No Bones About It (Lexi Carmichael Mystery #16)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lexi

The smell of betrayal hit first.

Chocolate cake doesn’t usually have a scent, but hints of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted through the kitchen from this one.

I stealthily padded into the room, dressed in an old sweatshirt, pajama pants, and fuzzy socks.

My long brown hair hung in a messy ponytail, and a pair of my blue-lens computer glasses hung from the front of the sweatshirt.

My name is Lexi Carmichael, and I’m a geek girl, white-hat hacker, and newlywed. Thankfully, none of them are mutually exclusive. I work for a cyberintelligence company called X-Corp in Crystal City, Virginia, helping clients with their cybersecurity issues and information assurance and protection.

Six months into marriage, my husband, Slash, and I were finally starting to resemble something like a normal couple again—at least on the surface. The paparazzi frenzy that followed our wedding had mostly died down. Mostly.

There was still this one guy who refused to give up, sort of the human equivalent of a malware process that wouldn’t terminate.

Slash had long since addressed that problem by quietly dropping a tracker on the man’s car and piping it into an app we affectionately called the Paparazzi Scope, or the Pap App for short.

Then we could know where he was at any given time, making our lives significantly easier.

Still, the thought of him tailing me to Atlantic City later this weekend made my shoulders tense.

Anyway, minutes earlier, I’d been minding my own business, completely in the zone while working on a difficult project in our home office, when I decided I needed a snack. When I arrived in the kitchen, Slash was already there. Six foot two of muscle, gorgeous black hair, and Italian ancestry.

But right now, all I saw was his butt, because his head was stuck in the fridge.

“Hey, are you eating the last piece of cake?” I asked as my eyes narrowed.

Slash startled at my words, clearly exhibiting guilty behavior, then glanced at me over his shoulder. He was mid-bite, his fork hovering over what little was left of a piece of cake, chocolate frosting on his lips.

“Technically, I’m safeguarding the dessert,” he said, straightening and backing out of the fridge.

As the director of the Information Assurance Department at the National Security Agency, or NSA, he probably felt justified in saying that. But I wasn’t buying it.

“Safeguarding chocolate cake?” I exclaimed. “From whom?”

“You,” he said. He bumped the refrigerator door with his hip, closing it, and leaned back against the counter. His eyes gleamed as he raised one of his ridiculously perfect eyebrows. But he did not let go of his plate, nor what was left of the last piece of chocolate cake.

“That was my piece.” I pointed at the plate accusingly. “How could you? You knew what that meant to me. Cake is the structural foundation of my post-wedding stress management.”

He licked his lips slowly. “I’m sorry, cara. It’s been months since the wedding. And, in my defense, you said you were on a diet, so I handled the temptation for you. I thought you’d thank me.”

“I never said I was on a diet,” I clarified. “I said I was watching what I ate. And I wanted to watch that piece of cake while I ate it.”

“Oops,” he said, and then had the audacity to spear the last bite of cake and offer it innocently to me. When I glared, he popped it into his mouth instead, chewing slowly. No remorse. None whatsoever.

“I’m adding this to the marriage rules,” I said, pulling out my phone and swiping to my notes app.

“There will be no eating the last piece of cake without determining ownership. Legally. In writing.” I pointed at the fridge like it had betrayed me.

“Now what am I supposed to do when I lapse into a hunger-fueled spiral at 3:00 a.m. tonight?”

“Wake me up?” he suggested with a smile. “I promise to make it up to you.”

He chuckled as I glared at him. Then he went to the sink to rinse his plate. So, this was marriage? Six months in and it was already rife with pastry betrayal.

My gaze drifted to the kitchen window, the November sunlight filtering through orange maple leaves. I couldn’t stay mad at him. The seasons were changing and so were we. Being married meant learning new rules, renegotiating boundaries, and occasionally installing tracking software on paparazzi.

I’d created a spreadsheet of marriage rules and responses that was a living, working document and offered us guidelines as we traversed uncharted territory.

I think it helped me more than Slash, but he respected and abided by it.

In his defense, the cake thing wasn’t on the spreadsheet.

While it wasn’t explicitly stated in the marriage spreadsheet, it should have been implicitly understood that you don’t eat the last piece of cake without permission.

Apparently, I needed to develop some clarity on implicit rules, if that was possible.

Right now, the spreadsheet included everyday tasks like cleaning, cooking, compromising, and helping keep sane one of my best friends, Elvis Zimmerman, while his fiancée, Gwen Sinclair, got all wound up over their wedding planning.

Having just gotten married myself, dodging anything to do with wedding planning was extremely high on my to-do list. But somehow, I still had to participate in various social engagements with friends and family while managing expectations and friendships and not spiral out of control.

Slash crossed the room and tugged on my hips, pulling me closer. He leaned in for a kiss. Chocolate lingered on his breath. “I sincerely apologize for eating the last piece of cake, cara, and sending you into a potential 3:00 a.m. spiral,” he murmured.

“Not the last piece, but my piece,” I grumbled.

“Your piece,” he amended. “Forgive me?”

“Maybe.” I slid my arms around his neck. “But speaking of spirals, Gwen called. Again.”

A rumble of laughter sounded in his chest. “Let me guess. She either wants you to be a bridesmaid, officiate the ceremony, or optimize the seating chart algorithm.”

“Worse.” I sighed. “Remember that hotel suite she recently won in Atlantic City? Now she wants Gray, Basia, and me to come along with her this weekend. She’s officially calling it her bachelorette party, since you guys are throwing Elvis’s bachelor party here this weekend.”

Slash’s face lit up. “Nice.”

“Nice that I got invited to a party, or nice that me and the other girls will be conveniently gone this weekend?”

“Both.” He grinned and then lifted his hands when he saw my expression. “Hey, just keeping it honest, as Xavier is so fond of saying.”

I studied him. “You don’t seem surprised about the girls’ weekend.”

“Because I already knew about it,” he admitted easily. “Elvis called me an hour ago and told me what Gwen was up to.”

I sighed. “He told you before me?”

He lifted his hands. “Gwen wanted to tell you herself. Otherwise, I’m sure you would have been the first to know.”

“I guess so.” I studied him. “So, what exactly is on the agenda for your exciting bachelor party this weekend?”

“Want to guess?” he asked, amused.

I mulled it over, accepting the challenge. “Cards, probably poker. Whiskey. No actual strippers because Elvis would panic. Xavier will be busy enabling everyone, and Hands will bring the cigars. But you…I’m still figuring out what you’ll be doing.”

Slash laughed. “Hosting and offering alcohol and unhealthy processed food choices followed by antacids. I’m becoming more American by the minute.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Does that menu include chocolate cake?”

“Oh, that’s definitely on the menu,” he said, lips twitching.

“And while my first attempt at chocolate cake was to support your post-wedding stress management routine, I admit it also served as a practice run for the guys’ party.

Regardless, I’ll make sure to save you a piece. This time, I promise.”

“You’d better.” I leaned back against the counter.

“And just so you know, while I accepted Gwen’s invitation to Atlantic City, I am a little nervous.

Basia is seven and a half months pregnant and super unpredictable with her moods.

She made me fix her a pickle–and–peanut butter sandwich the other day with a side of plain chocolate chips straight from the bag.

And Gwen keeps asking me for wedding planning advice, even though I barely did any of my own.

Gray is only the sane one, and she seems scarily excited about playing the slot machines, challenging the odds, and, of all things, chocolate martinis.

There’s also supposed to be a spa day, too. ”

“You’ll have an amazing time.”

“Maybe. I just need to get my head in the right space.”

I gazed out the window. The wind swept and swirled the leaves across our lawn.

Change wasn’t always comfortable for me, but it was necessary.

I was still the same Lexi I’d been before the wedding—anxious, analytical, and prone to trouble.

But I’d also grown. I was now more willing to take chances, banter with my husband, and go on a long girls’ weekend with my best friends.

I could leave my comfort zone because I knew it brought change, growth, and maturity.

“On the flip side, you seem pretty excited about this guys’ weekend,” I observed.

“I am. I enjoy spending time with friends, especially our friends.” Slash spread his arms. “But you should know Xavier is the true mastermind behind Elvis’s party. He’s micromanaging all the details. I’m purely in a supportive role here.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Xavier and Elvis were identical twins. Xavier was married to Basia, Gwen was Elvis’s fiancée, Gray and Hands were dating, and, of course, Slash and I were married, so it was all kind of incestuous.

“I can’t remember if I told you or not, but we’re also looping in Finn, Beau, and Rock,” Slash said. “Didn’t feel right to leave them out.”