My Boss is a Serial Killer by Christina Harlin

again.”
    “ Understood. I’m sorry. It’s just that
we knew her at the office. And everybody there is so bored, they’ll
do about anything to pass the time. A murder investigation, well,
that’s almost as interesting as The Time a Car Hit the Building and
We Thought it was a Bomb.”
    I could see I was going to have to explain
that one.

*****
    I tried not to whine like a disappointed kid
when Gus told me that he had to take me home at six. How we were
going to run off to Vegas for a quickie wedding if he had to take
me home at six? He confessed that he had many errands to run and
had to be at work early Sunday morning. To his credit, he added
that if he’d known things were going to go so well between us, he
would have kept more of his evening free.
    Before we left Gus’s house, I went upstairs
to wish Lyvia luck on her term paper. She looked a little
bleary-eyed and didn’t seem pleased with her work so far. I might
add here that I won major brownie points when I paused to help her
use the auto-number feature in her word processor. Occasionally the
skills of a secretary, which seem so mundane and repetitive when
you perform them forty-five hours a week, look like incredible
magic to the inexperienced. If there was one thing I can do, it’s
work a word processor. Pleased that I could contribute to the good
of others, I wrote my phone number down for her. “If that thing
gives you any more trouble,” I said, gesturing to the computer’s
screen, “feel free to call me. I’ll make it behave.”
    “ The hell with Gus,” said Lyvia. “I
think I’m going to ask you out.”
    I walked outside with my afternoon date,
squashing the desire to ask what he had to do that evening. That
was none of my business unless he offered. I got a clue, though,
when he opened his garage to retrieve a gas can. It was possible
that his big Saturday night plans involved mowing his yard. My
relief—secretly I had feared he might have another date lined up, a
lingerie model with a degree in nuclear physics, or hooker with a
heart of gold, something like that—anyway, my relief was bright but
also brief, because in his garage I saw that he had a Harley.
Nothing fancy, but hard and sleek, well loved and cared for. It was
one of those great black motorcycles that tough, misunderstood bad
boys ride, straight out of a movie. I damn neared swooned.
    “ Oh, Lord,” I said weakly. “Oh my God,
you have a motorcycle.”
    “ Eh.” I’d made him shy
again.
    “ What kind is it?”
    Gus looked fondly at the bike. He said, “It’s
a Softail Deuce,” with a throaty undertone that made me dizzy. “I
like to ride when the weather’s good. I’m not a Hell’s Angel or
anything. You’re not afraid of them, are you?”
    It was hard for me to speak through the
aneurysm—or was it an orgasm? Felt a little like both. Yeah, I’m
one of those women who get a little light-headed over a motorcycle.
“One of those women,” in that I think there are only five women in
existence, probably holed up in some Quaker town, who don’t love
motorcycles. And the big devil hadn’t told me up front, “I own one
of your fantasy toys, wanna see me sit on it?” Oh, no. He’d let me
see the dowdy sedan first.
    “ Not afraid of motorcycles,” I said. My
knees were weak.
    “ Great. Well maybe…when it gets a
little warmer, we can, you know, go for a ride.”
    “ Uh-huh.”
    “ That was really nice, what you did for
Lyvia with the computer.”
    “ Piece of cake,” I said. “I do that
stuff every day.”
    “ I can tell. It all looks like voodoo
to me.” Gus put his hands in his pockets, a little insolent and
challenging.
    I just couldn’t help it. He was the finest
thing I’d laid eyes on in years and the nicest thing that had
happened to me since I found Bill Nestor. Three steps brought me
flush against his impressively broad and immensely hard body, and I
kissed him. Firm at first, hardly more than affectionate, just in
case he recoiled in