Read Online Sister Mine by Tawni O’Dell - Free Book Online Page A

without using her hands.
    I tap on the window and she almost jumps out of her skin.
    I instinctively reach for my creds so I can flash my badge before remembering I don’t have one anymore.
    I take a step back from the car and try to look as harmless as possible.
    She gives me a hesitant smile and rolls down her window. Even from a distance, I can feel the blast of air-conditioning.
    â€œHi, there. Deputy Penrose gave me a call. Says you’re having some car trouble.”
    I reach out my hand for her to shake.
    â€œI’m Shae-Lynn.”
    She looks at my hand for a moment. It’s hard for me to read her eyes because she’s wearing a jaunty white ball cap.
    She finally takes my hand. Hers is beautiful. It reminds me of some of the hands of high-priced D.C. mistresses who passed through my security screenings on their way upstairs to visit their sugar daddies in the Capitol office buildings after hours.
    The hands of the wives were always nice, too, but none of them had the satiny perfection of the girlfriends’. One of the reasons was age. Another was that most of the wives hadn’t always been pampered. They had struggled before their husbands were elected and their lifestyles were elevated. Their hands had changed some diapers and washed some dishes and done some gardening. Not so for the mistresses. These girls were in their twenties and had never done anything with their hands except jerk off other women’s husbands.
    This one is pale, soft, blemish- and wrinkle-free. It’s even hard to make out her knuckles. The nails are almond-shaped and painted in a high-gloss burgundy. Not a smudge or a chip or a scratch on them.
    â€œPamela,” she says, then thinks to add, “Jameson.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Miss Jameson.”
    She smiles. I knew she’d like that. Her lips are painted the same exact color as her nails and they’re equally flawless. Remarkable.
    â€œIt’s Mrs. Jameson,” she corrects me.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m here to change your flat tire if you’d like me to.”
    â€œHe said he was going to send a mechanic who used to be a police officer so I could trust him.”
    â€œThat would be me. Except I’m not a him and I’m not a mechanic. I run a cab company.”
    I hand her one of my business cards.
    â€œBut I’m perfectly capable of changing a flat tire,” I go on. “And I used to be a police officer so you can trust me.”
    â€œWell,” she says slowly. “I suppose if the deputy sent you.”
    She suddenly holds up one index finger to keep me silent as she finishes her phone call. When she’s done, she smiles again and tells me, “That was my sister-in-law. My niece just earned her anti-stress badge in Girl Scouts.”
    â€œAnti-stress badge?” I wonder. “Are you serious? How do you earn it?”
    â€œDifferent activities. They keep a feelings diary. They learn how to give foot massages. They visit a spa. They practice breathing exercises.”
    â€œHow old are these girls?”
    â€œBetween ten and twelve. You’d be amazed at the amount of stress they’re already under at that age.”
    â€œLike the stress of having to earn an anti-stress badge?”
    She doesn’t say anything.
    I continue standing there while she continues to sit in the car.
    â€œIt would be easier for me if you get out of the car,” I finally explain to her. “And you’ll need to turn off the engine.”
    â€œOh,” she says.
    I watch her crawl down out of her cockpit. She’s wearing a sleeveless, silk blend, mock turtleneck, a pair of white Capri pants, and leather flats that match her top exactly. The tunic and shoes are a blue-green, but I’m sure she’d call the color Lagoon or Waterfall. The matching cardigan lies neatly across the backseat.
    â€œHow do you know the deputy?” she asks me. “Did you used to work