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wrinkly blankets up to my chin. Then I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes.
    “Chrissy,” Rivera said, but I didn’t have time to ignore him before the doorbell rang. There was a momentary pause before he turned and trekked across carpet and linoleum to answer it. I could hear voices, but the words were mostly indistinct.
    “Tomorrow,” Rivera said.
    The other voice countered, rising in volume and agitation, and then the door closed. The world went silent. Rivera had stepped outside, but I didn’t care about that, either. I actively sought sleep. I know it seems ludicrous, but there are a limited number of talents at which I am truly gifted. Other than eating, sleeping is at the top of the list.
    Harlequin clicked across the floor and heaved himself onto the bed. A kernel of rice was stuck to his nose. His breath smelled like Asian ambrosia. Weird. I closed my eyes again, but after several minutes I still wasn’t asleep. And my nose was dripping, so I wandered into the bathroom and dragged down a bottle of Nyquil. Some people have to get drunk to forget. Me, I just need a little bit of green magic. But I couldn’t find a measuring spoon, so I slopped half a cup into a glass and drank it down. Moments later I was staggering back to bed, stomach clenched and esophagus burning.
    My dreams were an odd conglomeration of weird and weirder. Medication sometimes does that to me. For a while I was flying, gliding along. There were no wings or anything but I was floating over my parents’ house. I felt the age-old psychosis rise up at the sight of it, but I calmed myself. I was all grown up now, educated, independent, and…Naked!
    Shit! I tried to cover myself before Mom saw me and grounded me for eternity, but suddenly I was falling, tumbling ass over ankle until I landed with a plop in my own bed.
    All was well. I was safe. Besides, I’d looked pretty damned svelte as I’d fallen through the sky. My legs were freshly shaven and my hair looked great.
    Something tinkled musically from the kitchen, and the heavenly scent of waffles drifted dreamily in the air. Someone was making breakfast. Maybe it was Julio Manderos. He’s Hispanic, ridiculously good-looking, and tends to frequent my dreams on regular occasions ever since I’d met him some months earlier. True, he was—or at least had been—a gigolo, and for a while I’d considered him a murder suspect, but in my dreamy meanderings, I didn’t hold that against him.
    I stretched luxuriously. I could hear water splashing and I smiled. Maybe Julio was drawing me a bath, pouring in scented oils, lighting candles. On the other hand, maybe it was Harlequin. He’s pretty active in my dreams, too. Then there’s Cliff, the “dancer” I’d met at the Strip Please. He was dressed as a pirate…for a while.
    I love pirates.
    And suddenly I was on my feet. I felt willowy and weightless as I floated along in the gauzy morning light. There was a noise in the bathroom. I opened the door.
    Lieutenant Jack Rivera stood inside. And he was naked.
    He was moving in what I call sexy motion—slow, evocative surreal-time. His hair shone blue-black and was slicked away from his sharp, high-boned features. His body glistened with dew drops, every finely tuned muscle visible and flexing. Below his washboard belly, his skin was a shade lighter, except for his dick…his “manhood,” as they call it in my favorite raunchy novels. That was the size and color of paprika salami, nestled in his dark curls and lying dormant against his bulging, off-center testicles.
    I blinked and stared. I love dreams.
    “Sorry,” he said. His voice was low and smoky as he reached for a towel with a broad, muscled arm. The room was steamy, but of course it would be. The room is always steamy in my erotic dreams.
    “Thanks,” I said, my voice smooth as fine liqueur.
    He eyed me through dark, heavy lashes as he lifted the towel. But he only patted his face dry, leaving his finer parts exposed—of course.