The Body in the Backyard (Riley Thorn #4)

by Lucy Score

“Come on, Riley. Squeeze those beautiful thighs,” Nick ordered. “I. Hate. You,” she said through gritted teeth as she powered through the last three reps. Her quads were quaking. Her hamstrings were trembling. Whatever the musculature of her outer hips was called, it was screaming at her. She was red-faced and bathed in sweat. Worst of all, she was still half-asleep. At this ungodly hour, Nick’s gym was full of glistening, awake people who were tackling free weights and machines with a grim determination. “That’s my girl,” he said, holding up a hand for a high five that she ignored. “Hey, you’re the one who insists on being put in danger on a weekly basis. This is how you get in fighting shape.”

“All right. Fine. You win. I don’t want to be in danger. You can lock me in a closet. I surrender,” she muttered. Nick tugged the towel off her face and gave her the full Santiago dimple charm. “Too late for that. We’ve already established that closets aren’t safe. So until we have a cool sex room accessible only via retinal scanner, you’re in danger boot camp.” “What did you do to Riley?” Weber asked, peering down at her. “I made her get out of bed,” Nick said and hauled her to her feet.

Nick mopped Riley’s face with a fresh towel. “Well, my girl here just IDed a dozen or so new suspects last night while we were fighting bad guys.” Riley was still just the teensiest bit jealous that she missed out on thwarting an armed robbery. “Lay it on me,” Weber said. “I hate how awake and alive you both are,” she complained. “Boot camp’s going well, I see,” Weber said with a smirk.

“My mom and sister and I accidentally stumbled into a Griffin Gentry Sucks Support Group for women who have been wronged by him.” “Like, an actual support group?” Weber asked. “They had balloons and an easel sign and these,” Riley said, pulling the crumpled, sweat-soaked cocktail napkin out of the pocket of her tights. Grimacing at the napkin’s saturation level, Weber unfurled it.

“You want to get big and strong to fight suspects, don’t you?” he teased. “I fail to see how shoulder presses are going to turn me into a lean, mean, bad guy–fighting machine,” Riley said as her trapezius muscles began to spasm. “First rule of danger boot camp: don’t question danger boot camp,” he said.

In the mirror, she watched Chupacabra shoulder the bar and drop into a low squat as if the weights were made of tissue paper. “I hope you’re not expecting me to do that,” she said to Nick. “Baby, I don’t think I can do that. And stop stalling. Next set.” “Your mom’s next set,” she puffed. “Nice try. We’ll add trash-talking to the danger boot camp syllabus.” “Can’t. Wait.”

She sweated her way through four more reps while Chupacabra breezed through another set of ten. “Gah! Fifty.” Weber collapsed to the floor, sweating and panting. “Is she still looking?” “You did not just do fifty ...

“Hard to forget the best name ever. This is my friend Yan.” Nick gestured at Weber. “He’s visiting from Sweden. He makes clocks for dollhouses.” “Nice to meet you, Yan,” Chupacabra said, offering her hand to Weber. “Yah. Is pleasant to meet you as well,” Weber said in a reasonable-sounding Swedish accent while shaking her hand. “A clockmaker?” she asked. Weber bobbed his head. “Yah. I makes the teeny tiny clocks. And you? You make clocks?”

Weber frowned in confusion and looked at Nick. Nick gestured at Chupacabra. “Hon slår pingviner som Arnold Schwarzenegger.” Riley wasn’t sure if her boyfriend was speaking gibberish or actual Swedish because he did it with such confidence. Weber bobbed his head. “Åh! Ja. Du bär damunderkläder.”

“I hate when you do that to me, Nicky,” Weber complained. Nick snapped him with Riley’s sweat towel. “But you handle it so well.” “Yeah? Well, I get dibs on the next introduction. You’ll be a retired gigolo from the south of France.” “Uh, so where did you two learn Swedish?” Riley asked. “We didn’t. My asshole cousin’s family hosted a high school exchange student from Sweden when we were in junior high,” Nick explained.

“Yeah. So my cousin the asshole⁠—” “Brian or Carlo the plumber?” Riley clarified. “Different asshole cousin. The then cheerleader, now physical therapist who lives in Baltimore. She told us she’d teach us some Swedish phrases to impress Astrid,” Nick continued. “Oh boy,” she said, getting a glimpse of teenage Nick and Weber—gawky in braces and pubescent bodies—eagerly memorizing phrases written in a notebook. “Yeah. Needless to say, we weren’t actually saying, ‘You’re the hottest girl ever,’ and ‘I’m mature for my age,’” Nick said, clapping a hand to her shoulder. It slid right off as if she’d rubbed herself down with bacon grease. He wiped his hand on his shorts.

Riley held her towel over her face and eased into the next row of lockers to eavesdrop over the sound of a shower…and the woman in it singing Mariah Carey. She closed her eyes and did her best to hit the mute button on the Mariah wannabe so she could focus on Chupacabra’s voice.

When she returned to the gym, Nick and Weber were in side-by-side squat racks in what was clearly a macho contest. Riley noted neither of them had nearly as much weight on the bar as Chupacabra had. Nick dumped the bar into the cradles and bent at the waist. “Jesus. My spleen,” he complained. “That’s not where your spleen is, idiot. Did you ever even take an anatomy class?” Weber huffed as he tried to catch his breath. “I know where all the important stuff is,” Nick insisted, panting. He spotted her in the mirror and straightened, pretending not to be winded. “Hey, babe. I beat Weber in squats. What did you find out?” “Your gym shorts are on fire,” Weber retorted.

“Nicely done. Now, get that sexy ass of yours on the treadmill,” Nick said and gave her sweaty rear end a slap. She balked. “Shouldn’t we go run down this lead? Or get some doughnuts? Or take shower naps?” “There’s no time-outs in danger boot camp for doughnuts and shower sex,” her mean boyfriend insisted. “I said shower nap, not sex,” she grumbled. “Treadmill. Now.” “For what it’s worth, I’d take you for doughnuts,” Weber called after her as she trudged toward her cardio fate. His sentence was cut off by a grunt of pain, which Riley guessed meant Nick had elbowed him in the stomach.

She glanced behind her and found the big strong, danger-taunting men locked in what appeared to be a stand-up wrestling match. An aggravated employee with tattoos down both arms stomped over with a spray bottle and squirted them both in the face. “Damn it, Sheila!” Nick sputtered. “Don’t make me arrest you for assaulting an officer,” Weber threatened, using the hem of his T-shirt to dry his face. The man had a six-pack as impressive as Nick’s. Riley made a mental note to relay that information to Jasmine. “You remember what happened last time you dumbasses got into a tickle fight? You knocked over the water cooler, turned this place into an aquacise class, and got banned for six months.” Nick and Weber broke apart.

“Sorry, Sheila,” they grumbled. She gave them each one last squirt in the face, then turned to Riley. “Here. Hang on to this. You might need it,” she said, handing over the bottle. It was labeled Testosterone Antidote. “What’s in it?” Riley asked. “Rose-scented f...

“I get the feeling those two don’t have a traditional relationship,” Weber said while his long legs effortlessly ate up the speed. “If you call getting married for the adultery clause payout in the prenup nontraditional,” Nick said. “How’d you dig that up?” Weber asked. Nick hooked his thumb in Riley’s direction. “Hot psychic girlfriend.” “Speaking of things we’re doing after I die on this treadmill. Don’t forget we’re babysitting tonight,” Riley reminded him on a wheeze. She was already out of breath, and her feet were hitting the belt like they were encased in Gene Simmons’s platform stage boots. Weber snorted. “Someone’s trusting Nick with their child?” “Three childs, dickhead. I’m Uncle Nick. I’m the favorite.”

“He’s in a competition with Gabe for my nieces’ affection,” Riley explained on a wheeze. “Of course he is. Who else do you have eyes on?” Weber asked. She couldn’t believe the guys were carrying on a normal conversation while running. “Nice try. I gave you the tit. Where’s my tat?” Nick said. Weber grimaced. “Don’t ever say that again.” “You know what I mean.”

Riley was doing her best to listen and keep her feet moving, but her migrating appendix and newly asthmatic breathing were demanding more and more of her attention.

“Maybe it’s the lawyer.” “Could be, but then why did he fly back commercial and leave a perfectly good airplane behind?” Weber reminded Nick. Nick shrugged. “Maybe he likes those shitty bags of pretzels? Or maybe he wanted to make sure his guys kept their mouths shut?” Riley liked this scenario where all the bad guys had left the country.

Riley nervously glanced behind her to see if anyone sinister was lurking in the shadows and immediately stumbled. Nick and Weber both grabbed her by the soaking wet tank top and righted her without breaking stride. “Don’t worry your pretty little sweaty face, Thorn. I’m working on a contingency plan,” Nick assured her. “Don’t even think about bringing them to my condo,” Weber said. “Mrs. Penny would drink you out of house and home in under twenty minutes,” Nick predicted. He was keeping things light, but Riley caught a distinct whiff of “this is going to suck” from her sweaty, sprinting boyfriend. Nick peered over her to sneak a look at Weber’s treadmill display, then bumped his speed up another notch. “It’s not a race, Santiago.” “It’s always a race.”

“Why do you keep sniffing your armpits?” Nick asked as Riley did exactly that for the third time as they crossed the parking lot toward the spa entrance under the cheery green awning.

“Baby, you’ve got that ‘just worked out’ dewy glow. No one’s going to know that it’s not from shoving your head under a goop fountain or whatever the hell they do here,” he said with confidence. “You’ve never been to a spa, have you?” she guessed as he took her hand and led her through the door. “It never landed on my list of things to do.” The idea of putting on a bathrobe and letting a complete stranger rub weird concoctions all over you held little to no appeal to him. “Well, I’ve always wanted to come here as a legitimate guest, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get us kicked out.”

A woman in her midfifties, wearing a white skirt and carrying a tennis racket, jogged down the stairs toward them. “Excuse me,” Nick said, turning on the charm. “You’re Sabrina Van Der Woodsen, aren’t you? It’s me, Bojack Flintstone, class of 2002.” The woman blinked, then frowned. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong gal. I’m Matty West, and I wish I were class of 2002.” “Sorry.” He feigned chagrin. “You look just like her.” She continued on down the hall. “What was that about?” Riley asked. “That was just in case. Game face, Thorn,” Nick said as he reached for the door handle to the spa entrance. “Wait. What’s the plan?” Riley demanded. He winked. “Part of danger boot camp. Learning to adapt to unpredictable situations.”

Nick wondered if working in a spa was relaxing or if the employees got in their cars at the end of the day and blasted death metal music.

“My wife and I are staying here and were wondering if we could get a tour. We just moved to the area and are particular about our spas,” Nick said with a friendly smile as he helped himself to the dish of Hershey’s Kisses next to the card reader. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Riley pasted what Nick could only assume was a spa fan girl smile on her pretty face. “Yah! I’m from Sweden. Ve invented Swedish massage.”

They sidled off and pretended to admire a display of chocolate-flavored lip balms. “You invented Swedish massage?” Riley shrugged smugly as she picked up a tube of some kind of cocoa-scented face goop. “What? I wanted you to feel like you were finally getting your shot with the hot foreign exchange student.” He shook his head. “One of a kind, Thorn. One of a kind.”

“That’s Helga to you. So how are we going to question Bella if we have a spa tour guide tagging along?” Riley asked in a hushed tone as a man and woman with matching robes and shiny, blissed-out faces wandered in. “One of us will have to make an emergency pit stop at the restroom,” Nick decided. “Ugh. Can’t you just fake an important phone call?” “Strangers are willing to wait around while you take a call. They don’t want to hover outside a bathroom door when they know a toilet is about to be violated,” he explained. “Valid.”

A six-foot-tall dude with gray hair and one of those cool Vandyke beards strolled up. He was wearing a spa uniform. “Mr. and Mrs. West?” To Nick’s ear, he sounded a hell of a lot like the cartoon cat Puss in Boots. Nick didn’t consider himself well-versed on what constituted an attractive man, but judging from the hungry looks every woman in the room was throwing his way, Silver Fox was hot...

Hector held out a hand to Nick. He reluctantly released Riley and shook. The guy had a grip like Sylvester Stallone in Over the Top. “That’s a strong hand you’ve got there, Hector.” The man released him. “It comes from years of massaging sore muscles.” His attention shifted to Riley. “A pleasure,” Hector said, taking Riley’s hand in both of his. Her cheeks turned a distinct shade of pink. “Hi,” she squeaked, forgetting her accent. Hector released her hands and gestured toward the door. “Please, follow me.” Behind his back, Nick nudged Riley. “Hi,” he mouthed, pretending to toss his hair flirtatiously. “He’s so pretty,” she mouthed back. “I’m pretty too,” he hissed in her ear. She patted his cheek. “Of course you are, Mr. West.”

“Tell Hector you have the runs and go pump her for information,” he said. She was already shaking her head. “Uh-uh. No way.” Nick put the cup under the first thermos he spotted and opened the spout. “You’re just saying that because he’s hot.” “First of all, I’m proud of you for finally recognizing another man’s physical appeal without wanting to challenge him to a pissing contest.” “Usually it’s a push-up contest. Pissing contests are too messy and hard to judge unless you both have a liquid measuring cup.”

“Fine. But if that guy tries to get you in bed, I wanna know immediately.” “Deal. Now try to look like you’re clenching your butt cheeks really hard,” she teased.

He took the seat next to her and stretched out his legs. “You’ve been avoiding my calls,” he said. A woman in a brown robe lowered her e-reader and shushed him. Bella looked up, startled. “Oh, hi, Nick.” “Don’t ‘oh, hi, Nick’ me. Your fiancé nearly got shot yesterday, and you’re too busy getting body parts oiled up to care? Seems a little cold to me.”

“Really? How is hiding away at a spa going to help keep your fiancé alive?” “You’re the one who’s supposed to be keeping him alive. That’s what rich people do. They hire not-rich people to solve their problems.” “I’d be more inclined to make sure he doesn’t get his ass murdered if I knew he’d actually pay when this is all over.” “I can make sure that happens,” Bella insisted earnestly. “Yeah. Right. I’ll believe that when I see it.” “Fine. What if I help you in another way?” “If you even think about hitting on me right now, I’m dumping this cocoa on you and telling everyone you touched my no-no spot,” he warned.

He’d almost reached the end of the hallway when he heard a familiar moan. “What the hell?” he demanded, stopping in the open doorway of the last room on the right. Riley was facedown on a massage bed—fully clothed, thank freaking God—and Hector’s hands were on her. “You have beautiful spinal flexibility,” Hector told her. “It’s the yoga,” she said on another sex-noise moan. “I thought I told you not to let this guy talk you into bed,” Nick complained.

“Yeah, I’m not really into the whole stranger-rubbing-me-down-while-someone-plays-the-pan-flute thing,” Nick confessed, glaring Hector down. “You’ve never experienced a massage?” Hector asked. A single silver eyebrow arched gracefully. “It’s not really my jam. But clearly it is my wife’s jam.”

She cupped his face in her hands. They smelled vaguely of chocolate. “I’m asking you to be brave and do this one nice thing for yourself.” “I’m brave. I’m fucking heroic. I got shot at and thwarted a robbery. I carry on conversations with your grandmother,” he reminded her. “Then you must try,” Hector said, patting the massage bed. “Fine. But I’m going to hate every second of it,” Nick promised. “I’m going to go get some tea,” Riley said dreamily as she floated out of the room. “Get the hot cocoa,” Nick said, reluctantly putting his face in the squishy round cradle at the top of the bed. Every muscle in his body was as rigid as Home Depot’s lumber section. The things he did for his woman.

“So much tension,” Hector mused. “You must carry many responsibilities.” “Actually my life is pretty chill—oh God. Oh sweet baby Jesus,” Nick moaned as Hector’s fingers gripped his rigid shoulders.

Nick fought to cling to his comfort zone for another ten seconds before the war was lost. “I’m not really a guest here. I’m a PI and I didn’t have the runs. I was questioning a suspect or a witness or whatever the hell she is,” he blurted out. “Interesting,” Hector said as his hands moved down Nick’s spine, pressing and stretching and rubbing as they went. “I grew up in a competitive family and never learned how to have healthy relationships,” Nick continued into the face cradle. “That is very common and is nothing to be ashamed of,” Hector assured him. “Once when I was in junior high, I stole my dad’s car, drove to his restaurant in the middle of the night, and deep-fried an entire bag of mozzarella sticks. I ate the whole thing, drove home, and threw up in my bed. The marinara sauce made it look like I was bleeding internally, and my parents took me to the emergency room. It cost them five grand.” He felt something strong and hard dig into the muscle just below his shoulder blade. An elbow? A knee? A goddamn crowbar? Nick didn’t care.