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Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter nine, part one

“Bea, you’re running late,” Antoinette said in a bossy tone as I dressed for work Monday morning.  I ignored her as she was not the boss of me, no matter what she seemed to think.

A huge yawn escaped from me before I could swallow it.  Rafe and I hadn’t gone to bed until well after two in the morning, and as it was now eight o’clock, I was bushed.  Gone were the days when I could skate by on four or five hours of sleep.  Now, if I didn’t get a solid seven hours, I was a basket case.  It was worth it, though.  A smile crept on my face as I recalled some of the more creative positions in which Rafe and I had found ourselves in last night.  One of them gave me fierce cramps in both legs, but I had been past the point of caring by then.  By the time we were through, we had each had four orgasms in two hours.  Not bad for a night’s work.

“Phillip wants to talk to you at some point today,” Antoinette said, primping in the mirror.

“What for?”  I asked sharply.  I didn’t relish the new boss breathing down my neck, especially if he was anything like his dead brother.

“He wants to get to know his employees,” Antoinette said, her voice reproachful.  “He’s a real hands-on type of guy.”  I refrained from supplying the obvious retort and pulled on the giant duck head.

“Hey, where’s the mouse head?”  I asked casually, trying to make it sound as if I were just making conversation.  “I thought the police were returning it,” I added lightly.

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