners in the, um, less-affluent parts of town. It's interesting that Alexandria Virginia is high-dollar just about everywhere, but just across the line into the District there are places where even the cops go in groups. I went to the borderline areas, staying out of the District because I didn't have a death wish, but hanging out in the places where the lines between uptown and slum were blurred. At first, I could hardly get enough attention to buy a drink. Then I realized I was dressed like a snob from Georgetown so I got some clothes in a second-hand store - all except the shoes. I wasn't about to trust my feet to someone else's fungi. Ironically, having too-expensive running shoes was actually better for my 'street cred.' It's amazing how many 'poor' people have enough money for high-end athletic shoes. I put some product in my hair to make it look greasy and learned to slouch.

Diners actually turned out to be my best approach. They were quieter, and the booths allowed business to be conducted privately enough that the proprietor could deny any knowledge, while at the same time keeping an eye on things. The décor - such as it was - of the one I started to hang out in tended toward sports things, including horses, so I figured at least some of the action was bookmaking. Besides, I didn't like going into a dark, smoky bar and coming home smelling like an ashtray somebody had puked in.

A little greasy spoon - literally, you would not believe what the spoons were like - at 9th and Henderson had a lot of people who sat around nursing a single cup of coffee. The owner - Jack something - didn't seem to mind. But I didn't see any girls, at least, none that I took for working girls so I figured the business wasn't primarily prostitution. After a week of me coming in for a cup of coffee, Jack sidled up one day and dropped his voice a bit.

"You lookin' for anything special in here, kid?"

"Maybe," I admitted.

"Don't allow drugs," the man said. "Feds might grab my whole place if they found drugs."

Bingo! Drugs, gambling, or girls were the likely activities, and I'd already eliminated girls. "Works for me," I said. Then I dropped my own voice even lower. "Look, man, don't tell anyone, but I have a, um, a system for horse races. I want to make a few bets."

"So go to the track," he suggested.

"Can't," I countered. "When I get a ti . . . um . . . an insight, I wanna bet big enough that it gets too much attention. Damn IRS will take 25% off the top and come lookin' for more on tax day."

"Big bets, hmmm?" he said, smirking.

I could see the wheels turning. Just another punk kid with fancy shoes and worn clothes. With 'a system' for betting on the horses. The very definition of a loser. I had already figured out that he got a rakeoff on the business that was done in his place so he had a definite incentive to hook me up with a bookie.

"Well, I don't allow anything illegal in here, of course," he said blandly. "But if you're interested in horses, you might enjoy a conversation with Chucky D over there."

He pointed out a slender black man in a booth. He looked a step up from most of the rest of the patrons; wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but adding a flashy satin 76ers jacket.

I shrugged. "Okay, I'll admit I'm new to this. I mean, I have the, um, hunches but I don't know how the mechanics of betting work. I'm not going to go hand a bunch of money to someone I don't know, with no way to get back at him if he just walks out of here."

"Chucky D is okay," Jack assured me. "If he welshed on bets, I'd kick his ass out of here and put the word out. Besides, he works for Tiny Jones, and *nobody* messes with Tiny Jones. Not even the guys who work for him."

"Yeah, maybe, " I said, shrugging again. I looked at Chucky D and sighed. "Okay, man, I'll give him a try. But I'm not stupid. If he scams me I'm coming back after this place."

"Oh, yeah, I'm scared," Jack said, smirking again. That was actually pretty stupid because even a punk like I appeared to be could torch his place or something. Of course, since he probably had protection from the Tiny Jones dude, anyone who did would likely end up dead, but that wouldn't help Jack. On the other hand, as long as Chucky D was an 'honest' bookie, the deal itself would hold so Jack was safe.

I was, of course, building a story on the way I decided on my bets. I implied that I had insider information - tips - but the worst grifters in any sport are those that sell 'guaranteed winners' in horse racing. It just proved how much of a loser I was that I would trust somebody like that. On the other hand, I might just have a line to someone with genuine information. If that were the case, he figured someone like Tiny Jones would pay to know about it so he was more than willing to hook me up with the local bookie.

In fact, I really did have a 'system.' It was a numerical analysis of a host of variables. The result was a probability analysis that offered much better odds than those available at the track. It did not provide guaranteed winners, just better odds. The net result was that I could win about one time in three with 6:1 or 8:1 odds, and that meant I was going to get a very nice return on my money. However, since I didn't bet on super long shots, it was going to take a lot of bets - and fairly big ones - to make a lot of money.

I had already prepared an initial set of bets. My calculated probability of winning at least one bet was over 87%, and I had almost even odds of collecting on two. That would mean a $3K initial outlay should return between $7K and $15K. See what I meant about being better than the stock market? Oh, and the odds of winning all three were down around 10%, which meant I would lose at least one bet. That was okay. It would confuse the issue - neither perfect insider information of that sort that only comes from fixed races, nor chump bets from a loser who bought the magic beans from a seedy character behind a dumpster. If the mechanics worked for simple $1K bets, I could move up to bigger things.

I could see that Chucky D was impressed when I laid out $3K - a stack of thirty $100 bills. He took my bets and handed me a not-very-impressive note that didn't seem very reliable. Nonetheless, the next day he paid off with ninety little pictures of Ben Franklin.

"Pleasure doin' business with you," I said. He just grunted.

I won't say that was the beginning of a pleasant relationship. I'm sure I wasn't as 'street' as I was trying to be, which meant I was hiding who I really was. There wasn't much I could do about that and I didn't think it really mattered. I'd put down my three bets as many as four times a week - each time walking away with two to five times as much money as I laid down.

I should have known that would lead to trouble.

It didn't help that I got greedy.

After about a month my patterns unexpectedly converged and I was looking at a long shot - 10:1 - with over 95% probability of winning. In three years of daily calculations, nothing had even come close to that combination. It didn't help my 'street cool' factor that I was so excited I was waiting at the diner when Chucky D showed up.

He frowned when he saw me. He'd been doing that a lot lately. I was into him for over $100K and he didn't like it. I couldn’t blame him for that, but I (foolishly) didn't care as long as he kept paying off as required.

"Hey, man, I got a big bet for you today," I said.

"Not sure I want it," he growled. "How you gettin' all those winners? Who you know?"

"I have a system," I declared, which was the truth so I could say it like I believed it. Then I embellished as a way to make it seem like a lie. "I read the forms, and then I meditate, and then I get hunches. It works!"

"Meditate, huh," he muttered. He muttered some other things, too, but I didn't feel like remembering them. Apparently my 'street' persona wasn't working very well.

"Whatcha got?" he asked finally.

"$20K on Xora D to win, third race at Colonial Downs."

"Twenty grand? You gotta be shittin' me! What're the odds on that ride?"

"10:1," I supplied.

"No fuckin' way, man," he said.

"What, not man enough?" I sneered. Another mistake.

"Fuck you, white boy," he snapped back, real hate in his eyes. But he was raising his voice and we had gained an audience.

"What's up, Chucky?" Jack asked from the counter.

"Whitebread here wants to put twenty grand down on a long shot," Chucky D replied.

Jack frowned. "You know I don't allow illegal activity in my diner," he said formally. "But if the kid wants to throw his money away, why not let him?"

"'Cause this punk has somebody fixin' races for him," Chucky D declared. "He wins too regular for any fuckin' 'system' based on meditation and hunches."

"Hey, it works," I said.

An interesting dynamic appeared, one I hadn't recognized before. I had figured that Jack was under Chucky D's boss - the never-seen Tiny Jones's - protection, but it appeared Jack was part of the operation, not just a 'protectee.' The diner owner frowned at Chucky D and said, "I don't think we want to tell everyone that horse races are fixed in any way, do we?"

There was a lot of menace in his tone, and Chucky D wilted like ice cream in an August sun. "No, man, wasn't sayin' that."

He stiffened up a bit when he looked back at me, but the hate flared even brighter. "Fuck you, whitebread. Gimme your damn money. But after this, find somebody else."

He scratched out a marker and pushed it at me.

Jack inserted himself into our meeting again. "I don't want that kind of money going through here. If the kid does win, make the payoff somewhere else."

Chucky D sneered, but he didn't look at the diner owner. "Fine. Out back. 10:00PM. But you better not win, punk, or you'll regret it."

I was arrogant enough not to believe him. At least, not at the time.

Xora D did win, of course. I wasn't quite as naďve as they might have thought so I didn't just blunder into that alley at the appointed time for the payoff. In fact, I was there before the race was even run, listening to the results on an earbud from my phone. There was a little niche on the roof between a couple of air conditioning units that had long-since been looted for copper. Something - I really didn't want to know what - had made a nest in there, but it was enough to give me a place where I could see without being seen. If everything was okay, I could be to the alley level in just a couple of seconds.

Chucky D was there early, too, but only about 9:30. He was agitated, but it was more worry than anger. I also noticed that he didn't have a bag or anything that would hold my $200K. Bad news, and I started to worry about more than just not getting paid.

A few minutes later a car pulled up. I was half expecting a tricked-out pimpmobile because as soon as I saw that Chucky D didn't have the money, I figured someone else would have to be bringing it. However, the car was 'ordinary' in a high-dollar way: Mercedes, tinted windows stretched just a bit, black so shiny it was almost hard to see in the dark.

Despite what I knew was an equally high-dollar suspension, the car actually leaned to the side when the occupant got out of the back seat. It was clear where Tiny Jones got his name. Once upon a time he was probably 7 feet tall and most of 300 pounds. He still had the 7 feet, but he'd added another hundred pounds that still didn't make him look soft. Some of that residual fitness look was due to a tailored leather jacket that definitely went with the high-dollar theme. The jacket, with the matching black silk shirt, highlighted the one concession he had made to flash: bling in the form of a diamond-crusted watch about as big as my palm, several gold chains, and rings so heavy I'm not sure I could have lifted them.

"What you been doin' to me Chucky?" he said.

"Boss, I tried to lay off this bet, but nobody wanted it," Chucky protested.

"Nobody wanted it," the big man repeated. "You got some punkass kid killin' us, week after week for a month, and he comes in with a bet this big. No wonder nobody wanted it. Why in fuck's name did *you* take it?"

"Jack made me do it," Chucky D offered.

"I already talked to Jack," Tiny Jones countered. "I know what he said, and it wasn't nothin' of the sort. Jack knows - and you *should* know - that it's bad for business to pay off on bets this big."

"Yeah, Boss, I know, but it was a fuckin' 10:1 shot. There's no way that horse shoulda won."

Tiny walked over with a smile and put his arm around Chucky D's shoulder. "Well, it's okay. We can all learn from this. I learned that I can't trust you to take care of simple little things like makin' book in one a' my establishments, and you . . . well, let's let your lesson be that you gotta pay this punk kid off outta your own pocket."

"Boss," Chucky D gasped, "I don't got that kinda money."

"So you expect me to make good on your bad bet?"

"Boss, I only get 10% off my book. The rest goes to you and I don't skim. Honest. I don't got the money for this. Fuck I ain't made nothing since this kid started comin' in. I'm lucky if I break even."

"Yeah, I noticed that, too. But you know what? That's part of the problem. You're supposed to be makin' money for me, not losin' it."

"Yeah, Boss, I know, but this kid . . ."

The big man interrupted him. "What's his name?"

"How should I know?" Chucky D answered.

"You *should* know because he's clearly not some punk kid. Not when he wins so many bets. You shoulda looked into it."

Tiny Jones was still being a nice guy - or at least playing that part. He squeezed Chucky D's shoulders and it might have been a friendly gesture - scaled up a bit too much for Chucky D's size, but it might have seemed like no big deal to the big man. Chucky D's wince made it clear it was more than that.

"I'm sorry, Boss, but I . . . I mean, how could I do that?"

"Well, for one, you coulda followed him home."

That made me nervous for a second. What if this guy *had* followed me home?

"Followed him?" Chucky D repeated, his perplexed frown showing that idea was so foreign to him he wondered if he even understood the words.

"Fortunately," Tiny Jones continued, "some people around this place have brains."

He waved his hand negligently toward the back door to the diner, which I just then realized was propped open a bit. Jack came quickly through the door and stood facing the two black men.

"So, Jack," Tiny said expansively. "Wha'd'ya find out?"

"The kid's name is Ryan Hill and he lives in an apartment in Terrapin."

"Terrapin?" Chucky D repeated. "That loser? Whitebread lives in an uptown place like that?"

"Actually, Chucky," Tiny said, his voice still gentle but another squeeze forcing a grunt as well as a wince from the smaller man, "it would appear this whitebread is not really a loser after all. He's certainly taken you for enough money."

"Boss, I already told him I ain't takin' no more 'a his bets," Chucky said.

"That is true," Tiny confirmed. "It's actually true on two levels. For one, you ain't gonna be takin' any more of this Hill guy's bets, and for another, well, you ain't gonna be takin' any bets at all."

With that, he reached over and snapped Chucky D's neck like he was taking the top off a bottle of beer.

"Fuckin' loser," Tiny said, looking down at the body. He raised his voice a little and said, "It's after 10:00. That Hill punk didn't show, and I don't like loose ends. Go get him. Bring him to me - alive. I wanna figure out how he's pickin' so many winners."

With his words, two more black men I had never even seen arrive in the alley stepped out of the shadows. They nodded and moved off.

Tiny looked at Jack and said, "Thanks, man. Good job on findin' where the kid lives. You need any help with this trash?"

Jack looked down at the body, but there could only be one answer. It was clear that you didn't expect Tiny to solve your problems.

"No, Boss, I got this," he said.

Tiny nodded and got back into his limo. I wasn't sure how Jack was going to take care of Chucky D's body, but I didn't want to know anyway. I just hid in my nest until everything was quiet, and then waited a while more.

**********************

With that, Ryan looked at Chrissy and concluded. "I couldn't go home so I came here."

Chapter 2 - "Description"

"Wow," Chrissy said as Ryan finally ran down. Then she frowned and added, "Man, Ryan, that was pretty stupid. I mean, getting hooked up with organized crime. . . ?"

"But the money was sssoo good!" he said. Then he sighed with the loss. "I made over $100K . . . in a month! That's a lot better than I was doing in the stock market, and on a lot less capital investment. I mean, I never bet more than $3-4K at a time. That's thirty times return on my capital outlay . . . in a month!"

"Until this last time," she reminded him.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"So, what are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Oh, god, I don't know," he answered, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes.

She looked at him, then her frown slowly evolved. It was still a frown, but now instead of disappointment it was a sign of deep concentration.

After a moment of silence, he opened his eyes to see Chrissy's introspective gaze.

"What?" he asked.

She responded with a non-sequitur. "Why do you wear your hair so long?"

"What?" he repeated, but petulance was replaced with honest confusion.

"Your long hair. Why?" she repeated.

"It's not that long," he protested, pulling a strand around to look at it. Unfettered, it fell about to the middle of his back.

"That's not an answer," she said. "Look, I know that men can wear their hair longer now. I just wondered why you, specifically, chose that style."

"I don't know," he said. "I guess I just like long hair."

Chrissy smiled and ran her fingers through her own short style. "Yeah, well, if you can't get a date with a girly-girl, then I guess you need to grow your own."

"Ah, Chrissy, it's not that. I mean, yeah, I like girly-girl styles - on girls - but I can get dates. In fact, some of my dates like my hair as much as I do."

"Oh, really, and how long has it been since you've had a date say that?"

Ryan frowned, but before he answered she just shrugged, "Look, it's okay. It doesn't really matter. It's just a thought that was running through the back of my mind. The real question is: How would you describe yourself?"

"What?" he asked again.

"You said this, um, Tiny Jones sent some people after you. Had you ever seen them before?"

"No."

She nodded, "Then they have to be working from a description of you - probably provided by, um, you said his name was Jack?"

Ryan nodded, but he let her continue.

"Okay, then . . . how do you think that Jack described you to them?"

He shrugged. "What do you think he'd say?"

"I asked you first."

Ryan shrugged. "Small white guy, I guess, with long, light-brown hair. Gray eyes. Fancy running shoes."

Chrissy nodded. "Okay, that's fairly close to what I would have said, except that instead of 'small' I would have said, 'short.'"

"Ah, Chrissy, give me a break."

"I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I'm just trying to work the problem," she said, the lawyer in her coming out a bit. "Now, if we tried to change your appearance enough that the description wouldn't help, what should we do?"

"Oh, damn. I really don't want to cut my hair," Ryan groaned.

"Actually, I don't think you should," she countered. She stood up and went back to her kitchen. "I need some coffee."

"What's your point?" Ryan called after her. His hair tugged at the towel when he stood to follow her. A quick check with the brush showed it was essentially dry so he pulled it into a standard low pony tail and looked around for something to hold it in place.

"Hey, Chrissy, do you have something I could use to hold my hair?"

She laughed and patted her own short style. "Yeah, right."

Then she paused and said, "Oh, wait, I do have something."

The coffee was heating so she went to her room and came out with a bit of ribbon. "I was working on wrapping some packages, and picked up some cloth ribbon instead of wrapping ribbon by mistake."

"Thanks, I guess," Ryan said dryly. At least the ribbon wasn't pink, though red and an inch wide was nearly as bad. Nonetheless, he wrapped it quickly around his thick bundle of hair, tying a bow like he'd use on his shoes without even thinking about it.

Chrissy watched as he fixed his hair, a smile showing that he didn't understand.

By this time the coffee was ready and she poured a couple of cups. They sat at her kitchen table and Ryan had the discipline to request with only a raised eyebrow that she begin her delayed explanation.

"What is the one thing that could have gone wrong with Tiny Jones' little drama last night?" she asked.

"I don't know . . . maybe that I didn’t show up."

"No, he had that covered. Or at least, you not being there didn't seem to change anything," she said. "In fact, I'll bet he thinks you were there - hiding - and saw the whole thing."

"So I'm a witness," Ryan said. "That's something that went wrong."

"Yes, and no," Chrissy countered. "Thugs - particularly boss thugs - like Tiny Jones get off on the fear of others. I'll bet he was thinking of you cowering in the dark, probably pissing your pants when you saw what he did to Chucky D. And liking it."

"What's your point?" Ryan asked.

"The only thing that could have gone wrong with his little drama is if the cops showed up. Why wasn't he afraid of that?"

"Well, if I brought the cops to the payoff for an illegal bet, I'd never get my money."

"That's true," she agreed. "But more than that, I'll bet he has the cops in his pocket."

Ryan just nodded thoughtfully.

"So, let's assume the police themselves are after you. You can figure that Tiny Jones has worked out some way to frame you for the murder. There are any number of lowlifes who frequent Jack's diner that would testify you had a meeting at that time. And it wouldn't be hard to make the case that Chucky D didn't have the money to pay off on the bet. So, you got angry and killed him."

"But how? And what would I do with the body?"

"All that would be something to bring out in the trial," she said, being lawyerly again. "Once the police had you in custody, I'm sure that Tiny could . . . take care of you."

Ryan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Softly, pleading to someone or something he didn't even know, he asked, "Then what do I do?"

"Well, you can't go home, and you can't - directly at least - access your accounts. Do you have any money with you?"

"Not much. A couple of hundred dollars maybe."

"Well, I can loan you some to get through the near term," she said. "And I think I see a way to get access to your accounts without getting you picked up. But first we need to talk about your description."

"Back to that? You said I shouldn't cut my hair. What else can I do?"

"That's exactly the point," she said. "What else *can* you do? Assuming that you know enough to hide - and since they haven't caught you yet at your place, Tiny will know that - then you'll need to do something to change your appearance. Cutting your hair, the one thing that sets you off from a thousand other guys, would be the obvious thing to do."

"Sounds like it would be a good idea," Ryan said, pulling sadly at his ponytail.

"It might be, if we assumed only Tiny was after you," she said. "You could leave town and access your accounts from somewhere else. But what if the police are after you?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, they could do the typical police things. The could have Jack get with a sketch artist so they could work up an image that is a lot better than a simple short-white-guy-with-long hair description. They could even do variations with shorter haircuts. They could put a trace on any activity on your account, regardless of where it was."

"Sounds like I'm screwed," Ryan said.

"Maybe," she said. "Let's think about some of the things you can't change as easily."

"Like, maybe I should wear makeup and try to look like a different race?"

"Hold that thought for a moment," she said, trying to hide a smirk he totally did not understand. "What I was thinking about was your height . . . or lack of it. It's pretty hard to hide that."

"So I *am* screwed," he said tiredly.

She sighed - the smirk still playing on her lips, though - and said, "Okay, I'll quit leading the witness. Here's my thought: If they think they are looking for a short guy, probably with short hair, we can hide you as a tall, long-haired . . . girl."

Chrissy expected an instant refusal, or anger, or any of a host of reactions that a typical young man might have. Despite a lack of personal intimacy, she knew that Ryan was a normal, comfortably heterosexual young man. Nonetheless, being short he was probably defensive about his sexuality anyway. That defensiveness would show up as denial or anger, and she was prepared for to work him around to the only viable solution she saw.

Instead, she saw pain, followed by embarrassment, followed by . . . something else. Anger of a different sort. Not anger at the thought he might be considered effeminate. Something darker.

When he finally responded with disbelief, it was almost formal with little real emotion behind it.

"What?!"

"I'm sure you heard me," she said. "You're average height . . . maybe . . . for a guy, but that translates to tall for a girl. That's the hardest thing to 'hide' if you continue to look like a guy, but it goes away automatically if you look like a girl. And for the rest . . ."

"Yeah, the rest," he said, but it was with sadness underlaid with that darker shade of anger she had seen in his expression before.

Chrissy let his sit quietly for a moment, but she finally had to get some answers.

"Ryan . . . there's something you haven't told me, isn't there?"

At first his expression showed he was going to deny it, but then he sighed and closed his eyes again. Speaking with his eyes closed, as though to make it seem he was alone with his thoughts, he started speaking so softly that Chrissy had to lean closer to hear.

*******************

Back before I met you - when I was just a freshman in high school - I was living alone with my mom. Dad had already left, taking his empty beer cans and overfull ashtrays with him. Mom and I were getting along, but money was tight so we didn't do much on holidays or other special occasions.

One year, Mom got invited to a Halloween party from her work. She told me about it just sort of in passing, but she said she wasn't going to go. When I asked her why she wouldn't answer, but she had a kind of wistful look that showed she was disappointed. After a bit, I realized it was because she didn't want to go to a party if I couldn't do anything fun myself. I wasn't - I'm still not - a party type, but just so I could say I had somewhere else to go, I told her I was going to a party at a friend's house.

I wasn't actually invited. In fact, I wasn't actually even friends with the person who lived in the house. I had overheard a couple of girls in my class talking about the party; Jo Danvers and Liz Forrester. It was a Jo's house, but the real host was her older brother Jake.

Liz was protesting. "No way is Jake like, going to let his little sister get in his party. I mean, his crowd are like, all seniors or even alumni."

Jo snickered. "Of course not, but I'm not going as myself, ditz. It's costume, and no like, unmasking until midnight. I'm going as a sexy NFL cheerleader. Jake was talking with somebody on the phone and I overheard him say he was gonna limit the guys who got in, but any pretty girl was welcome."

Liz wasn't buying it. "Yeah, right. News flash: You don't have like, cheerleader boobs. You'd have better luck going as one of the players."

Jo hmmphed at Liz's comment, but then she leaned closer and whispered - not close enough because I could still hear. "By the night of the party, I'm going to be . . . developed."

"How?"

"Y'know the costume shop in the little strip mall - not the main mall - the older stores near the freeway? They're offering full-up costumes, makeup, body pads, whatever. They promise they can make a 12-year-old boy look like he could wait tables at Hooters - including looking old enough."

Liz seemed to take that claim as gospel. "Can I come, too?"

"If you've got the money. I understand they charge like, $200 plus the costume."

Liz winced, but after a second she said, "I'm in."

I didn't even think about it at the time, but when I needed a place to be so that Mom could go meet some guys her own age . . . well, I figured this would work well enough. I could always duck out before midnight when everyone's real identity would be revealed. The only issue was letting my mom know what my costume would be.

She sort of brought that subject up herself when I said I had a party of my own. "Will you need a costume? Costumes are required at my party."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What are you going to go as?" she asked.

I decided to turn that on her. "What are *you* going to go as?"

Her first reaction was a blush - which was pretty strange to see on your own mom. When she blushed though, I could really see that she was pretty attractive. I mean, I knew she was fit and trim and I learned to keep myself neat from her. Sure as hell wasn't from Dad. But when she looked a bit embarrassed she looked . . . younger, too. And very feminine. With a little better hair - hers wasn't much longer than yours is now, Chrissy - and a bit more dramatic makeup, she would be pretty . . . man, it still makes me uncomfortable even thinking about this . . . but she would be hot.

"I thought I'd go as a nurse," she said finally.

"Man, you are *not* gonna go in scrubs, with a surgical mask and like, a head sock," I said.

She blushed again, but shook her head. "No. I was thinking more of, um, traditional nurse's outfit. Y'know the hat, and a white dress . . ."

"Wow, Mom, sexy nurse? Good for you, but . . . TMI, too. I mean . . . is there someone at the party you want to . . . um, to notice you?"

"Maybe, she said softly.

"Oh, god, I don't really want to know this," I said, but I smiled and reached out to hug her. "So, should I plan on staying out all night?"

"Not on a bet, mister," she said, but she smiled and I hadn't seen that nearly enough lately. "So, what are you going to go as?"

Uh, oh. Moment of truth. What was I going to tell her? Apparently, the only way I was getting in that specific party is if I went as an attractive girl. It was no big deal to me whether my costume was male or female. I'd been role-playing girls in my online games as much as guys anyway, and to make the role-playing better - since everyone used team speak of some sort or another - I'd developed a pretty good girl's voice. I even shaved down because of my cross-country running - those running leggings for cold-weather events pulled at leg hairs so bad most of the guys kept their legs shaved. Cross-country meant I was excused from regular PE, too, so I wasn't going to have to put up with smartass comments in the shower. And despite my wishes and my dad's sneering comments, there was no way I could masquerade as some big football jock anyway.

"Well . . ," I said, stalling, ". . . there's not really a, um, contest or anything, but the, um, cool kids make a big deal about no one being able to tell who is who. I need something pretty . . . different, I think. But still attractive."

Then, before she could come up with something that would meet those criteria, I let my eyes open like an idea was just coming to me. "Hey, I could do the same thing!"

"Same thing?" she repeated, not understanding.

"Yeah. I could go as a sexy nurse, too," I said. "No one would guess it was me."

"As a girl nurse?" she asked to confirm.

"Sure," I said. "It's Halloween. And it's not like I can go as some sort of football jock or superhero."

"Dear, you're probably not done growing yet. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, right," I said. "Look, regardless of whether I sprout again until my knuckles drag on the ground, for right now I'm a skinny little dude. Not much good for getting cheerleaders to swoon over me, but it's what I got. I might as well do something outrageous. What was the old saying? 'Notoriety is better than anonymity.'"

"I'm not sure I want you going to a boy-girl party - I assume it's boy-girl if you're thinking about going as a girl - with you as a sexy anything," she said.

"Yeah, right," I deliberately repeated. "It's not like anything could happen. I mean, if I attracted some girl - which I wouldn't mind - then what's the worst that could happen? A few kisses? I could live with that. And I don't care if every guy in the place throws himself at my feet. That's *not* gonna happen - not even kissing. I'll just play hard-to-get, and mean it."

"Well, if you're sure," she said, but I could see that her thoughts had already moved on to her own costume . . . and what it might mean. It was clear that my self-imposed limitations might not apply to her. Which was fine with me. Good luck to her and all her sail in her.

So, that Saturday I was checking in to the costume store for my makeover - right next to my mother. Talk about bonding. Not exactly what typically comes to mind.

The good news - at least in comparison - was that it worked. The dude who did me was crazy good. The bad news was that he kept telling me he didn't have to work that hard: that I was, "a natural." The really bad news was that though Mom looked really, really good - years younger, more shapely in all the right places, and just bubbling over with joy . . . but the bad news in that was that I looked even better. I looked like her prettier younger sister. Where she looked several years younger, I looked at least seven or eight years older than I really was - old enough to get in lots of trouble. If I'd been a real girl, that is. The nurse costumes weren't quite an exact match, which the store dude felt would have lacking in creativity, but they were both short little white dresses, gartered white stockings that just showed below the skirts, sky-high heels - mine were boots because I wasn't as stable in pumps - and very prominent . . . curves. Boobs, that is.




The biggest difference, beside a few years age, was that I still had my real, light-brown hair while Mom had to go with a wig and chose what the dude called "Suicide Blonde." She looked mega hot - which is something very strange to say about your own mother.

And I looked better. It was mostly due to our age difference. I was at the peak of fresh-faced beauty while Mom showed just a few years past optimum. The immediate impression was that in a few years I would look just about like she did. But there was no impression that under my tight little panty there was a very different configuration.

After both of us saw the other . . . and took a few minutes to absorb the impossible changes, I finally managed to say, "Wow, Mom. I think I'll need to find my own way home tonight. You'll be late for sure."

"No, you won't. I mean, I won't. Not tonight," she insisted, but I wondered if she were trying to convince me, or herself.

Then she snickered, "But I think when we look like this - when you look like you're a twenty-something hottie - that calling me, 'Mom' seems a bit . . . dating. Do I look old enough to be your mother?"

"No way," I said, laughing as well. "So . . ."

"Oh, yeah. Well, why don't you just call me Katherine, or . . . Kate?"

"No, that won't do for a hottie like you," I said, smiling as I used her label. "How about . . . Kat . . . or . . . oh, yeah! Kitty!"

"Kitty?" she repeated, shaking her head . . . then smiling. "Okay. Kitty I am. And you would be . . . Rhianna?"

"No," I said. "Nothing even vaguely close to my own name. I want to have fun at this party tonight, but I don't want anyone - ever - to know it was me."

"How about something trendy, then. Tiffany?" At my snarl she laughed and moved on. "Destiny?"

"What are you trying to say, M . . . Kitty? This is a one-time thing for a party."

"All the better," she said. "So, is that okay?"

"I guess so," I said, shrugging. Unfortunately, the secondary motions that set off distracted me from whatever she said next. All I caught was the laugh that followed.

"Okay, young lady," she said, shaking her newly-manicured finger at me. "I am definitely controlling your agenda for tonight. I'll drop you off on my way to my party, and pick you up on my way back. I'll give you a call when I'm getting close, and you better not have any reason you can't be waiting for me."

"Yes . . . Kitty," I said, trying out a petulant teenager pout.

"Oh, dear. I may have to head home early," she said.

"Oh, um, Kitty, like I said earlier. Nothing can happen."

"A lot of young mothers said the same thing. And I know that's not a risk you face, but there are other risks that might even be worse. Not everyone will see the humor in this."

I should have paid more attention to her warning.

Chapter 3 - "Never Again"

Chrissy interrupted Ryan's narrative with a combination of surprise and pleasure. "So, you already know how to act like a girl. And you said you were pretty. I think I'm jealous."

"Don't be," Ryan said bitterly. "The night didn't end with Kitty and I in the costume salon."

****************

Kitty and I each had the same sort of mask to complete our costumes, but they were more tease than disguise. They pretended to be something like a surgical mask, but they were really more like a veil - open at the bottom and so sheer they didn't really hide our lips from view. If someone already knew you, it wouldn't be a disguise at all. I think that was the point - for her at least. There was someone at her party she wanted to recognize her.

She insisted on driving me to the party. I didn't complain. First off, it would have been hell to walk any real distance in those heels and no way was I going on the bus in that blatantly sexpot outfit. But it also showed her that there was a real party so she could enjoy her own party knowing - or at least, thinking - that I was having a good time of my own. After she dropped me off, I put my mask/veil in place and rang the doorbell.

"Well, hello, gorgeous," I heard when the door opened. "C'mon in."

The inviter was Jake Danvers, who was apparently pulling down door duty. That included decided whom to invite in, of course. But I seemed to make the grade. And I didn't figure he'd have any trouble with gate crashers who didn't make the grade. He was the star linebacker for the team and college recruiters were already dangling offers. Anyone who tried to force their way in would be lucky if they only got tossed as far as the street.

"Make yourself at home. But first . . . do I know you?"

"Maybe," I said coyly. Voice and inflection and word choice: all are patterns as well, and when I put my mind to it I could recognize the ones used by girls. So I put a simper in my tone, with a little almost-giggle, and said brightly, "For tonight though, I'm Destiny."

"Ah, a sign of the inevitability of our getting to know each other," he flirted in an immediate pass. It might have worked better if I were what I seemed. And if Jake's would-be girlfriend - who really was a cheerleader - didn't happen to walk up just then.

"So, who is this?" she - Candy Waters - asked . . . though her expression was more like, 'what is this?' Referring to something she found stuck to her shoe.

"This is Destiny," Jake said clearly enough that half the room heard him. It wasn't like he was staking a claim, though. Or at least, if there were some intention of that it didn't work. Candy smoothly, but inescapably, inserted her hand through my arm and pulled me quickly away.

"First, hands off. He's mine," she hissed, smiling through clenched teeth. "Second, who the hell invited you to this party?"

"Jake did. Just now," I said blandly. "Should I go tell him that his girlfriend said he was taken?"

Her hiss got even more sibilant and I could really see the fangs come out. "Listen, bitch, you know he's not admitting it yet, but he's mine. Stay clear, or you won't be so pretty for your next party."

"Listen, bitch," I hissed back, twisting her fingers to make her let me go. "Back off. I didn't come here to pick up a guy tonight. But if you make it a challenge, you'll regret it. I don't scare that easy."

It was funny, but there was no way Ryan would be that strong with Candy. There was something about the anonymity of a disguise - a pretty good one, where I knew Destiny's actions would never get back to Ryan - that allowed me to be . . . different. Different in a stronger way, and different in a more . . . adventurous way. In this case, since I was a girl for the evening, that meant I could be flirty with the guys, and catty with the jealous girls. None of it would matter in the morning so I could be whoever and whatever I wanted for the night.

She tried to pull her hand back so that I'd let go of her fingers. After a second - to make the point it was my choice, not hers - I let her go. Then I turned away as though she were no longer part of my world and looked around at the rest of the party.

Almost immediately I could see patterns in the numbers of people at the party. Despite Candy's contention, it was clear that there were very few couples. I realized this party was intended to be a meet market, where Jake's friends and teammates who didn't have a steady girlfriend (or at least wanted out of that sort of relationship) could meet new girls. The few couples I saw were either people who met at the party, or had the tentative movements of first time dates that one of the guys had brought in spite of Jake's plans. I did recognize Jo Danvers despite a domino mask that mostly hid her eyes . . . not her best feature anyway. She was decked out as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader (they really do have the best costumes), and she had achieved her goal of big boobs. They looked great - really great, actually, better than mine - but she was flaunting them so obviously that everyone must have known they were new to her. Equals "fake." The combined pattern of NFL cheerleader, obviously fake boobs, and knowing she had to be one of the attendees gave her away. Due to proximity, I picked out Liz as her companion in something that started out as Little Bo Peep but went way over into naughty. She actually looked pretty hot, teaching me that naughty can be better than blatant. Next time . . . oops, not gonna be one of those.

The lack of couples was good and bad news for me. I wasn't out of place by not having a date (the good news) but it meant the unattached guys - essentially all of them - thought I was there for the same reason they were which definitely fell into the bad news category.

Except . . . it didn't. I've always been a nerd. It's not something to deny, and wishing for something different is like wishing to be 6'2". There's nothing wrong with wishing for the impossible, but you can't let what isn't going to be consume you.

Only now it wasn't impossible. Destiny was definitely not a nerd. That was the other half of my new persona. Since nothing Destiny did would affect Ryan I had already realized I could act however I wanted, which included being outrageous in flirty, fun ways. Since I was way up into the hottie category in appearance, I now realized it meant people would *react* to me differently as well. My costume was fun and sexy and attractive in a way that Ryan never was. All of the sudden guys thought I was hot and girls thought the same (and hated me for it). It was pretty . . . satisfying. So when the guys started sniffing around, I didn't turn up the ice level. Just the opposite in fact.

"Hey, nurse! Emergency over here!" The caller was one of three guys standing around someone stretched out flat on the floor. The standing guys were fairly mundane - one Batman, one creepy Joker, and a Wolverine. But the guy on the floor was dressed as Captain Mal from Firefly and I thought that was fairly creative.

The 'turn up the ice' response would have been just to ignore them, or at least give some sort of, "It's a costume, doofus. I'm not really a nurse." I should have done that.

Instead I decided to take advantage of a trick I had previously prepared, though I had hoped it would be an excuse to 'play doctor' with one of the girls. As I walked over I said, "What seems to be the problem?"

"I'm overcome with your beauty," Captain Mal offered, his friends standing back to let him make his play.

"Oh, I see, low pain threshold," I replied. "Well, drop your pants, turn your head, and cough."

"What?"

"You heard me. Then I'll take your temperature." I pulled my previously prepared trick out my handbag: a thick silver vibrator painted with a fake temperature scale. "You can guess where this goes."

Captain Mal's weakness passed very quickly. He scrambled to his feet and tried not to let his friends see how embarrassed he was. After a moment - with a very cute blush, I might add - he sighed and said, "Okay. You win."

"Win what?" I asked, letting my voice get husky.

"My heart, of course," he said easily. Man that guy was smooth. He might have been embarrassed for a moment, but he was back on the attack in seconds.

All of the sudden my flirting didn't seem like such a good idea. There was something about his eyes . . . something predatory. His smile was fine - warm and friendly. But his eyes were . . . dangerous.

I decided I needed to back off a bit. "Sorry, I'm not a heart specialist. I'm just a general fun kind of nurse."

"Sounds great," he said, not retreating a bit. "Let me get you some of my own medicine."

Captain Mal took my arm, and while his grip was not as tight as Candy's had been, there was even more of a sense of inevitability. He was pretty tall - much taller than me even in my heels - and his shoulders made him look wide even at that height. My arm got lost in his and where it disappeared was a trap so deep I was afraid I'd have to gnaw my own arm off to escape. I certainly couldn't make a scene without having some explanation why. After all, Mal was a tall, good-looking guy and meeting someone like that was supposed to be why I had come to the party. He hadn't done anything wrong, just took my arm to escort me to the food. Yet . . . his eyes still bothered me.

At the buffet table he stopped by the drinks, running a foamy beer in to a plastic cup for himself. Even when he used both hands on the keg tap and his cup, he kept my arm squeezed between his arm and his side in a possessive gesture. When he looked at me and at the keg, I wrinkled my nose in a reflexive frown. I wasn't going to tell him that I wasn't old enough to drink - probably half the party wasn't old enough to drink. But I had tried beer a few times and didn't really like it. Mal moved smoothly to the array of wine bottles and without asking my preference chose something rose colored and - when I tasted it - rather sweet.

Despite my sense that I needed to be cautious, I really liked the taste and took another quick sip.

"So, you like my medicine?"

"Yes, I do," I admitted. It wasn't like I could lie about that after my obvious enjoyment. He filled my cup again and we wandered off, my arm still captive to his much greater strength.

But it wasn't so bad after a little while. He was charming, witty, and his obvious possessiveness actually made me feel a little proud. He was pretty close to the alpha male of the pride - even Jake Danvers deferred to him when they happened to talk for a moment - and he had chosen me. I was the typical dweeb who always got picked last for everything, yet despite a lot of options, he had picked me.

And then a bit later it went from not so bad to pretty nice. I was having a lot more fun at the party than I had expected. Mal kept my cup full and the wine was really nice. I realized I was getting kind of giggly, but that didn't seem to be a problem, either. Mal didn't mind, in any event.

I had totally lost track of my decision to be out of there before midnight. Kitty was going to pick me up about then, but she said not to worry if she was a little late. She would come to the door when she arrived and it wouldn't be hard to find her younger sister since I was wearing a nearly identical outfit. However, the patterns in the crowd kept intruding into my mind and I began to realize that nearly everyone was paired up just about the time that the music changed from fast and hard to soft and slow.

Mal had me down one last cup of wine while he finished his beer, and then he escorted me out the back door. The Danvers' home had lots of trees and landscaping features which had the effect of creating little shady spots that were quiet and mostly private. Mal was leading us toward one of those when I started to realize what was happening.

"Wait, um, Mal, I don't thin . . ."

"Exactly, Beautiful. Don't think. That's my job."

"No, wait, I mean . . . I don't want to . . ."

"Don't want to what?" he asked softly, though he never stopped walking us toward a shadowy corner. "Don't want to unmask at midnight? That's what the party is all about. Finding someone new and mysterious, then exploring that mystery."

"Midnight? Oh, no. I need to . . ."

"Need to walk right over here," he finished smoothly.

My head was whirling in confusion. I had submerged myself in my costumed character so fully over the previous couple of hours that it was only when Mal started to move things to a different level that I began to realize what that might entail. Talking and flirting and giggling and . . . and drinking a lot of wine was one thing . . . or, well, it was several things, but it was . . . the pattern was . . .

Just then I heard a clock strike from somewhere in the house. There weren't any sounds except for a quiet susurrus from the stereo. No one was talking or laughing.

All of the sudden we were in the shadowy place and Mal's hand was pulling down my veil. His domino mask was gone, somewhere. His hands were on my arms, and he was leaning . . .

"No, Mal, I don't want . . ."

His voice took on a darker tone than I had heard all night. I couldn't see very well, but his eyes seemed to glow and the predatory light was almost hypnotic.

"Look, girl, no one comes to a party like this, looking like you do, unless they plan on sharing a good time. I've spent a good opportunity on you, and I expect something in return."

"No, please," I whispered. I don't know why I didn't scream, but his eyes were so compelling that I could hardly breathe. "I've never . . ."

He let up the pressure on my arms a little when I said that. "You're a virgin?"

"Yes," I whispered again. It was true, even if it wasn't quite the same sort of virginity he thought applied.

"How old are you, anyway?" he asked, his voice rough and hovering on the edge of a growl.

"Fif . . . fifteen," I stammered.

"Oh, fuck," he snarled. "I'm not gonna get into that again. You fuckin' cock tease. You little bitch. I should knock the pieces of your pretty little face around so bad you'll never get a chance to lead some guy on again."

"No, please," I said. "I'm not . . . I mean, I didn't mean to . . ."

"Don't even start, cunt," he growled. "I could haul you in that outfit in front of a jury of *my* peers - guys who know what women are good for - and every fuckin' one of them would say I was justified."

He squeezed my arms so hard I thought he was going to dislocate my shoulders, then he abruptly reduced the pressure. "Okay little bitch queen. I won't pop your cherry. If any of my DNA was in your tight little pussy, I'd be toast. If it was just makin' you bleed, I could claim you consented. But if you're really fifteen . . ."

I just nodded, holding my breath to see what he was going to do next.

In a moment, it was clear. He pushed me to my knees in the moldy leaves and started to undo his pants. "So I'll just take a blowjob and we'll call it a night. Do me good and you'll get out of this with nothing more than a couple of grass stains on your knees."

By now he had his dick out and was waving it in front of my eyes. "But bite me," he continued, "and I'll fuckin' kill you right here. And I won't give a god fuckin' damn about the consequences."

He grabbed my jaw both to control my head position and to force it to open, then he thrust his huge tool past my quivering lips and started to push it in and out. "C'mon, bitch, lick me. Use those fuckin' cocktease lips. The sooner you get me off the sooner we'll be done."

The adrenaline from my shock and fear must have been burning some of the alcohol out of my system because I began to think more clearly. Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about it. With his dick down my throat I could barely breathe enough to stay conscious and I knew I wouldn't have enough air for a useful scream. And I knew he'd make good on his promise to beat me if I . . . . well, If I bit him.

The only way out seemed to be give him what he wanted.

So I did.

When Mom arrived, I was sitting on the curb waiting for her. I guess - despite the exterior - there was enough guy left in me that I hadn't actually cried. My knees didn't get Mal's predicted grass stains because we were in leaves instead. Other than looking tired and a little worn, which wouldn't have been out of place after a great party, no one on the outside could tell what had happened.

On the inside, I was scared, and . . . soiled. Dirty in a way that no amount of washing would ever remove.

****************

Ryan twitched and his eyes refocused on Chrissy. "I've never told anyone about that night. Until now."

"Oh, Ryan, I'm so sorry," she said, her eyes flooding with the tears that Ryan seemed unable to produce. Then her jaw set in her lawyer face and she asked, "What happened to that son of a bitch?"

"I don't know," Ryan said. "I never found out his real name. He wasn't from our high school, not even from a few years before. I assume that Jake Danvers knew who he was, but I wasn't about to ask him. As far as Jake knew, I - I mean, me, Ryan - wasn't even at the party."

He leaned back in his seat again and his eyes sagged closed. "There were a few rumors around school the next week about the hot nurse at the party. Everyone, well, everyone who had been at the party, wondered who she was. Obviously I couldn't tell anyone."

Ryan sighed, and shook his head. "Okay, Chrissy, thanks for thinking outside the box. I could pass as a girl. As you said, I've got the bone structure for it. And it would be a good disguise. But I just can't do that again."

Chrissy frowned, but instead of saying anything she refilled their coffee cups. After a moment, she spoke in a monotone lawyer voice that made it all dispassionate and objective, with no emotion. "I'm not sure you have a choice."

"I'd rather die than go through that again," Ryan said flatly.

"That's not really the choice you have to make," she said. "One option is certainly to die. But just because you dress as a woman does not mean you'll be . . . forced like that again. However, it does mean you could pull off the character so well that no one would suspect."

"Weren't you listening?" Ryan asked. "I was . . . I mean, he . . . it was oral rape. I'm not even going to take the chance on something like that happening again."

"What's the choice?" she said, then she sighed and sat back to put a bit of psychological distance between them. "Okay, Ryan, I'm going to be hard now, but you're facing a hard choice. You look . . . desirable to a certain class of people in our society even in your male appearance. I'm glad, but a little bit surprised that no one has made a pass at you - someone gay, I mean . . ."

Ryan twitched, but he didn't say anything and Chrissy didn't immediately push for details. However, she did let him know she had noticed. "Okay, from that reaction I assume you *have* been approached, but you haven't been forced. Is that fair?"

He just nodded.

"Any actual . . . experiences?" she prodded. "Unforced?"

"No!" Ryan said sharply.

"Okay," she said quickly. "The point is, you're not automatically safe just because you look like a guy. And the converse is also true. You're not automatically going to be forced into something you don't want just because you look like a girl."

"But you don't know what it was like," Ryan said. "I was so . . . helpless. It was so . . . dirty. And it was my own damn fault!"

"No!" she said even more firmly. "It was not. That man abused you, using his greater strength to force you to perform a sexual act. And you were only fifteen. There is not one bit of that which is your fault."

Now Chrissy was wound up and she stood to pace the little kitchen. "Ryan, you need to recognize that rape is not an act of lust. It's an act of violence used by the powerful to make their victim feel powerless. And you need to recognize that it's not limited to heterosexual situations. I'm sorry, but that's true. You need to . . ."

Suddenly she ran down and looked at the desperate fear on Ryan's face. Sitting slowly to give them both time to get their emotions under control, she continued in a softer, slower tone. "I’m sorry, Ryan. In law school I had to study a lot of cases on rape. Let me just say that your risk, if you look like an attractive woman, is not . . . . that much higher than for someone looking like a fine-featured, slender young man."

She sighed, and added, "I'm not going to say that I understand your concern. No one who hasn't been through something like that can ever understand. But I do know the statistics. If fear of a . . . repeat of that situation is what's holding you back, then . . . well, you're the numbers specialist. Go look into it."

She took a sip of her coffee and concluded. "We still need some sort of plan for how to keep you safe. Let's sleep on it and we'll talk some more in the morning . . . well, maybe in the afternoon considering how late it is. Okay?"

Ryan nodded silently. Chrissy accepted his silence and busied herself laying out the blankets and pillows that she kept for when Ryan slept on her couch. While she was doing that he took care of his bathroom chores and, still not saying anything, slid into the makeshift bedding.

Chapter 4 - "Effective Hiding"

When Ryan woke, it was still morning - but barely. What woke him was the smell of coffee and bacon from where Chrissy was already up and fixing breakfast. He folded up his bedding and ducked into the bathroom for a moment. When he came out Chrissy was just dishing up.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she said.

"Since you're fixing breakfast-type food, I can deduce you haven't been up that long yourself, Counselor," Ryan retorted.

"Guilty as charged," she admitted. While they were doing the salt-and-pepper type things, she said, "You know, I really am a 'Counselor,' as in a practicing attorney."

"Yeah, so?" he asked.

"Well, I just passed the bar exam. I just couldn't see myself doing the glorified clerk thing at some big law firm, so I'm working on my own. That means I work cheap, but it also means I take just about any client for just about any task. I've got a lot of clients - most of whom pay very little and the others not at all."

Ryan nodded, mostly to get her to continue.

"One of my clients was charged with making forged documents. There was a problem with the evidence so the case never came to trial and I very carefully never asked him if he was guilty . . . but I think if he didn't make the documents, he knew someone who did. I think I could get you a set of new identification things - maybe even a passport."

"Oh? Well, that would help," Ryan said. "Regardless of what else I do, I think I'll need some other ID."

Chrissy took that as an opening. "So, did you think any more about we talked about last night?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Didn't sleep much, in fact."

"Well, you did witness a murder and find out that the murderer is after you. That might keep someone awake."

"Yeah, but . . . that's not what I was thinking about. Not directly, I mean."

Chrissy tapped at her tablet for a few minutes, then got to the page she wanted. Sliding it across to him she said, "This may affect your plans."

"Drug Dealer Escapes!" the headline blared. The story under it told of a raid at the apartment of a suspected drug dealer. "A confidential informant had told the police that he had seen Ryan Hill, 23, of Terrapin, arguing with a known bookmaker and suspected drug trafficker. The bookmaker, with the street name of Chucky D, was missing. Based on the informant and confirmation that Chucky D had not been seen in his usual locations, the police obtained a search warrant for Ryan Hill's apartment. The suspected drug dealer and possible murderer was not found, but evidence of drug trafficking including a significant supply of crack cocaine was discovered. Police are conducting a search for Ryan Hill. Any citizens with knowledge of his whereabouts are requested to contact the Terrapin police department."

"So, the police really are working for Tiny Jones," Ryan said bitterly.

"Not necessarily," Chrissy said. "Obviously, Tiny set you up with planted evidence and a faked confidential informant. But the police may just be reacting to that information." She sighed, and added, "Though, in the end, I don't suppose it really matters. Whether the police are knowingly working with Tiny Jones or he's just using them, they're now after you."

She sat for a moment, then asked gently, "What is your mom going to think if she sees this?"

"She'll . . . trust me, I think," he said. "She'll be disappointed, particularly if I don't get in touch with her, but she'll still believe in me."

"Good. I can contact her. Should I tell her what happened?"

"You can," Ryan said after a moment's thought. "Just don't tell her what I'm planning to do."

"What *are* you planning to do?"

He looked thoughtfully at nothing, then started to speak in a quiet, introspective tone. "If I do masquerade as a girl, it would have to be 24/7 for a while. Well, maybe not quite that much, but it would have to be for extended periods - not just a dark night at a costume party. The dude who did the makeover used some fairly good fake boobs and things, but he told me a lot of what made it work was misdirection - like a magician does. The dress he selected had a fairly stiff top and it made up for the fact my fake boobs were, well, fake. All-the-way-through fake, not just, um, enhancers like Mom had. The short little skirt that showed my stocking tops hid the fact I was wearing rubber hip pads, and it helped, um, hide the, um, rest. And I guess, most of all, it was a costume party where everyone was playing around. I didn't have to act like a real, everyday girl. I just had to act like a sexy girl at a sexy party, vamping it up just short of trashy. It was a stereotype, not a real person. I'm not sure I could do it for, um, for real. I mean, on a regular daily basis where I had to interact with ordinary people."

Chrissy nodded again, carefully keeping her expression neutral. "Well, I'm glad to see that you're at least considering it. And your comments are insightful. Suppose we could handle those. Are you willing to give it a try?"

"'Give it a try?'" Ryan repeated. "What, like, live as a girl for a while?"

"Actually, I was thinking of that as step two, or maybe three. What I had in mind was trying to address your specific concerns, first. Get someone to make the prosthetics more believable and help you with more everyday mannerisms as a girl."

"'Get someone?'" he repeated again. "You want to tell someone else about me? What if the word gets back to Tiny Jones?"

"The person I have in mind is very discreet," she promised. "She's an expert in this."

"She?"

"That's . . . part of the story," Chrissy said. "Okay, Ryan, you need to decide what you're going to do. At least, whether you're willing to try to disguise yourself as a girl for a while. If you are, I can help. If not, we need another plan."

"Obviously I don't have another plan," Ryan said. "Or I'd have brought it up."

Ryan sagged back in his chair. Chrissy thought there was something a little off in his posture, though. As though the defeat he was trying to signify were a little exaggerated, or even . . . artificial.

Chrissy tried to help him get his thoughts in order. "What is your long-term goal?"

"Long-term? Stay alive, I guess. Get my money and set up somewhere else."

"Your money?" she repeated. "You mean, you still want the payoff on your bet?"

"Oh, no, I guess I've given up on that," he said. "I was thinking about the money in my accounts."

His voice trailed away as though he were thinking about something other than the words that his voice was saying.

"What?" she prompted.

A strange look showed in his eyes when he looked at her. Since he had arrived at her door in the middle of the night Chrissy had seen Ryan look scared, angry, resigned, shocked, and very tired. But this was something different. This time, the look was angry, but there was something more. Something . . . hungry?

This time, it was his turn for an apparent non sequitur. "Just how good is your expert? On feminine appearance, I mean?"

"Very good," Chrissy replied.

"Good enough that I could fool someone, close up, and for a reasonably extended period? Like, days?"

"Yes, definitely, if you were willing to play the part as she taught you," Chrissy said. "From what you told me about your Halloween experience, the basic appearance shouldn't be an issue. It will all be about mannerisms. She's very, very good at that."

Ryan nodded, then asked another apparently irrelevant question. "What about your ID source. Can he get me more than one ID?"

"How many?"

"I don't know . . . at least two. Maybe three."

"How good would they need to be?"

"Pretty good. Good enough to let me access Ryan's accounts with the proper power of attorney. Maybe good enough to travel outside the country on a passport. I know you said he could get one, but having one in hand is not the same as having one that is good enough to go through the Customs checks when you actually try to use it."

"I'll have to check, but I think that should be possible. What do you have in mind?"

"Well, Counselor, you asked the right question. I've been thinking about my long-term goal. First off, I want to stay alive, of course. But I'm willing to take a bit of risk if it achieves some other things. Now that you mention it, I'd like the money from my bet. It's mine, and I don't like just being a doormat for some thug. So, here's my list: 1) Get my money back. 2) Put Tiny out of business. Hell, you can look at it as that I want to be able to do business with bookies in the future, and the word needs to get out that killing someone to avoid paying on a bet is not a good business strategy. And 3) Figure out some sort of future where I don't have to look over my shoulder for someone coming after me all the time."

"That's pretty . . . ambitious. Not the third one, of course, but the first two."

"Yeah, I know. And getting the first two done may mean I can never go back to being Ryan."

"Are you okay with that?"

"I guess I have to be. Even if I somehow managed to clear my name, I'll still be guilty to a lot of people. Accusing me is big stuff. Clearing me would happen on the equivalent of page 23 or something. If Ryan is hosed, then he's going to take somebody down with him."

Chrissy shrugged. "I guess I can live with being ambitious. And I guess those are fairly clear goals. Any idea how to go about meeting them?"

"Yeah, maybe," he said. Sitting up more sharply he said, "Okay, Chrissy, you'll have to take my word on this, but as Destiny I really was pretty. I could hide from being Ryan as an ordinary girl, but a pretty girl can get in a lot of places that aren't available to nerdy guys. I spent a lot of time last night thinking about the risks that go with being a pretty girl . . . and some things you don't know about that happened to Ryan the nerdy guy . . . and I decided I'm willing to see how far I can ride that tiger."

"Tiny Jones had a boss. I'm going to find out who that is, get close to him, and do something so that the boss takes down Tiny. In the course of that, I want my money. I figure I'll need one ID to get Ryan's assets, one to work on Tiny's boss, and one for the . . . for the rest of my life, I guess."

"Male or female?" Chrissy asked.

"Well, the first two better be female. Ironically, I think a girl can get access to Ryan's accounts without anything thinking it's me in disguise or something. The third will be male, of course, but it may be a while before I can activate that one. I may have to go back to the first one for a while until things cool off. In fact, you can hold off on getting that third ID for now."

"Okay, sounds like a plan," Chrissy said. "Names?"

"Not Destiny anything," he said quickly, smiling for the first time since he had arrived at her place.

Chrissy wanted to start with Jessica Rabbit and make her a stacked redhead. That idea did not fly at all with Ryan . . . but that was sort of the point. It was intended to lighten the mood, and it did. It even had some points that they retained. The first new identity was going to be Heather Fox, and foxy would definitely apply. In keeping with Chrissy's idea of some sort of opposite description, Heather would be very shapely where Ryan was slender, tall (of course), and a redhead. People would remember her, but not in any way associate her with the nerdy non-entity Ryan Hill.

The second identity had to be more believable. Ryan decided on the name Faith Torr, who would be on the slender side of shapely - more elegant than buxom. She would be a lady, not a vamp. In the end, in order to keep the makeup more subtle and refined, they decided Faith needed to have skin tones closer to Ryan's own, and that meant she needed to be a blonde.

With those characteristics in place, Chrissy called her expert friend.

Who actually happened to be a redhead named Jessica, Jessica Russet. But unlike the icon of fame and fortune, she was very slender, with collar-length hair in a simple, no-fuss style. When Jessica arrived at Chrissy's apartment, she was dressed in a casual style of nicely shaped jeans, a soft blouse, and a dark brown suede jacket. Her only concessions to unambiguous femininity were a tasteful array of jewelry and a pair of knee-high boots with modest, blocky heels. And a cute little wheeled suitcase with a paisley brocade pattern.

Chrissy let her in while Ryan stayed in the little apartment's single bedroom.

"So, Chrissy, have you finally decided to let your inner princess out?"

"Not hardly," Chrissy said, snorting. "I need a favor . . . well, actually, I need a favor for a friend."

"A friend?" Jessica asked archly, then she snickered. "God, girl, if you're finally getting it on with someone we need to go way beyond princess. We need a coronation!"

"No thanks," Chrissy said, chuckling along with her friend. Then her face went back in to her lawyer flatness. "Jessica, this is serious. I've got a friend who's in real trouble. We need your help."

"From which I can deduce that the friend needs a very special sort of disguise?" Jessica guessed.

"Yes," Chrissy said. "But before I go any further, I want your absolute promise that you'll never tell anyone about this."

"Of course not," Jessica said sharply.

"Sorry, Jess, but this is that serious. If you even brag about helping someone - without naming names or anything - it could get you killed. As well as my friend. It's got to be as though this never happened."

Jessica nodded slowly. "Okay. I don't talk about my clients anyway, not even just to brag. But this one will - as you said - never happen."

"Thanks, Jess. You're a lifesaver," Chrissy said. She raised her voice a bit. "Ryan? C'mon out."

"Ryan," Jessica repeated thoughtfully, though she segued it into a seemingly normal introduction. "I'm Jessica."

"Thanks," Ryan replied. "I take it from you expression that you've seen the news."

"Yes, but I don't judge," she said. "God knows *I* don't judge others. If Chrissy isn't worried about you, then neither am I."

"Thanks," Ryan said again.

Instead of saying anything more, Jessica looked carefully at Ryan, moving around to see his entire figure. "Definite possibilities," she finally said. "Chrissy said that you've passed as a woman before?"

"Yes," admitted Ryan. "Once, at a Halloween party."

"Did you go as a woman in costume? I mean, it wasn't that being a woman itself was your costume, right?"

"Oh, no, I went as a sexy nurse."

"Oh, man, I'd like to have seen that," Jessica said, laughing. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen," Ryan reported.

Jessica nodded, but frowned. "What is your objective?"

Ryan twitched, looking quickly to Chrissy. His friend frowned and shook her head, so Ryan looked back at Jessica. "Objective?"

"Yeah," she said. "Do you want to . . . disappear? Become so ordinary that you could pass right by whoever is after you without worrying?"

"No," admitted Ryan. "I, um, I want to be a beautiful woman - one who can use her beauty to gain access to places that . . . I need to gain access to."

Jessica's carefully drawn lips took on a sneer. "And you think this will be easy? Just because ten years ago you passed in a dark Halloween party?"

"No," Ryan said, but he didn't retreat, either. "That's why you're here. Because it won't be easy. But Destiny - that was my name for that night - was truly pretty. With some help on mannerisms, I can . . . do what I need to do."

Jessica looked at him again. "Maybe," she said. "However, a fifteen year old girl - or boy - has a fairly neutral shape. It's easier to pad out than to shrink and you don't have a fifteen year old girl's waist anymore."

"Oh, god," Ryan moaned. "I can see where that is going."

"Oh, you have no idea," Jessica said with a grin.

Chrissy added a thought. "We discussed this a bit. Ryan is average-to-short. I think his alter egos need to be tall - for a girl, of course."

"Yeah, I picked up on that," Jessica said. "Actually, Ryan is not all that tall for a girl. If you want to leave an immediate impression of tall, well . . ."

"Oh, shi . . . sugar. I can see where this is going, too," Ryan sighed.

He was right . . . on both counts.

Chapter 5 - "That Can't Be Natural"

"That can't be natural," Trevor Stimson thought as the tall woman walked into the bank. "But I don't mind." Trevor was a teller at the suburban outlet of a mega-bank and most of the women who came into his branch were housewives running errands. They wore 'mom jeans,' oversized and shapeless t-shirts, and hairstyles that only received a quick brush after a morning shower. And sensible shoes.

The target of his attention was not so much walking as 'flowing' toward the reception desk. Nothing about her outfit was 'sensible' in that euphemism for practical-but-unflattering. Her waist was too small for a suburban housewife, but it wasn't because the woman was thin. At least, not all of her was. Trevor's first impression that she had been . . . enhanced was because she waved around a pair of sweater puppies that had clearly learned to sit but not to stay. They perched on their shelf like an offering to a pagan god, half revealed in a deeply plunging top and all caressed by a soft knit that continued to squeeze all the way down to that trim little waist. And she was definitely not wearing mom jeans. She actually wore jeans, but they were designer styles that loved every inch of her incredible legs - made longer by heels that only showed toes and a pencil-width spike below the carefully tailored hems. A stylish leather jacket completed the outfit. Trevor was actually proud of himself . . . silently, and only to himself . . . for not gasping out loud even before his perceptions lifted to the model-perfect face and long red hair that completed the total package.




Unfortunately for the captivated teller, the woman wasn't coming to his window. She was going to the reception desk, apparently needing some other bank service. Trevor stifled a grin when he saw her approach Bailey Waters. Trevor had tried several times to get Bailey to go out with him, always politely, but nonetheless repeatedly. Finally Bailey had confessed that she liked women, not men; specifically sensual, very feminine women.

*"Serves her right,"* Trevor thought. *"I hope she's as tongue-tied as I would be if that woman approached me."* Then a few decidedly not-shareable thoughts on the two women and tongue action distracted him even as the redhead made whatever request she needed.

Bailey was apparently more composed than he would have been, Trevor realized, because she stood and escorted the redhead to the accounts vice-president with no visible hesitation. Only a tiny, quick tongue running over Bailey's ripe lips showed the shorter woman was not as calmly professional as she pretended.

"Please sit down, Ms. Fox," the VP said after Bailey introduced them. He was a jerk, had always been a jerk, and would presumably always be a jerk as far as Trevor was concerned, but he did manage to keep his eyes on the redheads face . . . not actually a hard thing to do since she was very pretty. There was a slight dissonance, though. Her face had a leaner look than her voluptuous body. It was more elegant than . . . luxurious, with a fairly narrow nose and strong cheekbones. Unknown to Trevor, the VP was also deciding that Ms. Fox's 'assets' were not natural. He also unknowingly agreed that he didn't care.

Trevor tuned out on them since he had a customer of his own, but he did notice that the redhead sat with such perfect posture that it was clear her figure wasn't the only well-trained part of her.

"So, how can we help you?" the VP, John - "Call me Jack" - Belleville asked.

Ms. Fox smiled and said, "Well, I hope this will be simple. I have a power of attorney that authorizes me to access the accounts of a friend of mine, Ryan Hill." She took a few papers out of her purse and laid them on the desk. "They're all duly notarized, and if you have a signature card you'll see that is Ryan's signature."

None of her erstwhile gaming friends would have recognized that voice. Jessica had quickly informed Faith that the voice she had used as a high-school nurse and on voice-over-internet intercoms was almost cartoonishly overdone. The only good thing - and it was probably good enough for a party or a geek-group on a low-fidelity connection - was that in pitching her voice higher she had naturally added a lot of variety in pitch; inflections that made her voice more animated. But it called attention to itself in the wrong way. Now, the average pitch of Heather's voice was not that different from Ryan's. It also retained some throaty huskiness rather than being songbird clear. Primarily it was more animated with some different vocabulary choices. And most important of all, according to Jessica, was to speak with a 'gentler' style. Heather made fewer direct statements, focusing instead on feelings and desires.

When coupled with Heather's over-the-top figure, it was incredibly sensuous and feminine. Jessica had helped Ryan's feminine characterization in too many ways to count, but the single most important guidance had been on her voice.

"Hmm," Belleville said thoughtfully, "we really prefer that clients accompany anyone they want to add to the account."

"I understand," Ms. Fox said, a perfect little pout forming on her full lips. "But Ryan is just not available right now - extended travel - and he really needs someone to, oh, pay bills and things. Isn't that sort of thing what notaries are supposed to be used for?" She reached out one elegantly manicured hand to touch Belleville's wrist. "Surely we can work something out?"

Belleville's eyes were drawn to her hand. Then he tried to return his gaze to her face but the path in between had curves too dangerous to be passed in a hurry. When he finally managed to look her in the eye again, there was the shine of incipient tears that would have gained Ms. Fox the entire contents of the vault if that had been her need. In moments she was listed as an authorized client for the three accounts that Ryan Hill had in that bank. And she also had two new accounts of her own.

Then Trevor got lucky - not real "lucky," but better than he expected when the woman first went to see the VP. She came over with a little teller business; moving essentially all of the money from Ryan Hill's accounts over to her new ones.

Trevor felt a little bit bad about that, but only a little. If Ryan had been seduced by this woman into giving her all his money . . . well, there were a lot worse ways to go. There were a few banking regulations that he couldn’t ignore, though.

"I'm afraid there will have to be a 7-day hold on this transfer," Trevor said.

"Oh," Ms. Fox said. "Why is that?"

"Banking regulations," Trevor explained.

"Really?" she asked, wide-eyed and showing those incipient tears again. "I . . . I mean, Ryan really needs me to pay a few bills right away. Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Not really," Trevor said, but that only increased the shine in her eyes even more. It would have taken more than human willpower to resist that shine - at least, from any normal man, and probably Bailey Waters as well. "Well . . . perhaps I could release some of it . . . most of it . . . could you accept a hold on at least some of it, so that I could claim that for my auditors?"

"I'm sure you can work something out," she said, a smile banishing the gloom like sun breaking through rain clouds.

In the end, it turned out that the amount she had left in Ryan's accounts was just about the right amount to provide a justification for any potential auditors.

As Ms. Fox walked out of the bank, she frowned in concentration. *"Head up. Boobs out. Walk a tightrope to get that hip swing. Remember what Jessica taught you."*

Then she smiled. "Three banks down. Two to go. That's a bit over $450K and I don't feel nearly so helpless with money I can actually access."

Later, she would transfer all the money from "her" accounts to another bank to hide the paper trail even further. Then do the same thing all over again for most of it in order to provide separate and even less traceable accounts for the Faith Torr identification.

*"Good thing that Chrissy is a notary as well as a lawyer,"* she thought.

A few days later when the local police finally got a warrant to seize Ryan Hill's accounts, both Jack Belleville and Trevor Stimson had to decide whether to admit they had cut corners for a gorgeous redhead, or just report on the greatly diminished status for the balances. Neither felt it necessary to mention things that had happened in the past, particularly since the accounts Ms. Fox had set up were themselves nearly empty. Where ever that money had gone, it was no longer in their bank so it wasn't really their responsibility.

**************

Chrissy Hunnicut entered her apartment to the soothing sounds of, "God damn it!"

"Nice to see you, too," she sang out cheerfully.

"Oh, sorry," Faith replied. She brushed her blonde hair back behind her ear and said, "It's these fricken' nails. I used to be able to type."

Faith and Heather couldn't really share clothes but they did share a voice. The sultry promise in Heather's voice became comfortable friendship in Faith's. That was another surprise. Even though a recording of their voices would be more-than-suspiciously similar, the effect the voice created when coupled with a visual presentation made an amazing difference. The lean, elegant look of Faith's face worked better with her leaner, more athletic figure, too. Of the two, Faith definitely had a more integrated, 'natural' look.

Chrissy laughed and disagreed. "I've seen you type, nails and all, and you sound like a - to use your word - fricken' machine gun. What's really wrong?"

Faith stretched and stood up from the laptop that she found so frustrating. She gave a little shimmy that wasn't intended to be sensual. Her corset was not as tight as Heather's, but it still needed to be correctly placed to be anything like comfortable and sitting for too long almost always moved it a little. Realizing what she had done she looked up to see Chrissy's smirk.

"Don't start," Faith said, shaking a manicured finger at her friend. The nails weren't as long as Heather wore, but they were still definitely feminine and well outside the range that Ryan had ever experienced. "You gotta wear one of these yourself before you have the right to say anything."

"I just may," Chrissy said, looking appreciatively at her friend. "If it made me look as good as you, I'd try it."

"You should," Faith said, suddenly serious. "Jessica was right. If they're fitted properly, they aren't that uncomfortable . . . well, not unless you go as tight as Heather does. And they do wonders for your figure."

She said it so matter-of-factly that it was only Chrissy's knowledge that it was Ryan under the artifice that made it ironic. Chrissy shrugged and then sighed. "Yeah, well, when they make them in moose sizes, I'll consider it."

"Oh, Chrissy, you're not that bad," Faith protested.

"Now you don't start," Chrissy said, and while she tried to make it into a joke, the pain in her eyes was too real to hide. Then she decided to change the subject. "Since the problem was not really your nails, what is it? Are you ready to change back to Ryan?"

"No. Jessica said I need to do this 24/7 for at least a month before I try a continuing role with anyone."

"The bank visits as Heather were fine," Chrissy said.

"The bank visits as Heather were a joke," Faith countered. "They were almost as over-the-top as the Halloween party. For an hour or so people are off balance, but after that they start to see how artificial that persona was, and then the questions would start."

"Probably," Chrissy agreed. "I have to say, I like Faith a lot better. She's more real . . . and I mean that on several levels. But if it's not being a woman - nails and all - that's bothering you, what is?"

Faith sighed and looked back at the clutter of papers surrounding the laptop. "I just can't find the pattern that I need. I've found enough links to Tiny Jones to have a pretty good idea of his little empire, but I can't find the next step above it. I have . . . oh . . . three or four good candidates but I can't narrow it down any better than that."

"After what, a week? Half of which was spent under Jessica's not-so-gentle tutelage? I'm surprised you found anything. You were a little busy."

"Yeah," Faith said softly, but her thoughts were obviously off on a tangent. After a moment she shrugged and looked up, only a blush showing that her thoughts had not been a return to her frustration. "Yeah," she said again. "You really should, um, consider talking to Jessica."

"Me? Why?"

"Because if her ideas can work for me . . ."

"Don't start," Chrissy repeated. She turned abruptly away.

"Chrissy," Faith called. She stepped to her friend and gave her a hug, unconsciously positioning herself as she had been trained so that their breasts didn't get in the way and so that their cheeks touched lightly enough to leave makeup intact. "I'm sorry. You know that I respect you enormously, regardless of your choice in styles."

"Yeah, I know," Chrissy admitted, but there was still a lot of sadness in her eyes.

However, when she turned away this time it was with more cheer - outwardly, at least - and as she started to put away the things she had picked up on the way home, she asked, "So, do you have any other ideas? It hasn't been that long, but if you're stuck . . ."

"I'm stuck," Faith admitted. "Though I guess I'm not to the point of giving up. I think I need to go back to Ryan's apartment, though."

"Why?"

Faith frowned, gathering her thoughts. "Well, I'd like to get my own laptop. It's got some apps that I developed that would help. And I do have some more cash stashed in a few hidey-holes." After a pause, she added, "And, well, I guess I'm sentimental enough to want a few mementoes of Ryan. I don't see him coming back any time soon, so . . . that's all I have of him."

"Not all," Chrissy said, her eyes looking at the flat front to Faith's jeans. "Hidden maybe, but he's still there."

"Yeah, well, he's gonna have to stay hidden. For a long while," Faith said. "In any event, it's been a week since, y'know, and I figure the police have given up on watching the place by now."

"Are you sure?"

"No, of course not. But it's not like I'm breaking and entering. And I can play the airhead well enough if I have to."

"Yeah, right," Chrissy said. "Not like that would be much of a stretch. I'm sure you're up on all the latest trends in nail color."

Faith laughed in spite of her frustration - which is what Chrissy had really wanted anyway. "Yeah, right," the blonde repeated dryly. "After Jessica got done with me, I am way into trendy . . ."

" . . . but classy," Chrissy completed for her. That had been Jessica's oft-repeated mantra. "Trendy, but classy."

*************

"Freeze!" the voice shouted.

*"Well, this is not how I saw this going,"* Faith thought.

She slowly turned - hands out to her sides - to see the source of the command.

*"Good thing she told me not to move,"* she thought. If she'd have been free to react normally - or at least, as normal as anything in her life was any more - Faith would probably have made an absolute fool of herself. Making animal noises, drooling, maybe even fainting were not really good opening steps in a new relationship.

The person in question *did* meet Ryan's standards for attractiveness in a woman, and showed that being intensely feminine is not limited to delicate lace and tiny skirts. She had the easy stylishness of someone who was just gorgeous even when she wasn't trying. Her suit showed the clean lines of a good designer's label, but it revealed in a subtle, flattering way that she was just a bit on the buxom side of model-thin. And her face had such clean, crisp lines - without a single flaw - that Faith would have bet on a lot of airbrushing if she had seen it in a photo. Even her blonde hair, several shades lighter than Faith's, had just the right amount of disarray from the pinned-up efficiency of a style that could have defined professional. It kept her from being stiff or robotic. Yet it was also a textbook example of how the right hair style could transform that woman into . . . well, into anyone she wanted to be. In this case, she was being a cop, complete with gun and gold detective's badge.

"Hello?" the detective said, and Faith realized she had been caught in her distraction because the greeting was a repeat.

"Hello?" Faith said, finally re-engaging the higher centers of her mind.

"What are you doing here?" the cop asked.

Faith knew - because Ryan had identified the pattern - that there are two secrets to a really good lie. One that will be accepted so deeply that even truth, if it ever comes out, will be less believable. The first is that it has to be the truth . . . just not the whole truth. The second is that the person who buys the lie has to believe that *they* have found the actual truth; they have to believe they have seen past a lie to the truth you don't want them to see.

"Sorry," Faith said softly, playing the part that Jessica had drilled into her subconscious. "I . . . um, I guess I was just surprised to see . . . "

"A woman?" the detective supplied archly. "What, you think only men can be detectives?"

"No," Faith said, and then she decided to go forward rather than retreat. "I just didn't know there were any detectives as pretty as you outside of TV dramas."

That took the archness out of the detective's expression. Now it was rueful instead. "If a guy had used that line, I'd have been disgusted. But coming from a woman as pretty as you, I'll take it as a compliment."

"As you should," Faith said. "I'm Faith Torr, and you are . . ?"

"Erin Reilly," the woman answered. "I’m the lead detective on the Charles Dean case."

"Charles Dean?"

"You probably knew him as Chucky D. At least, that's what was in the papers. Once again, what are you doing here?"

"Proving that Ryan didn't kill him," Faith said.

"I'd be interested in that," Erin said dryly. "Did you happen to think about sharing that with the police?"

"Of course," Faith said. She slowly moved her hand to her purse and took out a business card. In addition to her name it had, "Mathematical Analysis."

Erin shrugged and Faith needed every bit of Jessica's training to keep her eyes fixed on Erin's face. "I'm afraid I don't understand," the detective said.

"I look for patterns, generally numerical patterns, in things that lend themselves to . . . judicious investment," Faith said. This part was fully true. Now for the truth that would be interpreted as a lie. "Ryan Hill was a . . . friend. He made some investments for me."

"Investments?" Erin repeated, but the look in her eyes told Faith that her truth had worked. Erin was now sure that Faith and Ryan were more than 'friends,' which made her identity as a woman - and therefore *not* Ryan - solid at the unquestionable subconscious level.

"I need to know something," Faith said. "If some of the ways that Ryan, um, invested my money were of unknown - at least to me - legality, what is my liability?"

"Look, Miss, um . . . Torr," Erin said, pulling the name out of her memory, "we know that Chucky D was a bookmaker. It was in the news. I'll take it as a given that Hill was making bets with Chucky D. We know he's been barred from several race tracks on the east coast. If you're telling me that he was acting as your agent - but that you didn't explicitly tell him to make illegal bets, then you're clean."

"I'm glad to hear that," Faith said. "In fact, I've contacted a lawyer who told me the same thing. I just didn't want to have to go through some song and dance with you on it."

"So far, you've been the one doing the dancing," Erin said, getting a bit impatient. "You haven't told me anything that we didn't already know."

"Okay, then try this on," Faith said. "Chucky D was killed by Tiny Jones."

"What?" Erin said.

Faith didn't bother to repeat herself. Instead, she moved on. "And no, I'm not telling you this as a witness. Ryan Hill may have seen the murder - I know he was expecting to be paid off on a bet that night - but I'm certain that Ryan did not kill Chucky D."

"And you base this on . . ?"

Faith shrugged and said, "Well, I base it on two things. First, I know Ryan Hill well enough to know that he would never murder anyone."

"Of course," Erin said dismissively. "No girlfriend has ever claimed that her boyfriend was incapable of murder before so of course I believe you. If I'd have just met you sooner I could have saved so much time."

Faith winced, but she shrugged again. "No need to get snarky, detective. I'm telling you because it's true, and I know it as surely as I know you stopped getting Starbucks coffee on the way into work a month ago."

"What?" Erin asked again, but she first lowered and then put her gun away while she absorbed that statement.

"There is a faint coffee stain on your blouse, which shows the wear of about three dry-cleaning cycles. At once a week for cleaning - which is typical - that means you've had that blouse for about a month since it's a new style for this season. But only one stain, so you must have decided not to risk it again. Those are mathematical patterns. And I know - based on his lifestyle - that it would be more than six sigmas outside of Ryan's probability patterns for him to murder someone."

Before the detective could react - other than with wide eyes and a brief, guilty glance at her blouse - Faith continued. "On the other hand, I have data which show a correlation between the positive and negative results of fourteen separate bookies with Tiny Jones flashing cash in various locations. In three cases, bookies who worked for Tiny Jones and were having bad 'luck' - at least as indicated by their payout percentage - have died. One of those was Chucky D."

Erin's eyes had widened when Faith started reporting on her analysis. At the final conclusion, they sharpened again. "You have the data you base this on?"

"Yes," Faith said, reaching into her purse again to produce a thumb drive. "You may not have the confidence in the data that I have. I'm not going to tell you where I got all that data. Perhaps you have the means to recreate it. But as it is, it's not admissible anyway. And statistical evidence is not court-of-law proof."

"Recreate it?" Erin repeated. "You're not going to tell me where the data came from?"

"No," Faith said firmly. "I'm not going to compromise my sources. I do not know that any obtained their data illegally . . . but I don't know that they didn't."

"That's almost useless then," Erin said.

"Perhaps," Faith said. She sat there for a moment, then she carefully, in a well-rehearsed expression, sharpened her eyes as though an idea had just come to her. "There is an option. If you'll allow me to use your systems, I will recreate the data for you - as legally as you want to make it."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because Ryan Hill is a friend," Faith said. "I told you that."

Erin couldn't quite keep a smirk out of her expression. "A good friend?"

"Yes," Faith said simply. The truth of her statement resonated with the detective - which was reasonable since it was totally true. Of course, it wasn't the total truth.

"If you already have the data to make your conclusion, why are you here? If you're harboring Ryan Hill, you're aiding a fugitive."

"I've been out of town for a week - a bit more, actually. Ryan and I were corresponding by phone until about a week ago. Then I saw the news reports and couldn't contact him. I did some analysis, then came back to see if I could help him but I haven't seen him in over a week."

Another truth that fed a lie. Faith hadn't looked like Ryan in over a week so she hadn't seen him, even in a mirror.

"How did you get into his apartment?"

"I have a key, of course," Faith said, just a faint sneer of disappointment in her voice that the detective hadn't figured that out. Of course, the *reason* she had a key was not what the detective would assume.

Erin kept at her questions. "And again, why? I mean, if you have the data that Tiny Jones did this, what more did you need here?"

"Because I'm sure that Tiny Jones is not the top of his little crime empire. I want to get that guy so that Ryan can be safe. And no, I don't think Ryan would be safe in police custody, though I haven't seen him to say so. I hoped to find something here I could use to, ah, 'compromise' Jones with whomever he works for. I don't know who that is."

"It may be that we do," Erin said. She stepped back and pointed at the door. "In the meantime, don't come back without a police escort. If you need any of your things from here, they'll need to be approved."

"And who would I see to get something approved?"

"Me," Erin said, but she smiled. "Look, um, Faith, I'm not trying to be a hardass here. I can understand wanting to clear your boyfriend. Maybe we can take advantage of your, ah, talents. Is there something specific what you were looking for?"

"Yes," Faith said. "I wanted his laptop . . ."

"We have that," Erin interrupted.

"I figured that," Faith said. "I should have known. I was planning on staying here while I was in town, but I guess that's out . . ?"

"I’m afraid so," Erin confirmed.

"Well, I have some friends in town," Faith said. "But I would like a few . . . mementoes of Ryan. We were . . . pretty good friends. I'd hate for them to go missing if this place sits empty too long."

"Take your pick," Erin offered generously, though her eyes said that she was going to look very closely at each one.

In the end, Faith only took a few pictures and a couple of awards that Ryan had won (along with some cash she had picked up before Erin arrived). What Erin didn't know was that there were electronic data files on micro-SD cards in several of the frames. These included copies of some of the applications that she - that is, Ryan - had developed. With them she felt she'd have a better chance at finding Tiny Jones' boss. Which reminded her . . .

"Is there a chance I could work with you on this? As I said, I can recreate the analysis. And if you have Ryan's laptop, I may be able to make more sense out of it than your analysts."

Erin nodded. "Let me talk to my superiors. I'll get back to you."

Chapter 6 - "Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!"

["I thought I would be going into the lion's den,"] Faith thought as she entered the police precinct. ["But this is more of a bear pit."]

The raucous, angry noises of the squad room were intimidating enough; some of the people, both those wearing handcuffs and those wearing badges, were intensely vocal. But there was a no-kidding list of most-wanted fugitives on a bulletin board and Ryan Hill was prominently displayed. That didn't make things any easier.

Her outfit didn't make things any easier, either. Since she was going to be surrounded by trained observers, Faith had decided to look as much like a woman as she could. Thankfully, Chrissy had offered a little advice on that. Her first outfit had been too close to Heather Fox's style. Chrissy reminded her that woman can also come in the 'lady' flavor, and that would be a much better idea. So Faith wore a charcoal woman's suit rather than a tight, low-cut blouse and tight, low-rise jeans. However, the skirt was a bit short and the heels quite high. And the blouse, while soft and flowing rather than snug, had folds that hinted at a very deep plunge.

Apparently, it worked. The desk sergeant's station was visible from the squad room and it was as though she was emitting some sort of sound-dampening field as she approached it. When she looked out to see what had happened, she saw a huge number of eyes watching her intently. Male eyes. Apparently there weren't many female miscreants at 9:00 AM on a weekday. The men, those wearing handcuffs and those wearing badges, were staring at her with expressions that made the idea of being a bear pit not so bad. Lion's dens - full of hungry lions - were definitely worse.

She was saved before she even had to speak to the desk sergeant by the approach of Erin Reilly. The detective picked up on Faith's uneasiness.

"Don't mind them. They're just mindless animals," she said. "The rest are criminals." Her smile was not as nonchalant as her words.

"I don't understand . . ," Faith began.

"Pretty girl. Overload of testosterone. What's not to understand?" Erin asked.

"Oh, no, I get that part," Faith said, smiling ruefully. "It's just that . . . well, you're prettier than I am, and they didn't seem to react to you that way."

"That's because I carry a gun and I'm not afraid to use it," Erin said, raising her voice enough to carry throughout most of the bay. At her words, there was a resurrection of the overall noise level, if not the emotional intensity.

She turned back to Faith and dropped her voice. "Besides, to continue the animal analogy, you're 'fresh meat.' They didn't know how you'd react."

"Did I pass?" Faith asked, then bit her tongue at the double meaning.

"Well enough," Erin said. "You didn't run screaming from the room . . . or worse yet, jump up on a desk with threats of lawsuits or something. Ignoring them is your best policy."

Just then a shaved-head, leather-vest-wearing, tattooed monster jumped up from where he was sitting and - despite the handcuffs he was wearing - tried to run for the exit. His path went near the two women and only Erin's quick arm pulling Faith out of his line prevented a collision. It didn't help that for all his tough-guy style the man was at least 100 pounds over his optimal fighting weight and took up a pretty wide path.

The man was quickly tackled into submission and it was only then that Faith realized Erin's arms were still around her shoulder. She had to stifle a quick urge to snuggle into that embrace, shocked by how nice it felt. Thankfully, Erin misinterpreted her sudden stiffness.

"Okay, so sometimes it's hard to ignore them," the detective admitted with a smile. She released Faith from her arms as though it meant nothing . . . which, unfortunately, was probably true.

"I'm glad you could come on such short notice," Erin said, motioning her toward a small interview room as though the fat man's interruption hadn't even happened. "Once the captain said I could ask you to help, I was anxious to get started."

"Me, too," Faith said. "I know I haven't convinced you yet that Ryan is innocent, but I'm sure you'll see it once I get into the data."

"An innocent man," Erin said thoughtfully, then her eyes twinkled in a smile. "Not sure I've ever met one of those."

"There are a few around," Faith declared.

"Damn few," Erin countered, but she was still smiling.

Once they were in the room, Faith looked at the ring set into the table and at the long mirror on one wall. "Is this where you read me my rights?"

"Do you need me to?" Erin countered. "Is there something you feel like confessing?"

"Are you always a cop?" Faith countered in turn. "I thought we would be working together."

"Sorry," Erin said, dropping her eyes for a moment. "Habit. Look, this is just a convenient place. I'm not trying to trick you into anything."

"An honest woman . . ," Faith said. "Damn few of those around."

"Ain't it the truth?" Erin said. "I'd like to think I'm one of them, though."

"I'd like to think so, too," Faith said, carefully not making eye contact. She's like to think a lot of good things about the pretty detective. Moving quickly to the appropriate seat to cover her internal conflict, she started the laptop up.

"Do you know his passwords?" Erin asked.




"Some of them . . . I think," Faith replied carefully. She demonstrated the validity of her claim by getting past the first to enable an ordinary boot-up.

"We didn't even get that far," Erin admitted. Faith nodded, but didn't really turn her attention away from the screen. She could see that the police had not actually accessed the data so there wouldn't have been any awkward questions on why a girlfriend named Faith had no traces on Ryan's computer. She carefully did *not* know the password to his email accounts.

While she was flipping through some files to make sure everything relevant was there, Erin surprised her.

"Y'know, I actually do believe you," the detective said. "I don't think Ryan killed Chucky D either."

"Oh?" Faith said, turning away from the screen.

"Yes, but it's not because of a great faith in the nobility of the human male," Erin said dryly. "Of course, I wasn't living with him."

"I wasn't . . ," Faith began, then stopped. Sheepishly she continued in a less strident tone. "I wasn't actually living with him. I just . . . stayed over occasionally when I was in town."

"Good answer," Erin said. "I'm honestly not trying to trick you. More bad habits, I guess. But we didn't find any feminine clothes or toiletries there . . . well, except for a bra that isn't your size - sorry about that. In any event, if you claimed to be living with him, then we'd have had a problem."

"Was the bra in Ryan's size?" Faith asked with a smirk. "Maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought."

*"Stupid!"* Faith snarled at herself. *"Why are you even raising that sort of idea? Are you trying to get caught?"*

"Um, no," Erin said, laughing. "Apparently his tastes sometimes run to . . . large women."

*"Oh, that must have been one of Chrissy's then, from the few times she stayed over at my place. I wonder when she left it?"* Faith mused.

"Not always," Faith said, letting a little irritation in her voice.

"Not always," Erin agreed, looking Faith up and down with appreciation that started some very confusing thoughts running through Faith's mind.

There was a moment of awkward silence as Erin realized she'd been caught appraising Faith's figure. She moved to cover it up with, "Do you think you can get anything from his laptop?"

"Some," Faith said. "I did most of the analysis myself, of course, but he did supply me with some of the source data from his contacts on the street."

Faith began to point out key data items but it was clear that Erin did not see the patterns that Faith found obvious. They did agree on a few places where official warrants could secure data to recreate the basic analysis, and while it wasn't enough for an arrest warrant on Tiny Jones, it was enough to show a linkage to bookmaking.

After a long day punctuated by cop coffee and a cardboard pizza (that Faith couldn't even really enjoy in her tight corset), she finally sat back. "Well, that's about as far as I could get. If I knew who Tiny worked for, I could probably establish some clearer patterns."

"Oh, that's easy," Erin said, though there was a bit of pain in her voice. "Mick O'Reilly."

"O'Reilly?" Faith repeated, then she remembered the detective's name. "Erin Reilly. Any . . ?"

"No," Erin said sharply. "Though I get that same damn question every time that guy's name comes up. Believe me, no one wants to get him more than I do."

Faith just nodded, too distracted by having the target of her search handed to her so easily. In fact, she decided, this might work out very well for her larger plan.

"Let me do some analysis on this O'Reilly guy," she offered. "If Tiny Jones really does work for him . . . sorry, I'm not really doubting you. Since Tiny works for him, I may be able to show a pattern that explains why Tiny is killing some of his bookies."

Erin's response was interrupted by a knock on the interview room door.

"You got a minute?" a male voice asked.

"Of course, sir," Erin replied. She stepped out of the room leaving Faith to start setting up search parameters - using the police database - for ways to get close to Mick O'Reilly.

A few minutes later Erin re-entered the room. "Well, it looks like you were right."

"I’m always right," Faith said reflexively, then she ducked her head. "Well, my analysis is, um, usually right."

Erin interrupted herself to smile in sympathy. "I imagine that being a pretty girl in a male-dominated area like math and statistics, you get patronized a lot."

Faith shrugged, but decided to go with that line. "It's one of the reasons I needed a, um, an agent to, um, place my investments."

"Um, hmm," Erin agreed, but she was thinking of something else. "In any event, we don't think that Ryan murdered Chucky D anymore. In fact, he's beginning to look like another victim."

"A victim?" Faith said, not hiding her surprise.

"Yes," Erin confirmed. "They discovered Chucky D's body. Some fishermen saw some fabric - apparently Chucky D had a flashy 76ers jacket. Actually, the ID isn't confirmed and the body is pretty badly decomposed - it was dumped in a swamp by the Potomac - but it matches the description and race. The medical examiner just got done with the remains and someone broke Chucky D's neck. Nearly ripped his head off, in fact. From the description, Ryan Hill wasn't . . . isn't big enough to do that, though Tiny Jones is."

"You think Ryan is dead?"

"Maybe," Erin admitted. "If he isn't the doer, then . . . well, he's been missing for a week."

"I see," Faith said, trying to cover the relief in her voice with appropriate concern. *"Well, that gets the police off my back. But it means Tiny will be even more determined to find me."*

Erin looked at the hard copies of data flowing over the interview room table. "Look, I actually believe you, but I don't think this is going to get us anywhere. The links between the murders of the bookies and Tiny Jones is inferential at best. Any halfway decent lawyer would get any jurors lost in the details and end up making them believe it was all a coincidence. Is there anything more you can do?"

"Maybe not," Faith said. "Do you really think that Tiny Jones murdered Ryan Hill?"

"I'm afraid so," Erin said. "Though, like the others, I don't yet see a path to proving it. We'll keep working on it, of course."

"Of course," Faith said flatly. She started to gather up her data, including the laptop.

"You can't have that," Erin said. "Sorry."

Faith conjured up a blush, then looked with pleading in her eyes. "Look, there may be . . . things on here that I don't want to get out."

"Photos?" Erin guessed.

Faith didn't answer, except with another blush. Jessica had showed her how to generate a blush by holding her breath - without *looking* like she was holding her breath.

"I promise," Erin said. "No one will go snooping around any more. If we need anything else from this laptop, I'll make sure that you're the one who looks for it. No one else got anywhere anyway. But I do have to keep it in evidence."

Faith sighed, but left the laptop on the table. Of course, she had already copied off all the files she really wanted, and she certainly didn't have to worry about compromising photos of herself on the hard drive . . . since she hadn't even existed the last time Ryan used it. However, appearing to want the laptop added more layers to the lie of her existence, and misdirected Erin on what she intended to do next.

Or maybe not.

"Faith?" Erin said quietly. When she was sure she had the other woman's attention, the detective said, "You're not planning on doing anything on your own, are you? Going after Tiny Jones?"

Faith gave a twitch that would have made any lie too transparent, so she just shrugged.
"Don't do it," Erin ordered firmly. "You'll just get yourself killed."

"Detective," Faith said just as firmly, "I'm not stupid enough to go after Tiny Jones directly, but I am a very good analyst. And he . . . may have . . . killed my . . . friend. I'm not just going to go home and cry about it."

"Don't go near Tiny Jones," Erin repeated.

"I won't," Faith said, and since she believed it herself it wasn't hard to make Erin believe it.

Of course, her plan was never to go after Tiny Jones directly anyway. Her target was Mick O'Reilly, and though Erin didn't know it, Faith now had the entire police dossier on the crime lord.

********************

"So, did you find what you needed?" Chrissy asked when she re-entered her apartment. Faith was deep into her analysis, with two separate laptops and a very large screen dominating the apartment's small dining room table. When Chrissy looked at the screen, she decided it wasn't all in Greek, but it might as well have been. It certainly didn't answer her question.

"Yes and no," Faith replied, which wasn't an answer either.

She pulled herself out of her concentration with a physical effort, standing and stretching before she looked at her hostess. Part of that included a shimmy to reseat her corset and she couldn't stifle a grin when she saw Chrissy's smirk.

"Don't start," Faith said, repeating her familiar demand.

Pointing a finger at the screen - like that proved anything to Chrissy - Faith said, "Erin told me who runs the bookmaking on the East Coast, including Tiny Jones' operation. It's a guy called Mick O'Reilly."

"Erin, is it? You seem to be getting to know her pretty well. Is she pretty?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I guess so," Faith admitted. This time she didn't have to fake a blush. Chrissy smirked again, but Faith followed up with her own defense. "Y'know, it's . . . well, women seem to interact on a more familiar basis almost immediately. I mean, Holmes and Watson roomed together for years, but it was always 'Holmes' and 'Watson.' But women seem to go to a first name basis right away."

"Actually, you'll find it's an echo of condescension from men," Chrissy said. "Women always get called by their first name . . . as though they were still little girls to be patted on the head and ignored."

"Wow," Faith responded. "Who pissed you off?"

"Life, the universe, and everything," Chrissy said bitterly. "I just think that it's hard for successful men to take women seriously."

Faith nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes were looking at something well beyond the walls of the room. After a moment, she shook herself again and looked at her friend. "You're right, of course. It's another reason that I'm going to have to do something about Tiny Jones myself. Even if I had enough proof to get him arrested, he'd get off."

"Maybe you're right," Chrissy said thoughtfully.

Now it was her time to shake herself, as though shedding a distraction, and look back at Faith. "So, you said, um, 'yes and no.' I guess the 'yes' is that you know who Tiny Jones works for. What's the 'no?'"

"Mick O'Reilly is not going to be an easy person to approach. He's doesn't go to night clubs and as best I can tell, other than an occasional straight-up call-girl evening he doesn’t play around. Neither do his lieutenants."

"Why does that matter? What were you planning to do?"

"Well, what I *can't* do is walk up to him and say, 'I’m Ryan Hill. I saw your employee Tiny Jones murder Chucky D and send his goons after me - all because he didn't want to pay off on a bet.'"

Faith stood up and started to pace around the room, her feet unconsciously tracking a narrow line to give her hips a natural sway. Speaking as much to herself as to Chrissy, she said, "The patterns of behavior for a mob boss like that are all about power, and since he has no legitimate power, it's about infallibility. People have to believe he can do what he wants in spite of the police or any other force. For me - that is, for Ryan Hill - to challenge him like that would fail on several counts. First, accusing him of crime, or of having associates who are criminals, is just not done. It implies that he couldn't make it as a straight businessman, and it also implies that he might get caught. Second, if Tiny does work for him and is welshing on bets, then that's the next thing to accusing O'Reilly of welshing on bets. That's an insult that he won't tolerate . . . especially if it's true. Third, confronting him and, in effect, demanding that he does something would make it look like Ryan Hill had power over him, which he won't admit."

Faith stopped for a moment to look in one of Chrissy's mirrors, examining herself as she tucked a tumble of blonde hair behind an ear. "No, I need an indirect approach. I need to drop a few key words - his pattern indicates that 'reputation' and 'welshing' will trigger action - I need to say those in a way that doesn't even link himself, personally, with the problem. It's got to seem like common knowledge - something that everyone will be talking about if he doesn't take action."

She shrugged and turned away from the mirror. "I thought I could . . . hang around with the flashy crowd in a public place like a nightclub. I figured I'd get close enough so that O'Reilly could overhear, and then just say that I'd heard that Tiny Jones had a reputation for welshing on bets. Once I planted those seeds, O'Reilly would be forced to take action."

Chrissy nodded thoughtfully. "But if he doesn’t go to any public places - at least, not ones where you could get close enough to drop your key words . . ?"

"Then I need to find another way to approach him," Faith said.

"Just how far were you planning to go? As Faith, I mean. Were you really thinking of trying to become his girlfriend?"

"I guess not," Faith said. "It's just . . . with Jessica's help I've become pretty enough that I think I could attract a man - not that I want to, of course, except as a way to get back at Tiny. It would be easier than trying to get close to him as Ryan. Or as some other skinny, short guy."

"'Easier,'" Chrissy repeated. "That's a word and a half word. Just because it might be 'easier' to get close to him doesn't mean it would be 'easier' when you're there."

"You're right, of course," Faith said. She caught another reflection of herself in Chrissy's mirror and pulled her hair back forward, primping it into place without conscious thought. There was a complex emotion showing on her face; one that Chrissy didn't want to consider too closely . . . because she was sure that Faith didn't want to recognize it at all.

Still, regardless of what was really going on behind Faith's eyes, Chrissy saw a potential opening. "What about someone else? Not this O'Reilly guy himself, but someone who was close enough to O'Reilly to get the message across - without knowing it was a message?"

"Like who? I told you his lieutenants are all about the same."

"So, who else moves in O'Reilly's orbit? Guards? Housekeeper? Chauffeur?"

"'Chauffeur . . ?'" Faith repeated. First she shook her head. "The drivers are all thugs who can barely read street signs. But there is someone . . ."

She sat quickly at her computer and started paging through the enormous spread sheet that more-than-filled her large screen. After a moment, she said, "Gotcha!"

Chrissy watched while Faith opened up a linked file and saw the dossier of a young, good-looking man come up on the screen.

"Whoa, girl, just what do you have in mind? That's sex on the hoof, there."

"What?" Faith said, snapping out of a distracting train of thought. "Oh, this is O'Reilly's . . . 'super-chauffeur,' I guess. Or maybe 'transportation manager.' Travis Gallagher. Lead pilot for O'Reilly's Gulfstream. Gallagher is also a qualified yacht skipper and he's the one that coordinates all the service for the limos and things."

"And he's a studmuffin," Chrissy said. "Man, a smile like that belongs in central casting."

"What?" Faith repeated, but she knew exactly what her friend was talking about.

And Chrissy knew she knew, and so on. After a moment, Chrissy said, "Are you going to try to get at O'Reilly through the handsome pilot?"

"Maybe," Faith said.

"Are you going to be able to . . . do what may be needed? These are not choir boys and it would be very risky to assume that, um, Gallagher is either. If you lead him on, he's going to expect something."

"Maybe it won't go that far," Faith said. "Maybe I'll be able to get close enough to O'Reilly fairly quickly, and then get out."

"Maybe," Chrissy allowed. "But . . ."

Faith sighed. "But maybe not. I know. I guess I'll just have to face that if it happens."

"That's pretty risky," Chrissy repeated.

Faith just nodded unhappily, but her eyes went back to her reflection in the mirror. After a moment, she said - more to herself than to Chrissy, "I'm going to do whatever it takes."

Chapter 7 - "Come Here Often?"

Pilots get paid for the time between flights. The flying they'd do for free. So, aviation operations that want to attract pilots make sure that the pilot lounges are worth sitting around in while the bosses are away on whatever business brought them to town. Else they'll convince their boss to go to another operation.

Rich pilots are an oxymoron - if they had money they'd spend it on planes and then they wouldn't be rich any more. That doesn't count the rich dilettantes who can fly but aren't really serious pilots. However, high-end corporate pilots do make quite a bit of money and in turn they spend it on planes . . . which gives them an excuse to hang around airports, either working on their planes or talking about them. Travis Gallagher fit that model. He was, as usual when the boss didn't have anything else for him to do, sitting around the pilot lounge at Tidewater Air, commiserating with fellow pilots on the standard problems they all faced: not enough money for the latest upgrade they wanted, the high cost of fuel, and - most of all - not enough women in flying, specifically not enough young, pretty ones.

"Yo, Trav, may need to retune your whine," Jimmy Dorne announced, pointing out the lounge windows.

The lower half of the figure tying down the plane made all sorts of promises that the oversized flight jacket on the upper half didn't keep. On the other hand, a flight jacket could be removed and those legs were making some pretty spectacular promises.

"She'd probably fly better if she wasn't wearing those boots," Bill Carson observed.

Gallagher disagreed. "Hell, babes like that grow up in heels. Those are just cowboy, um, cowgirl boots. She probably flies better than you do."

No one really disagreed with him. After all, the girl got her plane down safely so her boots couldn’t have hurt her flying that much. Besides, Carson was an asshole who would complain if Miss America stepped out of a plane.

When the girl finished tying down her plane, she turned to walk into the lounge. On her way she pulled her hair out of her jacket, showing blonde waves that flipped back and forth in time with the swing of her trim hips. That angle also revealed pretty lips, a slim neck, and a white scarf that none of the guys would ever wear but looked just right on her. Stepping from the bright ramp into the much dimmer lounge she stopped for a moment to let her eyes adjust, aiding that transition by removing her aviator shades.

"Yep," Gallagher said quietly to the others. "Any babe that good lookin' can wear whatever she wants."




He then demonstrated his superior abilities as a pilot, at least as measured by swift reflexes and good situation awareness. He had already assessed the situation and was moving toward the slim blonde before the others thought to move.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely.

She smiled at him, then pointedly looked over to the operation desk. Looking back, she said, "I'm on a cross-country and supposed to get my logbook signed. I usually get someone at the desk to do it."

"Usually?" he repeated. "But I expect your instructor didn't say that specifically, did he?"

"Well, no," she allowed, smiling again.

Gallagher motioned for her logbook, pulling a pen out of his own pocket. He didn't sign it immediately, though. Instead he looked at the first page and studied it for a moment.

"Faith Torr," he said, looking at the data. "And nearly ready for your private checkride?"

"I hope so," she said.

"And after that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to keep on with flying qualifications, or is that 172 enough for you?"

"Oh," she said with a smile coupled with just a hint of a blush. "I plan to keep going."

"All the way?" he asked, but his grin had moved the conversation to another level.

"Perhaps," she said demurely, lowering her eyes in a way that recognized the change in tone of their conversation.

"Perhaps," he repeated, "you'd like to talk about a career in aviation sometime?"

"Perhaps," she repeated in turn, the demure look giving way to a flirtatious smile, "if I could find someone who is a successful pilot."

"I may be able to help you with that," Gallagher said. He took out a card from his own wallet, but instead of handing it to her he turned it over. "If you'll give me your number, I'll be glad to invite you for a flight in my Baron. To see if you like it of course."

"Oh, would you?" she asked with wide-eyed innocence - which was spoiled a heartbeat later with a smirk that had little innocence in it at all.

"Phone number?" he prompted.

"Name?" she countered. "You haven't even told me yours."

"Travis," he supplied quickly. "Travis Gallagher."

"You already know I'm Faith," she said with a smile. She looked down at the card in his hands, then - without really raising her head - looked up at him through her long lashes. After enough of a pause to make it clear that it was a deliberate flirtation . . . the slight bite at her lower lip added to that . . . she smiled and said, "Well, I suppose that approach was better than, 'Come here often?' She gave him her phone number.

"I don't hand that out to just everybody, Mr. Gallagher," she said. "Use it carefully."

"Travis," he corrected her immediately. "Or Trav, if you prefer. As a professional pilot, I pride myself on making good approaches, and your secrets are safe with me." He glanced at his pilot friends both to indicate that he wouldn't share and to make sure they appreciated his success. That meant he didn't see Faith's twitch when he mentioned that she had secrets.

When he started to put his pen away, Faith asked plaintively, "Aren't you going to sign my logbook?" But her eyes were dancing with amusement.

"Oops," Gallagher said sheepishly. He made a point of putting his own phone number after his signature.

"Thanks," she said brightly. Tucking her returned logbook into the jacket, she went back out to her plane, a nearly new Cessna 172. The three pilots watched from the lounge as she preflighted the plane and then departed. Comments - since they were pilots - were about equally divided between how hot she was and how well she flew the plane. One met their standards. One never could.

*************

"Did you meet him?" Chrissy asked as soon as Faith returned to the apartment.

Faith nodded. "His pattern said he was almost certain to be there when I arrived.

"And . . ?" prompted Chrissy.

"And I gave him my number. He offered to take me up in his plane."

"Oooh, sounds romantic," Chrissy teased.

Faith gave her a quick smile, but sighed. "Yeah, that's the problem."

It had been a month since she had decided to use Travis Gallagher as a path to Mick O'Reilly. Part of that time was spent in mapping his particular behaviors and developing prediction algorithms. It was clear from the outset that she needed another indirect approach - one that let Gallagher be the initiator of a closer relationship. Their meeting needed to seem coincidental to him. Her next conclusion was that she needed to show an interest in what interested him - a chance meeting on the street would not lead to more than an offer of a one-night stand. That meant aviation or boating for their 'coincidental' meeting. In the remainder of that month she had forged a student flight certificate with accompanying flight physical. There were plenty of flight schools who were happy for any students, let alone a pretty girl. After starting instruction at small airport she had progressed normally - first soloing and then working up to cross-country flights.

It was ironic that as Faith she was doing things that Ryan always wanted to do. Ryan had been so involved in his patterns, and on using them to make money, that he never followed up on his dream to learn to fly. Faith still loved the magic of numbers but she knew her life was more than that . . . including things that Ryan never even realized he was missing.

"Are you going out again tonight?" Chrissy asked.

"Yes," Faith said. "Jessica is coming by about 7:00. You should come, too."

"No thanks," Chrissy said. "It's just too strange to be the least attractive girl when the other two are . . ."

Faith looked at her with polite interest, waiting for the larger girl to complete her sentence. When Chrissy just looked back, Faith smiled and completed it for her. "Fun-loving? Out-going? Well, we may be having more fun than you are and we are going out, but we're hardly party girls. Jessica just suggested we go to the art museum. There's a show on comic book art that she wanted to see. It's funny that she likes so many of the same things that I do. But it's tony enough that it gives me a chance to trot out my inner lady."

"'Inner lady,'" Chrissy snorted, then she got more serious. "You're really getting into this, aren't you?"

"If a thing is worth doing, it's worth doing well," Faith quoted archly, then broke the snobbery with a smile. "But yes, I am having fun with this for a while. I think that Ryan had dug himself some pretty deep ruts, and I sure don't fit in them."

"No, you don't fit in Ryan's life," Chrissy said sadly, but she said it quietly as Faith was already disappearing into the second bedroom. The blonde girl still slept on the couch, but Chrissy had allowed her to use the second bedroom to store her things. And Faith was accumulating quite a few 'things', starting with an array of makeup that had largely taken over Chrissy's office desk.

Still, the slim blonde was ready when Jessica Russet showed up. Jessica had chosen a deep green dress shimmering with some sort of material that Chrissy didn't recognize, though she expected Faith would know. Faith went with a basic 'little black dress', long-sleeved and high-necked but short-skirted. Very short, in fact, and with her towering black sandals it made her legs look long enough for two girls.

Faith noticed Chrissy's appraisal, and smiled sheepishly. "Well, my legs - when they're smoothed by stockings or pantyhose - are probably my best feature. My arms are a bit muscular, so . . ."

"Don't even try," Chrissy interrupted, but she smiled and gave her friend a hug. "I'm not buying the whole 'pick-yourself-apart' thing. You're gorgeous and you know it."

Jessica agreed. "Yes, she is. But if we don't wrap up this flattery session we'll be late for the opening."

Faith nodded, smiling happily at Chrissy's comments, but also showing a bit of regret. "I do wish you'd come with us," she said. "We'll be glad to wait . . . or come as you are. The professional lawyer look always works."

"Yeah, right," Chrissy said. "You two look fabulous and I look like . . . well, like I've been working in an office all day. Thanks, but no thanks."

Neither Faith nor Jessica felt a need to push their friend so they nodded, gathered up their things, and headed out. The museum wasn't too far away and apparently the opening of the comic art show was not an overwhelming draw. They didn't have any trouble finding a place to park. More important, in the stilt heels each wore, they didn't have too far to walk.

Jessica looked at Faith as they sauntered along and said, "You're really doing well. If I didn't know . . ."

"Shh," Faith said, but she grinned when she quieted her friend. "Don't even think it. I feel like my bubble will pop with a stray thought, let alone an actual, out loud, statement.

"Oh, girl, lighten up. As Chrissy said, you're gorgeous and you know it. Enjoy the evening. Lesson number whatever: A girl as pretty as you loves to be seen and appreciated. Bask in it."

Then Jessica giggled quietly behind her hand and nudged Faith while she whispered, "I know I will."

True to her word, Jessica hit the door with a smile on her lips and a bounce in her step . . . and a couple of other places as well. She wasn't as well-endowed a Faith seemed to be but there was plenty of girl there to jiggle.

It turned out that she was also a bit more than just a fan of comic book art. She knew enough to dance on the border of lecture mode to Faith, talking about composition, inking, and dynamic perspective on the better pieces. Or maybe she'd just read Stan Lee's book.

Her not-quite-lecture was interrupted by a greeting.

"Why, Jessica, I didn't know you liked this sort of thing."

Turning, they saw someone that - at first - Faith didn't recognize. Then it came to her and she almost committed the social gaffe of blurting out some animalistic sounds.

"Oh, and you're Faith Torr," the newcomer accused.

"Guilty as charged, officer," Faith agreed, managing to get a more-or-less natural smile on her lips as she held out a hand - carefully staged with palm down - to Detective Erin Reilly.

The reason Faith was so nearly embarrassed was that Erin had 'let her hair down.' And she was just on the wow! side of spectacular. Her own dress wasn't quite as short, nor her heels quite as high as Faith's, but her bright blonde hair tumbled with surprising volume and length and her after-dark makeup made her bright eyes glow with ethereal beauty. What the dress did not reveal of her legs was more than made up by the fact it hugged her luscious curves so lovingly that it was clear her own waist did not need the corset that still bound Faith.

Apparently Erin's breasts were still naturally high and proud as well because whatever bra she wore - if she even wore one - did not constrain them from constant, graceful motion. Yet there was no sag that Faith could see, though she caught herself studying quite carefully.

"How do you two know each other?" she managed to ask, trying to hide her staring with a quick flick at some nonexistent lint on her own waist.

"Oh, I've done some, um, consulting with the police department," Jessica said quickly. Faith was still trying to get her eyes to remain focused on Erin's eyes, so she didn't see the look that Jessica sent the detective from behind her shoulder. It was just a quick frown and a small shake of her head, but Erin's eyes showed just the faintest of dips in acknowledgment.

"And how do *you* two know each other, Erin asked in turn, a frown forming on her flawless brow showed some bothersome thoughts were forming.
"Oh, I’m staying with Chrissy Hunnicutt," Faith offered quickly in turn. "Jessica and Chrissy are friends, and . . . well, I guess we discovered we both enjoy comic art."

"Chrissy Hunnicutt?" Erin repeated. Then her detective's mind sorted through the classifications and came up with, "The lawyer that handles all the odd cases?"

"I wouldn't saw we were *all* that odd," Faith countered, but her breath caught as she worried that Erin would make some linkages that needed to stay hidden.

"No, of course not," Erin said easily, the frown leaving her face if not entirely disappearing from her eyes.

Faith decided the best defense might be a good offense in this case, so she said, "Chrissy is one of my few friends in town, and since you won't let me stay at Ryan's place . . ."

"You haven't heard anything from Mr. Hill have you?" Erin asked sharply.

"No," Faith said with the firmness of absolute truth. Ryan hadn't been around in her life for quite some time.

Jessica asked, "Is there anything new on his case?"

"I'm afraid not," Erin admitted. "He's officially just a missing person - not wanted for anything. But we haven't made any progress on Chucky D's murder either, I'm sorry to say."

"I know," Faith said. "I quit calling the police station every day but I think I made very desk sergeant on the force promise to call me if anything turned up on Ryan."

"I know," Erin said in turn.

Jessica turned to Faith and said, "What was that about staying on Ryan's place?"

Faith used one of Jessica's own tricks to summon up an appropriate blush. "Well, I had planned to stay with Ryan. We sort of, um, had an arrangement. Or . . . were about to have one. I hadn't actually, y'know, stayed with him yet."

"You go girl!" Jessica said with a laugh. "Chrissy obviously thinks the world of Ryan. I hope you can work something out."

Then it was her turn to work up her own blush, though this one signified remorse. "Oh, wait, I'm sorry. I forgot . . . he's still missing?"

"Yes," Erin said. She sighed and turned back to Faith. "I can't really authorize you to stay in someone else's apartment. And I really don't recommend it. I have to admit we're not very hopeful for Mr. Hill but I believe your analysis and unless Tiny Jones has found him, there may very well be someone watching to see if there is any activity around his place. I can't offer you any sort of protection beyond our normal patrols."

"But I can go back to his place?" Faith said, picking up on the lack of a prohibition in Erin's recommendation.

"Yes, if you want," Erin said, sighing again. Then her face showed another frown of concentration. "If you were just planning on a short stay with Ryan while you visited . . . why are you still in town?"

"I'm, um, doing some work from here," Faith claimed.

Erin's detective insights drew a conclusion that might not have been obvious, but was correct. "You're working on Ryan's case, aren't you? Looking for him?"

"Well, more looking for patterns that might tie to him," Faith said. "Ryan was pretty sharp in math too, though he only got a bachelor's degree. I think he might have been able to understand enough of my methods to try and use them to get some money. I've been looking for any indications that someone is using my algorithms."

"You're a mathematician?" Jessica said in surprise. "Here I thought you were just an empty blonde airhead that was after Ryan because you wanted his baby."

Faith first looked shocked at that statement, then laughed when she saw the 'gotcha' look in Jessica's eyes. "Oh, you'll pay for that."

"Probably," Jessica said easily. But the and Faith both knew it was all a little play to set even more firmly in Erin's mind that Faith and Ryan were 'an item.' And therefore that Faith and Ryan were not *the* item of Erin's search.

"Tell me, Detective, what made this Ryan such a stud that a hottie like Faith would chase him?"

"It must have been his money," Erin said with a wickedly catty expression, playing along. "It certainly wasn't his manly physique. Unless there were something hidden in his pants that his photos and dossier didn't cover . . ?"

"Hey, Ryan is okay," Faith said quickly, only constant practice keeping her voice from slipping into the wrong pattern as she rose to the defense of someone whom she literally had to live with.

"I’m glad you think so," Erin said soothingly. "I was just yanking your chain a little. From what I can tell, he was . . . I mean, is a really nice guy."

Then Erin's face became more serious again. "But I don't want you messing around his disappearance. I don't have any reason to keep you out of his apartment any more, but if you interfere in this investigation, you will regret it."

"I'm just a mathematical analyst," Faith claimed, taking an unconscious half step back, her body language saying that the conversation had become uncomfortable.

"Right," Erin said dryly. "Well, enjoy the show."

She moved off for her own enjoyment of the show. That included, apparently, the attentions of young men. As soon as the trio had separated, they could see several admirers approaching the stunning blonde. Faith would have loved the chance to be one of those admirers, though she knew that Ryan would never have gotten anywhere with someone so beautiful.

Jessica read that in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," the redhead said softly. "All that I've done has made it harder, not easier, for Ryan to find his own fulfillment. That wasn't my intention."

"I know that," Faith said, smiling sadly. "And it's not like you made things any worse. Zero equals zero, which is all the chance that I had before we met."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Jessica disagreed. "Sometimes, learning what makes a woman tick sets up a great foundation for a later relationship."

"Yeah, right," Faith replied dryly. "I'll keep that in mind."

Despite the detective's permission - or at least, the end of the prohibition - to use Ryan's apartment, Faith didn't move back in. The next phase of her plan would require spending some time with Travis Gallagher and it would have been inconveniently convenient to have an empty apartment to go back to after a . . . an evening spent in each other's company. Faith couldn't let things move too fast, yet as a woman she could put off going to a man's apartment for at least a while.

Or that was the plan. It ended up that part of the plan wasn't tested right away.

Faith's phone rang a few days after she had met Travis. Despite what her mind told her, she couldn't deny a bit of . . . flutter in her tummy when she saw the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Faith?"

"Yes."

"This is Travis. Travis Gallagher. Do you remember me?"

"Of course," she said cheerfully. Faith decided it was time to up the stakes a little, risky though that might be. "After all, my logbook isn't as big as those for professional pilots like you, but it is black, so you're in 'my little black book.'"

"Ha, you're right. I never thought of it that way. I'll be sure and tell the guys."

"Oh, do you tell everyone about your . . . encounters?"

"Not everyone, and not everything," he replied.

"Good," she said. "I'd hate to think I'm just some sort of trophy for you to brag about."

"Well," he countered, not really retreating, "I'll certainly be proud if you agree to spend a little time with me. Does that count?"

"Perhaps," she said coyly. "It depends on what we do in that time together. You said something about flying in your plane?"

"Yes," he agreed, and proceeded to set up a time. Not surprisingly, Faith's calendar had space for him.

Chapter 8 - "I'm Not That Sort of Girl"

Faith spent an inordinate amount of time getting ready for her flight with Travis Gallagher. On the one hand, she wanted to look like a pilot and the outfit she had chosen for her 'unplanned' meeting for him had been selected for just that impression. If she were going to fly with him, in his plane, then he needed to think of her as a pilot. On the other hand, she didn't want to wear the same outfit again, as though it were the only one she had.

In the end, she compromised. She wore her designer jeans and the western-style boots with the 3-inch, slightly tapered heels. But instead of her oversized flight jacket, she wore a trim little matching denim jacket with flourishes of embroidery - a very fitted jacket that showed her dramatically tapered waist. The white scarf was tied more like a bandanna and set off a western-style yoked satin shirt in a deep blue. She pulled her hair up into a pert ponytail that bounced with lively energy and added aviator shades to offer at least one claim to be a pilot. Faith didn't figure that Travis would complain - even though she ended up keeping him waiting for ten minutes after Chrissy let him into the apartment at the appointed time of 4:00pm.

"This guy is dreamy," Chrissy moaned softly after she had left him in her small sitting room to rejoin Faith in the bedroom. "I can see why you want to go out with him."
"We're just going flying," Faith said. "And only because he's my best path to get to Mick O'Reilly."

"Right," Chrissy said dryly. "You just keep telling yourself that. And check your glue supply."

"Glue supply?" Faith repeated, then blushed. One of Jessica's aids had been a disguise for her true gender - a panty that glued in place and gave the appearance of a woman's genitalia.

"Not gonna be a problem," Faith said firmly.

"Lots of women say that . . . but that man is used to getting his way with women. You be careful."

"Yes, mom," Faith said, but her attempt to make it light didn't really work. She was very thoughtful for a moment, then dredged up an artificially bright smile before going out to meet her . . . escort for the afternoon. *"Not a 'date.' This is just two pilots going flying. The fact one of them happens to be a cute guy and the other happens to be . . . to look like a pretty girl is not why they're doing something together."*

He escorted her down to his car - naturally an arrest-me-red Dodge Viper with more power than any street driving would ever require. And he didn't complain about her appearance. He noticed it - slowly, and just short of lecherously - but he didn't complain.

The flight was both more and less interesting than she expected. The plane - a fast, twin-engine Beechcraft - was much higher in performance and had a bewildering array of instruments and controls for a beginner pilot. On the other hand, it flew like a much smaller plane. As long as everything was working, it was easy.




Faith was flying (at a safe altitude, well away from any traffic) and Travis smiled at her intense concentration - on doing nothing, really, because the airplane was well trimmed and essentially flying itself. Like most small aircraft, Travis's plane had an intercom through sound-cancelling headsets so they could talk in normal tones. With no warning in his voice of what he had in mind, Travis asked, "Do you know why they put two engines on these planes?"

"What?" she asked. "I mean, it makes them faster, and y'know, carry more."

"Nope," he said easily. The second engine is there to keep the pilot cool."

"What?" Faith asked again.

To prove his point, Travis reached out and reduced the power on one engine. All of a sudden the smoothly flying plane became a beast, trying to turn upside down and inside out. It took all the strength that Faith had in her arms and her leg to keep the plane heading more or less in the same direction.

"Holy crap!" she blurted into the intercom, glad the radio wasn't triggered so that the whole world heard her.

Travis quickly took pity on her and added power back in on the reduced engine. "See? If one of the engines fails, the pilot starts to sweat immediately."

"You got that right," she said, relaxing enough to grin at him.

Faith didn't really know where they were going. She had just been more-or-less flying a heading and more-or-less holding altitude. But not too long after her lesson in pilot cooling, Travis took over and coaxed his plane down to a sweet landing at Hampton Roads Executive airport. Apparently Travis was a frequent visitor. They quickly arranged for the Baron to be cared for, but Faith was surprised when he started negotiating for a rental car.

"What do we need a car for?"

"There's a nice little restaurant just down the road," Travis explained.

"What?" she asked. "I can't go out to dinner looking like this!"

"Why not? You look great."

"I'm wearing jeans, and my hair is in a ponytail!" she said.

"And you look great," Travis repeated. "Besides, you're a pilot. You can go anywhere, wearing anything, and you'll still be cool."

"Oh, you," she said, but she had to smile at his declaration . . . and at his acceptance of her into the fraternity of pilots.

At her smile, he pressed his advantage. "On the other hand, if you insist on another outfit we can also go out to a more proper dinner at another time . . ?"

*"Oh, god, he's asking me out on a real date,"* she thought. *"That's what I was fishing for, but somehow, it didn't seem real . . . until now."*

"We'll see," Faith replied noncommittally. "We haven't even gotten home from this, um, event yet."

Travis smiled, then took care of the mechanics of getting them into the parking lot of the restaurant. True to his promise, no one looked down on her for being dressed so casually. In fact, most of the other diners were also casually dressed. Of course, virtually all of them were men. The wait staff were all women, though - and much more provocatively dressed than the diners. In a way, it irritated Faith. She was becoming used to being the center of male attention when she was around, but the waitresses in their short shorts and very tight t-shirts were more competition than she had been facing.

Then she noticed that Travis was still very focused on her and that made her feel better. Much better. So much better, in fact, that she started to worry about her own attitudes. She was just using him as a way to get to O'Reilly, right? She wasn't really interested in attracting this handsome, supremely masculine male, right? Right?

To his additional credit, Travis didn't press for a further commitment to another date. Instead, he talked about their flight down and all the things that made flying a complex aircraft more than just manipulating the wheel and throttles. Like a lot of pilots, it was easy for him to fall into a lecture mode as he explained about the propeller governors and Vmc. But Faith enjoyed it all. She could, for once, let her inner nerd drink from a technology bucket just as fast as knowledge poured out while still staying within Jessica's primary guideline for women on a date - let the guy do as much of the talking as possible.

By the time the meal was over they had reached the companionable silence stage where neither felt a need to fill the air with noise. That was reinforced on the flight home - the first time that Faith had been up in a small plane after dark without the tension generated by a watching instructor. The serene stillness, accented more than interrupted by the steady drone of the engines, gave everything an ethereal, dream-like quality reinforced by the soft, cool gleam of a nearly full moon. That didn't end when they reached Travis's home airport and put the Baron away. They still talked in quiet, easy tones that spoke more loudly about their comfort in each other's presence than any amount of chatter.

When they reached Chrissy's apartment building, Travis jumped out to help Faith from her seat in the low-slung car. She accepted his hand, and when he didn't release it after she was on her feet, she didn't argue. He was still holding her hand when they got to Chrissy's floor.

Instead of escorting her directly to the apartment, Travis pulled Faith down a little false hall, an empty corridor just long enough to reach a window that led to a fire escape. The moon was shining in the window, but it left even deeper shadows that Travis pulled her into.

"I really enjoyed this evening," he said softly, leaning dangerously close to her.

"So did I," Faith admitted.

"When can I see you again?" he asked.

"I don't . . . we were just . . . a flight in your . . ," Faith said, trying to get a coherent sentence out, but nothing seemed to make sense, and then she couldn't speak anyway. Travis let his lips touch hers - at first softly enough that she could have turned away, but then with greater passion. Faith found herself responding, and her confusion only lifted her heart to greater heights. Ever since she had been forced when she was fifteen, this had been the very definition of wrong - to be dressed as a girl and kissed by a man. Yet, instead of panic or anger or fear, she . . . responded. She felt herself forming to his solid bulk, allowing herself to be supported by the strength of his thick arms - a strength she needed when her knees felt suddenly weak. When his tongue intruded into her swollen lips she opened her mouth to welcome it, pulling it even deeper into herself.

Then reality came crashing back into focus when Travis took her slender hand and pressed it to his throbbing bulge.

"Oh, Faith, you are so hot!" he whispered hoarsely. "So sensual, so feminine, with grace and beauty . . ."

When Travis removed his hand, Faith . . . didn't. She kept her hand on the hard shape for a long moment, then she slowly started to rub her fingers up and down.

*"Oh, god, this is so wrong!"* she wailed - but only in her mind. Her fingers continued to explore even as her mind swirled with images of what might come next . . . and what could not. No matter how much she might want . . . no, could not want . . .

After a moment, she realized that Travis was stroking her breasts as well - though few sensations made it through the prosthetics to reach her actual skin. It was enough, though. She managed to restore at least a bit of rational thought even as her fingers - seemingly on their own without conscious direction - became more aggressive. She knew she needed to play a very specific part if she were to keep his interest. Too fast, and she would end up making an offer she couldn't keep. Too slow and he'd find someone else.

After long enough to make it clear her 'natural' response was to increase the sensual tension between them, she twitched and stepped back. Panting with emotion that was not artificial, she whispered. "No. I can't. I'm not . . . not that sort of girl."

"Oh, Faith, you can't do that to me? You make my blood boil! I know we would be just awesome together . . ."

She moved her hands up to his shoulders and pushed gently back, as though reluctant. Faith sighed and nodded, but kept him from moving closer. "You may be right, but . . . not tonight."

She shrugged and moved out from under his arm. "This wasn't even . . . supposed to, y'know, even be a date. This was just . . . a . . ."

Her voice ran down, but Travis smiled ruefully at her distress. "Okay, so maybe I was, um, flying under a false flag. But we can fix that."

"What?" Faith asked.

"We can make it an official date, next time. How about dinner?"

Faith let herself show some irritation. "Look, buster, I'm not some bimbo who you can have for the price of dinner. I told you I'm not ready to . . . take this further yet."

"Of course not," Travis said, and whether he actually believed that didn't really matter. "But if we go out on a 'real' date, then you won't have that to, um, confuse things."

"What?" she asked, then blushed. "Look, Travis, you're a nice guy, but I'm not . . ."

"No, you're not," he interrupted her. "You're gorgeous, which doesn't hurt, but more than that you're smart and you like flying. I truly don't think of you as a bimbo or any other lesser form of womanhood. But we have too much in common to waste our time with other people. Let's get to know each other better. I promise I'll be nice."

"You couldn't be nice if you tried," she said, but she grinned when she said it. *"Now is the time to go from the stick to the carrot."*

As though it were a grudging admission, even if her continued grin undermined that, she said, "But it happens that sometimes I don't want 'nice.' I'm still not a cheap floozy, though. If we do continue to, um, see each other, then I don't want to feel pressured to do more than . . . than I feel comfortable with."

"Of course not," Travis agreed quickly. Then he smirked and said, "But I'm warning you now, I'm going to see if I can convince you to be, ah, comfortable with me."

"Do your best," she challenged, smiling more broadly now. "Just remember, I'm not 'easy.'"

"No, never that," he agreed, but his voice lost his teasing quality and became softer and more intimate. He whispered, "But worth it," just before he leaned in to kiss her again.

When Faith finally made it to Chrissy's apartment, her friend was waiting with eager anticipation for the story of the date.

"First off, it wasn't supposed to be a date," Faith insisted.

"Supposed to be?" Chrissy repeated. "You come back after six hours with the guy - with, the prosecution notes, mussed lipstick - and you're claiming it wasn't a date?"

"Well, it didn't start out that way," Faith said softly.

"To you or to him?" Chrissy prodded.

"To me," admitted Faith. "I wanted . . . hoped that we could be friends, and that he'd invite me to meet O'Reilly on that basis."

"Just friends, right," Chrissy said. "That's why you spent all afternoon picking out your outfit, and had me tighten down your corset another whole inch from a very tight 'normal' and then had me tailor your jacket so it showed off your shape. Just friends."

If she expected Faith to argue, or even to play along with an 'okay, you caught me' sort of admission, her expectations were not met. Instead, Faith seemed to hunch in on herself and turn away.

"Faith?" Chrissy said, instantly concerned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"But I did," Faith said. "You're right. I was doing more than I needed to. I was doing more to be *attractive* to him than I needed to. I don't know why, but I was."

Chrissy moved to put her arms around the slimmer woman. "Do you understand any better now?"

"Not really," Faith said, sighing and leaning into her friend's embrace. After a moment she moved away and took off her jacket. Looking in one of Chrissy's mirrors she winced, then took a few essentials from her purse. While she was cleaning off her smeared makeup and reapplying a neater look, she started talking softly.

"I wonder if I'm as . . . normal as I claimed," she began. "About, um, sexuality. I mean, I like girls, and I've had a few . . . I mean, it's not like I'm a virgin or anything. And I like to think I've given pleasure as well as received it, but . . ."

She turned away from the mirror to look directly at Chrissy. "But what if, deep down, I'm really gay? I mean, what if that night, when I was fifteen . . . what if I was asking for it because . . . that's what I really want?"

"Stop!" Chrissy said sharply. "You may be gay, or at least bisexual - which would be okay if it's true, of course - but don't even consider that night when you think about it. That was not a night of lust. That was an assault, pure and evil."

"But if I led the guy on . . ."

Chrissy interrupted her with fire in her eyes and in her voice, "Then it didn't matter. You were fifteen! Nothing you did was your fault. Remember that."

Faith whispered so softly that Chrissy moved closer to hear. "But . . . what if . . . under my costume . . . when we were dancing, and when we moved out into the dark shadows . . . what if . . . I was . . . excited? Physically?"

Chrissy went over to Faith and escorted her to the couch, always keeping an arm around her friend so that she wouldn't feel alone. "The old saying is that a fifteen-year-old boy can get excited by a knothole in a fence. I don't know if that's true because I've never been one, but the point behind it is true. *Everything* arouses fifteen-year-old boys. You were in an intensely sensual setting. That's the *reason* that it's called rape when the girl - or boy - is underage. They get so confused that they can't be held responsible for their arousal. That's why the adult is responsible - criminally responsible - not to take advantage of that confusion. And it doesn't matter what the eventual orientation of the child is going to turn out to be. At that age sexuality is so damn overdriven by raging hormones that even if you *did* want it then - and I'm not saying that was true - then that doesn’t mean anything about who you are now."

Faith sagged in her arms, but it was a sign of relaxation from tension, not a sign of surrender. After a moment, she smiled at her friend and said, "Thanks, Chrissy. I don't know what I'd have done without you . . . all the way back to high school."

"Well, for one, you wouldn't have done as well in the chemistry labs."

"That's true," Faith said, laughing thinly, but at least laughing.

After a moment, Chrissy let the smile ease on her own face and returned to a more serious topic. "I have a feeling that there was more to your date than a little smeared lipstick."

At this, Faith's eyes started to fill with tears. She hunched down again as though she were going to bury her head in shame, but Chrissy caught her chin and made their eyes meet.

"Out with it," she commanded.

"Oh, god, Chrissy, I feel so cheap! While we were kissing - which I did enjoy . . . way too much. While we were kissing, he took my hand and put it on his . . . pants."

Chrissy twitched, but she didn't say anything. She just waited patiently.

Her patience was rewarded when Faith continued. "Up until then I was reacting just like Jessica taught me. I was 'surrendering' to his power, making him feel strong and making myself feel . . . soft and tender. And I was enjoying it. A lot. It felt natural, like it was okay - something I could do without any, um, long-term meaning."

Her voice became firmer. "But when he put my hand on his hardness, there in the dark, it was like a switch got flipped and all of the sudden I really, truly wanted to . . . to be with him. It was no longer something that I was doing because Jessica taught me how to act like a woman. It was . . . it was like I *was* a woman . . ."

Faith broke down into sobs again. "But I'm not! I'm just . . . not! I can't . . . *do* what he wants . . . what *I* wanted . . . oh, god, what I *still* want. Even now, I can . . . feel it like it's still in my hand, and my mind is . . . oh, god . . ."

"That's a good thing, right? It means you're not going to, um, bother you too much to do what you need to do from here?"

"Is it? A good thing, I mean? Oh, Chrissy, I truly enjoyed kissing him. I was comfortable in a sexual situation to a level that I've seldom been with women. I could just go with it and let my heart guide what I did, but with my mind watching in the background to keep me out of trouble. And then it spiraled out of control. If he hadn't touched my breasts - and the disconnected sensations reminded me of how artificial that was - oh, god, I don't know what I would have done!"

Chrissy nodded. "Well, that just means that Faith Torr is a complex character. Which is not a bad thing. It makes you real. Human."

"Well, yeah, of course."

"Not of course," Chrissy said. "It means that *Faith* is real. She's not just an act. Oh, there are learned behaviors, but everyone has those. It means that you are not just Ryan Hill in heels and makeup."

Faith twitched at that statement, but a thoughtful look came into her eyes. After a long moment, she nodded.

"You may be right. So, what do I do about it?"

"I don't know, of course," Chrissy said. "This is way too complicated for an instant answer. I guess in the near term it means you can go forward with your plan. He obviously likes you and wants to date you. You can just . . . go along with that. Until he gets you close to this O'Reilly guy."

"Go along how far?" Faith asked.

"I guess that's up to you," Chrissy said. She sat thoughtfully for a moment, then added, "But don't be afraid of admitting - to yourself, at least - who you are. If it turns out that you *are* gay or bisexual, well, then . . . be happy, I guess."

"Yeah, right," Faith said, but despite her dry tone her eyes were thoughtful.

Chrissy wouldn't let her off that easily. "And Faith? If it turns out that you're happier as Faith than as Ryan . . . well, that's okay, too."

A few weeks before, the answer to that would have been obvious. Now, Faith's eyes just stayed thoughtful.

Chapter 9 - "Well, Maybe I Am After All"

["I worked damn hard for these curves, and I am by God gonna show them off,"] Faith decided as she looked in the mirror. In order to disguise shoulders that were a bit wider than a typical woman's, Jessica had convinced Faith that she needed appropriate curves, even if not as dramatic as Heather's. No matter how tight she pulled her corset, and with Chrissy's help, that was very tight indeed, her figure needed contouring above and below to give the right look. Coupled with extreme heels to make sure people thought of her as a 'tall' girl (and therefore not in any way a reminder of the average-to-short Ryan), it was part of the plan that Faith's style would make a very feminine statement. For her first 'real' date with Travis, she decided to revel in that statement rather than be subtle. Pilots didn't go for subtle anyway.

Her pants were definitely not subtle. Skin-tight black leather was just about as 'in your face' as it could get. Coupled with a plunging silk blouse in a vibrant, clear magenta, there was no doubt that this was a more exuberantly feminine outfit than jeans and a denim jacket. But that was consistent with Travis's pattern. He wouldn't respect a woman who was too dainty. His own self-confidence was not threatened by a strong woman, so he wanted one who was also self-reliant and self-confident. The quickest way to establish that in a way that would fit into his pattern was to become a pilot so that was her opening. But feminine and beautiful were also requirements. A girl had to get past that initial attractiveness hurdle or there wasn't any foundation. A girl who *only* had that initial attractiveness had no future.




["It's still pants with a matching jacket - even if now they're both in glove-soft black leather,"] she thought. ["I wonder if he'll think I'm hiding my legs."]

In point of fact, there might have been some of that. Faith still wasn't comfortable wearing a short skirt on a date. One of these days she'd have to wear something that showed her legs to Travis, and with all due modesty she knew they looked pretty good. Awesome, in fact. But she still felt more confident in pants and this was a night for confidence. Besides, as tight as the leather pants were, it wasn't like there was any doubt about her contours.

["Speaking of . . . or thinking of . . . contours, it's a good thing that little glue-on panty that Jessica gave me is so realistic. I'm showing . . . more than a good girl should."]

She was thinking about changing into something less . . . direct when Chrissy came into see how her preparations were going.

"Good god, are you sure you want to send that sort of message?"

"It fits his pattern," Faith claimed.

"No, girl, that outfit definitely would not fit him, nor any part of him. You're sure about this?"

"Well, he's a professional pilot as well as a certified ship captain. They're usually pretty confident. I need to show confidence numbers compatible with his if I want this to be more than a one-night stand."

"Well, you're certainly showing just about everything," Chrissy agreed - more or less. "I think I can see your pulse through those pants."

That gave Faith something more to think about and she was just about to change into a different outfit when the doorbell rang. *"Well, too late now,"* she thought. But in her heart, she knew she didn't really want to change. She was proud of the way she looked, and intrigued by the effect it had on guys. Or at least, one guy in particular.

*"Yep, that's what I was looking for,"* she thought smugly when Travis just stared at her as she made her entrance.

"Breathe, before you pass out," she said lightly. It almost didn't work. It was still several long seconds before Travis suddenly gulped some air and tried to swallow.

"Wow," he said finally - well, whispered, and it was better than a thousand shouts.

"You like it?" she asked with wide, innocent eyes. Yeah, right. Not that he noticed. His eyes hadn't gotten up to hers, yet.

"I'm about to get insulted," she said, but she couldn't hide a grin.

"What? Oh, um, sorry, but you're just . . . awesome."

"Coming from a handsome pilot like you, I'll take that as a real compliment."

Travis was starting to reboot, and finally managed to get a real expression on his face. Dredging up a wry grin, he said, "You should. I've never seen anyone whose legs look so good when I can't even see them."

"Keep up with compliments like that, and you just might," she teased. She looked over his shoulder at Chrissy, who still had a warning in her eyes, but after a second she nodded in acquiescence. After all, people were trying to kill Ryan. Dressing to kill wasn't all that bad. Maybe.

It bothered Chrissy that Faith was setting herself up for another situation like the fifteen-year-old Destiny had faced. Faith was older and should be able to take care of herself, but she was also going to a place that might have a lot of bad memories; memories that didn't need to be resurrected. It was her choice, but Chrissy hoped she wasn't so caught up in her numbers that she forgot real people are not predictable. And that emotions could overcome logic very, very easily.

Despite a less-than-suave opening to the evening, Travis had recovered by the time they got to his red rocket-on-wheels. He was blandly noncommittal on where they were going, but Faith was gratified to see it was a nice restaurant, not some noisy nightclub.

The nightclub came later. Apparently Travis was well known at "Shadows" which seemed to have a thing for film noir. There were half a dozen big screens going with different dark scenes involving women in tight dresses and men with big guns. Thankfully the sound on the movies was turned down. Something more modern and danceable was playing at just a bit too much volume.

Travis got drinks - not asking what she wanted, but scoring a win when he brought her vodka in a glass that seemed to be carved out of ice. It didn't take long to finish those first drinks but rather than get immediate refills he took her to the dance floor . . . something that Jessica had not included in her lessons.

*"Well, fall back on the basics she did show you. Smile. Don't fall off your heels. Keep your head up and hips forward. Move like you're making love to the air."*

It seemed to work. At least, no one laughed at her.

After a few songs she had to take a break, pointing away from the dance area. Travis nodded and steered her to a quieter table while he signaled for a waitress.

"You move like a hunting panther," he said. "Leather suits you."

She blushed . . . or maybe she was just a bit overheated from the dancing.

"Okay, I'll give you points for original," she replied. "No one has ever said that to me before."

"Then they're blind," he said firmly.

The second drink was more of the same, and then a third. When they returned to the dance floor Faith was even less inhibited than before. She started stalking Travis and if her moves weren't always quite in time to the music, he didn't seem to mind.

The bright illumination of the movie screens in the club left other areas correspondingly deep in shadow. Travis maneuvered them to a dark area and reached out to take Faith in his arms. His kiss was not an option. He took her lips with power and desire, to find hers welcoming and passionate.

"God, you are the hottest woman I have ever met," he moaned. "What you do to me is probably illegal in fifteen states." He managed to pull back enough to find room for a wry grin, "And I've never even seen your legs."

"These old things?" she asked, rubbing her hands slowly over her hips, then letting them meet in the middle with a fingertip lightly rubbing at forbidden fruit. "They just hold up the rest of me."

"A long way up," he said, letting his eyes linger on the flow highlighted by the highlights in the dark leather. "You are a tall girl, and I like it."

"Tall is good," she agreed, reaching up to kiss him again.

Travis pulled her close and this time she didn't need her fingers to discover a straining tension in his own pants. For a long, delicious moment she let herself rub against it, reveling in the strange combination of weakness before his great strength and power over such an important aspect of his body. Then she realized what she was doing.

*"Oh my god,"* she thought. *"I'm doing it again. I am enjoying this way too much. Why does his excitement please me so much? Why should I wonder what it looks like?"*

Her thoughts flashed back to the time a teen dressed as a hot woman had been forced to participate in something that should have been intolerable. She knew that person had been shocked and horrified . . . but also aroused. Faith was no longer fifteen years old, but she still felt conflicting emotions that she couldn't - wouldn't - understand.

Except one. She knew that, deep down inside herself - further inside than even the hidden incongruity of a straining shape that had nowhere to grow - she was aroused. She wanted more than passionate kisses. She wanted to please her handsome date in a way that should have been unthinkable . . . but she couldn't think of anything else.

*"Maybe it's the vodka,"* she thought, but she knew that was only an excuse. On the other hand, in her confusion she needed a little space to think . . . and maybe a little more excuse for what she was thinking.

"Get me one more drink," she panted into his ear. "Then we'll go."

Travis nodded and headed off on his errand. Faith just stayed in the deep shadow, leaning against the wall as her mind whirled down paths she never expected. Maybe it really was the drinks, but there were barriers going down in her mind. Barriers she had erected and reinforced ever since that night when she was fifteen.

When Travis returned with the drinks, she tossed hers off in one sharp swallow, ignoring the smoke and flames that burst out of her ears, and then looked at the exit. Travis followed suit, in his case coughing a bit from the acrid bite, then took her hand and pulled her toward the exit. Once they were in his car though, he hesitated.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't care," Faith replied airily. In fact, it was more that she didn't know. The conflicts in her heart were pulling her in different directions, leaving her with no path that she could follow.

Travis gulped a bit of air, and said, "Look, I, um, don't think I should drive - at least, not very far - until I sober up a bit . . ."

Then he smiled as a solution came to him, "Which means I have just the place."

He put the Viper in gear and they headed off in the direction of the bay. It wasn't very far until he was pulling up to a card-reader that guarded a large gate. Negotiating that obstacle, he maneuvered the surprisingly long car to a parking area at the head of a pier. Travis jumped out before Faith could get her door open and held it for her, then held her hand as she climbed back onto her narrow heels.

Faith swayed a bit, then clutched at his arm for support. "I may have had too much to drink myself," she admitted. But then she giggled and changed her mind. "Or not enough."

"We can fix either of those," Travis promised. He helped her down the pier past an array of gleaming yachts to an even-larger one that capped the end of the dock. Fishing in his pocket for a key, Travis was soon ushering her into the richly decorated interior.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked.

At first, he answered with a smirk that almost made her turn on her heel and leave. But he quickly countered that with a more rueful grin. "Well, I didn't want to take you back to your roommate. Three is definitely a crowd." Then he looked more gentle and sympathetic. "And I didn't want you to feel trapped at my place. I told you I wouldn't push you further than you want to go, and that seemed like . . . too much."

"You got that right," she said tersely, looking around the luxurious interior of the yacht. "Not sure this is much better."

"Oh, it's much better," Travis said, grinning again. "For one thing, the boss likes better booze than I can afford."

At her frown, he looked penitent. "So, coffee or vodka?" he offered.

Faith started to answer, then hiccupped. That caused her to giggle, and sway again on tall spiked heels.

"Coffee," Travis decided. While it was brewing he led her to a soft cream-leather couch. Her leather pants squeaked on the couch when she sat, causing her to giggle again.

In moments they were locked in another torrid kiss. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, using her own to touch all sides and her lips to squeeze. The implication was clear to both of them and Travis moved her hand to his swollen crotch before moving his own hand inside the plunging neckline of her blouse.

This time, Faith didn't take her hand away from the shape she caressed, but it still didn't turn out the way Travis might have wanted. Though she didn't block him from reaching inside her blouse, what he found there was not what he expected. His hand explored for a moment, then drew back.

"Old fashioned girl," Faith breathed into his mouth while her hand continued to explore the hard, long shape he had offered to her. "Don't you like corsets?"

"Oh, I, um, do . . ," he claimed, but it was clear he was disappointed as well. A few slow skritches with her elegant nails took away the disappointment, resurrecting interest. "How, um . . ."

"Does it come off?" she supplied, grinning at him. "Slowly."

She wiggled a bit on the leather couch, causing another squeak. "Almost as bad as these pants."

"Pants?" he repeated, disappointment even more evident in his tone.

"Yes," she said, but she had already come to a decision. At one level she knew the alcohol she had drunk was being absorbed into her system and was causing her judgment to deteriorate. But on another level it didn't matter, because she knew in her heart that was only an excuse. She was clear enough for this decision. If the alcohol freed her to do what she really wanted, then that was just fine. Her fingers changed from slow caress to a more focused objective. When it was clear what she was after, Travis started to help. That was a good thing because it wasn't long until he needed to lift his hips. His pants certainly had to come down because his zipper alone didn't provide nearly enough room.

It was intensely erotic when she slid to the floor . . . or deck, or whatever, in front of him. The sound of her leather pants catching and sliding across the leather sofa added a fetish aspect that emphasized that Travis was now nude (at least, halfway) while Faith was fully clothed - almost armored in leather that couldn't be easily removed. For a strange little half-second, Faith wondered her choice of outfit had been subconsciously driven by a need *not* to be easily undressed. Another confusion factor.

What followed was both like and unlike what had happened when she was fifteen. One very important difference was that she now had experience from the 'other side' of the act; experience that was very helpful in guiding her actions. That was a multiplier for the second - even more important - difference. Faith *wanted* to do this. She wanted to please her companion. She wanted to give him pleasure that would be something special between them forever. It was too early to call it an act of love. But it was definitely an act of emotional connection; one that she cherished in her heart. A third difference surprised her. She actually enjoyed it. The physical sensations were . . . awkward at best, but she discovered that didn't matter. What mattered was that giving him pleasure made her feel good - true enjoyment, not just some sort of grimly accepted self-sacrifice.

Part of her enjoyment was the feeling of power. It wasn't demeaning or degrading - not when she wanted to do it. Instead, she could control her man's sensations to the exclusion of all else; she could control his desires so that they narrowed down to her alone in all the world. She understood how insulting it would be for a man to speak another woman's name at a time like that - and glad that it didn't apply to her.

She didn't hurry - another difference from before - but it still didn't take long before Travis arched his back as he crashed to completion. Faith was careful not to over-stimulate him afterwards as she did her best to clean things up. A playful pat as she packed his penis away in his shorts - his pants would have to wait until he could stand up again - was an act, really. She was anything but light-hearted. She had just learned too much about herself for that.

And then she giggled, not because of some sense of foolishness about the act, but because just as she leaned back on her heels, the timer bonged on the coffee pot, signaling it was done. She stood up herself as Travis rearranged his clothes, performing the woman's work of finding cups. As Travis had not asked her for a drink choice earlier, she did not ask how he wanted his coffee. It was black, and as strong as he felt like making it. Like hers.

Without a word she handed him a cup and sat on the couch, pulling one leg up under her carefully so that her spiky heel didn't damage the butter-soft couch covering.

"So, come here often?" she asked finally.

Travis chuckled at that. "Would you believe that I'm here several times a week . . . yet have never been here like this?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've never brought a woman here before . . . at least . . ."

His voice trailed off and he looked down for a moment. Finally he looked up and visibly squared his shoulders. "Look, Faith, I'm not going to deny that I've been with other women, of course. And even on this yacht. The boss is pretty open about who we bring aboard for parties and such. What I meant is that this is the first time I've brought a woman here, alone, just the two of us."

"I'm flattered, I guess," she said quizzically.

"You should be," he said, smiling but showing he meant it with a direct look in his eyes. "Most of the women I meet are . . . decoration and exercise, not a . . . not someone with strength - someone I can respect."

"Goodness, Trav, I am flattered, but we hardly know each other."

"I know you well enough," he claimed. Faith gave him a nice smile, but behind her eyes she was disagreeing.

*"Ohmigod, after that? Even *I* don't know myself."*

She finished her coffee as a way to hide her internal confusion; a never-ending confusion, it seemed. Rising as gracefully as Jessica had taught her, she took their cups to the sink in the wet bar. Her meaning was obvious so Travis gathered up his keys and they left without another word. The ride home was silent as well, but it wasn't really an awkward silence. Instead, each was so deeply into private thoughts that the ride was over before they found the silence troubling.

Travis escorted her up to her floor again, and once again took her down the little false hall.

"Look, Faith, I didn't mean to push . . ."

"You didn't," she said. Burying her face in his shoulder, she whispered, "I told you once that I was 'not that kind of girl.' I guess I am after all."

Looking up at him she said, "I've never done that either. I mean, on a first date."

"Are you sorry?" he asked.

"No," she whispered. "That's the problem. I should be. Now you must think I'm some sort of . . ."

He interrupted her, capturing her lips with his to prevent any self-directed insults. After it was clear he wasn't going to let her say anything like that, he pulled back.

"You are some sort of wonderful," he said, then smiled in an attempt to ratchet down the tension. "I’ll bet that wasn't what you were going to say."

She dredged up a small smile of her own, then lifted her lips to his again.

When Chrissy came home from a late work session, she found Faith sitting on the couch in the dark, her chin resting on her knees.

"Uh, oh," she said, dropping her purse and briefcase by the door and going to her friend.

Faith just smiled one of the least-convincing smiles Chrissy had ever seen.

"What went wrong?" Chrissy asked.

"Nothing," Faith said. "That's what's wrong."

"Okay, you know you need to explain that. Let me have it."

Faith sighed and looked out the window at the dark night. "I'm gay," she said.

"Oh?" Chrissy replied, lawyer face in place. "On what evidence?"

"I . . . love Travis, I guess," Faith said.

"If you have to guess, then you don't," Chrissy countered.

"Well, love or not, I'm definitely into men," Faith said. "I . . . when he kisses me, it's . . . I just can't stop . . . thinking about it."

"I see," Chrissy replied. After a moment, when it was clear Faith was not going to continue, she pushed for a bit more explanation. "As I recall, you said he kissed you before but that didn't make you hide in the dark. What really happened?"

"I guess that's the other part of it," Faith said. She looked back from the window to meet Chrissy's eyes directly. "This is like when I was fifteen. I gave a guy a blow job . . . and I liked it!"

"You liked it?" Chrissy repeated. "When you were fifteen?"

"Well, I didn't know it then," Faith admitted. "In fact, I thought I hated it then. But that was just guilt, I guess, because I didn't want to admit it. But I know that - even then - I was aroused when I was doing it, and tonight . . ."

"Did Travis force you? Threaten you?" Chrissy asked, the fangs starting to come out.

"No, not at all," Faith said quickly. "I wanted to do it. From the moment we were alone on the boat, I wanted to . . . to see it. And to touch it. And to . . ."

"Oh, god, Chrissy, if I'd have had the right . . . stuff, I'd have . . . I'd have fucked him until neither of us could walk."

"Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"That under your, um, things you *don't* have 'the right stuff?'"

Faith recoiled until she nearly fell off the couch. "Of course not!"

Chrissy made a calming motion with her hand. When it was clear Faith needed another nudge, she changed the subject a bit. "You said something about a boat?"

"Yeah, O'Reilly's yacht. Travis has a key."

"I think you've left out a lot. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

Faith seemed to welcome the opportunity to share her night. She went quickly through dinner, spent a little more time on the club, and then described the time on the boat in loving detail until . . .

"And then, well, then I did it," she said.

"And you enjoyed it?" Chrissy asked.

"Oh, god, yes," Faith said. "I felt so . . . powerful, and yet so . . . feminine and submissive. I wanted him to . . . to want me . . . in a sexual way. When I, um, felt 'it' through his pants, I knew he wanted me, y'know, that way. And it was, I mean, it was the only way I could . . . y'know."

"I see," Chrissy said, her voice empty of emotion as she thought. "And that makes you gay?"

"Well, sure," Faith said. "I mean, I was sexually aroused by a guy. And I gave him a blowjob, for god's sake! What more does it take?"

"Well, for one, it takes a situation where you weren't drunk."

"I wasn't drunk," Faith protested.

"Four vodkas, at your weight? I'm surprised you could walk."

Faith's lips twitched in a smile of memory. "I nearly couldn't. He had to steady me when we were boarding the yacht."

"See?"

"So what? I was sober enough to do it. And to want it," Faith said.

Chrissy felt Faith was ratcheting up her tension again so she stood and went to the kitchenette. While she was fixing coffee, she looked back at her friend. Faith had changed out of her skin-tight leather outfit into a soft nightgown, sheer enough that Chrissy could see the night-corset that her friend slept in. Something about that was important, but it just didn't come to her right away. Faith waved off the offer of coffee but Chrissy didn't return to the couch until it was ready. Unlike Faith, she took cream and sugar in hers so the ritual of making it occupied a few more minutes. While she was doing it, Chrissy looked at a little salt-and-pepper shaker set that Faith had given her as a casual 'saw these and picked them up for you' gift. They didn't really look like spice dispensers. Most salt-and-pepper shakers sets look so much alike that you have to check the size of the holes to know which is which. But this set was a cheerful, grinning, ceramic caterpillar and a butterfly resting on a flower. She still hadn't decided which was intended to be for salt and which for pepper, but they had little holes in their heads and a plugged hole in the bottom to insert the spices.

And then it was clear, of course. Why the explanation that Faith was gay just wasn't working for Chrissy. And why Faith had picked that particular pair of figures.

"What if you're not gay," Chrissy asked Faith, "because you're not a guy?"

"What?"

Chrissy brought her coffee back to the couch. "What if you're, um, transsexual instead of gay?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Well, if you're really a woman in a man's body - or perhaps, the way you look now, a woman with a man's plumbing - then it wouldn't be gay for you to be attracted to men."

"Yeah, but, I'm not really a woman. I mean, I don't think I'm a woman in a man's body. I'm a guy, Ryan Hill. This is just a disguise."

"Is it?" Chrissy asked, but before Faith could respond she moved on. "You told me that you've dated girls. I mean, I know you've dated girls, but you, um, implied that you'd had sex with some girls. Is that true?"

"Well, yeah," Faith said.

Chrissy nodded, then sat back to sip at her coffee for a minute. She put on her lawyer face and started to address the jury.

"There are several possibilities here. First, you could be - as you said - gay. That would fit the definition if you're a male who is sexually attracted to and aroused by men."

Faith was nodding, but Chrissy moved on. "Second, you could be a woman with a man's external genitalia. You're attracted to men because, as a woman, you want to mate and have children. You said you wanted that, right? At least the, um, mating part?"

Faith nodded again, but her eyes were starting to fill with tears at the impossibility of the desire that Chrissy had described.

"Third," Chrissy continued, "you could be bisexual. Attracted to both men and women."

Faith twitched at that, but she looked thoughtful.

Instead of letting her friend get lost in that option, Chrissy said, "But there is a fourth possibility as well. You could be . . . caught up in a situation so strange your mind is grasping at anything that can make sense out of it."

Chrissy slowly looked up and down at Faith in her nightgown and corset, her face showing in arched brows and cleansed complexion a feminine look even without makeup, her hair pulled back into a neat little bun. "Look at you. An average guy has become a pretty and very feminine woman. A strong, handsome man validates that success with the one totally unmistakable sign. It makes you feel attractive and desirable, and that makes you feel so good about yourself that your emotions start to overfill. Add in that this is taking place in a highly sexual context, and those emotions spill over into arousal of your own."

She took Faith's hands in her own and forced the blonde girl to look directly at her. "Tell me the honest truth. Did you ever, tonight, feel confused?"

"Well, of course," Faith said. "It's a very confusing situation, but . . ."

"But nothing," Chrissy interrupted. "Oh, Faith, I don't doubt you were aroused, and that you really wanted to please Travis, and that you enjoyed kissing him. But 'it's a very confusing situation.'"

Chrissy sat back. "Look at it this way. Twice in your life you've transformed, like a caterpillar into a butterfly, from a very ordinary guy into a beautiful girl. Both times a strong, virile, alpha male has desired you. You ended up in a sexual situation - one where your femininity was strongly validated since neither had any clue you weren't a real girl - and performed a sexual act. In the course of that, you got aroused. You were desired for your beauty, found yourself in a sexual situation, and your body responded with some arousal of your own. That's not automatically a sign of being gay."

"Plus," she continued, "when you're not dressed as a girl, you find women attractive. And your body has responded in the one totally undeniable way that shows sexual desire for women."

Chrissy rested her case, letting the wheels turn in Faith's head without any more input. It looked like they were about to burn out anyway.

"Get some sleep," the lawyer commanded. "This is too important to make final decisions on when you're tired, emotionally maxed out . . . and still about half drunk."

Faith had become very thoughtful during Chrissy's exposition. She was still so deep in thought that she didn't protest when Chrissy made her stand up so that she could put the pillows and blankets on the couch. She even let herself be tucked in like a child before Chrissy turned out the light.

Chapter 10 - "Not That Obvious"

Things got even more complicated the next morning. Faith had, thankfully, managed to get up and get dressed before the doorbell rang. Chrissy was off to work already, so she answered the door after a quick check in the mirror to make sure she was presentable.

While she might have been hoping for Travis when she primped, she found someone else at the door: Erin Reilly.

A very angry Erin Reilly . . . which had the effect of magnifying her beauty to even more stratospheric levels. Faith was stunned for a moment - too stunned even to step back to allow the detective in.

"May I come in," Erin asked sharply.

"What? Oh, um, sure. Sorry," Faith said.

Part of what made Erin so beautiful that morning was that she was dressed casually, really letting an easy femininity out. She wore a snug little denim skirt, a v-neck t-shirt with, "Irony: The opposite of Wrinkly" on it stretched tight enough that there were definitely no wrinkles. Even her hair was let down from a tight twist into a cascading flow that glowed like the sun on dancing water.

Faith frowned when she stepped back, but it wasn't in response to Erin's frown. Instead, she was remembering the conversation she had with Chrissy the night before . . . and rediscovering a data point that conflicted with her self-assessment as gay. From the first instant she saw Erin in her doorway, Faith felt a pang of desire that ruled out exclusive interest in men.

*"Well, being gay is off the list,"* she thought. *"I guess my . . . sexuality is not so obvious after all."*

She had just finished that thought when Erin launched an attack.

"What in hell were you doing on O'Reilly's yacht last night?!"

"What?"

"You were on O'Reilly's yacht last night," Erin declared. "Don't try to deny it."

"Why would I deny it?" Faith asked in honest confusion, then she frowned, "How would you know anyway? And why do you care?"

"We know because we have that yacht under surveillance," Erin said. "And I care because I told you specifically not go get involved in trying to solve Ryan's murder."

Faith drew herself up stiffly. With her heels, she was just a bit taller than Erin and she looked down her nose with regal dignity. "Okay, first off, what I do with my life is none of your damn business. Second, I don't know O'Reilly. I wasn't there with him. And third, what I do in private is for damn sure none of your business."

"So you're telling me that the fact both Travis Gallagher and Tiny Jones work for Mick O'Reilly is just a coincidence?" Erin asked.

"I'm not trying to tell you anything," Faith said. "You came after me, remember?"

Erin snorted. "You obviously weren't surprised when I told you your boyfriend works for the O'Reilly mob."

"As it happens, I only found out when I saw the name on the yacht - which I knew to be O'Reilly's from other research. Travis hasn't mentioned it," Faith said. "But just because I'm . . . seeing someone who works for this O'Reilly guy doesn't mean . . . well, anything. We've just been on a couple of dates . . . well, one date."

"Pretty fast mover, then. One date and he's got you in bed on a fancy yacht," Erin sneered.

Faith's first response was to slap the detective. Her hand was well on its way when she managed to get it back under control. Erin stepped back sharply, but her own hand motion - toward her weapon - was arrested just as quickly.

"We didn't go to bed," Faith said softly, but she couldn't hide the guilt in her voice. "We didn't even make love, so no snide comments about not needing a bed."

At her obvious pain, Erin softened. "I'm sorry. That was unfair. As it happens, I knew you didn't go to bed. Only the lights in the salon came on, and that not for all that long, really."

She sighed, and smiled ruefully. "Maybe I'm just jealous. I'm not sure I could have said no to that much tall, dark, and handsome."

Faith smiled in return. "Actually, we had too much to drink at Shadows. He didn't think he should drive very far until he sobered up a bit. We had coffee at the yacht."

*"And I had a bit more,"* she thought to herself. Memories danced on the corners of her lips and though she didn't make eye contact with Erin, the detective saw a smile there, too.

But she didn't push. Instead, she tried a peace offering. "Look, my captain called me in this morning to read me the riot act - it's supposed to be my day off . . ."

"So that's why you look so . . . carefree," Faith said.

"Yeah, something like that," Erin said. "Anyway, he wanted to know why someone I'd had in as a consultant was involved with the O'Reilly mob. Imagine my surprise when it was you."

"I'm not sure I'd say, um, 'involved,'" Faith said, and she didn't try to hide the regret in her voice, though in the bright light of morning any relationship - any true emotional attachment - with Travis seemed like a really bad idea . . . no matter how much she might want one. "We met in an airport when I was on a solo cross-country. He signed my logbook. You can check if you want. Anyway, he asked if I'd like to go for a flight in his Baron."

Now it was Faith's turn to smile wryly. "Go ask a hundred student pilots. Find just one that says he wouldn't go for a ride in a Baron - regardless of the plumbing on the pilot - and I'll apologize for getting 'involved' with him."

"That's not what happened last night," Erin prompted.

"No," Faith admitted. "Last night was a real date." She sighed and looked down. "I like him. He's a nice guy."

"And a stud," Erin said with a laugh.

"Yeah, well, I mean, I don't really know because we didn't . . . y'know. But . . ."

"But maybe? Next time?" Erin said. It wasn't really a dig. She laughed and said, "Well, I can hardly blame you."

Then the detective put her hands on her hips and scowled fiercely at Faith. "Okay, so I am hereby officially telling you to stay away from anyone connected with the O'Reilly mob."

Faith mimicked her stance and scowl. "And I am hereby officially telling you and the department to mind your own business."

"Good enough," Erin said with a laugh. "But you'll tell my captain what I said, right?"

"Oh, sure," Faith said with her own laugh.

Erin turned to the door to go. Faith held the door for her, but didn't get out of the way immediately. "So, what were you doing in such fun clothes on your day off?"

"Actually, I was just shopping," Erin said.

"Ooh, tell me more," Faith prompted.

Erin laughed and said, "There isn't actually any 'more' to tell. I just wanted to get out of my routine for a day."

"And out of your suit," Faith observed.

"Yeah, that too."

"Anything in particular?" Faith asked.

"Does there need to be?" the detective countered.

"Of course not," Faith said. She raised an eyebrow in unspoken question. Erin thought about it for a second, then smiled. "Sure. Come along."

Faith wasn't quite sure why she asked to go along - shopping, of all things - with the pretty detective. It could be just because the other girl was so pretty, but what did that say about her own orientation? Was she really gay if she were attracted to women as well as men?

More importantly, did it matter?

She was finding out a lot about herself as part of this quest for justice - not the least of which is that she realized she was thinking of herself as feminine as naturally as if it had always been that way. But all of this was just a way to get back at Tiny Jones, right? If so, then things like her sexual orientation would wait till later, except as it furthered her objective. If need be, she knew she could be a sensuous woman, attractive to men and able to enjoy a romantic interlude . . . as far as her plumbing would allow, anyway. Yet she could also enjoy an afternoon out in the company of a pretty girl.

As another pretty girl, if that's what it took.

To her surprise, Faith had a good time. It was a bit of a shock the first time Erin followed her into a changing room and then stripped out of her own clothes without a backward glance. Faith couldn't help admiring the trim detective . . . even as she was comparing underwear and wondering if a thong felt as uncomfortable as it looked.

Which, of course, let to her needing to get some new underwear to find out.

With her corset, Faith never really undressed, but she did pick up some new thong panties in lace that would probably have been uncomfortable if her nether regions had not already been covered by a disguising prosthetic.

*"I don't care. Travis will flip when he sees these,"* she thought. Followed by, *"Did I just say, 'when' he sees them?"*

They finally parted company after several hours that made her feet hurt even worse than her bank account.

"I'm glad we got a chance to spend some time together," Erin said. "I'm sorry I came across so hard earlier."

"Forgotten already," Faith declared. "And I enjoyed it, too."

"See you around," Erin said as she got into her car.

*"Don't I wish,"* Faith thought, but she waved cheerfully. *"All afternoon together, and all it did was prove beyond a doubt that Erin is not interested in me as a girl. Unfortunately, as Ryan-the-dweeb I wouldn't have had any better chance with her."*

Like millions of young women - and young men - before her, Faith pondered on the unfairness of the world as she rode the elevator. When she got to Chrissy's door, she found a note. Dutifully going down to the super's apartment, her knock was greeted by the super's wife, Mrs. Brenner.

"My, you must have an admirer," she said.

Faith saw a huge bouquet of roses on the table, with a card. She knew she should wait until she got back to Chrissy's place to read it, but she just couldn't.

"Dear Faith," it said. "I truly enjoyed last night. I'd like to take you to a nice dinner party tomorrow night. Please let me know you'll come. You have my number. Your ardent admirer, Trav."

When she looked up, Mrs. Brenner was smiling at her benevolently. "If I were as pretty as you, young men would be sending me roses, too. Mr. Brenner used to do that . . . well, he'd pick some somewhere and bring them anyway."

"Good for you," Faith said, smiling. Peering around the array of flowers, she found her way back to Chrissy's apartment.

*"I really should move back into my old place,"* she thought. *"It's been over a month now and I haven't been Ryan even once. It's not like I'll 'slip up' if I don't have Chrissy to keep me honest."*

*"And not like I want to rush back to being Ryan anyway,"* she admitted to herself.

When Chrissy got home, Faith brought up the idea.

"I think I should move back into my old place - I mean, Ryan's old place. I set up a drawing account so the rent is paid and all."

Chrissy looked thoughtfully at her, then shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Why not?"

Chrissy sighed, and pulled her friend to the couch for another 'talk.'

"Look, Blondie, you've been out on a real date with a guy just one time, and you ended up giving him oral. What would you do if you had an apartment to invite him back to?"

"Well, I just wouldn't do that," Faith said.

"Are you sure? Are you prepared to sit there and tell me that you intended - from the time you left here last night - to get alone with him and . . . y'know?"

"Well, no, I didn't really plan it," Faith admitted. "It just happened. But I'm not sorry it did!"

"Good for you," Chrissy said easily. "But that's the point. You got carried away. You got a little drunk, and got into a romantic situation, and you got swept along with the moment. That's not a bad thing . . . unless you can't afford to go too far."

"Well, it's not like we're making real commitments to each other," Faith said. "I mean, I'm not expecting to get married or anything."

"Are you listening to yourself, girl? You sound like you've forgotten what would happen if he truly does get you into bed."

"Well, it’s not like I'm going to get pregnant or . . . ohmigod!"

Chrissy sighed. "You're losing it, girl. You're forgetting who you really are . . . or maybe I should say you're forgetting who you were, and what your body really says you are."

Faith's expression had collapsed when she realized she had been lost in a fantasy. She held her face in her hands and started to sob, then tried to stand up without letting her hands drop. With her spindly heels she just wasn't stable enough to do that quickly, and before she could really move Chrissy had a hold on her.

"Calm down, Faith. It's okay. It's easy to get caught up in the part. Too easy, I guess. That just means you need to be even more careful than . . . than a, um, genetic girl would."

"Oh, god, Chrissy, I am so stupid," Faith moaned.

"No, girl, you're just really attractive for the first time in your life and you lost it a little."

Chrissy moved Faith back to the couch. "Look, Faith, analyze this like one of your patterns. What would happen if you took an average guy and suddenly made him famous and desirable? What would he do if, under it all, he thought he might have to go back to being average?"

"But I *do* have to go back," Faith sobbed.

"Not necessarily," Chrissy said. "You wouldn't be the first person to . . . become someone new. But answer my question. What would be the typical pattern for such a person?"

Faith sighed, and shrugged. "That's not really a mathematical analysis. But I know what you mean anyway. They'd go into denial about the real situation and try to live in the fantasy."

"Just don't get lost in there," Chrissy cautioned.

"Oh, Chrissy, what do I do? He's asked me to a fancy dinner party tomorrow night."

Chrissy sat back, then nodded. "Well, if it's a formal affair, then you actually should be safer than another night in a nightclub. Just don't let him get you alone."

Faith blushed, but memories flickered in her eyes and on her lips and Chrissy laughed. "Okay, so don't let him get you into bed. If you really liked it that much . . ?"

Faith nodded. "I'm really messed up, I suppose, but I did like it."

"Good for you," Chrissy said again. Then she giggled. "Now we have to decide what you're gonna wear."

In the end, Faith chose a classic little black dress. Not simple, but it was black, and very little. Travis was definitely going to get a chance to see her legs. On top of the towering sandals - held on with little more than spider webs and rhinestones - her legs seemed to go on forever. Just to be different, she wore her corset on the outside of her dress, accenting her abundant curves with more spider webs of silvery lace. Trendy, but classy. Hopefully it was classy, anyway.




Topping it all off - literally - was a new hairstyle and professionally done makeup. Chrissy had talked her into a day at a salon and Faith's only conscience-comforting stipulation had been that Chrissy had to go, too. The larger woman would never be glamorous, let along beautiful, but a day of pampering had made her feel better about herself . . . which let Faith feel better about the idea that she was getting the same treatments. The only problem was that Faith's new hairstyle was artfully layered and it would be a long time before she could return to a gender-neutral look even with a low ponytail corralling the main tumble.

Well, to be honest, that wasn't the only problem. The biggest problem was how much she enjoyed it all. She already knew she enjoyed being noticeably attractive instead of invisibly drab. She was learning that she enjoyed being sensuous and vivacious instead of intellectual and . . . drab. She enjoyed taking the time to look really, really nice because the results were really, really worth it.

She was trying very hard not to spiral into a dither about all those realizations when the doorbell rang. True to the roommate's (and mother's) code, she stayed in the bedroom while Chrissy answered the door. Only when she could make a definite entrance did she reveal herself to her date, sweeping into the room with a pert little twirl that definitely showed off her legs.

The results were just a bit over the top . . . which was just perfect. Travis stared for a long, delicious moment before he managed to gather up his tongue and loose eyeballs and force an 'I'm a pilot and I'm cool' expression back onto his face. As a special treat, his voice broke when he tried to speak and he had to try again.

"You look . . . good," he finally managed to get out.

Faith said, "Thank you." Ironically, the smoky dark pantyhose and long sleeves on her dress left no more of her actual skin exposed than her leather outfit. Practically, that didn't matter. Her pantyhose - the dress was definitely too short for stockings - were sheer enough that any imperfections in her legs would have been all too obvious.

"So do you," she added. Travis had on a sport coat and slacks, but it was a large step down from Faith's elegance.

Behind her date's shoulder Chrissy was mouthing kissy faces, but Faith couldn't send her the appropriate frown. Instead, Faith turned away to spend a minute fussing with the things in her too-tiny bag. This distracted Travis from her appearance just enough that he could pull himself together with a visible shake.

"Oh," he said, "I forgot to tell you. You need to pack an overnight bag."

"What?" Faith said. "Look, Travis, I told you that I'm not . . ."

"No, that's not it," he promised. "It's just that we're going on the boss's yacht this evening, and we'll fly back tomorrow on the Gulfstream."

"What?" she repeated. "Gulfstream?"

Her interest in the plane put him back on more familiar ground. He was the pilot on one of the coolest civilian planes in the world, and she was impressed.

"Ah, my precious gem, you truly are a pilot. The idea of a night on a yacht doesn't impress you, but a flight on a Gulfstream does."

"I still don't understand what you're talking about," Faith said tartly. "And you can't buy me with a flight in a Gulfstream any more than with dinner alone."

Chrissy laughed and made herself part of their private world again. "Hell, he could have me for either."

"What?" they said in unison. That was enough to make them both laugh, which is what Chrissy had been after. It also gave Travis a chance to set the record straight.

"Look, the boss was planning on having a dinner party at his place tonight, and when I asked if I could bring a date . . . well, you have to know him to get this, but he responded with, 'I don't know. Can you?'"

He moved smoothly over to put his arm around Faith's tight little waist. "Who could resist a challenge like that? Of course, it would have to be someone special, so I'm very glad I met you."

Faith blushed, and he used that distraction to continue. "At the last minute - he's the boss so he can do that - he decided to have the dinner party on his yacht while cruising down to Hilton Head. I've already taken the Gulfstream down there for the trip back tomorrow. Anyway, the yacht has lots of staterooms and, oh, things like swimsuits and towels and whatever. You just need something to sleep in - assuming you wear anything to bed - and something for the flight home tomorrow . . . unless you want to wear what you have on, which *I* think would be great but you might like a choice."

"Wow," Faith said. "You don't waste any time, do you?"

"Not if I can help it," he said blandly.

Her frown of concentration could be explained by her surprise at the rapid escalation of their relationship. Even if Travis claimed that he didn't expect to sleep with her on the yacht, there was an implication that they were 'together' and for the make-their-own-rules men of organized crime, that really only had one meaning. But there was the counterbalancing consideration that this was her chance to meet O'Reilly. She couldn't really turn it down, not the least of which was that Travis had made it clear this was now a point of honor with him. If she *did* turn him down, she'd probably never hear from him again.

"I don't like being pressured," she said, letting her voice get a bit tight. But then she relaxed and sighed. With a little-girl grin that would charm the scales off a snake, she said, "But I'd really, really like to fly in a Gulfstream."

Slipping out from under his arm, she said, "Give me a minute." Then she disappeared into the bedroom.

While she was in the other room gathering up a few essentials, she heard Chrissy's voice enter lawyer mode.

"Let me get this straight. You're taking my friend on a boat, cruising down the coast, and the only person she'll know is you, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Travis agreed.

"So when you get fresh - and don't try to tell me you won't - what's she supposed to do? Girls keep taxi money in their purses for a reason. But that won't help if you're out at sea."

"I wouldn’t do that!" Travis protested.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Chrissy taunted. "Tell me you won't try to get her into bed on this trip. See if you can look me in the eye when you do."

"I didn't say that," Travis said, dropping his voice so that Faith might not overhear. It didn't work because she had stopped what she was doing to listen. "I'd love to . . . take things further with Faith. But I would never force her."

Then, despite the tension with Chrissy, he laughed. "Besides, I'm the captain! I'll be on duty all friggin' night. Probably more, because we probably won't get to Hilton Head until nearly noon tomorrow. Then I'll be getting the Gulfstream ready."

He sighed. "Don't get me wrong. I won't always be at the wheel. The Innisfree has a good crew and I trust them. But I will be on duty as long as we're underway so while we'll get to spend some time together, it won't be . . . intimate time."

With that assurance, heard through the doorway, Faith finished gathering up some clothes. Her 'overnight' bag was a fair-sized rollaboard, but she needed more than just a nightgown and a change of underwear.

*"Oh, god, what am I gonna wear on a Gulfstream?"*

She pulled out a summer-weight wool, cream-colored suit, adding a plunging black blouse for dramatic accent. And to keep it from looking too much like a flight attendant outfit.

*"Black heels or cream? Let's see, which have higher heels . . ? Ohmigod, what if everyone else is wearing jeans?!"*

She scrambled to find some jeans, and that meant another blouse because the black silk was way too formal for jeans. *"Travis has already seen my yoked cowgirl shirt, what else do I have . . .?"*

She found a dark-red - almost black - sweater, and when she realized she couldn't fit her boots into the small suitcase, she decided she'd take her black heels even though - or maybe because - they had significantly higher heels. They'd work okay with jeans and she couldn't wear her dressy rhinestone sandals.

*"No rhinestones with denim, unless we're in Nashville,"* she thought with a little silent giggle.

A tumble of cosmetics and cleansers filled one side of the bag, then a frantic scan around the room for what she had inevitably left didn't find anything, but that didn't ease her mind. *"I guess I'll be finding out just how complete the amenities are on this yacht."* she thought.

Travis wasn't quite tapping his foot when she returned, but it was close.

"Don't even start," Faith said - before he even had a chance to start anything. "If you'd have given me a little notice, I'd have been ready."

"Okay, okay," he said. "My fault entirely. But we really are running late . . ."

"Right. I'm ready now," she said. Of course she wasn't, but it only took a moment to tie her everyday purse to the outside of her bag - it was much too full to put anything else inside - and then she nodded.

When they got down to the street, a gleaming limousine idled silently in place of the Viper she expected.

"Company car," Travis explained as he helped her inside. "Boss wants to save the spaces at the dock for guests."

"Maybe I should have worn my leather pants," Faith teased as she slid across the smooth, rich leather. Reflexes trained in through many sessions with Jessica kept her fingers tugging on the abbreviated hem of her skirt as she moved so that nothing showed. Much.

*"I’m going to have to stand all evening,"* she decided. *"Unless I can find a table with enough of a drape to protect me from anyone sitting opposite."*

She was distracted enough by the rush and worry about whether she had the right clothes that the trip to the dock went very quickly. When they pulled up, Innisfree was brightly lit and there seemed to be dozens of people already aboard.

"Oh, Trav, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't get you in trouble."

"Nothing I can't handle," he said easily, but his frown told a different story. He tried to hide it from her with a smile that didn't really work.

Any concerns vanished the moment they stepped on board.

"Travis!" A voice boomed out. "I was afraid we'd have to leave without you."

"Sorry, Boss," Travis said penitently. Looking at the man he said, "This is Faith Torr, and Faith, this is the boss: Mr. O'Reilly."

Faith decided she needed to support her date. Stepping forward, she said, "I'm sorry, Mr. O'Reilly. It was all my fault. I wasn't ready."

O'Reilly was a beefy man - not really fat, but not all muscle, either. What hair he still had was pretty thin, and the color was too washed out to tell what it was originally, but Faith would have bet on red. He had the florid complexion and snub-nosed roundness of what were clearly Irish ancestors.

And he had a big smile when he looked at Faith.

"Well, little lady, I can't really blame Travis for that, now, can I?" he said. "It's a lady's prerogative to keep her man waiting a little, and for you I can only say it was worth it."

"Why, thank you, Mr. O'Reilly."

"Mick, please. Call me Mick," he said, taking her arm and escorting her into the lounge.

When she turned around to look for Travis, she saw that he had handed his sportcoat to a steward to reveal an honest-to-goodness captain's uniform shirt, complete with little shoulderboards showing four gold stripes. He was also rapidly climbing a set of steps up to what she assumed must be the bridge.

*"Well,"* she thought. *"This is what my little charade is all about. I've finally met Tiny Jones' boss."*

Chapter 11 - "Vermillion and Mauve"

When Travis left her with O'Reilly, Faith had been afraid that the mob boss would immediately start taking advantage of his power. One option would be to intimidate her with how nonchalantly he could hurt her and get away with it. Another option would be to offer the carrot without the stick; to suggest that if she were 'nice' to him that he would be 'very nice' to her. In either case, it would be part of trying to get her into bed.

Instead, he went into the kindly uncle routine. This might have been because in her heels Faith was several inches taller than O'Reilly. Something would have seemed . . . comical if O'Reilly tried to imply a sexual man-woman relationship with someone taller than himself. Or at least, that's what Faith told herself when all he did was take her arm, escort her around the lounge for introductions, and get her a drink. (Faith chose a meaningless white zinfandel - no more vodka for her.)

She focused on looking - on being - 'trendy but classy' among the strange attendees at the party. Some, like O'Reilly, were typical businessmen - successful and proud to let you know it. Some were thugs, direct from central casting with broken noses and growly voices. In a 'normal' cocktail party the thugs would have been replaced with junior executives brown-nosing for advancement so it was clear this was a mob gathering, but no one seemed to mind.

The female contingent was even more dissonant. Some were very classy middle-aged women who used their wealth to stave off aging without quite denying it. They dressed well, looked good doing it, and knew it. Then there was the other group of women. They were younger and aggressively sensual. They were on the hunt - or wanted to be hunted. Faith was surprised that the more mature women tolerated them, but after a little while she realized they were treated like the thugs - servants and, well, you just can't expect good behavior from servants, now can you?

Faith liked to think that she wasn't quite as blatant as the younger women, but she had to admit she was a step down from the rich ones. Thankfully, she was not quite alone. As soon as O'Reilly turned her loose to mingle, she found another young, but not (at least to her tastes) cheap woman who also looked to be alone. She was as pretty as any, but unlike Erin Reilly, she didn't trigger an immediate pang of lust in Faith. After a moment, she realized that was because this girl was too petite, too cute, too much like a little sister. Faith noticed was that her figure seemed to be natural. Unlike some of the other younger women, she didn't pose and preen and flaunt her bounty . . . and admittedly there wasn't as much bounty to flaunt. Her makeup - while dramatic for an evening party - was more tasteful than . . .

*"I think that's it,"* Faith decided. *"She has taste. I fact, I may need to get my Heather Fox wig restyled."*

The girl had richly thick auburn hair, almost too dark to see the red until it caught a highlight from a brighter light. She was slender rather than voluptuous, but she carried herself with a graceful poise that spoke of real physical fitness rather than just obsessive dieting. When she turned around as Faith approached, her face was girl-next-door fresh and while her makeup didn't allow freckles to show, Faith was sure there were some under the cosmetics. Her only limitation, if it was one, was that she was fairly short. Faith estimated her at 5'1" or 5'2" without her heels.

"Hello," Faith said, walking up to her. "I'm Faith Torr."

"Hello," the young woman replied. "I'm Brigit O'Reilly."

"Ah," Faith said. "A light dawns."

Brigit smiled even as she winced. "I get that a lot at these things."

"Oh, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. At least you were perceptive enough to see I'm not like, um, some of the other girls here."

"No," Faith agreed. "However, I am a bit confused. I guess I came over here because you don't seem to, um, to fit with most of the other guests."

"Do you know what my father does?" Brigit asked.

"Not really," Faith said. "I mean, he looks like a businessman and Travis respects him. I mean, other than being his boss."

"Yes, a lot of people respect my father," Brigit said. "Well, if you don't know, then I'm not the one to tell you. Unless . . .?"

Faith arched an eyebrow for her to continue.

"Can you guess?" Brigit asked with a grin. "If you guess, I'll tell you if you're right."

Faith looked around the room, then snickered and looked back. "I'll make you a deal. If you can guess what *I* do for a living, then I'll guess about your father."

"Whoa," Brigit replied, but she smiled at the contest. There wasn't really any way she could tell what Faith did so she started making outlandish guesses just for fun. That evolved into equally outlandish guesses about the other party guests, with Faith carefully *not* guessing the real profession of O'Reilly and consorts.

"I might have known," a voice said, interrupting their little game.

Faith and Brigit turned to see Travis Gallagher approaching.

"Known what?" she asked, smiling in response to the smile he wore.

"That the two most beautiful girls within miles would find each other," he said.

Brigit smiled and said, "Trav, you've got to stop flirting with me when you have another date."

"Why?" he said innocently. "Three's company and all that."

He winked at Faith, then grabbed Brigit and bent her backward as though he were going to deliver a Times-Square kiss. "Oh, Sheena, come away with me and we'll make beautiful babies together."

Brigit dryly replied, "My name is Brigit."

Travis let his eyes open wide, then he frowned. "Well, in that case . . ."

He didn't drop her to the carpet, but he did let her slip just a little. Then he hauled her back to her feet and stepped back. "I knew there was something wrong," he said ruefully.

Brigit laughed and looked at Faith. "I should have known as well," she said. "Travis is the only one on this tub with class enough to bring someone like you to the party . . . plus young enough to bring someone our age."

"Thanks, I think," Faith said, but her eyes twinkled. "I take it you two have known each other for some time?"

"Yes," Brigit said. "I had a total crush on him when I was sixteen. Made a fool of myself, in fact. He was quite gentle and so I forgave him for breaking my heart."

"One in a long line, I'm sure," Faith said archly. "Of hearts he has broken, I mean."

"Oh, definitely," Brigit said.

"I think you two are ganging up on me," Travis said. "I just came down to check on the guests and confirm our ETA with the boss. Thankfully Innisfree has enough legs to make up for my . . . tardiness."

He looked at Faith when he said it, but he winked again. Apparently, being forgiven by the boss cancelled out all faults.

He checked his watch and added, "Besides, it's about time for the races."

"Races?" Faith repeated.

Brigit smiled, "Oh, Daddy loves to watch the horse races. Innisfree has a satellite link."

"Oh, that could be interesting," Faith said politely.

"It is the way he does it," Brigit said. "Betting is not quite mandatory, but *all* good party people bet. You're a good party person, aren't you?"

"I guess so," Faith said. She followed the others back into the lounge where three big-screen TVs were showing race venues. Apparently it was time for west coast tracks to run their race cards.

Faith was amused - secretly - to find that she had analyzed several of the races that were going to be run at the tracks being displayed. It wasn't really that much of a coincidence. In fact, her pattern algorithms were more effective with more data so she had set up some automatic updates . . . well, Ryan had anyway. It wasn't even a coincidence that she had checked on the predictions. That was more of a habit. In any event, she felt she could beat the normal odds.

*"Oh,"* she suddenly thought, *"this is my chance to drop my keywords and get Tiny Jones . . . taken care of."*

It wasn't the approach she had scripted out in her mind. That was based on 'overheard' comments at dinner or something. But she should be able to work something in when the conversation was *already* about horse racing.

O'Reilly - the boss, not the daughter - greeted them with too much voice for the space, but he obviously felt he should be the center of attention. "C'mon over here, my little leprechaun, and bring your friend."

Brigit winced, and pouted. "Daddy, you know I don't like it when you call me that."

"I know," he said unrepentantly. "But you're just so petite, and so much . . . trouble."

She sighed with a long-suffering resignation, but her eyes were dancing.

O'Reilly turned his attention to Faith. "So, has my daughter been telling all the usual lies about me?"

"I don't think so," Faith said, looking artificially thoughtful with a finger to the side of her cheek. "None of the things she's been telling me have been 'usual' at all."

For just a second O'Reilly's eyes clouded with something darker than his normal expansive cheer. But he hid it almost instantly, looking at his daughter.

"We've been guessing what everyone does for a living," Brigit supplied. "The current favorite is that you're a third-world dictator who absconded with truckloads of money and your own private army."

"Ah, you got me," he said easily. "Was it the bone in my nose that gave me away?"

"It helped," Faith said with a polite little chuckle.

O'Reilly, since his attention was on Faith, asked, "And what did you two come up with for *your* profession?"

"No fair," Faith countered, smiling innocently. "You have to make your own guess."

For just an instant his eyes hardened again, but then he looked at his daughter and, seeing the bright lights in her eyes, his softened. "Okay. I'll make my guess, but not until I hear what they guessed."

"I think she's an author," Brigit supplied. "For children's books, that she illustrates herself. With a talking butterfly as the main character."

"Silly," Faith said. "Butterflies don't talk. They communicate by changing the pattern of colors in their wings."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Brigit said, not quite hiding a giggle.

"Trav?" O'Reilly asked.

"She's a pilot," Travis said quickly. "I already told you that. Did you know that when I invited her to come with us tonight, she was more interested in the chance to fly in a Gulfstream tomorrow than in cruising on a luxurious yacht? True pilot in her soul."

"That's too easy," O'Reilly said. "Besides, you already told me that."

He took a moment to look carefully at Faith. It wasn't a lecherous appraisal, though he did consider her figure. After a moment, he said, "Lawyer."

"No," Faith said, "but that's a really good guess. My roommate and best friend from college is a lawyer. Maybe some of it has rubbed off on me."

"Ah, that must be it," O'Reilly said, but though he was still smiling, he was obviously tiring of the game.

Faith had been thinking about how to work in the attack on Tiny Jones that she wanted, and had finally decided that using the same story she had given Erin Reilly was probably the best. It was close enough to the truth that she could sell the lies, and there was always the possibility that O'Reilly had someone in the police department who would reveal Faith's (claimed) background.

"Actually," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper that was nonetheless loud enough for all three of the others to hear, "I'm a mathematical analyst. Don't tell Travis though. I think he likes women to be just a bit . . . bimbo. Don't you?"

O'Reilly looked sharply at her when she claimed an intellectual profession. After a second, he laughed and responded to the other part of her statement. "Don't I like bimbos? Or don't I agree that Travis does?"

"Yes," she said with a look of wide-eyed wonder that made her apparent intelligence drop by 20 points.

O'Reilly laughed and put his arm around her. Looking at Travis he said, "I like her, Trav. But you better watch out. She'll have your job soon."

"Oh, no, Mr. O'Reilly," Faith said, still wide-eyed. "I couldn't possibly run this huge ship and a Challenger too."

"Gulfstream," Travis said instantly, then blushed when Faith smirked at him. "Okay, you got me."

Brigit was confused, and though O'Reilly's face didn't show confusion, it did show a bit of irritation. So Travis explained, "The Challenger is another bizjet, not nearly as nice as a Gulfstream, but probably as close as any other jet is to being a competitor. Faith was just teasing."

"Ah," O'Reilly said. He looked sharply at Faith again and repeated, "Mathematical analyst, you say? I'm inclined to believe you."

Any further conversation was interrupted by a burst of sound from one of the TVs as the announcer went into his call of a race. That drew their attention back to what was supposed to be the main entertainment for the evening.

O'Reilly returned to his expansive host mode and waved them toward the TVs. "Hank over there will take your bets. Ms. . . ?"

He obviously had forgotten her name, but Faith smiled and said, "Faith will do fine, Mr. O'Reilly."

"Only if you call me, 'Mick,'" he countered, but it was an automatic reflex. Nonetheless he was smiling and, after delivering her to the man taking bets, he moved off to others of his guests.

Faith stalled through a couple of races, using the time to get explanations of how the odds were displayed, what that meant, what the bets meant, and other mundane matters that she absorbed with wide-eyed wonder. Then, seemingly at random, she made three quick $100 bets to win.

"You might want to reconsider that," Travis said, swinging through on a periodic 'good-host' visit. True to his comment, they had been able to spend some time together but he was far too busy for any 'intimate' time. "Those are pretty good bets, on fairly long-odds horses. Are you sure you don't want at least to make 'place' or 'show' bets? They explained about those, right?"

"Oh, they explained," Faith confirmed. "But the odds are much better with 'win' bets."

"Well, yes, but your horse does have to win," he said, smiling.

Of course, he didn't know that those were the only bets she was going to place with the onboard bookie. Her analysis predicted odds of 3:1 against her horses, but the payoff odds were between 6:1 and 9:1, which meant if she won even one bet, she'd do well.

Faith lost the first one, which gave her a nice reason to be sad and elicit some sympathy from her new friends. Brigit was making much smaller bets, which was a positive as far as Faith was concerned. She was beginning to like the mobster's daughter, in large part because she didn't *act* like a mobster's daughter. There was an innocence about her, without being naďve. She seemed to know and accept what her father did - her little guessing game showed that. But she didn't act like an imperious princess. She could have made any bets she wanted, knowing that her 'Daddy' would cover them. Instead, she bet carefully and with a reasonable analysis.

So of course Faith did just the opposite. When the second race she had bet on was run - and she won - she squealed like a teen-age girl at a rock concert, jumping around and hugging anyone within reach.

"I take it you won?" O'Reilly said, walking over and smiling benevolently.

"Oh, yes, Mr. O'Reilly, I did!" she said enthusiastically - giving the mob boss a hug as well.

"Congratulations," he said. Looking at the onboard bookmaker he said, "What was her bet?"

"A 'C' note on the nose for Gemstone in the third at Santa Ana," the bookmaker supported.

"Hmm," O'Reilly said. "That's a proud bet for someone new to this."

"Oh, well, I just . . . felt like it," Faith said. "You see, the colors for that rider were red and gray and I've always liked that combination."

O'Reilly looked sharply at her, then shrugged.

"Well, good luck on your other bets," he said.

A while later, she won her remaining bet, doing better than her one-chance-in-three prediction. Faith squealed again, even louder, which was explainable by the even longer odds that her horse had returned.

O'Reilly came back to her sound, accompanied by Brigit who was smiling at her new friend's enthusiasm.

"Another red and gray?" he asked indulgently.

"Oh, no, Mr. O'Reilly. There weren't any riders with those colors in this race. This time, well, I just liked the horse's name: Integral."

Travis had been orbiting about his boss most of the evening just in case he was wanted, so he overheard their discussion. "But, wasn't the Number 4 horse wearing red and gray?"

"What?" Faith said in confusion. "Oh, no, not at all. Those were clearly vermillion and mauve. I mean, really."

"I see," O'Reilly said. Once again his eyes took on a sharper inspection, but he shook his head after a moment and just smiled again at the bouncy blonde.

An idea clearly came to him as he was turning away. "Oh, Miss, ah, Faith, if you really like betting on the ponies, I know some people who would be glad to take your bets even after you're back in Virginia."

"Thank you, Mr. O'Reilly, but I couldn't do that," she said.

"It's no trouble, really," he offered again.

*"Well, this is it. Let's hope I get this out in a way that he'll buy."*

"I'm sorry, Mr. O'Reilly, really. But a friend of mine heard some . . . things about those off track bookies."

"Really?" O'Reilly said, now looking more sharply than ever. "What have you heard?"

"Well, they're just rumors and I hate to be a gossip . . ."

"I insist," he said, and while his voice was gentle his eyes were not.

Faith sighed as though she were still uncomfortable, but wanted to be polite to her host. She put a finger to her cheek again as she thought carefully - not quite putting a bimbo vacancy into her eyes. "Well, I guess it's not really the bookies that I heard about. My friend didn't seem to have any trouble with them. I don't understand the organization of off-track betting, but the issue seemed to be with someone - or maybe more than one person - further up the line."

O'Reilly stood with seeming patience, but the hard look in his eyes never wavered.

"I guess the bookie my friend knew must have a couple of people further up, because I heard a couple of comments that must be about different people. Once, when he had won a pretty good bet, he said that he couldn't get paid until - what did he say, exactly? - 'that big mother, um . . . f'er, approved it.' Except he didn't, y'know, say 'f'er.' Another time the bookie needed to get some money from a guy named Tiny before he could pay. That has to be two people, right?"

"Probably," O'Reilly said noncommittally.

"Well, the last time I talked to my friend, he said he had made a pretty big bet, and had won, but was afraid whomever his bookie worked for was going to welsh on the bet. I'm sorry, Mr. O'Reilly. Like I said, it's all just second hand rumors and things. I'm sure I must have misunderstood something. I'm sure anyone you told me about would be fine. It's just . . . I mean, this was fun, but . . . it's not really mathematical analysis, is it? I think I'll stick with what I know."

"Probably a good idea," Mr. O'Reilly agreed. He had one last question. "Who is this friend who told you about making bets?"

"Oh, his name is Ryan Hill," Faith supplied. "But I haven't seen him for a while."

"No, I don't suppose you have," he murmured, not really paying attention to what he said. He didn't show that the name meant anything to him in the obvious ways - a twitch or frown or widened eyes. But his distraction said much the same thing. Then he realized he might have implied something so he tried to cover it up with more questions. "How well do you know this, ah, Hill?"

"We grew up together," Faith said. "On the same block. He's not like my boyfriend or anything . . ." She let O'Reilly see her eyes flick toward Travis for just a second. "But sometimes when I'm in this part of the country I stay in his apartment. We laughed that he would be getting a reputation if I did it too often. But he's out of town or something right now. I haven't seen him in like, months. I'm staying with a girl friend instead."

O'Reilly nodded, then gathered his thoughts and put a smile on his face that still didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad you won, today. I can assure you that you can trust the off-track bookies that are working for . . . whose names I might give you. Do you happen to know what bet this Hill friend of yours was expecting to get paid, and when?"

Faith made sure to pout in concentration for a moment before supplying the data. O'Reilly nodded and smiled, but only a thin thing that never got further than his mouth. He turned away without a word, his brow furrowed in concentration.

*"Well, I took my shot,"* she thought. *"Now we need to see what happens."*

That bit of conversation had been too tense for a light-hearted party and though Faith had collected over $2000 from her $300 in bets, she had a reasonably good excuse not to bet any more. It was soon time for dinner anyway, served al fresco on an upper deck. Faith didn't know whether Brigit had pulled some strings, but she, Travis, and Faith were seated adjacent to each other, with barely literate thugs on either side. Like the others in the 'sophisticated' contingent of the party, they basically ignored the thugs . . . though both of them spent a fair amount of time watching Faith. She even caught some surreptitious glances at Brigit, but Faith figured too much attention to her - at least of the wrong sort - would be . . . career limiting. Apparently Travis was not quite as intimidating.

Now that Faith had delivered her sabotage of Tiny Jones, she didn't really know what to do with herself. She still didn't have the money from Ryan's bet, which had been one of her objectives, but if she could get off the Innisfree that very moment, she'd have done so. With Chrissy's help, she could activate a third identity and leave Faith Torr behind as well.

*"Maybe I could be Heather for a while,"* she mused. *"Now that I know I can be genuinely aroused by men - and enjoy what I can do for them, even if it's not everything - well, that girl would have no trouble catching men. Even if it's catch-and-release."*

On the other hand, Travis was a really nice guy . . . and he made her hot. Maybe she could use the Faith identify for just a little while longer.

Then things got complicated. More complicated.

After dinner people had been standing around, drinking and talking. At least, most of them. O'Reilly and some of his key lieutenants had vanished after the meal, leaving the rest to fend for themselves. There must have been some ship's business as well, or else Travis was more involved with the top mobsters than Faith thought, because he was gone, too. She was just enjoying the quiet night, watching the waves tumble in the moonlight and trying to invent meanings for the lights on the distant shore. Then Brigit came up to stand with her.

"So, you and Travis?" the darker-haired girl asked gently.

"Just friends," Faith said, smiling.

"Good friends?"

"More . . . new friends," Faith said. "We've only had one real date, plus . . . well, this of course. And he took me flying in his plane once."

Brigit nodded. "The reason I asked is I'm getting ready to go to bed and I wanted to know where you want to sleep."

"Meaning, do I want to go to Travis's room? No. Not yet."

"Fair enough," Brigit said. "So, we'll go with Plan B. I prefer Plan B anyway."

She took Faith's hand and led her below decks to a stateroom that was way beyond lavish in its furnishings. Central to the room was a huge bed.

"We'll share tonight," Brigit said easily. "I like sleepovers and I don't get many."

*"Uh, oh. Whatever I thought O'Reilly might do to Tiny Jones is *nothing* compared to what he'll do to me if he finds out I slept with his daughter."*

But there wasn't really anything Faith could do. Brigit flipped open some closets to show enormous arrays of clothes, many of which were filmy and sheer. "Tall as you are, none of my daytime clothes will really fit you, but a babydoll is supposed to be short."

"I, um, have a nightgown," Faith said. "And, um . . . it's not a, um, good time for me right now. I think I should wear my own things."

"Oh, god, ain't that the pits?" Brigit commiserated, then she giggled. "Another reason for you not to be in Travis's bed tonight. Or is that the only reason?"

Faith just blushed - an honest blush though not for the reason Brigit assumed. The shorter girl giggled again, then grabbed something from a drawer and headed into the bathroom. Faith carefully took her time getting out of her corset and picking out her nightgown. She was - apparently by coincidence - holding it in front of herself when Brigit breezed out of the head and slipped under the covers. Faith quickly took her place, taking her own toiletries kit in with her.

*"Good thing I couldn't grow a beard if someone paid me a million dollars,"* she thought as she cleansed her face. Under Jessica's direction, she had submitted to several laser treatments anyway and there wasn't even a light down on her cheeks. The only real problem was that her prosthetics, while good enough for even a moderately close visual inspection, didn't *feel* like real flesh. She wasn't sure what would happen if Brigit decided this sleepover was going to include a tickle fight or something.

When she was ready, she went back into the main part of the stateroom . . . to find that Brigit had turned the lights down and was waiting for her with a smile.

Just a smile.

Chapter 12 - "You've Done That Before"

Faith stopped at the doorway, looking at her nude hostess in surprise. But part of her couldn't help being interested and she knew that was showing in her eyes, too. Maybe part of that was the quick lick of her own lips at the sight. Probably.

"Why don't you think *I* invited a date along tonight?" Brigit asked.

"What?" Faith said, not quite caught up to the situation yet.

Brigit giggled in pleasure. "Daddy pretends not to know where my interests lie so I can't just bring a date . . . of my own, anyway."

That implied something that Faith really didn't like. "Are you telling me that Travis brought me just . . . for you?"

"Oh, hell no," Brigit said, laughing again. "He's so straight - at least with women - that he actually believes I like to have 'slumber parties' with girls on this tub. I'm sure he has fantasies about what girls do in slumber parties - men are such predictable pigs - but he doesn't really think that's what happens."

"I thought you had a crush on him."

"Oh, I did," Brigit confirmed. "But I've never been exclusive. Have you?"

If Faith had been more prepared for this situation she . . . well, she wouldn't have come in the first place. But her mind was still several laps back so she wasn't ready to conceal her response to that question. As was often the case for Faith, her blush was misinterpreted. But as was also often the case, that just made her story seem more real.

"Yes, you have!" Brigit squealed with delight. "Come over here and we'll compare techniques."

*"Uh, oh. That could be a real problem."*

"Um, I'm sorry, Brigit. It really is a bad time for me," Faith said. To her surprise, she saw a hard look come into Brigit's eyes. The smaller girl had seemed genuinely innocent of what her father did. It was clear that she knew about it and wasn't too proud to accept the wealth that went with it, but she hadn't used a reflection of her father's power all evening. Until now. That hard look showed that she knew she could force Faith to do whatever she wanted - one way or another.

Faith forestalled any direct confrontation by moving toward the oversized bed. When she reached it, she took Brigit's hand and lightly kissed, and then licked at the smaller girl's fingers. "But my lips still work."

Brigit smiled and pulled Faith into the bed. Her fingers started to pull off Faith's nightgown - a sleek, floor-length shimmer of dark blue - when she found it wasn't all that Faith was wearing.

"Are you still wearing a corset?" she gasped in surprise. "I thought that was just part of your outfit."

"I sleep in a night corset," Faith said. "It keeps me from losing the progress I've made."

"Progress?" Brigit repeated as her fingers traced the edge of the satin material of the waist constraint.

"I'm not a delicate flower like you, Gorgeous," Faith said. "I need help with my figure. This is part of that."

Brigit's fingers had found both the top and the bottom of the corset in her explorations. "A bra? A padded bra?" she said. "At night? Geez, you are a prude."

"Not entirely," Faith claimed, leaning in for a kiss. "Besides, I told you this is a bad time for me. I'm . . . sensitive. Besides, that's not so much a 'padded' bra as just . . . y'know, cushioned. Even this gown feels like sandpaper if I let anything rub. Isn't it that way for you?"

"Not really," Brigit said. She was frowning, but it wasn't the hard look that indicated a willingness to take advantage of her father's power. It was more sympathetic, at least. Her fingers touched lightly at the pad that covered the place between Faith's legs.

*"Thank god I put one of those on,"* Faith thought. *"And thank you Jessica for the million and twelfth time for all your insights."*

Faith intercepted Brigit's probing fingers and kissed them again. "I hate tampons," she claimed. "And I didn't want to take the chance of spotting on your fancy sheets. Sorry."

"It's okay," Brigit said, though she was clearly disappointed.

Faith decided she needed to work on that.

Some time later, she decided that Brigit was no longer disappointed. When her unplanned - at least on Faith's side - bedmate had caught enough of her breath to gasp out a few words, she said, "You've done that before."

Even in the dim lighting Brigit could see a charming combination of smug smile and embarrassed blush on Faith's face. Since Faith could feel the heat in her own cheeks, she didn't bother to comment. Instead, she just snuggled Brigit under her arm and planted sweet little kisses on the top of the shorter girl's head.

Brigit sighed. "I feel bad that we didn't . . . that you didn't . . . y'know."

"Don't," Faith said. "If there is anything to feel bad about, it's the fact Eve's curse still carries down through the ages. I'll be glad to let you make it up to me at another time."

She punctuated that last statement with a naughty little pinch at one of Brigit's still turgid nipples. The smaller girl flinched, then giggled. "Okay, so I know about being too sensitive, too."

The smaller girl's face took on a serious expression. "Okay, Faith, I know you're a lot smarter than you've been pretending. Tell me seriously, have you figured out what my father does?"

Faith sighed, but she nodded. "I don't want to insult anyone, but . . . I figure your father has something to do with organized crime. Our . . . companions at dinner were too obviously mob soldiers and your father practically told me he had off-track bookies working for him."

Brigit nodded in the dimness. "Good enough. Now, here's the deal. Daddy turns a blind eye to my . . . friendships but it would not be a good idea to force him to admit what I do . . . what we did."

"In other words," Faith said. "Keep my mouth shut about all this?"

Brigit nodded.

Faith shrugged. "I'd have done that anyway. I don't kiss and tell."

"Good," Brigit said. "I'm sorry if you think I'm selfish. I pretty much forced you to . . ."

"No, you didn't" Faith interrupted. "You *allowed* me to have a wonderful time tonight. I don't know if you have some sort of sense about it, or whether I'm giving off some sort of signal, but at least with me you made a good choice."

Faith hugged the other girl and said, "That's . . . part of the reason that I haven't . . . with Travis yet. I'm not sure I want to go that way."

"Part of the reason?" Brigit prompted.

Faith giggled softly. "Well, you can't get me pregnant."

"Aren't you on the pill?"

"Yes and no," Faith said unhelpfully. "I haven't been in a relationship with a man for a while, and I'm just using really light dose birth control pills to keep these damn periods from tearing me apart each month. The doctor doesn't promise my pills are strong enough to prevent pregnancy."

["And if that lie doesn't get me struck by lightning,"] she thought, ["I'm safe forever."]

"Oh. I see," Brigit said. Then she giggled and poked at Faith's armored middle. "Hell, girl, with all this protection, he wouldn't be able to get to you anyway."

"All part of the plan," Faith claimed.

"So, are you gonna change them?" Brigit asked.

"What?"

"Change to stronger pills," Brigit explained.

Faith's blush at the thought was answer enough; a wrong answer, but one that Brigit believed totally.

After a moment, Faith added, "I'll keep your secret, Brigit, but you have to keep mine. Don't tell Travis why I haven't . . . or that I'm thinking about . . . changing."

"Thinking about?" Brigit repeated. But she giggled again and nodded into Faith's shoulder.

When they awoke the next morning, Innisfree was already docked in Hilton Head. Brigit was going to wear jeans for the day, but when she saw Faith's cream-colored suit she decided that she'd dress up a little as well. Faith had to help Brigit put her hair up into a tight little twist that looked quite sophisticated for brunch with her father. They weren't really late since there hadn't been a specific time to leave the Innisfree - but they weren't the first ones ready.

It didn't matter if they were late, because Brigit's choice to look sophisticated pleased her father. It was very clear that Faith's choice pleased Travis. She didn't bother to hide the fact her eyes went to the bulge that immediately formed in his dress slacks. Apparently, being captain of a Gulfstream required just about the same uniform as being captain of a large yacht. In any event, he still had four-striped shoulder boards.

"Just in time," Travis said. "I'm about to go preflight the Gulfstream and I didn't want to miss you."

"Oh, cool, can I come?" Faith asked, putting a little-girl lilt into her voice.

"Actually, Faith, I was wondering if we might have a brunch together," O'Reilly said.

*["Uh, oh. I can't imagine anything good coming out of that,"] she thought. ["But there's also no way to refuse."]

She smiled graciously and nodded. Together with Brigit, they moved to a waiting limousine. At first, things were quite convivial. O'Reilly called his daughter "Leprechaun" and she pouted, but they were both obviously playing a long-running game. Faith was included in the conversation with both sides asking her to validate their position, and she found ways to send the conversation off into deep left fields rather than answer, which was appreciated by both.




Brunch was at some fancy country club. The golf course views were breathtaking while the service was instant, silent, and precise. Thanks to her corset (her sleep corset tightened up just a bit more) Faith wasn't able to eat a lot, but she turned that into daintiness and grace.

However, after they were more or less done, O'Reilly turned to his daughter. "Baby, why don't you go find someone to ask how much it costs to join this club? Would you do that for me?"

"Oh, Daddy, why don't you just tell me to find something else to do for a few minutes? It's not like this is the first time you wanted to talk business at a meal."

"Then why don't you go find something to do for a few minutes?" he repeated easily.

She rose and gave him a quick kiss on his thinning hair and moved off without a backward glance.

*"Well, so much for her being on my side or something. I guess last night was just physical for her. On the other hand, I can't really complain. It wasn't even sexually satisfying for me."*

When Brigit was safely out of earshot, O'Reilly turned to Faith. His expression and the tone of his voice didn't change from the kindly reasonableness with which he had addressed his daughter. His words were quite different, however.

"You lied to me, Miss Torr."

Faith recognized this was not the time for the ingénue airhead role. "Actually, everything I've told you is the truth, Mr. O'Reilly. But I'll admit it wasn't all of the truth."

"You knew Ryan Hill a lot better than you let on," he accused.

"More than growing up with him?" she countered.

"You weren't just going to stay in his apartment. He was your lover," O'Reilly said.

"Was?" Faith repeated. "Do you know something that I don't know?"

"You're dodging the question," the mob boss said, his tone getting a little sharper.

"Actually, Mr. O'Reilly, I'm being very careful to answer your questions truthfully. But your last comment was a statement, not a question."

O'Reilly sat back in his chair, a hard smile showing only on his mouth. "Playing games? With me? Do you think that is wise?"

"I wouldn't call that a game. It's more of . . . walking on eggshells over a minefield. If it makes you feel better, I'm very frightened right now."

"You don't show it," he said.

"I guess that's a good thing," she said, sighing. "Truly, Mr. O'Reilly, I'm not trying to harm you in any way. I would hope you feel the same about me."

"You work for the police," he accused now.

"I did," she admitted. "That particular topic never came up, so I never lied about it. But I didn't volunteer it, either. In any event, it was some time ago - less than a day, and more than a month ago."

He nodded, apparently having some of his information confirmed. Abruptly, he changed topics again. "Where is Ryan Hill?"

*"Let's see how far I can get out on this ledge before it breaks off,"* she thought. *"Nothing but the truth - just not the whole truth."*

"All I can tell you," she said, "is that I haven't seen him in over a month." *Not even in a mirror.* "I don't think he's in Virginia any more." *Because he's in Hilton Head, South Carolina.*"

"Can you get in touch with him?"

She shrugged, carefully looking thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe. I'm staying with his best friend in town. If he ever decides to come out of hiding, he'll probably contact her. That's the best I can offer you."

O'Reilly nodded again.

"What was your real relationship with Tiny Jones?"

"I never met him," she said - truthfully, of course. "And what I told you is what Ryan said . . ."

*"Now *there* is using the truth with panache,"* she thought.

"But the name, 'Tiny Jones' was not a surprise to you," O'Reilly said.

"No, I knew the name. From my time working with the police."

"Is that where you learned my name?" he asked.

Faith sighed, but nodded.

"So you developed a relationship with Gallagher just to get close to me. Why?"

She blushed and looked away for a moment. Without looking back, she spoke softly. "It started out that way. I arranged a meeting with Travis. But . . . things changed."

Then she shrugged and looked back at O'Reilly. "Still, as I said I mean you no harm. Frankly, I was just hoping to . . I don't know . . . get back at Tiny Jones or something. I'm afraid he's done something to Ryan. And I know he didn't pay off on his last bet."

"You know this because . . ?"

"Because it was my bet," Faith said. "I told you that I'm a mathematical analyst. I study patterns and have some algorithms that improve my odds at various things - including horse racing. Ryan was placing bets for me."

She sat up straighter and looked directly at O'Reilly, letting all the force of personality she could muster show in her eyes. "And I figured if Tiny Jones were welshing on bets . . . well, you'd want to know."

O'Reilly nodded again. After a moment, he relaxed in his seat and smiled more genuinely. "I have no knowledge of Ryan Hill's whereabouts . . ."

*"Well, that's not true, but you don't know it's not true,"* she thought, fighting to stifle a smile.

"The situation with Tiny Jones has been handled," he declared, flatly and with a finality that frightened Faith even more than before. He pulled an envelope from his jacket. "This should settle the bet. I presume you will see that it gets to Ryan Hill, if that's still possible."

Faith took the thick envelope by reflex, but she didn't open it or put it away. "'If that's still possible,'" she repeated softly. She turned the envelope over in her hands and was surprised to find that she didn't need to fake a shine of unshed tears in her eyes. "This makes it seem so . . . real, somehow. I've been hoping . . ."

"I'm sure you have," O'Reilly said, more gruff than kindly, but not cruelly. "But if we couldn't find him . . ."

"You've been looking for him?" she asked.

O'Reilly actually looked away for a moment. When he turned back there was the closest thing to an apology she had seen on his expression. "The story we received from Tiny Jones was somewhat different from the one you told me and yes, we were looking for Hill. But there are facts that support your story . . . more than just those dealing with Ryan Hill's disappearance. Consider that envelope a, ah, payment for bringing this matter to my attention."

With that, he stood up and moved to help Faith with her chair. No bill had ever been presented, and they had not moved more than a few feet from the table before Brigit returned.

"Deep, dark, business discussions over?" she asked brightly.

"Yes, oh . . . no, not quite," O'Reilly said. Turning back to Faith he asked, "Would you like a job?"

"Working for you?"

"Yes," O'Reilly said. "I am interested in this horse racing algorithm of yours."

"It's not for sale," Faith said. "And I don't think I should reveal the underlying theory. I'm sorry."

O'Reilly looked sharply at her. "I could make it worth your while."

Faith stopped walking and looked directly at him, then at his daughter. "Mr. O'Reilly, I truly don't want to do you any harm in this. It appears that I may even have done you a favor, and I certainly appreciate what you've done for me in return. But I just don't think I'd . . . enjoy working in . . . an organization such as yours. Nothing personal, and I think you and your daughter are charming."

"Charming," O'Reilly repeated. "I don't think I've been called charming since before you - either of you - were born."

"Well, perhaps it was more that your daughter's abundant charm has . . . provided an aura for you as well," Faith said with a smile.

Brigit tried to lighten the mood by taking his arm and pulling herself close to him. "Oh, Daddy, I think you're charming all the time."

"You're biased," he charged, but his smile softened and he nodded at Faith. "Okay. I'll accept that you don't want to work for me. However, if you should choose to use your analysis to predict more horse races . . . do it at the tracks. I would appreciate it if you don't use off-track bookies. At least, none on the East Coast."

"Deal," Faith said quickly. *"And just that quickly, it's over. Tiny Jones is no longer a problem. I have my money. What about Item 3 on my wish list?"*

"Are you still going to look for Ryan Hill?" she asked. "What if he should . . . reappear?"

"I would want to talk with him," O'Reilly admitted. "But I wouldn't want to harm him. You can tell him that, if you get a chance."

"If I get a chance," Faith repeated, but she let a sad tone into her voice. It was clear that the best solution for all involved would be if Ryan Hill never surfaced again. *"Well, I figured that from the beginning. I'll have to get a new ID from Chrissy's friend."*

Chapter 13 - "What Now?"

The actual flight back in the Gulfstream was an anticlimax for Faith. Part of that was the distraction of having an envelope with $200,000 in it sitting in her purse - at least, she presumed it had that amount since she didn't dare count it while O'Reilly was around. She just couldn't help imagining scenarios where she dropped it, or left her purse lying somewhere. It pulled at her thoughts even though a more important part of her distraction was absorbing the realization that she had met the goals she selected to recover from her life being overturned. She had her money. Tiny Jones was - presumably - dead. And it appeared that Ryan Hill was no longer in danger. That had consumed her every thought for so long that she was feeling a bit lost now that she had succeeded.

Part of her inner turmoil was a mental spiral about the fact she could go back to being Ryan. That was incredibly important . . . and yet . . . .

Part of her lack of wonder about the flight was that it was so rushed that she didn't have a chance to understand what was happening. Travis allowed her to sit in a jump seat where she could watch everything that was happening . . . but it all happened just too fast. Even the well-practiced crew were very busy, no sooner finishing the takeoff procedures when it was time to set up for the approach to landing. A journey that had taken all night in the yacht was less than an hour in the jet, and most of that was spent maneuvering into position rather than cruising.

Faith didn't know whether she was better off or should be disappointed when Travis told her he was going to have to spend some time putting the Gulfstream to bed. One of the drivers took her to Chrissy's apartment, politely riding up in the elevator with her and walking to the door. He didn't take her down the little side hallway like Travis did, though. The thought of that - not the desire because the driver was a typical brutish thug, but the irony of the fact she actually felt disappointed - put a little smile on her lips when she entered the apartment.

"So, you had a good time, then?" Chrissy asked archly, noting Faith's smile.

"I guess so," Faith replied, still smiling, but with a wry flavor that recognized her own internal confusion.

Whatever explanation she might have added was interrupted by a knock on the door. Well, a pounding on the door - much more emphatic than a polite knock.

It was almost threatening so Faith turned to look through the peephole rather than just open it. A moment later she was allowing a visibly upset Erin Reilly - accompanied, in what Faith took to be a bad sign, by a uniformed officer - to enter.

"I told you to stay away from O'Reilly," the detective said, without any preliminaries.

"And I told you to mind your own business," Faith replied with equal sharpness.

"It is my business now," Erin said. "Tiny Jones is dead and you had him killed."

Faith might have tried some sort of denial, but her lack of surprise was too evident, even to Chrissy.

The lawyer interjected herself into the conversation, "Faith, don't say anything. As your lawyer, my first advice is don't say anything at all. My second advice, if we decide something needs to be said, is don't say anything until I hear the questions and then we'll decide what - if anything - to say."

"You're not surprised to hear that Tiny Jones is dead," Erin declared, speaking to Faith without even a glance at Chrissy to acknowledge she had spoken.

Faith looked at Chrissy, but then she sighed. "No, I'm not. Not really," she admitted. "Sorry, Chrissy, and I know you're right, but I think I need to . . . explain."

"Please, Faith, don't say anything," Chrissy pleaded. "At least let us - you and I - talk before the police are involved. She *has* to report everything she hears; even a small mistake can be a real problem."

"You're right, of course," Faith said, "but I still want to explain."

However, instead of saying anything more about the topic of Tiny Jones, she looked at the overnight bag she was still holding. "Erin . . . or, Detective Reilly if you prefer since this is clearly more formal than we've sometimes been, I just now got home and I want to put my things away before they get impossibly wrinkled. I'd also really appreciate some coffee, Chrissy."

With that, Faith pulled her rolling suitcase behind her into the second bedroom of Chrissy's apartment. While she was in there she considered changing into casual clothes, but if she were going to be interrogated the professional look of her cream-colored suit seemed more appropriate. It was only a few minutes before she went back into the main room of the apartment to find Chrissy still fussing with cups and sugar. Erin was still standing which made it clear how much Chrissy disapproved of the whole scene.

"Please, sit down," Faith told the detective and the uniformed cop. "I hope we can keep this friendly."

Erin's frown didn't seem to agree with that hope, but she did sit down. The uniformed officer remained standing, but he accepted a mug of coffee off the tray that Chrissy brought. Apparently he liked his black, as did Erin, so it was only another moment before they ran out of things to do . . . other than hear Faith's story.

"Okay," Faith began, "I didn't know that Tiny Jones was dead until you told me, and I didn't ask anyone to do anything to him. In fact, I never mentioned his name at all - at least, not directly."

"I didn't even know I'd be going anywhere near Mick O'Reilly nor any of his, um, companions last night; except for Travis, of course. Travis had invited me out to a dinner party. It was only after he arrived that I learned it was to be on O'Reilly's yacht and that O'Reilly himself would be there." She glanced at Chrissy for confirmation on that, and with a nod her friend agreed.

Faith sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I'll admit that I arranged my first meeting with Travis because I wanted to get a chance to speak to O'Reilly. But . . . things changed. I wasn't as concerned with meeting O'Reilly anymore. I was just expecting a nice date with - as you said, yourself - a handsome man when he told me that there was going to be a lot more going on than I had expected."

"In the course of the evening, I did speak with O'Reilly. I told him two things that I learned from Ryan Hill: That one time the person he placed his bets with needed to clear something with a big man, and on another occasion that he had needed to get some money from someone who was tiny. Those are true and are not something I learned when I worked with the police so I didn't betray any confidentiality I might have owed you. In fact, it seemed when Ryan told me about it, and so I suggested to O'Reilly, that it might be two people. I also told him that I knew Ryan was expecting the payoff from a large bet on the night he disappeared. I surely didn't know that O'Reilly was going to do anything about it. Hell, he might have had me thrown overboard as a potential complication instead."

"Then why did you say anything?" Erin asked.

Faith looked sharply at her. "You told me that you thought Ryan was killed. He was my friend for . . . well, for all of my life. If Tiny Jones had something to do with it, then, yes, I wanted him . . . wanted him to pay for it. But I did not ask O'Reilly to do anything about it, and don't even know that he did. I was very careful not even to suggest that a single person had been the source of Ryan's problems."

Erin snorted in disbelief. "You just happened to mention to the biggest crime boss on the East Coast outside of New York that a big man who happened to be named Tiny had stiffed your boyfriend - your *old* boyfriend since you seem to have moved on pretty quickly - before he disappeared. Then, that very night, Tiny Jones is killed in a very public way. And you don't see the connection? I'm not buying it."

"I'm not asking you to," Faith said tiredly. "But I don't *know* of any connection. And, while I'm not 'surprised' as you said, the first I actually *knew* anything had happened to Tiny Jones is when you told me. I still don't know how he died. You said something about it being public?"

"Tiny Jones was shot while he was eating dinner in a restaurant," Erin supplied. "It looks like a professional hit - two shots to the head by 'an average looking guy' who appeared, did the deed, and disappeared within two minutes, tops."

Faith nodded. Then she twitched, and frowned. "An average looking guy, you said?" At Erin's confirming nod, Faith sighed and looked at Chrissy. "Do you think Ryan could have . . . did he have a gun?"

Now it was Erin's turn to twitch. After a moment, she asked, "You think Ryan made the hit?"

"No," Faith said. "I don't. But at least it would mean that he was still alive."

Erin looked just a bit embarrassed. "As it happens," she explained, "we did consider that. But we showed Ryan's picture to the witnesses. They're all pretty sure it wasn't him. The murderer was taller, anyway."

Faith sagged back into her seat again and closed her eyes. "I don't know whether to be happy or sad," she said. Opening her eyes to look at Erin again, she said, "I keep hoping, y'know?"

"Yes, I imagine you do," the detective replied. She sat thoughtfully for a moment, then looked at the uniformed officer. "That will be all, Officer Harken."

When the policeman had left, Erin looked at Faith. She didn't stare in an aggressive sense. She just looked at the other blonde. Then she looked at Chrissy and sighed. "I guess it's a good thing to have a friend who is a lawyer."

"I'm sorry?" Faith said. "I mean, yes, but . . . why did you say that?"

Erin's shapely lips distorted into a twisted little smile, and she sat back. A musing tone colored her voice when she said, "I was just thinking back, trying to remember if anything you've told me has been an actual lie. With, no doubt, some coaching from your lawyer I'll bet that every actual statement you've made has been true. All the rest have been questions - to which you already knew the answers, but even in asking them you misled me - or you used, 'I wonder if . . .' or some other wording that keeps it from being a lie."

"With one exception," she said, sitting up more erectly again. "Your name is not Faith Torr."

Faith twitched, but she didn't say anything. Erin smiled first at her almost non-reaction, and then at Chrissy. "As I said, it's helpful to have a friend who is a lawyer."

"What's your point, detective?" Chrissy asked.

Instead of answering immediately, Erin pulled some papers from her purse. "Actually, this is your fault," she said. "After you spent . . . an evening on O'Reilly's boat and my captain yelled at me for having one of my consultants involved with a criminal organization, I decided to do a background check on you."

Faith twitched again, and this time even Chrissy's lawyer expression of professional neutrality slipped into a frown.

"You have no background," Erin said. "Up until a month ago, you didn't exist, though your ID documents appear to be valid. Care to explain?"

Faith didn't make any immediate response, but when Erin just persisted in her question with a raised eyebrow, Faith just shrugged, then shook her head.

"I'm not surprised," Erin said. "Not that you really need to. Actually, it wasn't only that you started dating Travis that . . . well, that sets things in motion. When Ryan disappeared, we took fingerprints in his apartment. We found several sets and it took a while to run them all down. Ms. Hunnicutt's where there - I assume that was your bra we found. And a few other prints. I found it interesting - once we got most of them cleared - that none of them were yours, Faith."

The other blonde still made no response, but it didn't take an investigator as insightful as Erin Reilly to see the building concern in her eyes.

"I don't suppose you'd like to let me have your fingerprints, would you?" she asked Faith directly.

Chrissy replied instead of Faith. "I think we'd have to see a court order to compel that."

"Probably," Erin said, shrugging as though it were unimportant. She still looked at Faith. "You know I can get your fingerprints sooner or later anyway. Still no explanation?"

"What do you want me to say?" Faith finally responded.

The detective's small smile contradicted her somewhat unfriendly words. "Well, I'd like an apology."

When Faith still said nothing, Erin continued. "When Federal officers are playing in my sandbox, it's simple courtesy to let us know."

Faith gasped at Erin's comment, but the detective misinterpreted it.

"So, you *are* a Federal agent!"

"I didn't say that," Faith said.

"You didn't need to," Erin replied. "So, what is it? Feebs? DEA? Oh, God, I hope it's not the IRS!"

"IRS?" Faith repeated, not able to stop a snicker. "You don't really think I'd work for the IRS, do you?"

"Good," Erin said with her own laugh. "I thought better of you. So, who is it?"

Chrissy had recovered her own composure by then. "She could tell you, but then she'd have to kill you," the lawyer offered.

"So, CIA, then," Erin surmised, but her eyes were still laughing.

"I'll never tell," Faith said, once again lying with nothing but the truth . . . just not the whole truth.

Then she frowned, and a genuinely sad look showed on her fair features. "It doesn't really matter now anyway. I'm going to have to leave . . . well, just leave."

"Why?" Erin asked. "I won't tell anyone."

"I'm . . . compromised," Faith said. "I'm no longer, um, objective."

"Because of the handsome pilot?" asked Erin.

Faith nodded - another truth that was not the whole truth.

"So, what are you going to do now?" The question came from Chrissy instead of Erin.

"I'm not really sure," she said, telling Chrissy more than the same words told Erin.

The detective stood and gathered up her notes and her purse. "Well, I'm not going to tell anyone about my, um, deductions since I've noted you carefully have neither confirmed nor denied anything. And I respect your decision to move on. However, if you do continue to conduct an operation in my area, I'll expect to be informed or I *will* go to my captain with what I've found and we *will* get a court order for your prints. Do I make myself clear?"

Faith stood as well and nodded. The look of confusion in her eyes was another truth, but again the part of it Erin understood was not the whole truth. Erin's eyes softened and she reached out to touch Faith's arm. "I'm sorry that you were compromised. Gallagher seems like a nice guy, despite his choice of employer, and I know it won't be easy to let him go."

"No, it won't," Faith agreed softly. She escorted the detective to the door and closed it behind her. Instead of immediately turning back to her friend, Faith leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes.

After a moment, Chrissy broke the silence. "That was . . . that looked liked it was going to be trouble. I thought she had figured out . . . y'know."

"Yeah," Faith agreed, moving back to her coffee. She took a sip just to give her hands something to do for a moment.

"So, what now?" Chrissy asked again. "How did it go? Obviously, you got O'Reilly to take care of Tiny Jones."

"I guess so," Faith said. She looked up at her friend with pleading in her eyes. "You have to believe that I didn't really ask O'Reilly to kill him."

"I do," Chrissy said quickly.

Despite the importance that her silent request had made for that acceptance, Faith's next words contradicted them. "But I might as well have. The pattern was clear enough. Like I said, 'reputation,' 'welshing', and Tiny Jones, all in the same context, and the result was . . . predictable."

"Perhaps," Chrissy allowed. "However, you saw Tiny Jones murder Chucky D. Deliberately, in cold blood, and with premeditation. He deserved to be . . . held accountable for that."

"So I was judge, jury, and - near enough - executioner," Faith said bitterly. "Am I really that arrogant?"

"No, and no," Chrissy said. "You were . . . let's see . . . the prosecuting attorney. You made a case. O'Reilly was judge and jury, and paid the executioner. I think that's an important distinction."

Faith smiled, even if there were still a lot of bitterness in it. "You would. You're a lawyer, too."

"Yeah, I am," Chrissy said. "But I'm not just using that comparison as a way to make you feel better. I think it's important. The lawyer makes the case as best he - or she - can. It's up to someone else to make the final decision. You didn't go out and shoot Tiny Jones yourself. You just . . . well, like I said, made a case. It was even a true case. The punishment was up to someone else."

She sat down next to her friend and asked, "Why don't you tell me what all really happened last night?"

Faith recounted what happened - leaving out any details of her time with Brigit O'Reilly. When she got to the point where it became relevant, she got her purse and showed Chrissy the envelope. Inside there were the expected $200,000, plus an apparent bonus of 10%.

"So," Chrissy said. "Are you done?"

"That's a word and a half word," Faith said, smiling slightly as she remembered Chrissy's earlier use of that phrase. "I've, um, completed my goals. Am I done?"

Chrissy reached out to touch the blonde's soft waves of hair. "Meaning, is Faith done? Are you going to go back to being Ryan?"

"I don't know," Faith whispered. "Oh, God, Chrissy. When I started this I was so afraid. Not of being found out. Not even of another assault like when I was fifteen. I was afraid . . . that I'd like it. And God help me, I do."

Chrissy smiled gently and nodded. "I could tell. I, um, wondered ever since you told me that story. When you were telling me about it, you were so alive, so . . . happy at the memory. At least, until you got to, y'know . . ."

"Yeah," Faith agreed. She closed her eyes and her voice got very soft. "Sometimes I wonder . . . if that guy hadn't . . . I mean, if it turned out just to be a fun party where I was dressed as a pretty girl. What would I have done?"

"Do you, um, know? Now?" Chrissy asked.

"Maybe," Faith said. "Not really, of course. I mean, other things could have happened, but I probably would have experimented, at least."

Her friend nodded, and tried a smile to lighten the tension. "Well, your current experiment has been a fabulous success."

Faith smiled . . . and in a moment her smile became more real. "Yes, it has. Would it, um, bother you if I . . . if, um, Ryan never came back?"

"That depends," Chrissy said. "If I lost Ryan and you both, then yes, it would bother me. A lot. But if I still get Ryan in a prettier package . . . well, I could live with that."

"Thanks," Faith said. She looked at her skirted suit and sighed, tugging at the hem for a moment. "I do like looking so attractive."

She lifted herself to her spindly heels and moved toward the bedroom. "But I'm going to get out of this suit before it has deeper folds than the San Andreas fault."

That was really an excuse to conclude a too-important topic of discussion. They both needed a break. When Faith returned, she made a statement, though. She wore a snug little denim mini with shimmering suntan hose. Plus one of Heather's tops . . . not stretched as much, perhaps, but still right on the border of naughty. And it was unambiguously, proudly, feminine.

"No one wears pantyhose anymore," Chrissy observed. "Not for casual clothes, anyway."

"Yeah, and it's too bad," Faith countered. "They make your legs look so much better."

"Yours, maybe," Chrissy countered in turn, the normal sour note in her voice when she considered her looks. But she quickly smiled and finished pouring another cup of coffee.

As if on cue, there was another knock at the door. This time it was Travis.

"Hi, beautiful," he said when Faith opened the door.

"Hi," Faith said, her first response of pleased excitement covering a second, worried look. Not that Travis noticed. He was too busy sweeping her into his arms for a world-shattering kiss.

"Oh, man, Faith, you knocked the boss's socks right off and into the water," he gushed. "He must have told me a dozen times how impressed he was with you."

"Oh?" she said . . . once her mind had rebooted enough to make coherent sounds.

"Yeah. We need to celebrate. I have something to tell you, but it needs the right setting. Is it too soon for dinner? All you had is brunch, right?"

"No, um, I mean, yes, all I had was brunch. And I don't think it's too soon for dinner."

Chrissy rattled her cup a bit, then said, "Could I talk to you for a moment, Faith? We can talk while you change."

"Change?" Travis said. "Why? You look great!"

Faith's attempt to get out a quick thank you was interrupted by Chrissy's tug toward the bedroom. When they were inside, with the door closed, she hissed at her friend, "I thought you were going to break it off with him."

Faith frowned almost jealously, then she sighed. "Oh, god, Chrissy, when he kisses me . . ."

"Yeah, I get the picture," Chrissy said. "But . . . I mean, you can't really continue seeing him. Can you?"

Faith sighed again. "No, I can't. Not really." She looked down at her outfit and shrugged. "So, I'll just tell him at dinner."

"Okay," Chrissy said. Then she chuckled. "So, if this is his last date with you, what are you gonna wear?"

"Oh, god, I have this killer outfit that I almost wore to last night's party. It's hot!" Faith said with her own tittering laugh - though her lighter tones transformed it into a giggle.

And so it was. When she came out again, Travis was impressed. At least, that's what she figured it meant when he turned around and then fell over the couch. She had changed her sandals into knee-high black-leather boots with dangerous heels. Shiny stockings led up to a matching black-leather skirt. Her only top was a black corset decorated with silver accents. It threatened to become . . . inadequate if she took a deep breath even as it nearly prevented any breathing at all. Heavy gold links at throat and wrist and dangling from her ears suggested . . . something, though whether they were signs of submission or dominance wasn't entirely clear.




She held out a black leather jacket to him, which he held for her through unthinking reflex while his own circuits were rebooting. Since he hadn't said anything after her return from the bedroom, she had to tease him a little.

"What's the matter? Don't you like this outfit? Should I go change back? You haven't said anything."

Travis managed to swallow, then shake his head sharply. "Oh, hell, no. I mean, I would have gone anywhere with you dressed the way you were. But this . . . oh, man . . ."

Getting out even a few words helped him to get enough cognitive function for a little teasing of his own. "Of course, if you incite a riot, don't expect me to protect you. I'll be leading the charge myself."

Chapter 14 - "Not Exactly"

When Faith returned her hair was a bit mussed and her lipstick was more than a bit mussed. She had the half-smiling, half-dazed expression that Chrissy had seen so often.

"So, did you tell him?" she challenged as soon as Faith was in the door.

"Tell him what?" Faith asked, then she winced and sighed. "Not . . . exactly."

"That means, 'no', right?"

"I'm afraid so," Faith admitted. She smoothed one hand down the drum-tight contours of her corset in sensuous pleasure and sighed again.

"Oh, god, Chrissy, I don't know what to do," she whispered. "I meant to tell him. I really did. And several times I was ready to, when he'd . . . oh, touch my hand or something. The next thing I know we're kissing again - even in the restaurant - and . . . well I just couldn't do it then!"

"Oh, girl, you got it bad," Chrissy said, sighing herself. Then she remembered something. "Before you left, he said he had something to tell you. What was it? He didn't like, ask you to . . . marry him or anything, did he?"

"Oh, no, I mean, not exactly," Faith said unhelpfully. "Okay, maybe I better start back closer to the beginning . . ."

"That's usually a good idea," Chrissy said dryly.

Faith stuck her tongue out at her friend for a second, then started. "Well, when he was here he said that O'Reilly was impressed with me. I guess in that macho world they play in that was important. On the basis of his apparent studliness . . ."

"*'Apparent'* studliness?" Chrissy repeated. "If he's faking it, then he belongs in Hollywood."

"Hush, and quit interrupting," Faith said, but she giggled. "Anyway, apparently anyone who is . . . well, macho enough to, um, catch a girl like me has proven himself in some way. Travis told me that O'Reilly has offered him a chance to move up in the organization."

This time, Chrissy didn't interrupt. She started frowning at Faith's words, but when the blonde paused for some sort of affirmation of understanding, Chrissy just kept frowning. After a long moment, she repeated more of Faith's words. "A girl like you?"

Faith frowned at her words, then gasped. In a heartbeat, she was hunched on the couch, sobbing into her hands. "Oh, god, I did it again. I just . . . oh, god, I wish I were a girl! A real girl."

Chrissy put her arms around her friend. "It's okay, honey. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay!" Faith snapped. "I'm . . . broken. I'm . . . wrong. This is all wrong!"

She tried to pull out of Chrissy's arms. What she would do then, except perhaps go to her bedroom and cry alone was not clear. The stereotypical distress of throwing herself on her bed wouldn't work. They were already sitting on what she used for a bed.

Chrissy didn't say anything, but she didn't let Faith go, either. After a while the blonde girl's sobs slowed down - mostly because she was gasping for breath in her tight corset and nearly passed out.

When Faith was finally at least quiet, if not recovered, Chrissy asked gently, "Do you really wish you were a girl?"

"Right now? Yes," Faith whispered. "I never . . . I mean, I've done some research on my, um, condition and I never had that, 'I always thought I was really a girl' thing. I don't think even now that I'm really a girl trapped in a guy's body. I just *wish* I were a girl."

"Okay. Why?"

"Why?" Faith repeated. "That's obvious."

"Is it?" Chrissy said, and while her tone was gentle, it was also implacable. "Why do you want to be a girl?"

"Because then Travis and I could . . . I mean, we could . . ."

"Get married? Have babies? Did he ask you to marry him?"

"No," Faith admitted. "He, um, after he told me about his chance to move up in O'Reilly's organization, he did ask me if I'd move in with him."

"Even though you haven't had sex yet?"

"Well, of course," Faith said, and Chrissy didn't have to be especially sensitive to hear the wistfulness in her voice.

"So, since he's not asking you to marry him, you want to be a girl just so you can have sex with him?"

"No!" Faith snapped. "I mean, yes, I want to have sex with him, but that's not the only reason."

"What are the others?" Chrissy persisted.

"Oh, you know. I like wearing pretty clothes and having people think I'm attractive. And I like . . . I don't know . . . I guess I like the grace and, um, the elegance of women's fashions. Heels and nails and makeup and all the rest just make me more aware of the way I look, and I like that constant sense of . . . of beauty, I guess."

"Sounds good," Chrissy said with encouragement. "Anything else?"

Faith looked thoughtful for a moment, and then she sighed. "I like kissing Travis. I like the sense of surrender to his strength, and yet ability to make his world compress into a tight little circle centered on me. And I can make him . . . make his body feel amazing. And I like . . . I liked . . . it. I mean, I had control of him the other night, and he trusted me so completely. I was doing it to please him, and being on my knees in front of him might have seemed, y'know, submissive, but . . . I could have done *anything* to him. Bad things as well as good things. There was a sense of power that was very . . . fulfilling . . ."

She trailed off in memories, a quirky little smile playing at her lips and in her eyes.

"So, does that mean you've decided? Are you gay?" Chrissy asked. 'I mean, if you don't think you're really a woman with the exception of a few naughty bits, and you're attracted to men . . ?"

She expected a simple answer because what Faith had described seemed pretty well centered on attraction to men. Instead, Faith frowned.

"I . . . don't know. I had an, um, experience that . . . confuses things," Faith said. "I may be, um, must be bisexual."

"Oh?" Chrissy replied, asking for more with a raised eyebrow. It didn't work. Faith just shook her head.

Chrissy smiled, but then she became more somber. "So, what do you want to do? I mean, if you had a magic wand or something and could just . . . zap things into a new reality, what would it be? Would you like, have a sex change?"

Faith twitched at that idea and barely kept her hand from moving toward her hidden secret. "Oh, wow, that puts the question directly, doesn't it? I mean, I'd like to be a girl for Travis, but . . . oh, Chrissy, I don't know."

Her friend and 'counselor' in more than matters of law sat thoughtfully for a moment. "You'd like to be a girl for Travis. For Travis. For anyone else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Not for yourself, for example? Just for Travis?"

"I already told you all the things I like about being a girl," Faith said.

"No," Chrissy countered. "You told me several things you like about *looking* like a girl, and in particular a pretty girl. But the things that would require a sex change were all focused on Travis. You didn't say, 'I like kissing men.' You said, 'I like kissing Travis.' One particular man. Is that significant?"

"Oh, hell, how should I know?"

Chrissy nodded and sat back. "Just suppose for a moment that you could tell Travis your secret and he'd be okay with it. Would you still want a sex change?"

"I couldn't tell him!" Faith gasped.

"No, I know that," Chrissy said. "But just suppose . . ."

Faith sat thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know, but . . . I don't think so."

Chrissy nodded again. She sat for a moment, obviously marshalling her thoughts. "Okay, you don't hate your penis and want to get rid of it - which often follows from the believing you're really a woman in a man's body. You just want to be able to have sex with men. There are . . . alternatives that don't require sexual reassignment surgery. You already did one of them, and you said you enjoyed it."

"But it's not . . . I mean, I can't keep putting Travis off," Faith protested.

"Again we return to Travis," Chrissy observed. "Look, Faith, don't take me wrong, but you have to consider something. He's the first - and so far as I know the only - guy you've ever kissed. At least since you were 15 and that was under protest. Are you sure this isn't some sort of crush that . . . well, that will eventually fade?"

Faith started to say something, and Chrissy held up her hand. "And before you protest. I notice that you've never said - not even once in this very deep and painful discussion - you've never once said that you love him."

"But I do . . ," Faith began, and then ran down. Her eyes were looking inward, and in a moment Chrissy could see surprise beginning to widen them even as unshed tears started to shine.

Chrissy put her arms around her friend again. "That's okay, Faith. It's a sign that you're still being honest with yourself, even in the midst of all this confusion. It's a good thing - even though I know it hurts."

Faith nodded into her embrace even as the tears overfilled her eyes and began to rain down her cheeks.

After a moment Chrissy continued. "Let's suppose that your, ah, secret wasn't a problem. Would you move in with Travis?"

"Sure," Faith said. "I mean, kissing him is incredible, and if we could make love . . ."

"That doesn't require you to move in with him," Chrissy said. "You could, for example, move back into Ryan's apartment and, y'know, do him there."

"You want me to move out?" Faith asked.

"Actually, no," Chrissy said. "I'm just pointing out reasons why moving in with him is not the only way to get what you say you want."

"What I say I want?" Faith repeated, her tone sharpening. "What are you trying to say?"

Chrissy tensed up a bit at Faith's tone, but in a moment she shrugged and nodded. "Okay, the way I said it was unfair. But there is something I think you need to consider. Do you really want to live with someone who is an important figure in organized crime?"

"But Travis isn't into that sort of thing," Faith protested.

"Isn't he?" Chrissy said. "And you know this because . . ."

"Well, he just wouldn't," Faith declared.

Her friend frowned and asked, "How long did it take you to realize that O'Reilly was a major crime figure - even aside from what you learned from the cops? From just what you learned on the night cruising down to Hilton Head, for example."

"So what?"

Chrissy said, "So, how stupid do you think Travis is? Do you think he doesn't know? Do you think that 'moving up in the organization' will only involve running the boat and the airplane? That he won't be getting his hands dirty at all? Do you think that O'Reilly will *let* him stay clean if he's going to be that close to the operation?"

"Well, but Travis is . . . I mean, he's a nice guy. He wouldn't, y'know, hurt anyone."

Chrissy let an obvious lawyer tone into her voice and asked, "On what basis do you make that claim?"

Before Faith could answer, Chrissy continued, "Besides, even if he doesn't do anything himself, he still has to know about it. And to condone it. Didn't you tell O'Reilly you wouldn't work for him because you didn't want to be part of an organization like that?"

"Why are you running down Travis?" Faith snapped.

"Because you're not being honest about who he is," Chrissy countered. Before Faith could respond, Chrissy reached out and hugged the smaller woman. "Look, Faith, just bear with me for a minute. Let me be a lawyer for a moment."

She paused to organize her thoughts again, then said, "I don't think you have a future with Travis, regardless of your plumbing. He is or is about to become a major criminal and even if you don't find that . . . disturbing it will add too many complications to your life. I don't think you're ready to do anything, um, permanent to your body on the basis of a few dates with one man. I don't think you can remain as Faith Torr, at least not in this area. The good news is that your pattern analysis skills don't require a resume or education credentials, so you can be just about anyone you want, anywhere you want. Above all, I don't think you should do anything . . . unrecoverable. At least, not now. Take it easy and see how things develop."

"But what about Travis?"

"Look, honey, I haven't changed my opinion from what you said your *own* opinion was before you left on your date. Did a few kisses really change what you need to do?"

"No," Faith said softly, but tears started to spill down her cheeks again.

"Look, honey, go to sleep. I'll help you out of your corset," Chrissy said.

The mechanics of preparing for bed provided enough of an excuse that further conversation wasn't really required. It took a while for Faith to fall asleep - a long while - and Chrissy seemed to know because she got up and left quietly enough the next morning that Faith didn't awaken.

While the blonde girl was going through a morning routine that included things she now did without much thought - like shaving her legs and arms, doing her hair and makeup, and picking out a nice outfit rather than just throwing on the previous day's clothes - she tried to decide what to do with her life.

One option she considered carefully - before rejecting it - was to go back to being Ryan. Or at least a man. She could. The mannerisms that Jessica had taught her were correctable. And if she - that is, he - still seemed a bit effeminate, well, she had already recognized that she was bisexual. A little ambiguity seemed unavoidable. Ryan had been a bit ambiguous already, though until Jessica taught her how to recognize feminine mannerisms, she hadn't realized it.

She knew she was going to have to move away unless she set up an entirely new identity - one who wasn't a close friend to Chrissy Hunnicutt. Even if she broke things off with Travis, she pretty much closed out the chance to remain in the area as Faith Torr with her lie-within-the-truth story to Erin Reilly. If she stayed she'd have to explain what she was really doing to Erin - and since she wasn't actually a Federal agent, she'd have to tell her the truth. Erin would insist on fingerprints before she'd accept any other explanation. Yet she couldn't do that without revealing everything. And a small change - maybe just hair color and ID - wouldn't work. If one attractive young woman living with Chrissy moved out and another moved in, or that attractive young woman moved into Ryan's apartment . . . what would the explanation be? Unless she changed her appearance a great deal, it would be too obvious. Someone would see through her disguise and the very fact it was an obvious disguise would raise questions she couldn't afford to raise.

She could become Heather Fox again. In fact, she probably would, at least until she decided on a long-term path. It would provide a clean break from Faith and prevent anyone from tracking her. But she couldn't be Heather on a continuing basis. Heather was almost as much of a cartoon as the sexy nurse she had been at fifteen.

Besides, she liked being Faith Torr. She really liked the person she had become. Faith had all of Ryan's skills, but was so much more *alive* than Ryan had ever been. She liked the way Faith looked - pretty, but in a classy way. She liked the way Faith lived her life - fun, a bit flirty, enjoying her femininity without descending into a bimbo caricature. If she moved away, she could still be Faith - maybe with another name, but the same person behind the name.

That would mean she lost the last friend she had in the world, other than her mother. *"Oh, god, I'll have to tell Mom. Probably all of it. Well, except for the night on the boat with Travis. But I'll have to tell her about being . . . about liking men."* Faith was confident that her mother would love her no matter what, but it would be hard without having any other friends at all.

Her tangled thoughts were interrupted by the light-hearted ring of her phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, beautiful, it's me," Travis replied cheerfully. "Have you made up your mind, yet?"

*"On what?"* she thought, then she remembered the only question that Travis had been worried about.

"We need to talk," she said quietly.

"Uh, oh," Travis said, tones shifting into concern.

Faith didn't answer - didn't know what to say. She just couldn't break up with him over the phone.

"I'm coming over," he announced.

"Okay," Faith replied. She had a moment's panic when she considered what to wear, then decided the jeans, boots, and a nice top were sufficient. She did spend a few minutes brushing her hair, and changed from nothing little earrings to large golden hoops just because . . . well, because. She was touching up her makeup - a girl could always use a bit more mascara - when the doorbell rang.

When she opened the door, Travis looked so much like a beaten puppy that her heart went out to him. Without a word, she put her arms around his neck and greeted him with a kiss to show that she cared for him and wanted him to be happy.

The kiss didn't end up that . . . generic. As soon as their lips touched she felt passion grow - literally, in his case as their bodies were crushed together. A dance of tongues didn't tone things down at all. She felt herself sliding her waist back and forth, enjoying the feel of his iron-hard bulge even though it was on the wrong side of her taut corset.

["Wrong side?"* she asked herself when that thought came to her. *"I need to *keep* him on that side."]

Travis was apparently consoled from his first hangdog concern. He ran his hands up and down her back, exploring her sleek contours. It wasn't long before his scouts discovered the boundary of her protective armor, and the softness that lay below it. His hand lifted her up and she straddled his solid waist without complaint, tightening her arms around his neck.

Without any sign that he even noticed her weight, he moved over to the couch and sat down, still devouring her lips and dueling with her tongue. She let her knees unwind from around his waist, but they stayed on either side of his legs as she straddled his lap. It was only after she had to lean back or pass out from lack of air that she realized she had been sliding her hips forward and back, enjoying the feel of his erection on the flattened space between her legs.

*"Oh, god, I'm doing it again,"* she wailed in her mind. That was enough to fill her eyes with unshed tears, and Travis noticed.

"What's wrong, babe?"

Faith sighed. ["With anyone else but Travis, I'd be upset to be called, 'babe,' but with him . . ."]

She shook herself and leaned further back, letting her hands unwind enough that she just steadied herself on his shoulders. "We need to talk," she said, repeating her earlier warning.

"About what?" he asked carefully. "About you moving in with me? If you don't want to do that, I won't push. I just thought . . ."

Faith leaned forward to kiss him again, but she kept her hands on his shoulders and when he reached for her she pushed herself back after only a quick touch of their lips. "I'm flattered. Truly, but . . ."

She sighed again. This time she stood up on her spiked heels, steadying herself for a moment before taking another step back. "But I can't," she said. "And . . ."

Tears interrupted the continuation of her statement, her throat tightening so much that she couldn't even breathe, let alone speak. But when Travis started to say something, she held out a hand, palm-forward, to stop him.

Thinking it might help if she weren't looking at him, she moved over to the window. Down below was his arrest-me-red Viper, parked where he was likely to get a ticket. After a few breaths as deep as her corset would allow, she turned back to him. "We have to . . . stop seeing each other."

"Why?" Travis asked, standing up to move over to her. Once again she held out her hand to stop him.

"Did you know that O'Reilly offered me a job?" she asked in a non sequitur that left him confused.

"No."

"Well, he did," she said. "And I turned him down. I didn't want to work for someone in his line of work."

"He's okay," Travis said. "I mean, he may not limit himself within some bureaucrat's rules, but he's basically a businessman providing a desired service."

"Yes and no," Faith said. "It's still illegal, and I found out that he had the bookie - or whatever he was - that was after Ryan Hill . . . he had him killed."

"You don't know that," Travis protested.

"Oh, come on, Travis," she said, her tones getting sharper. "I don't think you're that stupid, and neither am I."

"Look, babe . . . Faith, it's good money. And what I have to do won't be anything like that."

"But you'll be part of his organization just the same. I can't accept that. Not for me, and not for . . . anyone important to me."

"So you want me just to quit my job?" he asked sharply.

"No," she replied. "Maybe part of the problem is that you don't think it's a problem. If you're comfortable in that sort of organization, then . . . I'm not comfortable with you."

"But babe, we'd be so good together. I know it's only been a few days, but give us time. Look, you don't have to move in with me, and I promise I won't let work come between us."

"It's already come between us, Travis," Faith replied calmly. "I'm sorry."

She paused, feeling the tears spill their way down her cheeks and repeated, "Really sorry."

Once again he looked like a puppy that had been kicked. When he reached out to her, she took a tiny step back, more a shifting of weight than an actual movement, but it was enough. His shoulders sagged, but he nodded, moving toward the door. When he reached it, he turned to look at her.

"Was this all just a . . . plan? Did you get close to me just so you could get close to O'Reilly?"

Faith cringed like he had hit her physically. She could barely speak through her sobs, but she forced herself to get the words out; the truth, and nothing but the truth . . . though never the whole truth.

"In . . . the . . . beginning," she whispered. "But not . . . the whole time. Not . . . for a long time."

Travis nodded. Without another word, the left, allowing the door to stand open behind him.

["I wonder if he thinks I might run to the door and call him back?"] she thought . . . and knew she was tempted.

Chapter 15 - "A Classic"

The woman who stepped down from the Gulfstream carried with her a sense of elegance that did not require long gowns and tiaras to establish itself. She showed the calm expectation of respect that came from generations of wealth, easy confidence that carried no flavor of arrogance because it didn't need any. It was self-evident and unshakeable, so reliable that respect could be assumed rather than demanded.

It was hard to estimate her age. A first estimate would put her in her twenties based on a quite-short skirt to her very feminine blue and white suit, coupled with quite-high heels and thick blonde hair that tumbled well down her back. A snowy-white blouse cut low enough to reveal more than a hint of womanly charms suggested that whatever her age, the puberty fairy had been kind to her. A closer look would suggest just a few more years - around 30 perhaps - based on the first hints of smile lines about her eyes. The net effect was that of a Hollywood actress not quite willing to admit she was past the ingénue roles - yet classy enough that she wasn't in the least desperate or worried. Now she would play the too-glamorous-for-real-life, tough executive perfectly willing to shove the shards of any glass ceilings where they would do the most good.

The woman waiting for her at the ramp of the executive jet terminal was not as striking. She was a large woman, with short, dark hair and a conservative suit that had not been tailored to her best advantage . . . or had too difficult a task regardless of the tailoring. Central casting would have put her in the role of a mid-level bureaucrat, her simple tastes showing more attention to doing a good job than using her position for personal gain.

Or, in line with the actual facts, as a small-office lawyer who spent entirely too much of her effort on pro bono or barely paying clients.

Regardless of the difference in wealth and elegance, it was the larger woman who spoke first, and it was a cheerful shout. "Oh, God, Hope, you look fabulous!"

"Thank you, Chrissy," the blonde - 'Hope' - replied. "You look . . . like you're having fun."

"Oh, I am," Chrissy said. "Y'know, sometimes I envy you all your money, but I do meet the most, um, *interesting* people. And I'm really making a difference, I think. By the way, thanks for the donation."

"What are you talking about?" Hope asked with wide-eyed innocence.

"Don't give me that," Chrissy said. "I know where that money comes from."

"Just so you don't tell my accountants," Hope said with a laugh.

"Since when do you use accountants?" Chrissy countered. "Doesn't all your money come from bookies?"

"No, not at all," Hope said, suddenly serious.

"Oh, sorry," Chrissy said. "I should have known better."

"It's no big deal," Hope replied. "Actually, I'm pretty much all legitimate, now. It took a while, but I've got enough income from formal investments that I don't need the high rate of return I could get from bookies."

"Good for you," Chrissy said. "So, tell me about . . . well, everything."

The blonde sighed, but her eyes sparkled and it was clear she wanted to share. Waving at a waiting limo, she let the chauffeur open the door for them and get underway before she began her story.

"You'll never know how close I came to chasing after Travis that day," Hope said.

"What would you have done if you caught him?" Chrissy asked.

"I don't know," Hope said with a snicker. "I think I had some wild idea about stringing him along until I could get SRS and then just telling him that I couldn't have children for some reason."

"Did you? Get SRS?" asked Chrissy.

"No. I only had one surgery . . . well, to be accurate I guess I should say, 'two,'" Hope replied, preening just a bit to show off her results.

"They look good on you," Chrissy said with a snicker of her own. "I'll bet you get lots of dates."

"Not as many as Heather does," Hope claimed.

"Oh, is she still around?"

The blonde nodded. "Sometimes. She's less . . . limited than I am. Or maybe more limited. That girl is not a, um, rocket scientist. But she's satisfied with that."

"I see," Chrissy said thoughtfully . . . just before she broke into laughter. Hope couldn't help joining in. Her eyes promised more detail on Heather's escapades later, but she waved a hand down her shapely form to return to her own story.

Before she could, Chrissy gasped and punched her friend in the arm. "Ohmigod, I just realied . . . when I thought about, y'know, that surgery. You paid for Jessica!"

Hope didn't bother to deny it, but she didn't confirm it either. Her warning frown told Chrissy not to go down a path toward another's secrets.

"How long had you known? I mean, before you gave her the money."

"A while," Hope admitted. "Actually, I guess I figured it out on the day that I broke up with Travis. Well, within a few days anyway. I was, um, depressed for a while. (I noticed.)(Hush, this is my story.) I was trying to decide what to do, and yes, SRS was definitely one of the options I was considering. Somewhere in there I thought about asking Jessica as a sort of, I don't know, impartial third party or something, and . . . all of the sudden things clicked into place."

Hope sighed and put an arm around her friend. "Other than you, Chrissy, Jessica was more help to me than anyone I had ever met. As soon as I realized she was transsexual, I decided I needed to do something nice for her. After I started making a lot of money, I had someone discreet make a few inquiries and found out she was pre-op. That made it pretty obvious, even as it made me realize that wasn't the path for me."

"Does she know you paid for it? She wouldn't ever tell me where she got the money."

"Yes," Hope said. "But by the time I decided what to do, the money was no longer important to me. It's not that big a deal, really."

"It was to her," Chrissy declared.

Hope smiled, and nodded, but she made a little throwaway gesture to reinforce her own perspective.

"Anyway," she continued. "Once I decided not to kill myself, or carve myself into somebody else, I worked out a plan."

"It seems to have been successful," Chrissy said, running her hand over the soft leather of the limousine.

"Enough to meet my needs," Hope replied with just a hint of supercilious arrogance . . . which she destroyed in the next instant with an undisguised and unrepentant giggle. "In any event, I laid out a plan. With your help I got the Hope Ridge ID put together and went through the shell game with Ryan's, then Faith's, and now Hope's assets. Then Heather Fox took a trip."

Hope continued to recount her adventures . . . carefully glossing over some of the details. Or at least she tried to.

"Nuh, uh," Chrissy said. "I want to hear more about this Tom Forrest."

"I don't kiss and tell," Hope declared.

"Yeah, but it was Heather who went out with him, right?"

Hope blushed, but she nodded. Dropping her voice to an artificial stage whisper, she said, "Well, you didn't hear it from me, but this is what Heather said . . ."

*********************

It had been about two months since Hope moved, leaving Faith behind. Actually, I had been the one who moved. Faith packed up a few things she really wanted, mostly clothes, and had them sent to a new apartment she had arranged in . . . well, that doesn't really matter. Then she disappeared and I was let out for the first time in a long time. I don't think Faith - or Hope, for that matter - would have had a hard time getting help with things like luggage, but being a really . . . shapely redhead with a husky voice and . . . well, lots of curves, I had them lining up to help. My ID worked fine and I flew to a resort in the Caribbean for a few days, then to Vegas for a few more.

Not surprisingly, I found that I enjoyed kissing men at least as much as Faith did. She was a . . . conflicted bisexual. But I am an exuberant omni-sexual. If I were an innie instead of an outie I'd probably fall in love with a cucumber. Men or women, or groups of them all together, were just fine with me. But all I did was a few . . . okay, quite a few kisses and one hand job - poor guy didn't even get it out of his pants. I just rubbed on him a little and purred a little and smiled a little and he . . . needed to change clothes.




My third stop was my actual destination, and as soon as I had the bank things straightened out, I gave way to Hope.

And she missed Travis. For a while, a week or so, she didn't really go out of the apartment. She worked some trades online, leveraging her capital which at that point was about a million dollars on stocks and other 'ordinary' financial avenues. Eventually she started returning to a real life, starting with the mundane things like groceries but graduating to dinners and sometimes a movie. Mostly she worked on getting rich through patterns of numbers.

But she got bored, even though the money was coming in pretty well by then - or maybe because of that - so she updated her horse-racing algorithms and looked for predictions. That's when I got out to play again. I think Hope had already decided that she was going to be 'respectable.' That was okay with me, because it left all the fun jobs for me.

I started out at local tracks during the week. Using Hope's predictions, I made moderate bets - less than Ryan had been making when he was kicked out of the East Coast tracks - but I'm not sure that made all that much difference. When a sultry redhead slinks up to a bet window, I don't think it would have mattered how big her bets were. The tellers were all a lot more concerned about how big some of her other assets were.

I was, obviously, noticed. It wasn't long before I had invitations to private boxes and suites. That's where I met Tom.

I was in full Heather mode, of course. It was a Saturday race day at a major park and the guy who provided the suite had so much money even the IRS couldn't keep track of it all. I wasn't quite Jessica Rabbit - for one my feet are bigger - but I was wearing a pair of second-skin leather pants, a white poet's blouse with wide flowing sleeves, and a scarlet bustier that was really a corset, though the laces were hidden. And Lord D'Archy heels, of course. As a result, I was taller than any of the women and at least half of the men. Hell, it looked like my legs were taller than most of the women.

That's where I first saw Tom. He started my purr rumbling while he was still across the room. He was close to the bar and it so happened that I needed a drink - I figured the potted plan would recover eventually - so I headed that way.

"So, what team do you play for?" I asked . . . huskily.

"Play what?" he asked in turn. He had seen me coming, of course. Everyone in the suite had watched me move.

"I figure anyone as tall as you has to play basketball." He was about 6'7", I guessed. Half a head taller than me even in my insane heels. Actually, 6'7" is only average for NBA and the guy was melanin challenged anyway, but it was as good an opening line as I could come up with.

"Not since college," he said. "Now I just . . . meddle."

"Oooh, there's a narrative hook," I purred, twirling one sculptured nail in a lock of long red hair so that (just coincidentally, of course) the end danced across a pale, deeply creviced landscape. Reaching out a carefully positioned hand - not too dainty but very feminine - I said, "Heather Fox."

"Tom Forrest," he said in return.

Then I lost just about all of my cool points when he leaned down and kissed my hand. I just about fell off my heels, and my gasp was too obvious to deny especially since my corset made all my breathing an event. Instead, I took my free hand - he still hadn't let go of the one that he kissed - and fanned myself.

"I like the way you meddle," I finally managed to say. I couldn't put the right cadence into it yet, but I did manage to let my hips sway to one side. He still hadn't let go of my hand and I didn't know what to do with my free one so I started fiddling with the heavy pirate loop in one ear. He just smiled for a moment, an eyebrow lifted in a question I didn't understand.

Then I guess my mind rebooted a little and I did make the connection. "Oh, you're the guy who did that hidden camera expose on abortion mills hiding statutory rape of underage girls!"

"Guilty as charged," he said. "Though from the way you said that I don't think you're as ready to tar-and-feather me as a lot of young women seem to be."

"Don't get me wrong," I said. "As far as I'm concerned, consenting adults can do whatever they want. But young girls . . . or boys for that matter . . . adults shouldn't take advantage of them sexually. That's just wrong."

"You seem quite passionate about that," he observed.

I shrugged, mostly to hide a wince at a suddenly vivid memory. "Let's just say that I felt someone took advantage of me once, when I was fifteen. Thank god I didn't get pregnant."

"Oh, would you like to repeat your story on camera?" he asked.

"No," I said flatly. "And if you have a hidden camera here, I'll stuff it where the sun don't shine on you."

Tom laughed, not at all intimidated. "Not today," he promised.

He finally released my hand and waved at the bar. "So, do you want a refill for the one you dumped in the plant? Or did you want to try something else?"

"Busted," I said dryly. "If I'd have known you were a professional journalist, I'd have been more, um, discreet."

"Yeah, sure you would," he replied with equal dryness. "That's why your hips were rolling like a Magnitude 8 earthquake all the way over here. Because you wanted to be discreet."

I decided it was time for a counterattack. Taking a deep breath and letting my eyes get very wide, I asked, "Magnitude 8, is that big? I've never felt a really *big* one."

"Now that's just not fair," he countered, but his eyes were laughing again.

It was a good thing that Hope's predictions were pretty accurate that day, for two reasons. First, a girl can always use more money and I ended up ahead by most of ten thousand dollars - which was pretty small potatoes for that crowd, but I wasn't about to turn down my winnings. And second, it added a nice confusion factor to Tom's assessment of me. For all that I looked like someone sent over from central casting for the role of 'selected for bust size, not IQ', leaving a winner suggested I had at least a little gray matter to go with my dairy farm. In any event, he asked for my number . . . and I gave it to him.

That might have been a mistake. We had a couple of dates, and yes, I gave him oral, too. And liked it. A lot. And if, somehow, I could have done it without, um, showing too much I'd have tried anal as well. But while my boobs were pretty convincing when they were half hidden, they couldn't really pass a . . . detailed examination. Same with my hips and . . . y'know. When the time came to move it to the next level I wanted to preserve the illusion of being as feminine as he thought I was. So I never gave him the chance to decide how to react to my true nature. Instead, I went away again. Clucked like a chicken and ran. There was only Hope for about a month in there, and when I came out to play again, it was in other places. But he taught me something very important. I wasn't only enamored of Travis Gallagher. I could enjoy the company of other men as well.

****************
Chrissy sighed theatrically - one limp hand to her cheek - and said, "Wow, he sounds dreamy. So, is that when you decided to get . . . y'know."

She waved her hand over her on abundant bosom and Hope laughed. "Actually, I had already decided. One of the reasons I let Heather out to play was that I wanted to see if I liked being as feminine as I could. Over the top, even. Once I was sure I was never going to present as a man again, I started seeing a doctor. I've been on hormones for a while to supplement the breast augmentation, so all the curves you see are really me. Well, me and the doctor. No hip pads anymore, and it's a good thing I decided I like corsets, because I really need to watch my weight."

Chrissy snorted and shook her head. "Do *not* go there. I have zero sympathy for any problems you have maintaining *your* figure."

The dark-haired woman looked at the blonde for a moment. Then she quietly asked, "You said you're on hormones. Even if you haven't done the . . . final step yet, are you going to?"

"No," Hope said easily. "According to the doctor, I'm a non-op transsexual. That's not really true. I still don't think I'm a woman in a man's body. I just want to *look* as much like a woman as I can, full time."

"Well, from here it looks like you've succeeded," Chrissy said, and a glance around the sumptuous limo made it clear the success had not been limited to appearance. "So, what's in your future? Looking for Mister, Miss, or All-of-the-above Right?"

Hope smiled at her question, but pain lurked in her eyes as well. She sat thoughtfully for a moment, looking out the windows. One manicured hand toyed with a tasteful gold arc of earring, almost as though using the touch to trigger memories.

"In some ways," she finally began, "it might have been better if I had never been Heather. And before that, never met Travis. I do enjoy being with men. A lot. I'd like to meet a man who could accept me as I am, but I don't know how to go about it. If I went to a gay bar, I'd be approached by the women, not the men. I know."

She twitched a bit and looked at her lifelong friend. "And this fanciful paragon of masculinity would need to understand that . . . I still like women, too."

Chrissy nodded, not so much in agreement as in encouragement. "Omni-sexual, like you said? Or was that Heather?"

"We're the same," Hope said. "I don't really have two personalities. It's just that - especially for Heather - it helps to, um, immerse myself in the personality as completely as possible. To act as though the other part of me is another person, not just another outfit. Does that make sense?"

Chrissy nodded, smiling in obvious relief. "Actually, yes. I was, um, a bit worried. When you told me Heather's tale you were so into it that it was like you were another person. Heavy-lidded eyes, sidelong glances, teasing little smirks . . . deep breathing. It was spooky. But you don't really get lost in there, do you?

"Not really," Hope promised. "I mean, I know it's an act . . . or at least, a selection." She sighed and looked out the window again, then said, "Though sometimes I forget I was ever Ryan. He seems like . . . well, like Faith's original story. Like someone I grew up with, and know really well, but not me. Being Hope seems more real to me."

"You've made it real," Chrissy said. "Are you okay with that?"

"I guess so," Hope said, smiling more naturally. "Oh, certainly overall. I love being Hope and Heather is more fun than the law allows. But there is that problem of Mister, Miss, or whatever Right."

"Tell me about it," Chrissy said dryly. After a moment, she shook herself and turned that into a shrug. "So, what brings you back to our neck of the woods?"

"You mean, visiting my BFF isn't enough?" Hope teased.

"Of course it is," Chrissy said. "But that's always true. Why now? It's been . . . what? . . . six months since the last time we talked, and most of five years since you left."

"About that," Hope agreed. She smiled and twirled a heavy lock of hair for a moment. It was an obvious stall, and when she realized what she was doing she blushed and put her hands in her lap. "Actually, I was hoping to get a chance to talk with Jessica."

"About her surgery?"

"Well, if she wants to talk about that," Hope said. "I hope she's happy . . ."

"Ecstatic is a better word," Chrissy supplied.

"But what I'm more interested in is some of her contacts. The gays and lesbians talk about being open-minded and tolerant, but the ones I've met want to pigeonhole you as much as the straights do. I was thinking that it might be, um, interesting to touch base with the transgender crowd, and thought Jessica might know someone."

Then Hope frowned and said, "Unless . . . has she put all that behind her? I mean, now that only her gynecologist knows for sure, is she living as a straight? I don't want to break open something she's keeping secret."

Chrissy smiled. "Well, she's living as a straight woman. That part is right. And you didn't hear it from me, but her boyfriend may be shopping for rings . . ."

"Good for her," Hope said. "And for him. She's special."

"Absolutely," Chrissy agreed. "But she's still very much hooked into the transsexual community. She works as a counselor in a surgeon's office - the one that did her final procedure. And while she wouldn't tell you anything she learned while actually working, she's kept her contacts up."

Hope smiled, but worry clouded her eyes. "Do you think that would be a good idea? For me, I mean?"

"Oh, hell yes," Chrissy said. "Rich, gorgeous, and - in Heather's words - 'omni-sexual.' Girl, you'll be beating them off with a stick."

As soon as she finished her upbeat promise, Chrissy's face became more serious. "Truly, Hope, I think this will be a good thing for you. I can tell you're lonely."

"Sometimes," Hope admitted, eyes glistening.

"And horny!" Chrissy said, ostentatiously returning to cheerfulness.

"All the time," Hope said, playing along. She sent a message of thanks with her eyes for Chrissy's understanding.

Chrissy smiled in return, which widened into a grin, then spilled over into titters which grew to full-fledged hoo-raws. "Oh, god, when Jessica introduces you around, no one is going to believe you're not a genetic girl. They're going to think you're there because you're bisexual . . . which you are. Then, when they find out the rest, the irony of it will be the talk of the town for . . . well, forever."

"Oh, you think so?" Hope said, but in contrast to Chrissy's humor, the blonde woman was pensive. After a moment, an idea came to her and it was her turn to laugh. "I don't want a, um, reputation that big following me back to Hope's territory, but I can always be Faith again while I'm here. Maybe I'll visit Erin Reilly."

"Be Heather. You won't have time for anything else," Chrissy suggested.

"I'll always have time for Faith, Hope, and lots of lovin'" her friend claimed, and they both knew it would be true.

Finis