THERE’S A BIG difference in being naked and being nekkid, and it has to do with what you’re up to. I’m still debating on whether
or not to send Cauley to Hippie Hollow in the buff . . . I’m thinking she’s like me, if anybody wants to see me nekkid, I’d better be in their will.
So, here’s where we left our intrepid Obituary Babe on the shores of Hippie Hollow, a notorious Lake Travis nude beach . . .
~from Morgue File
I plopped down on the cushion Becks had brought for me and waited. I opened my beach bag and split a baggie of Cheese Nips and a bottle of water with Marlowe and waited. I painted my toes murder red and waited.
I gave Marlowe a dog biscuit and waited.
Looking around, I realized that other than the Panty Girl, I was the only one their with clothes on. I briefly considered taking off my top and got a startling vision of my mother and thought better of it.
I repositioned the cushion, and rubbed my tailbone. I wondered if this was what Logan’s stakeouts were like.
Hairy Man bent over and picked up a hotdog he’d dropped off the grill—his big, white hairy butt reflecting the sunlight. I cringed. Probably not.
The smoky scent of barbecue made Marlowe’s stomach growl. Hairy Man stood up and turned and to my mortal embarrassment, he noticed I’d been staring at him. Dear Lord. I’d turned into one of Jenks’s gawkers. But I swear, the big hairy guy was like Medusa—one look and you turn to a big, gawking block of stone.
“Hey!” Hairy Man hollered, waving his spatula toward me and Marlowe. “You wanna join us for lunch?”
His naked wife waved, too, brandishing a big plate of grilled Oscar Meyer. I blinked. Holy hell. I just got invited to naked lunch.
“Um, we were just leaving,” I yelled back, “But thanks.” I looked toward Beckett and Jenks, who were jumping around hooting over a Full House. I hated to interrupt.
Mr. And Mrs. Hairy Man looked disappointed, as I started chunking stuff back into my beach bag and reaching for my cell phone.
“Miss? You left some trash,” Mrs. Hairy called to me, pointing at a bedraggled bit of paper. “Take nothing but memories, leave nothing but footprints.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said. It was a torn playing card. I wondered if it was something Beckett or Jenks dropped, but it was torn and trash now. I’d pitch in the can at home, but for now, I stuffed it into my bag.
I punched speed dial for Logan. “You owe me for the toad,” I said when he answered.
“You need rescuing again?” he said.
“I’m being lectured on littering by a pair of nudies.”
There was a brief silence, followed by Logan’s baffled Fort Worth drawl. “Of course you are.”