Truth or Die Read Free

simpatico between Claire and me that allowed each of us to know what the other was about to say or do, based on nothing more than our shared history. For the record, that history was two years of officially dating, followed by the past two years, during which we were just friends (with benefits) because our respective careers had put a major strain on the officially dating thing.
    Oddly enough—or maybe not—we’d never been happier together.
    Claire wrapped her arms around me, smiling. “Just so you know, I always thought it was cute,” she said. “Endearing, even.”
    “And just so you know, it happened over three years ago and I’m pretty sure I was drunk.”
    “You weren’t drunk,” she said.
    “Okay, but it was definitely over three years ago. Shouldn’t there be some kind of statute of limitations?”
    “On a man’s first attempt to talk dirty in bed? I don’t think so.”
    “How do you know it was my first time?”
    She shot me a deadpan look.
“I want to spank you like Santa Claus?”
    All right, she had me there.
    “Fair enough,” I said. “Rookie mistake. In my defense, though, it was right before Christmas.”
    “Of course,” said Claire, “because that’s the first rule of talking dirty in bed.
Keep it topical.
”
    “Okay, now you’re just mocking me.”
    “No, I’m pretty sure I was mocking you before that,” she said. “Tell you what, though, I’m willing to give you a second chance.”
    “No way.”
    “Why not?”
    “Charlie Brown and the football, that’s why,” I said.
    “I promise I won’t laugh this time.”
    “Sure thing, Lucy.”
    “No, really.” Claire lifted her head off the pillow, gently kissing my lower lip. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Mann.”
    I stared at her, waiting for her to say she was only kidding. Calling me by my last name was sometimes a tip-off. Not this time, though.
    “You’re stalling,” she insisted.
    “No, just stumped. Not a lot of holidays in June.”
    Claire chuckled, playing along. She always played along. “You’ve got Flag Day next week,” she said. “Maybe something about your pole?”
    “Very funny.”
    “Speaking of half-mast, though.”
    I glanced down beneath the sheets. “Well, whose fault is that?”
    Claire suddenly grabbed my backside, rolling me like a kayak. Next thing I knew, she was on top and pushing her long auburn hair back from her eyes.
    “Sometimes it just takes a woman,” she said.
    She then leaned down to my ear and whispered a request that was easily the dirtiest thing I’d ever heard her say. Just filthy. X-rated. Obscene.
    And I loved it.
    But before I could show her just how much, we both froze to a horrible sound filling the room.
    Now I really couldn’t believe my ears.

CHAPTER 2
    CLAIRE UNATTACHED herself from me, for lack of a more delicate way to describe it, and reached for “the Stopper” on my bedside table. That was my nickname for it. When it rang, everything else stopped.
    “I’m sorry,” she said before taking the call.
    “You and me both,” I said under my breath.
    In all, Claire owned three cell phones. The first, her iPhone, was for personal use. Friends and family.
    The second, a BlackBerry, was for work. Claire S. Parker, as her byline read, was a national affairs reporter for the
New York Times.
    Her third phone, an old Motorola, was also for work. Except this phone and its number were for a very small and select group. Her sources.
    Which was another reason why the Stopper was a good name for this phone. The identity of these sources stopped with her, cold, end of story. Not her editor, not the executive editor, not even Judge Reginald McCabe had ever been told the name of a single source of Claire’s.
    As far as that last guy, Judge McCabe of the United States District Court, was concerned, he went so far as to charge Claire with contempt when she refused to identify a source after being subpoenaed in a criminal homicide case involving an American military