“I thought Wrestlemania was only up to number sixteen.”

“My mistake, Donald. We’ll call you at seven. Make sure you’re there.”

“With bells on, babe.”

“Where’d you come up with that?” I said as we took a cab back to Dorchester to drop off our luggage, clean up, replace the guns we’d lost in Florida, and get our car.

“I don’t know. Stoneham. AAF. They seem to go together.”

“The only station that really rocks,” I said. “Dude.”

I took a fast shower after Angie’s and came back into the living room to find her rummaging through piles of her clothes. She wore a pair of black boots, black jeans, and no shirt over her black bra as she went through a stack of T-shirts.

“Mistress Gennaro,” I said. “My, my. Whip me, beat me, make me write bad checks.”

She smiled at me. “Oh, you like this look?”

I let my tongue fall over my lip and panted.

She came over to me, a black T-shirt hanging from her index finger. “When we get back here later, feel free to take it all off.”

I panted some more and she gave me a beautiful, wide grin, mussed my hair with her hand.

“Sometimes you’re sorta cute, Kenzie.”

She turned to walk back to the couch and I reached out and caught her around the waist, pulled her back to me. Our kiss was as long and deep as the first one we’d had in the bathroom the night before. Maybe longer. Maybe deeper.

When we broke from it, her hands on my face, mine on her lower back, I said, “I’ve been meaning to do that all day.”

“Don’t control your impulses next time.”

“You’re fine with last night?”

“Fine? I’m great.”

“Yes,” I said, “you are.”

Her hands came down my cheeks, rested on my chest. “When this is over, we’re going away.”

“We are?” I said.

“Yes. I don’t care if it’s to Maui or just down the street to the Suisse Chalet, but we’re putting a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and ordering room service, and we’re staying in bed for a week.”

“Whatever you say, Mistress Gennaro. You’re the boss.”

Donald Yeager took one look at Angie in her black leather jacket, jeans, boots, and Fury in the Slaughterhouse concert T-shirt with the rip over her right rib cage, and I’m quite sure he started composing his letter to the Penthouse Forum on the spot.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“Mr. Yeager?” she said. “I’m Candy Swan from WAAF.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” she said.

He opened his apartment door wide. “Come in. Come in.”

“This is my assistant, Wild Willy.”

Wild Willy?

“Yeah, yeah,” Donald said, hustling her in and barely glancing at me. “Nice to meet you and shit.”