Dirty Read Online Free PDF

my seventy-year-old mother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing these.
    Ever the diligent employee, Hobbs continued to shuffle papers as he answered my question.   “It’s called presbyopia, in your case over forty vision.   Accept it.   Get past it.”
    I wanted to be pissed, but, sadly, he was right.   The fine print got finer every day.   But did he have to remind me?   My ego was already bruised.   I didn’t need him throwing in my face how after forty you fell apart...starting with the eyes.   A thought I usually kept imprisoned deep in the farthest recesses of my mind escaped.   I was old.   No point pretending.
    Fine.   Accept it.   Old didn’t mean dead.   I jabbed the eyewear into place.   Blinked repeatedly, then stared at the application.   “Oh.”   Big difference.
    Hobbs made one of those I told you so sounds that I hate.   Electing not to comment on his rude observation, I moved on to the work history.   Dawson had spent the past four years on NYPD’s homicide detail.   Impressive.
    “So he’s from New York,” I said more to myself than to my assistant.
    “Jersey, actually.”   Hobbs pointed to the former address line.   “He was an extra in an HBO movie last season.”
    I looked up at him, dread curdling in my gut.   “He’s an actor too?”   Now maybe in New York or L.A. being an actor is a good thing, possibly even a great thing.   But down here, an actor is generally plugged into the category of wannabe—not good for much else as far as most folks are concerned.   Strike two.
    Hobbs shook his head adamantly.   “No.   Nothing like that.   Some friend involved with the cast talked him into it.   The gig was more a favor than anything else.”
    Right.   O-kay.   Just what I need.   An investigator who has dabbled in the movie-making business.
    “We should call his references,” I suggested, perusing the form again.   Might as well give the guy the benefit of the doubt.   It wasn’t like I had applicants flocking to my door.
    “Already did.”
    Looking over the top of the glasses so as to prevent dizziness my gaze shot to his.   Hobbs had always been exceedingly prompt but this was ridiculous.   “You called his references already?   How long has this guy been waiting?”
    A nauseating sensation, the one you felt when humiliation loomed on the horizon like back in high school when you forgot to cram for a test, tightened my throat.   I had a very bad feeling about the answer I was about to get.
    “He...”   Hobbs lowered his voice.   “He was waiting when I opened up this morning.”
    Which meant he could have overheard the call .
    Heat rushed up my neck, scalded my cheeks.   I snatched off the confounding glasses and tossed them onto his desk.   Tolerating any more humiliation, whether real or imagined, was simply out of the question.   “Tell me what I want to hear,” I snarled like a rabid dog.
    “Don’t worry,” Hobbs vowed in a near whisper, “I had him filling out his application while I made that call.”   Hobbs cleared his throat and glanced over my shoulder toward the him in question.   “And I had my back turned.”
    For the second time today I considered the repercussions of committing murder in a given situation.  
    “He didn’t hear a thing,” my loyal assistant hastened to assure me.   He pressed his hand to his chest and adopted an expression of supreme humility.   “Discreet is my middle name.”
    I weathered the urge to tell him that I would make it a point to remember that in his epitaph.   Jesus!   It wasn’t enough that I’d had to endure Nance and some Fed who’d jerked next month’s operating budget out of my hand after—AFTER—finding out my lover was a con-artist felon hanging on the end of a puppet string for said arrogant Fed.
    Wait.   A new concept occurred to me.   This could actually work to my advantage.   Relief washed over me and I almost smiled.   Considering Hobbs took such liberty