Page 102 of The Price of Scandal

“Great.” She held up a set of keys and dangled them. “Want to drive?”

33

Derek

At my behest, the Porsche accelerated like a damn dream. Emily was directing me north through the city.

She sat next to me, sunglasses on and a smile hovering on those lovely lips as we cruised. A near perfect Sunday in my estimation.

“Take the next left,” she said, nodding toward the traffic light.

The color of South Beach and the bustle of downtown Miami were behind us. Buildings here were less concerned with aesthetics and more concerned with function and durability. Mom and pop convenience stores edged into working-class neighborhoods. Commercial buildings squatted on skinny canals.

“Here,” she said, pointing at a long, low building painted bright white.

DIY AHA,the sign read.

I slid into one of the last remaining parking spaces in the lot next to the building.

“Exactly where have you brought me?” I asked, cutting the engine. “Also, I want this car.”

“You’ll see, and you may not have it,” she said, grinning as she climbed out.

“I could steal it,” I mused.

She snatched the keys from my hand. “And I could have you arrested.”

“What good would that do either one of us? Maybe we could work out a trade?”

She tilted her head haughtily.

The cool queen surveying her subject.

“What kind of trade?”

“Miles for orgasms?” I suggested.

“Hold that thought,” she said with a wink, opening the steel door. “Oh, and no pictures. No documenting the next two hours.”

“You make doing my job very difficult,” I complained.

“Back at you, Price.”

Intrigued, I followed her inside.

Thoughts of orgasms evaporated from my mind immediately at the squeals of pre-teen girls occupying a large lab-like classroom. There were a dozen of them in white lab coats and goggles. There didn’t seem to be nearly enough adults present to contain the unstable, excited energy.

“Emily!” Girls in blue latex gloves waved in delight.

“Hey, ladies! I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a lab partner today. This is Derek.”

“Hi, Derek,” fifteen girls chorused before dissolving into giggles.

“Glad you could come.” A woman in a tie-dye lab coat approached. Her safety glasses were on top of her head acting as a headband to her short bushy gray hair. She was wearing Converse sneakers and a wiener dog t-shirt.

“Me, too,” Emily grinned. “Derek, this is Esther. She’s a biochemist and runs things here at DIY AHA. Esther, this is my friend Derek.”

She stumbled a bit over “friend.” I was selfishly glad she didn’t have an easy label for our relationship.