Page 58
Oz nodded, humoring the girl. “They… they do all go through that phase, don’t they.” He got out, awkwardly.
Mull tried to hide her snort of laughter.
Hedy pinched the bridge of her nose, obviously feeling like she was mistreated by the world. “Colby, does Thraex know you’re here again, sweetie?”
The girl wandered away without answering, not because she was avoiding the question, just because she was distracted by something.
The woman on stage chased a high note that Mull would have bet no one could have ever possibly hit on their best day, but the woman smashed straight through it effortlessly, apparently still nowhere near the edge of her vocal range.
Bitch.
Mull leaned across the bar so that the bartender could hear her over the music. “We’re looking for Oklahoma Mike.”
Hedy gestured to one of the booths, which was currently empty.
Mull and Oz made their way over to it and sat down, under some original pencil sketches by the sinister architect, “Frank Lloyd Wrong .”
Mull tapped her finger on the table, getting bored. She was used to doing more than this. On the average day, she would have killed like… a dozen people by now. This whole “investigation” thing was really hurting her game.
On the other hand, she was having drinks with Oz at the moment, so this technically counted as their second date. Well… if you counted her almost dying in the hospital as their first date, anyway.
The thought made her smile, realizing that it was entirely true.
Mull was on a date .
She beamed at Oz, feeling like this was really the start of a beautiful afternoon .
“I think this fork was used in a murder.” Oz remarked as he examined the tableware, his face drawn up in horror and disgust.
Mull’s smile faded.
Dating was probably easier for some women than it was for her.
The song ended, and the crowd of killers and villains silently parted before the singer as she made her way from the small stage, like she was completely untouchable and everyone in the room knew it.
Mull finished off her scotch and absently watched the woman. She had dark hair and large intense greyish-green eyes. She was wearing a tuxedo jacket and a matching fedora cocked at a jaunty angle.
She cut a striking figure.
She was breasts and legs and shiny neon sex.
Nat thought there were two kinds of pretty: there was “pretty” and then there was “mean girl pretty.”
This woman was “mean girl pretty.” If she were an actress, it would be impossible for her to ever be anything other than the beautiful rich girl who picked on the overly plain heroine at high school parties, or the villainess who seduced the hero.
She would play strippers and femme fatales and rich ex-girlfriends.
She vamped it up with James Bond. She was the naked woman in the scene added to liven up a dull section of the film.
When Vin Diesel walked into a bar in Moscow, this was the bitch you cast to be the incredibly hot and slutty woman sitting next to the mobbed-up Russian gangster Vin was there to kill.
She didn’t even say anything in the scenes, because her perfect tits did all her talking for her.
She’d look ridiculous and out of place in any other part, because she always came off as mysterious, seductive, and cruel.
No matter what she was doing, every movement seemed sexual and vindictive.
Like she wasn’t even a real person, she was a masturbatory fantasy brought to life.
She had no emotions other than lust, sex appeal, and the desire to take your man.
Natalie herself was “nice pretty.” Or more accurately, “cute.” She could never be taken seriously as a villain.
Or hero. Or adult, really. She wasn’t even the kind of pretty which could ever realistically be a main love interest. She was…
she was the “nice girl” who dated the heroine’s brother.
Hers was a simple kind of romance. Her clothes would stay on through the entire film.
If you were “Nice Girl Pretty,” you were mainly playing flighty kindergarten teachers and the giggling woman who worked at the pet store.
You couldn’t intimidate anyone and it would be utterly wrong to pair you with the hero of the film.
No one would go see that movie. No one cared about you, unless you died horribly from some wasting disease, to show the loss of innocence.
Thinking of someone Nice Girl Pretty as a sexual object was just…
It would be like thinking of Shirley Temple as having hot nasty sex.
It was just weird and wrong, no matter her age.
Holly was right: no one like Natalie would ever have kinky sexual adventures. It just wasn’t in the cards for her.
Mull had detested Nat’s Nice Girl Prettiness her entire life. It was a constant struggle.
But this woman looked like an evil temptress, waiting to pull men into her erotic web of deceit. It seemed inconceivable that there’d ever be a time when she w asn’t having incredible sex.
This was the girl you would never be and the one you could never have. The unobtainable.
Yep.
Natalie was very jealous of that.
That fucking bitch.
The woman nodded at them in greeting as she slid into the booth. “Oklahoma Mike.” Her voice was a smoky purr, like Lauren Bacall’s even sexier and more exotic great-granddaughter.
“That’s an interesting name for a woman.” Oz remarked, looking entirely un-excited by the fact he was meeting a woman who looked like she routinely drove cartoon wolves mad with lust. “Were you born in Oklahoma?”
The woman arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Were you born in ‘Oswald’?”
“Well, is ‘Mike’ short for something?”
“Yes.”
They both waited for the woman to elaborate.
Good manners would have said not to pry into the woman’s affairs, but Mull had never been accused by anyone of having good manners.
“What?” She didn’t particularly care, but if the woman didn’t want her to know, then Mull really wanted to know.
It was the principle of the thing. Again, Mull wasn’t really a rule-follower. “Michela? Michelle?”
“Carlene.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s an illogical world.”
The table fell into silence.
“ Fine .” The woman rolled her eyes in irritation.
“I was born in Wellesburg, Pennsylvania. My birthday is Feb 19 th . My middle name is Jude. I’m 5’9”, 117 pounds.
My measurements are 34C-24-35. I prefer the mountains to the beach, white wine to red.
I’m terrified of airplane travel and piranhas.
I have no pets. My favorite book is The Half Giraffe Telegraph.
I dislike bad hygiene and people who are mean to me.
I love strong men who keep their promises, and snowy nights cuddled up by the fire with a trashy book.
I enjoy model railroading, and as a little girl, I dreamed of working at a zoo because I love animals.
” She folded her hands on the table in front of her, arching an eyebrow again.
“Was that it? Just a recap of my centerfold bio? Is that why I had to come down here and talk to you?”
She exuded a calm businesslike power. There was no question she thought she was in control of the conversation or that she knew exactly what she was doing at all times. In fact, she seemed like one of the most confident people Mull had ever met, smugly so.
She regarded them silently with her almost hypnotically pale green gaze, looking equal parts bored and calculating.
Of course she’d have sexy bedroom eyes which seemed to glow from within like moonstones.
What else would she possibly have?
Mull might have just discovered her nemesis. Ronnie was evil and trying to kill her, but this bitch she really hated.
She wanted to get Oz away from her as quickly as possible. There was no telling what kinds of seductive things she could do to him which would catch his eye. And Mull had not invested years in carefully grooming Oz to be her boyfriend to lose him to some other woman.
Oklahoma seemed to be barely restraining an eye roll. “I know your names, but I’m still confused as to just who you people are?”
“I’m Riggs, he’s Murtaugh.” Mull explained matter-of-factly.
“Okay.” Oklahoma nodded, as if that explained everything. “And the purpose of this delightfully mismatched partnership is…?” She trailed off, inviting them to finish.
“We’re on a case.”
“Do super-types really have ‘cases’?” Oklahoma raised one perfectly manicured red fingernail to the bartender, ordering something. “Isn’t that usually the domain of private detectives?”
Mull shrugged. “When you have super-powers, you can have anything you want.”
Oz obviously wasn’t in the mood to beat around the bush with this woman, and got right down to business. “Do you know anything about missing empowered people in the city of late? ”
Oklahoma’s expression remained unaffected. “Why?” She asked immediately, like her answer might change, depending on the motive behind the question. She suspected that most conversations with the woman involved those kinds of answers.
“You’re a hard person to talk to.” Mull observed.
Oklahoma shrugged again. “I charge by the hour.”
“A few days ago,” Oz reached into his coat pocket and pulled out several photos, "Poacher, Multifarious, and I got called to the scene of a missing teenage girl...”
Mull picked up the story from there. “…we found a random psycho pervert there, with a gunshot to the leg.”
Oklahoma’s brow furrowed. “Who shot him?”
“You a cop?” Mull challenged.
“No.”
Mull waggled her hand in the air. “Let’s say he fell on the bullet.”
“Okay, we can say that.” Oklahoma didn’t appear to care about the lie. “But what did he say?”
“He didn’t survive questioning.”
Oklahoma didn’t appear surprised by that either. “Falls are the second most common deadly accident, particularly when they’re onto a bullet in midflight.”
“Evil is delicate and I don’t pull punches.” Mull explained casually.
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