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by Gaea
Rated: XGC · Book · Detective · #2163862
A private investigator finds herself in a case bigger than expected, and finds herself...
(Please note this is the first draft. I'm also in the process of "cleaning up" a version of this story, to make it less graphic. I still have much work to do though, and any input is welcome. Also, I'm having issues with the formatting, and can't seem to edit the other entries after the first, so if anyone has any tips for me, that'd be great.)




Private (Shadows)


Chapter 1


Lisa slammed the Camaro’s door trying to juggle her coffee, bagel sandwich, purse, briefcase, and camera while getting drenched. She loved Oregon, just not the rain. She hurried up the stairs to her office and struggled with the keys for a moment before she got the right one into the lock without dropping anything. She pushed the door open with her hip, and yelped in surprise as a hand grabbed her shoulder. Dropping everything, she whirled around, fists ready for her attacker.
         “Damn, I love it when you get all riled up and ready to fight,” laughed her assailant.
         “Jeremy, you are a grade-A Asshole. Why can't you just say 'hi' like a normal person, or at least not hide in the shadows?”
         “That hurt! I was trying for 'Bastard', anyway, I wasn't in the shadows, I was just coming around the corner when I saw you open the door. I'll buy you another cup of coffee, but you're on your own for the bagel.”
         Jeremy Watt had been her private investigation partner at Shadows for two years, but a friend for five. He stood a little over six feet tall, his thick black hair and green eyes made women melt, especially when he flashed his sweet little-boy smile. Lisa was immune to his looks and thought of him more as a brother.
         Lisa bent to clean up the mess of bagel, coffee, and strewn papers. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were supposed to be in Philly on that missing brother case?”
         Jeremy grimaced, and replied, “Nope, found him last night at a strip club in Vegas; the guy claims he had amnesia after a fender-bender, woke up in Vegas, so decided to stay a couple days.”
         “What bullshit. He just wanted his sister to worry and let him move back in after she forgives him for totaling her car,” Lisa said.
         “Pretty much, but either way, I get paid. And, as a bonus, I picked up two more jobs for us this morning.”
         “Us, as in you and I working together, or us, meaning I do most of the work while you sit on your ass and look at porn on the internet while pretending to work?”
         “Hey, that's research, and highly valuable to our work!”
Lisa lowered her chin, raised an eyebrow and gave him a “really now?” look.
         “Ok, fine. But I won't be watching internet porn, this time it's a live show. The owner of the strip club last night hired me to look into a few things for him.”
         “I see, and what will I be doing while you “look into” tits and ass all day?” Lisa asked.
         “Well, you will be helping a poor, cuckholded husband gather evidence of his greedy, whoring wife so he can be free of her wanton ways.”
Lisa groaned, "Ugh, I don't want another divorce case. I have four already, how about we switch?"
         “Nope, I wouldn't want to make you have to look at all those bare hooters and coochies. I'll just have to get through that one on my own. If you really don't want the case, I'll call Jonathan Jacobson back and tell him we are too busy to take the case and refer him to Matthers...”
Toby Matthers is another investigator who works part-time for Shadows.
         “Wait, are you talking about the Jonathan Jacobson, the multi-millionaire
who owns the marina, and half the buildings downtown?"
Jeremy knew he had her hooked and grinned. "I guess I'll go make that call now," he said and turned as if to leave.
         “Walk out that door, and you'll be crawling to the phone to call 911. Of course, I'll take it.”
         “I thought that might change your mind.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Those are his numbers; you have a brunch appointment with him at eleven at The Club.”

         For the next two hours Lisa spent doing online searches for another case, and looking up background information on the Jacobsons. There didn't seem to be much, aside from real estate buys, charity events and the usual public relations crap. The only personal mention she could find was a short article on the present Mrs. Jacobson (number 3), getting a speeding ticket for racing away from the Marina one night a few months ago, after an argument with her husband.
         Lisa got up to stretch and get a water bottle from the mini fridge behind her desk. She paced the room, stretching her back while drinking the water. She decided to take a look at social media, and see if there were any mentions of either Jacobson. The only odd thing she found was a mention of Carol Masters Jacobson under a meme of a cat stalking a bulldog, getting ready to attack. The caption read, “Even The Prettiest Kitties Have Claws,” Someone named Bastard Benny owned the page, but the friends list didn’t show Carol Jacobson. Possibly unconnected, or just a sore ex. Odd, but hardly valuable information.
         She stretched, heated up left over spaghetti for dinner, and started running water in the bathtub for a long soak before calling it an early night. While the water ran, she studied herself in the full-length mirror hanging from the door. She didn’t mind her dark hair that fell a little past her shoulders, but it did need a trim. She always thought her nose was a little too long. She liked her eyes the best; they were a deep hazel, with flecks of green and gold, lined by naturally long lashes. She noted a few small lines at the corners. She lifted her breasts, and remembered to do a lump check. Though she felt they were a little on the small side, she was pleased at the firmness still; no real sag yet. She tried to keep toned and fit, but didn’t get to the gym as often as she should, and had a weakness for Nacho Cheese Doritos; though her thighs weren’t showing her impulse control issue with them yet…not much anyway. She made a metal note to eat more salads. Thinking of impulse control, she looked at her nails. Guiltily, she made a promise for the hundredth or so time to put more effort to stop biting them. Since she’d quit smoking though, it seemed to replace the cancer sticks. She grabbed the clippers and file from the counter next to the sink and started clipping, filing them until they are least weren’t so raggedy. She cleaned the raw, bloody sides of her thumbs; the spots she unconsciously chewed on when thinking hard. Overall, she felt OK about her appearance; there were things she’d change, or need to watch, but not being a vain woman, she didn’t get hung up on any of it.











(*note* Finish fleshing out)







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