Emma gets up off the rumpled bed and walks back and forth, hands on hips. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to dodge these people if they really want to find us. We have no idea what resources they have, what kind of money they put into research, what–”
“Now that’s what I keep coming back to,” Drin says. “The motive.”
Emma flaps her hand. “Gimme cop rules, for a moment. Evidence first, then guesses on motives.”
Dance throws his arm over his eyes with a long sigh.
Emma says to him, “Tell me again about the people at the cafe.”
“I smelled a gust of bad smell, I looked up, the man’s neck blew up and outward and then the car came at us and something hit us–might have been a chair–and we were rolling away. When we came back past the car, four people in it were dead with their necks blown apart and Drin’s co-worker was crushed under the car tires.”
“Did you know the people in the car?”
“Slightly, from Drin’s work.” Another shrug, as if that’s it.
Emma walks back and forth, elbows stuck out, hands tapping on her hips in the cheap polyester pants. Even the pants can’t obscure the shape of those femme fatale hips, whose width gets bemoaned for excess now and then. Drin wishes he was moaning into them, but of course he wishes that on a very regular basis. “Stop it,” she says crossly, and thwacks Drin with her knuckles as she passes him.
“Stop what?” he says, surprised.
“Thinking that,” she says.
“What?” he says.
“That,” she says, and thumps him again.
He just makes a leering Groucho Marx face, wiggling his mustache.
Dance starts to laugh.
“What?” Drin says again, waggling his eyebrows suggestively instead.
“That, very much that,” Dance says, waving his hand at them both, and he’s hugging himself, shaking with laughter for no reason.
Drin makes more puzzled faces, exaggerating it, until they’re both laughing, and ducking against the pillow Emma is bashing at them both. She bashes it hard, too, wading into them, and then she’s sprawling over Dance, and grabbing Drin’s shoulders close, and then they’re all in a heap with Dance on the bottom. All that weight hurts on his back and low in his pelvis, and he twists around on his side to ease it, still laughing. Drin puts his hand right there, pausing, and says, “You okay?”
“Oh good, yes please,” Dance says, smiling, and sighs as the big warm hand strokes the ache there. “Mmmm,” he says, eyes closed. Emma’s hands start working on his shoulders at the same time, wringing more groans out of him.
“Spoilt,” Emma murmurs, and kisses his cheek, while he smiles.