Author's Note: This story was written to fill a prompt from a generous sponsor who made a donation during the Clarion West Write-a-thon. Not familiar with Clarion West and how it's helping to support the next generation of under-represented writers? Check 'em out at clarionwest dot org

Also, my infinite apologies to Dashiell Hammett.

I was helping myself to another bourbon at the open bar when a girl parked herself beside my elbow. She wore a getup that made her look like a teenage peacock, the kind that expected attention. I kept my nose in my glass and took a nice big sip. Not bad for a fundraising event. Something had to keep the hinges on those checkbooks greased.

When the girl couldn't take it anymore, she said to me, "You're Britt Pierce."

"Yep, that's me."

She didn't need to introduce herself but she did it anyway. "I'm Sugar Motta."

Sugar Motta, America's auto-tuned sweetheart. Her face was inescapable: on TV, news sites, gossip rags, the headlines braying about Sugar Motta's new album, Sugar Motta's on tour, Sugar Motta's got a new boyfriend.

I stuck out my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sugar Motta."

Her handshake was surprisingly firm. "Likewise," she said. She looked me square in the eyes when she spoke. "Ms. Pierce, I was hoping to—"

I held up a hand. "First: my friends call me Brittany," I said, "and second: what'll you have to drink?"

Her eyes flicked to the side. I shifted against the bar and spotted him immediately: tall with dark hair, a muscle crammed into a suit. If she was asking permission, he was more than just a bodyguard. She recovered nicely, saying, "Why don't you surprise me, Brittany."

I got her a gin and tonic and let her squeeze in next to me at the bar. "You were saying?"

"I'm in a bit of trouble, and I was hoping you might be the one who could help me get out of it."

A bit usually meant a lot, and these days, I wasn't interested in trouble. "Unless your trouble involves what to put in a liquor cabinet, I'm afraid I can't be much help."

"Mercedes Jones says you're the best in the business."

"Did she tell you to drop her name like that?"

"She did. She also told me you were quite the dancer back in the day."

I heard Santana's voice from behind my shoulder. "She still is," Santana said, sidling up to my hip. "Who knew a big bad cop could be so graceful?"

I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her closer while I made introductions. "Ms. Motta, this is my wife, Santana Lopez."

They traded handshakes. "Please, call me Sugar."

"I was just telling Sugar how much I've been enjoying my retirement," I said.

Santana gave me an indulgent smile. "Is that so?" she said. "Then you've gotten over feeling cooped up inside the house?"

Busted.

Sugar and Santana traded looks that belonged to a dialect of the secret language of women that I didn't speak. I put on a pout, and gestured around the ballroom. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You sure are, honey. Now give me a sip of that drink, will you?" Santana said, taking the glass right out of my hand. "Talking people out of their money and into the donors list has left me parched." When she made to give it back, I motioned for her to keep it.

Sugar was watching us curiously. But then she seemed to remember herself. "Forgive me, I've already taken enough of your time, but I'd still like to pay you a visit if you'd let me," she said, and now that Santana was here of course we would, and a moment later, we were shaking hands and making plans for the day after tomorrow, and then Sugar Motta took her drink and left us at the bar.

"She's not what I expected," Santana said.

"A-listers rarely are."

"I wonder what people expect from us."

"From you? Everyone knows you've got razor-sharp words to match your bombshell looks. I'm just the hired muscle behind your brains."

She punched me lightly in the arm. "Flattery will get you everywhere, honey, but you're much more than just muscle — I need you around to reach things on the highest shelves."

The band on stage struck up a lively salsa tune. "Is that so?" I said, and I put my hands around her waist and lifted her into a twirl.

When I set her back down, she took my hand and led me to the dance floor. "Come on, Detective. How do you feel about scandalizing this old money crowd?"

I grinned, just before we did exactly that.