Right. I think I’ve gotten the hang of this keyboard now. Stupid qwerty layout – did a man come up with that? Trent visiting Mike’s neighbours has me bloody worried. The guy’s going to get himself killed. Geordie’s not the stable type, you know? He’d pull the trigger then he’d throw the gun across the room and collapse on the body, weeping – but Trent would still be dead. And yeah, he’s a PI and he knows the risks in this sort of case, but I’d still feel bad. Mostly because if he knew what had gone on, there’s no way he’d have just wandered over, friendly, unarmed. Fuck! If anything happens to him, it’s definitely my fault.
I suppose you’re wondering what the hell happened that Trent won’t know about, right? I bet Mike’s told him some dumbarse story about catching me in bed with them, and losing the plot, and accidentally killing me. Funny, but I just can’t get that information out of Trent. Not sure whether it’s customer confidentiality keeping his mouth shut – what a bloody weird parody of customer care that is! – or whether he has old-fashioned notions about not telling a lady about rumours besmirching her reputation. No good telling him I’m no lady. Although if Geordie loses the plot and tells all, even some, that fact’s going to be bloody obvious to him.
OK. Bean-spilling time. I slept with Geordie and Lazarus. Not for the sex itself, although God, the sex was fantastic. Those two have their major faults, but in the bedroom – together or individually – those boys are perfect. Both muscled, strong and incredibly gentle. And surprisingly aware of female anatomy for avowed gay guys. But anyway, I didn’t sleep with them for the sex, at least at first. I slept with them because Mike asked me to. He wanted in on the action, but he needed a hook. Me.