I left there with a plan already in my head for how I would get hold of that money.

Armchair Detective

Jobeth O'Brien awakens on the floor of her kitchen, her battered face and the memory of an angry visitor tells her that she is close to something important in her investigation. In between this surveillance and delivering newspapers, her beloved '62 Falcon is the scene of middle-of-the-night romps with a lonely socialite, who gives her more than she bargained for. Her quest for the truth pits her against errant husbands, a modern-day madam with a taste for blood, a horny landlady, a vicious attack dog, and the lies she tells herself. Amid these challenges, Jobeth stakes out her prey and runs for her life, continuing the investigation that pulls her into close calls, unexpected allies, and more secrets. But Jobeth has secrets of her own, and only love can excavate them.

Chapter 1

Octagons. That's what they are... octagons. Octagons? Why am I staring at octagons?

I blinked. The octagons remained. Then I felt the cool surface beneath my right cheek. Lifting my head, I winced at the sharp thud pulsing at my temple. There, on the octagon that had been below my cheek, was a crimson smear.

Guess if you're going to bleed, it may as well be on your own kitchen floor.

I placed both palms against the linoleum and pushed -- my bones and muscles protesting -- and the second wince informed me of the condition of my lower lip. A cut was pulled apart where it had coagulated, and fresh blood appeared and began to trail down my chin.

Amazing what the butt of a pistol can do when wielded properly.

Finally able to stand, I looked down at the octagons.

Smaller from up here... I've walked on this floor a zillion times, but never noticed that there were octagons on it ... no, the size is no excuse. I'm just not being attentive. And if tonight was any indication, that sort of negligence could be hazardous to my health.

Placing myself gingerly on the sofa, I tried to reconstruct. _Dinner alone. Drive home. Step inside. Floor creaked. Man in ski mask with a .38. Struggle. One very obvious loser.

I stood and went to the old mirror salvaged from a garage sale, and examined my face. I touched the swollen places, and considered the damage. I was not one of those females who freaked out when I got any sort of blemish, but I also appreciated looking in the mirror and feeling like I was attractive. I looked younger than my 28 years. My shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes graced a peaches and cream complexion and perpetually rosy cheeks. The small cleft in my chin added character, I thought. At five-four and one hundred twenty pounds, I was not as strong as I'd like to be, but have been described as tough. I could move quickly, and that was an advantage. My fight or flight mechanism usually leaned toward the flight. I tried to stretch the kinks out of my back. A few vertebrae popped, but it didn't alleviate any discomfort. I flashed back to that moment when the man had lifted me off my feet and rammed me backward into the wall. I'd have to remember to turn down any invitations to go slam-dancing. This enthusiastic night visitor was no burglar -- what he wanted was a deal, and Jobeth O'Brien had made one. My part was to keep my mouth shut, and his was that he wouldn't send me to the city morgue_. Fair enough._ I had placed myself in the hot seat during my "heist." I had obviously been identified, otherwise, I wouldn't have had Mr. Welcome Wagon waiting in the kitchen to greet me. I couldn't let it go. I was getting so close to the information I needed, I could bust the whole case wide open in a matter of weeks -- maybe days -- but how many octagons did it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop(R)? I washed down some Tylenol with a gulp of apple juice and grabbed my BDU jacket on the way out the door. I'd use the quiet-time of the paper route to decide what my next move would be -- whether or not it would include staking out the boutique again. * * * *

After a stop at the Circle K for a cup of coffee, I eased the Falcon into the back driveway of the imposing brick house. The ivy-covered brick wall around the perimeter of the estate afforded the sort of privacy I had come to embrace in the last several years. I killed the engine, and flashed the headlights three times, then turned them off, peering across the back lawn to the patio. Predictably, the door swung open and a woman in her mid-thirties crept across the sod and got in the passenger side. She was wearing only an oversized flannel shirt. "He's asleep," the woman said. "You're sure, now?" I studied the upstairs window. "A freight train wouldn't wake him," the woman smiled, running red-painted nails through her ash-blond hair, as the early October breeze tickled the branches of the dogwoods lined in a canopy over the wall. "A freight train?" The woman slid over in the seat close to me. "I'm interested only in the tunnels..." She ran a hand seductively up my jeaned leg. "C'mere..." I pulled the woman against me and gave her a short kiss, wincing from the pain in my lip. "What happened to you?" Phoebe inquired, turning my face toward the starlight. "Occupational hazards," I offered wryly. "What'd you do, hit yourself with a paper?" "Not that occupation, the other one." "Oh, that silly secret agent stuff -- " I leaned back at the affront. "I beg your pardon. It's not silly." I unzipped the BDU jacket. "And I am not a secret agent." "Oh, right. Quite the little detective, aren't we?" she teased. I reached over and released the top button of her flannel shirt, just to let her know who was in charge. "I can find all your little secrets, chick." She giggled, unfastening the other buttons to let me know that she didn't mind my being in charge. She genuflected with forced sincerity, whispering, "Seek and ye shall find, Jobeth -- " We climbed over the seats of the Falcon, maintaining a kiss, and I freed her of the flannel, dumping it on the floorboard. I let my hands roam freely over her body, lingering in the sensitive areas, one finger slipping under the elastic at the back of the silk panties, pulling them down, kissing her stomach all the while. Phoebe purred, smiling, tossing her head back against the moist window. "I want it, Jobeth -- " I removed the black silk Gucci panties completely, and without shame began to tease the woman, amused at the way she lifted her hips off the seat, moaning softly, her body begging for that magic that I made her feel. I listened to the groan extend and become louder. I was grateful for the huge backseat. It was probably a subconscious reason why I continued to drive the old Falcon. Freedom of movement was a must for this form of art. She began to squirm beneath my adroit tongue and mumbled something indecipherable, one hand going to the back of my head, pressing. "God, yes ... you are so good ... oh, Jobeth -- " My lips pulled into a smile amid the nest, enjoying her vocalizations and the familiar flavor of honeysuckle that always greeted me there. Whether it was natural, or from a bottle, I didn't care. It's a popular notion that the female balm is an acquired taste, but I never suffered an adjustment period; to me, it was immediately as inviting and succulent as a fresh cherry from a wild tree. As I continued, Phoebe began to pant and moan and clench at my shoulder-length hair, begging me to continue. "Yes ... oh, baby, tease me ... love me, Jobeth -- " she cooed. "Oh, HolyMotherofGod -- !" I knew it wouldn't be long now. Phoebe always had a gushing orgasm soon after a religious expletive, and tonight I wanted that to happen a bit faster; there were other things on the agenda before sunrise. I opened my eyes and peered up at Phoebe's chest and stomach as they heaved with quick breaths, faster and faster, like a Western Flyer pulling away from the station. To hurry things along, I freed a hand and reached up to squeeze Phoebe's nipple. It was an orgasmic button; she cried out and arched her back, all her muscles tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, in convulsive ripples. Finally, Phoebe drooped against the seat and sighed, lying completely still. I could see her heartbeat pushing at the skin on her neck. I lifted my head and retrieved the fresh bandanna stored in the back window ledge, wiped my face, and slid up beside her. When she opened her eyes, I smiled, recalling the HolyMotherofGod that Phoebe had shouted. "It's easy to tell you're Catholic, Phoebe." Phoebe laughed at herself. "I can feel a confession coming on." "I'm not qualified." Phoebe laughed. "Oh yes, you are!" I ran a hand along Phoebe's arm. "Big one?" A languid smile spread over her face. "Massive." "All better?" "Well, maybe I'll sleep through the night now," Phoebe sighed, then began to giggle. I joined in her laughter. "Phoebe, you are insatiable." "Yes. But I can be pleased." Phoebe slipped into her shirt again and we climbed back over the seat to the front. "Where were you last night, Sugar?" "Taking care of business." My cut lip was burning from the invasion of Phoebe's juices. "I missed you." "As always." I turned and draped myself over the seat to gather a bunch of rolled papers on the back floorboard. Phoebe lifted a brow, and swatted my rump. "You're not getting an inflated ego, are you?" I just smiled, placing the bunch on the seat between us. "Phoebe -- " I began, reaching for my Carltons on the dashboard. "You need to find a good woman and settle down." I lit the cigarette and took a long, calming drag, wondering why something like smoke could feel so good going down unless it was the kind in a burning building. Maybe that was the key to preventing death by smoke inhalation: outfit the buildings with cigarette filters. "I've found a good woman, and I am also settled, even if it is with a man." She took the cigarette from me and enjoyed a deep pull of her own before handing it back. I watched her make a porthole in the condensation on the window with one slender finger. "Why did you marry a man, if you like being with women so much?" Phoebe unlatched the chrome-rimmed window and pushed the wing out, her sigh a vapor as it hit the incoming air. "I didn't know women were so good at lovemaking until I met you." I eyed her suspiciously. "Don't get any ideas about taming me. I'm a freebird." "I wouldn't dream of it. I like you wild." Phoebe ran both hands through her hair, ruffling it looser. "I may not always be around, Phoeb'." I released a lungful of smoke, and it curled up to the roof and mushroomed. "Oh, let's not get into that." She reached for the door handle. "Are you coming tomorrow night?" My grin felt salacious. "I will if you will." Phoebe punched me playfully on the arm. "Only if you show up tomorrow night, Sugar." She leaned over and kissed me before stepping out and making her way back across the manicured lawn to the back door. I sighed, absently pulling a blond hair from my tongue, and reached into the seat for a newspaper. I rolled down the window and tossed it into the drive. * * * * By the last throw, I had made my decision. No one would ever say that I weaseled out when the going got tough. My fight or flight mechanism was in perfect working order, and I had employed both choices in different dilemmas. But if my flight mechanism got stuck in a loop, all it would get me would be windburn and a shrinking spine; if my fight mechanism stayed in gear, I would need a first aid kit and some life insurance (which I didn't have). I had to balance one with the other in order to enjoy things like those middle-of-the-night romps with Phoebe. I pulled onto the rural highway and urged the Falcon to fifty-five, which was full-throttle for the old girl, my thoughts going back to that time on the stake-out, when the rules of the game began to change. I had been suspicious for the last few months. Nothing overt, just a sense now and then that someone was following me. Furtive glances at a post office; headlights behind my Falcon for perhaps a bit too long; an occasional phone call without words, and then a dial tone. I thought I was just being paranoid, but the signals were clear now. It was a not-so-surprising response from a not-so-legitimate businesswoman. * * * * That August night, I had stopped at Sugar's, a little pub that was on the way to my paper route. The place was a renovated barn, with some of the same decor intact. Wide, rough-hewn beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and riding tack adorned the walls. I always walked around the heavy items, like saddles; no sense in tempting fate. I settled at a corner table with my back to the wall, and opened the book. I had been studying everything I could get my hands on about private investigations. It was only a matter of time before I got my first assignment, even without a license. I enjoyed a Tequiza while leafing through a copy of Serious Surveillance for the Private Investigator by Bob Bruno. A man of about 50, with graying hair and baggage under his blue eyes, sat down nearby. I started wondering what his story was. It didn't take him long to tell. "First of all," he began, holding two bottles of Tequiza(R), standing next to the table. "This isn't a come-on. I noticed the book you were reading, and I wanted to ask you a question." He held out the bottle toward me. It was just in time, since I had polished off the last drop of the previous one, and couldn't really afford to have another. I lifted my foot under the table and pushed out the opposite chair. He sat, putting the beer down in front of me. "Are you an investigator, or just studying to be one?" I took a drink of beer and closed the book. "I'm studying." "How about some field experience?" Well, now, sometimes the Universe drops things right in your lap, but I've always been a little wary of things that work out too well. "Maybe." "I'll pay you." "I don't have a license." He took a drink of his beer. "You don't need one to do a favor for a friend, right?" "And we're about to be friends?" "Look, I don't want this to be in the news or even in the gossip mill. If I hire someone with a high profile -- " He paused, peeling at the label on his bottle. "Anyway, I'd like to keep this quiet and make it go away. If you'd like to get your feet wet, you could also get some cash out of it." I studied the wrinkles in his brow, and the laugh-lines at the corners of his mouth seemed unused. He wore a gray pinstriped, double-breasted suit, with a conservative white shirt and gray tie. He had money, but probably not a lot of it. "I'm interested." "I'm being blackmailed. And this woman is draining me dry. What I want you to do is wait for her to pick up the payment, and then steal it back. I have bills to pay." I caught myself grinning. There was a certain poetic justice about it. "How dangerous is she?" "I doubt she'll even be there. She'll send one of her flunkies to pick it up. You'll have to take it from him." "Wait -- you want me to mug someone?" He snorted. "I guess you could call it that. But then the guy will go back and tell her he was mugged. Maybe she'll believe it, maybe not." "What if I just steal it?" "Steal it?" "Yeah, like what if I find a way to get it from him without being seen? Then he'll have no idea what happened to it, and maybe she'll think her guy is pulling a fast one. It'll take some of the heat off you." His face brightened. "I like the way you think." I was proud of myself already. "So, how much?" "How much?" "How much is it worth to you for me to do this?" "Well, if you pull it off, I'm prepared to pay you five hundred." "And if I don't pull it off?" He shrugged, and half-smiled. "Why would I pay you to fail?" I considered this. I couldn't start asking for two hundred dollars a day plus expenses, like Jim Rockford. I had to prove myself first. "I'll do it." He extended his hand. "Name's Huxley." "Jobeth," I said, taking his hand. We shook, our eyes meeting in one last exploration of trust issues, and he gave me the information about Stacy, the blackmailer.

I left there with a plan already in my head for how I would get hold of that money.

Chapter 2

Let us die even as we rush into the midst of the battle._ _The only safe course for the defeated is to expect no safety._ -- Virgil _August_ _Oklahoma City_ I had stretched and yawned for the umpteenth time, and frowned down into the Styrofoam cup. _Cold_. I grunted into the dark liquid, rolling down the window to discard my spent Carlton menthol. It was balmy, but there was a cool breeze. The wind caught a wayward cheeseburger wrapper and propelled it through the parking garage as I worked at the knot in my neck. Working alone had its advantages. I didn't have to explain why anyone would sit in a parked car for hours and drink bad convenience-store coffee, waiting for something that might never happen. Excitement was not the reason I took up the investigative vocation. The events of my near-past just sort of segued naturally into the job. I needed a source of income, and couldn't risk doing anything I had done before. It was my first case, and I felt just a little naked. I checked the layout in my head against the one in front of me. Second level, row C. I could see the driver's side of a solitary Galaxie-500 in row A, near the elevator, about 50 yards in front of me and to my left. _So where the hell is that -- _ A Plymouth Duster pulled up beside the Galaxie. _Ah, the delivery boy._ I slid down in the seat and peeked over the dash at the young man who stepped out and walked to the old Ford. He seemed nervous, and looked around cautiously, and I ducked in the seat when his gaze came my direction. It was too dark for him to see me, as I'd been careful to stay away from the lights that were mounted at infrequent intervals on concrete pillars and crossbeams. Still, I didn't want to take any chances on this case for the same reason I parked my butt and read reference manuals for hours on end. The pain was worth the gain. He opened the driver's door of the scarred Ford and tossed a small object in the seat. Then the young man returned to the Duster and spiraled slowly down the lane toward the first-floor exit. I reached for the door handle and bumped my coffee in its holder on the door. The brown liquid splashed onto the top of my Reebok and ran into my favorite purple slouch sock. "Shit," I growled, pushing the door open and stepping out. I headed for the Galaxie, periodically shaking my sodden foot in an effort to drain the spill. The glow from the lamps moved over me, bright, then dim, as I moved between the cars with my eyes fixed on the '66 Galaxie, waiting in all its antiquity for my arrival. I toyed with the image of the car with a new paint-job and some bodywork. People just didn't appreciate the value of these sturdy old behemoths; probably because they've never realized the true potential of a large back seat. I crept over to the Galaxie's passenger side tire, took out the tire gauge, and placed the pin on the valve stem, liberating the tire of its air. Then I hurried back to the Falcon and waited. A few minutes later, a dark pickup pulled up near the Galaxie, and a tall blond man got out and headed for the Ford as the pickup pulled away. He opened the door, retrieved the bag, and held it as he peered around the parking garage. Then he tossed the bag into the seat and got in. He started the engine and backed out, but paused as he felt the flat tire. The blond man put the car in park and got out, looking at the tires on his side, and then headed for the other side. Finding the flat, he cursed loudly, and retrieved the keys to open the trunk. As he moved to the rear of the vehicle, I got out and shuffled toward the Ford, my head down below the cars. When he opened the trunk and peered in, I leaned inside the Galaxie and snatched the green zippered bank bag. _Pretty easy, so far._ In a running crouch, I made my way back toward the Falcon. The blond man slammed the trunk, the echo bouncing off the nearby elevator buttress. He moved back up to the tire, screwing a flat-fixer canister onto the stem. This garage was a gold mine of ancient automobiles. I noticed an Oldsmobile Delta 88 ahead of me. Almost to safety, I halted at the sound of screeching tires. I turned toward the upward ramp. There was only time to see glaring headlights and the dark barrel protruding from the passenger window of the pickup. A blast emitted from the shotgun, and I froze for an instant, scanning to my right and behind me at the riddled holes in the side of the Olds'. "Holy shit!" Recognizing the need to put something between me and that flying lead, I vaulted to the hood of the Olds' and rolled over, falling off the other side, too late to avoid the protruding screw in the passenger side mirror, which tore a small gash above my right eye. I landed with a painful thud upon the pavement near the front tire, the smell of oil assaulting my nose. A searing pain shot through my side, and with great chagrin I felt the re-injury of my ribs; they had finally healed, and now I was back in walking-wounded status. I raised myself painfully and squinted into the early morning darkness at the Falcon: my only hope for escape. The screeching tires of the truck indicated that there would be another try. I was a clay pigeon. I took as much breath as I could into my lungs and forced myself to stand -- the adrenaline dulling the pain in my side. I came up off the pavement and sprinted across the lot, my shoulder blades pulling together in anticipation of the bullets that would soon riddle me like the Delta 88. I made it to the Falcon unscathed and grabbed the door handle, but lost my grasp, the force of the pull knocking me off-balance. I landed hard on my behind. _Pain, again. Pain. Pain. Pain._ I got up and tried the door again and realized it was locked, but I didn't have time to figure out how it happened. Looking through the window, I could see that the passenger door was unlocked, so I rushed around to the other side, clipping my left knee on the chrome fender and cursing as I limped the rest of the way around to the other door. I tossed my aching body in and slid over behind the wheel. The engine fired up with no problem, and I pushed in the clutch, grabbing my left knee with a growl of pain, pulled the stick in reverse, and backed out into the lane, barely missing one of those concrete pillars. Just as I started for the down-ramp, I saw the truck descending from the third floor to cut me off. I floored the Falcon and beat him to the turn. I swooped out of the garage, taking off the striped arm of the gate, as I passed the ticket booth and caromed into the street. I gritted my teeth as the truck tires screamed behind me. Squeezing my eyes shut released the tears that clouded my view, and I remembered that Williamsburg Court was just up ahead. I screeched the Falcon into the first entrance of the subdivision and circled through and around a few blocks, pulling up into an empty driveway, killing the engine and my lights. I pressed a palm to my burning kneecap. "Damn it!" I cursed again. _Okay, so there was a disagreeable side to working alone._ I dropped down in the seat and waited, hoping this Hollywood method would work as well as it did on that episode of _The Rockford Files_. When you're flying by the seat of your pants in a profession like this, reputable mentors were sometimes hard to find. I heard the truck go past me, thinking about how this had to be the oldest trick in the book, and wondering if there really was a book. Meanwhile, blessed adrenaline was seeping away and my endorphins had packed up and hopped a freighter. I backed out of the driveway and wound around the streets of the subdivision with my lights still off, keeping an eye peeled for the truck. When it seemed safe again, I pulled out onto the main street, turned on my headlights, and merged with the early birds on their way to work. I was only 10 minutes away from Baptist Med center and suddenly felt like paying a visit. After I pulled into the emergency entrance, I remembered the bank bag I had tossed in the seat. I unzipped it to examine questionable booty. At the top of a deposit slip were the words, _Saint Michael's Catholic Church._ There were two personal checks for one hundred and one hundred fifty dollars, respectively. No two thousand dollars as expected, just the deposit slip and the two checks made out to Saint Michael's. I placed my forehead on the wheel. Having just ripped off God, I wondered what my penalty would be. Maybe I would only be charged with ripping off a saint. Maybe I could plea bargain it down to one year burning in hell with two year's purgatory. I called Mr. Huxley while I waited my turn behind more people than McDonald's served that day. Meanwhile, I was concocting a story about having fallen off the roof of my house after chasing a TV antenna-marauding squirrel that was interrupting my viewing pleasure. It was such a stretch, that the R.N. simply had to buy it. Mr. Huxley arrived forty-five minutes later, paid my bill, and bought me a set of crutches from the gift shop. It was the least he could do, I figured, since I didn't get a cut from the money that was supposed to be in the bag. I had a lengthy conversation with Huxley, and I let him know that the blackmail money was not in the bag, even though his hired hand had dropped it where he was supposed to. He said the kid attended and worked at St. Michael's and had somehow switched the bags. Huxley was convinced the young man had developed a case of sticky fingers and told me he'd deal with him later. The kid had no idea what he could have caused. He obviously thought the lack of trust between Huxley and Stacey, the blackmailer, was enough to divert attention away from his deed. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and it was smelly enough to tell me that Stacey found out that he was trying to pull a big switcheroo and sent someone of her own to watch for it. I could only assume that whomever was in the black truck saw my sneaky little bagstealing action while the blond man had his head in the trunk. I had been baited and trapped. The lady blackmailer was playing hardball, and I was just angry enough to deny that I was out of my league. I considered it part of paying my early dues in the investigative business. Huxley cushioned the hurt by giving me some hazard pay: a check for two hundred dollars -- all of which would be gone after paying the rest of last month's delinquent rent, gas, and back charges on my utility bills. As investigative rates went, it wasn't much for the unexpected lead that flew my way, but since I didn't have a private investigator's license, it was not wise to protest. Huxley was by nature a miserly soul, perhaps by virtue of the siphoning that Stacy was doing. But I knew the rich were usually tightwads; it helped ensure perpetuity. Huxley promised me a bonus if I managed to retrieve the money from the kid in the Duster. "Use any means necessary," he had said. Had I been the faint-hearted sort, I might have decided then that the game was a bit too rough. But I'm yoked with an unhealthy need for adventure. I'm a certifiable hotspur with no fear of peril, and now I was a little pissed. I was determined to get something besides five hundred out of the deal. Huxley offered to deliver the church's deposit, but I insisted on doing the honors. That way, I could pay a visit to the kid at church and put the real fear of God into him. Huxley saw it as an honorable act, which made me look better in his eyes, and I would get the chance to test out my intimidation tactics. * * * *

The next morning, I pulled my aching body out of bed and headed for St. Michael's. I chose to leave my crutches behind, wanting to maintain a more threatening appearance. I entered the sanctuary with the broken antenna of the kid's Duster in my hand. I recognized him right away as he polished the pews. "I believe you have something that belongs to Mr. Huxley," I said softly. I held up the antenna for him to see. "Old cars are so great. That Duster of yours must be your pride and joy." His eyes went wide, and I knew that he was like most men who had an unhealthy attachment to their cars. "Where's the bag?" The kid swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing against the skin of his throat. He looked around the sanctuary nervously. "It's -- " "It's -- ?" I mocked. "I hid it." "Where?" He pointed toward the altar in front. I lowered my brows and tried to appear threatening. "Go get it." The boy hurried to the table that held the Eucharist and reached under to pull the bag out, along with the gray tape that secured it. He held it tight to his chest and returned. "Time for confession," I said, indicating the booth a few feet away. I stepped into the confessional behind him. He handed me the bag quickly, and I unzipped it and looked inside. It held more green than I'd ever laid eyes on. I zipped it back up and secured the bag at the small of my back inside the waistband of my jeans. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out a .38 and pushed it at his nose. "Mr. Huxley doesn't like thieves. He wanted me to take care of you, but I'm just not anxious to spill blood here -- " "I'm sorry, I made a mistake. I don't know what I was thinking -- " "What were you thinking, kid?" I pushed the muzzle of the pistol at his nose again, until I could see the hairs waving in his flaring nostrils. "I just wanted to fix up my car -- " I smiled, handing him the antenna. "Ironic, isn't it?" He closed his eyes. "Please -- " "Now, I hope I can trust you to behave from now on." His knuckles were white as he grasped the antenna. "Yeah, yeah. I promise. Please, just -- " I put the barrel of the pistol over his lips. "Shhh. We don't want to disturb the parishioners." I put the gun back in my pocket and patted his cheek, exiting the confessional. On the way to the door, I dropped the other bag with the checks into the tithing box and limped out of the church, my knee throbbing. * * * * I called Huxley from a payphone and he met me in a parking lot. I relayed the "meeting" with the kid and gave him the money. He took three hundreds from the bag and handed it to me for my recent acts of terrorism.

I swung by the Yogurt Shop and treated myself to a waffle cone with White Chocolate Mousse. I had to take Huxley's advice to lay low for awhile. I needed time to recuperate, and Stacey's goons needed time to get careless.

Chapter 3

It had taken me several weeks to get rid of the crutches and several more to get the goods on Stacey Cartwright. The trail was pretty cold by the time I got back on it. Huxley continued to pay my expenses and cheap retainer fee, knowing that no one else would work for such a ridiculous price, and that a young woman could dig up information faster than a professional in a three-piece suit. People were not so apt to suspect a young woman who asked questions, and Stacey expected Huxley to hire a professional this time around, especially after that ugly scene in the parking deck. What the woman got was Jobeth O'Brien, mad as hell and back in the trenches to fight again. I began my strategy by learning all I could about Stacey Cartwright. I drilled Huxley for all the information he could dig up, and then I went to Public Records. A cute little number at the Tax Assessor's office was very helpful and asked when we could "go out" again -- her way of saying, _When can we do it in the store room again?_ Millie was able to get me Stacey's home address, but it was a nonexistent address, and there were probably more than a few aliases involved. But I already knew from Mr. Huxley that Stacey made a hefty income from older, rather well-off family men. Stacey was smooth. She met her unsuspecting victims in grocery stores, cafes, and piano bars. She was hard to overlook with her flaming red hair and flirty demeanor. All it took was a long glance or a misstep that would send her falling into the arms of her conquest. Her favorite ruse was to pretend to be an out-of-towner, lose her keys, and accept a ride back to her hotel. Stacey had several beautiful ladies who were always at the right place at the time and eager to be a "good listener" to these lonely gentlemen. Very few men can say no to ladies half their age and half clothed. Secret cameras would then capture the unsuspecting men engaging in less-than-monogamous acts. Stacey was adept at handling photo equipment; although she professed to be a beautician. The strange part was that she never seemed to make much money styling people's hair; she wasn't very good at it. Obviously it was a cover for the real business she was running. Dial-a-Bimbo. Or variations thereof. I thought it must have been an easy transition from blackmailer to madam. * * * *

It was one afternoon in September, after an almost spiteful recuperation, that I was clipping coupons and noticed a coupon for a haircut at Stacey's Salon. It was a hair salon, and the coincidence was too looming to let go. I decided to have a look at the establishment, praying I would be lucky enough to have her operation dropped right in my lap. I found a parking space a block away and deprived the meter of its quarter, making a bee-line for the boutique. I stepped inside and took in the five lavish booths, each with its own incongruous hairdresser. How could someone like Stacey afford to open a business on such a grand scale when she wasn't even any good at hairdressing? I knew there were two possibilities: either this piece of property was purchased with the money of a blackmailer, or this was another beautician named Stacey. Almost immediately, a young woman of questionable class greeted me. "Hello. May I help you?" I stalled long enough to take a quick look around. A small antique table in the corner held a Plexiglas stand of business cards. I smiled at the woman. "Hi. I'm doing a project for my marketing class. It's on the psychology of business card design. Would you mind if I had one of yours for my collection?" The woman was only too happy to please. "Of course." She reached over and got one from the table. Her hair was an odd mixture of brown and blond. "Here. Anything else? A cut? A perm? You have great hair." If my hair is so great, why do you want to cut it and perm it? "Maybe another time, thanks. My paper is due soon. I need to get home and dive in. I appreciate the card, though." The woman wished me a nice day, and I paused outside to read the bottom corner of the card. 'Stacey Wright, Owner.' She thought she could get away from me. I parked across the street from Stacey's Salon, stationing the Falcon covertly in the alley. I could feel the promise of a cold winter season in the crisp October breeze wafting through my window. My field notebook was open and ready. I leafed through a recent copy of The Advocate, but was careful to keep the greater part of my attention trained on the boutique entrance. Women went in and came out, sporting newly cut or permed or styled hair. A few of them, I couldn't help but notice, were truly nice chunks of womanhood. I gave a grade to each finished product when they emerged from the boutique. At five o'clock a redhead stepped outside with a blond man. I focused the binoculars on her, and knew by the photo Huxley had given me months before, that it was Stacey. The blond man was the same man I encountered at the parking garage; I was sure of it. The two shared a collusive conversation for some moments, and then went back inside. I hunkered down in the seat when Stacey paused for a quick look around before pulling the door closed behind her, lowering the shades on either side of the front door, and turning the "Open" sign over to "Closed." It was 6 p.m. Now, we're getting somewhere. I stared at the storefront, blinking away the film of fatigue over my eyes, and tried to be patient. I pride myself on being able to function on very little sleep. I've gone for days without any real rest, just a cat-nap here and there, and regular infusions of caffeine. It was probably the missing caffeine element that altered the equation; I was awakened from one of these cat-naps when a young man no more than seventeen was let into the shop. I rubbed the itching sandpaper of my eyes, and blinked them back into focus, holding my watch toward the moonlight. 8:15. I entered the information in my notebook and waited. At 9:05, the youth came out, a bit disheveled, and wearing an odd grin. It didn't take a genius to put these pieces together. Pieces, being the operative word. It was perhaps this clientele who financed the hidden cameras that captured the older, more affluent gentlemen with their trousers at half-mast. I knew I'd need solid evidence for that one. I entered the data in my notebook. At ten, I was entertaining the thought of a cup of coffee from a nearby Kwik Stop, when another young man went in. I opted to stick around for his triumphant emergence from the den of iniquity. He came out less than an hour later, and at eleven, an older gentleman in a double-breasted suit. My watch told me that this was the end of my stakeout. I had to go pick up my papers and deliver my route. I started the Falcon and backed further into the alley and onto the street at the other side. I knew for sure where some of the money was coming from. Tomorrow night I would take pictures ... just in case. But tonight, there was the route, and of course, Phoebe. * * * * Phoebe came out before I finished flashing the headlights. She must have been perched on the curtain rod at the back window. She ran to the car and jumped in. She was wearing a shiny silk shirt; I didn't know yet if she had anything under it. "Good evening, my sweet little lover-baby!" she gushed. "Please, Phoebe. Could you work up a little enthusiasm?" "I've been horny all day. I thought you'd never get here." She ran both hands through her hair. "Steve left this afternoon on a business trip. We can go inside this time." My reaction was immediate. "I don't think that would be a good idea." "Why not?" Her face looked petulant. "I wouldn't feel right about it. But I'm right here. What would you like?" I kissed her. "You, Jobeth. I want your lips and your fingers and your tongue..." Phoebe ran her hand inside my shirt and I captured her fingers before they made contact with my breast. "Christ, Phoebe', have a little self-restraint." This fresh wantonness was new behavior. "What gives? You been watching sexy movies by the light of the silvery moon?" "No ... it's Steve ... he's been keeping his distance. He acts like he doesn't want me anymore." "Since when?" "Last night." "Last night you were with me." "That's not it. He had his chance this afternoon, too. He said he was too tired." Phoebe smoothed the black silk nightie that came to mid-thigh. "Well, God, Phoebe -- how often do you want it?" Phoebe looked out the window thoughtfully. "All the time, lately." "You're a nympho, you know that?" "You're the one who put a match to that flame, Sweetie." "It's easy with someone so highly combustible." Phoebe landed on me like a banshee during mating season. Her lips were everywhere, and I knew I'd have to gain control of the situation if I didn't want to be devoured. I pushed her away and motioned toward the back seat. She practically dove over it and was almost naked before she hit the vinyl. "Are you sure you weren't watching those movies, Phoebe?" I asked, helping her out of her panties. "Yes. I don't need movies. I have a healthy imagination. And I was using it just before Steve got home a while ago. That's why the fire is so out of control." She pulled me on top of her. "Quench it, my precious girl." I did my best.

It took three complete sessions of foreplay, teasing, manipulation, and rhythm, followed by three orgasms, to render Phoebe limp in the seat under me. My jaw muscles were aching, my jawbone threatening to lock up, and both hands were numb by the time the itch was scratched. Although we had been together almost every night for the last month, I never knew what Phoebe would do next. I quickly learned that she was unusually unrepressed for a woman these days; she didn't seem to have any sexual baggage. Which was fine with me. Each time was just as exciting as the first time; and that first night would always be fresh in my mind...

Chapter 4

In her first passion

woman loves her lover,

In all the others

all she loves is love.

-- Byron

September Leatherwood Landing While throwing the paper in the paved, pristine driveway, I glanced up and saw the ghostly vestige moving away from the tiny garden. The vision circled the wrought-iron bench and moved fluidly across the lawn toward my Falcon. The filmy fabric of her white peignoir billowed along behind her. She bent to retrieve the newspaper, and I was immediately taken with her beauty, though the night was dark and I could not focus clearly on the woman's features; that kind of beauty needed no illumination to be obvious. She stepped briskly to my window. "Hello. I'm Phoebe McMasters," she said, leaning down to get a look at the paperboy. I detected the scent of coffee on her breath. My attention flickered over the shadowed face before me, and then I treated myself to a rather full view of cleavage, as the woman looked closer. "You're a girl -- " "Last time I looked." Phoebe McMasters chuckled. "I'm your carrier, Jobeth O'Brien." Phoebe reached out and clasped my hand in introduction. "That's an unusual name: Jobeth O'Brien ... it 'falls trippingly off the tongue' as Shakespeare would say." I liked the feel of Phoebe's hand. It wasn't a limp, dead-fish handshake, as I expected the handshake of a socialite to be; Phoebe's grasp was firm, warm. I recalled hearing that the definition of a snob was someone who was educated beyond his or her intelligence. As Phoebe pressed her other hand atop mine, I realized this woman didn't belong in that category. "Your hand is cold, Jobeth O'Brien." "Occupational hazard." That 'something else,' my practiced radar told me, was even more unconventional than being a rich, non-snob. I could spot them a mile away. There were two types of lesbians: gay ones and straight ones. Gay lesbians were gay, and knew it. Straight lesbians were gay and hadn't discovered or admitted it yet. Phoebe was a straight lesbian. And there was nothing more thrilling to me than the possibility of drawing a woman out, especially since it meant I would be the first woman to have her. It bordered on the stereotypical male mentality toward women, but I had not been socialized that way, so it must have just come naturally for me. This feeling of "newness" had developed into an obsession: that moment of letting go; the sensation of a beautiful woman clinging to me, coaxing me, wanting me, and not quite understanding why; it was something I defined as sexual utopia. Having logged and filed this newest prey, I turned my attention back to her, as she leaned in the window. "Why are you wandering around the yard at this hour, in this weather?" "Restless, I guess. Would you like to come in for coffee?" And lonely, too. "Thanks, but I have to finish my route. Maybe another time." I could see the disappointment in her face, and not being one to say no to a creature as lovely as this one, I retracted my excuse. "Well, maybe a quick cup would warm up my cold hands." Phoebe turned and hesitated, looking toward an upper window. "I'd hate to wake up Steve -- " "You're married?" "Yes." She confirmed rather dully. "Look, I'll go put it in a thermos and bring it out to you. Wait." She galloped to the back storm door and went into the house. Although "galloping" is not something you usually see socialites doing, Phoebe did, indeed, gallop. But I thought she did it with unusual elegance. There were perks to having an uptown route. I wanted her. I always admitted that to myself right away so I wouldn't play any games with myself. But I had never had a married woman -- at least, not knowingly. Was this a moral question? Had I ever noticed a moral question? Okay, she's married. It still didn't seem like cheating. There were two different sexes involved in the frolic ... how does a woman go about competing with a man, and for that matter, vice versa? It was like comparing roses and weeds. The women, of course, being the roses. Phoebe returned with the green and chrome Stanley thermos and got in the Falcon beside me. She smelled like a bouquet; I caught the scent like a bloodhound. "Here ya go -- fresh coffee. I made it just before my walk." She handed me a Styrofoam cup, and poured, steamy and hot. "It helps keep me warm." I brooded wistfully that I'd like to have that honor. "This car is quite nostalgic." She was stroking the black and white fabric of the front seat, and studying the stick shift and the metal dash. She glanced behind us. "Why is the backseat made of vinyl?" I blew on my coffee. "It's easier to clean." I'm sure she missed the implication, but that was okay. She'd understand it well enough before too long. "I just finished restoring the inside of it." Phoebe held the thermos in both hands and stared at that upstairs window again. "So ... what do you do with yourself when you're not out wandering around in the dark?" Phoebe sighed. "Not much of anything, actually. I used to be in nursing school ... but gave it up for Steve. He wanted me to stay home." "How sexist of him," I cracked. Phoebe turned her head slowly to look at me, and I met her eyes. She looked me up and down, and a smile crept onto her lips. "You don't pull any punches, do you?" "What's the point?" I mused glibly. Phoebe chuckled for the second time -- a sound that came from deep in her throat, and caused the hair to stand up on the back of my neck. At that moment I wished I could see Phoebe more clearly. What a shame it would be if that perfect laugh was not encased in a perfect throat, or if that perfect charm were not matched by perfectly charming eyes and lips ... too often one could not find all those things wrapped neatly in one package. While I thought this over, Phoebe's smile had faded as swiftly as it had appeared, the woman's attention again drawn to the upper window of the house. I decided to take a chance. "Marital bliss not so blissful, huh?" Phoebe swallowed, the mist in her eyes revealed by the limited glow from a half-moon. "You can't have everything," she philosophized. I felt an unfamiliar stab in my stomach, as I caught the glint of a tear in Phoebe's eyes. I hate it when women cry. I didn't care whether men did it or not; they had been holding back since the Garden, it was time. But women had been crying long enough. It was time for them to take action against the things that made them sad. "That's true enough, I suppose. But it doesn't hurt to try." Phoebe nodded and leaned her head back against the seat, the soft delicacy of her throat exposed in the narrow swath of moonlight. I fought a keen yearning that urged me to kiss the curve of flesh below her chin. "I can't try now. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it, so to speak -- " "You're human. Don't be so hard on yourself." "But what about Steve? He married me because he loved me. I guess I realize now that I feel only friendship for him ... and not much of that, really." "But you didn't know that when you marched down the aisle." I blew on my coffee and took a cautious sip. The scenario was so familiar. Boy meets girl, boy neglects girl, girl seeks outside solace. I intended to offer her all the comfort she could handle. Phoebe sniffed and tried to smile. "You're very intuitive." That's not all I am. "This is odd..." Phoebe shifted in the seat to look directly at me, in my Army jacket, jeans and sneakers. "I'm spilling my guts to a total stranger." "There's a certain safety in talking to strangers. You don't feel obliged to see them again, so you can say what you want. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it." "You're more than just intuitive, aren't you, Jobeth O'Brien? Tell me about yourself." I rolled my eyes, sighed, and looked away, having been confronted with my least-favorite request. "Is this an interview to see if you want to get another carrier?" Phoebe smiled. "Not at all. I just want to know who you are." "I'm your paper-carrier." She cocked her head to one side. "Now I'm intrigued." "I'm afraid I'm not someone you can explain in an introductory chat." I busied my loosening lips by sipping my coffee. Phoebe smiled. "So, come back tomorrow night, too. We'll get to know one another. I really don't have anyone here I can talk to so easily." She pulled the thin robe around her more securely. I studied the woman's face as thoroughly as the light would allow and decided she was sincere. "We stop being strangers after the second conversation, you know." "That's okay with me." "I have to run my route, you know." "So leave a bit earlier ... I've been pulling my hair out lately for company, since Steve has been away so much on business trips..." She looked up at the bedroom window. "Sometimes this house feels like a mausoleum -- " I considered the off-white brick colonial structure, it's French doors and bay windows vague outlines in the dim light, and thought how much it did not look like a mausoleum. Frame of reference was everything. "I'd be a heartless little bitch if I said no to that." I gave her a smile and watched Phoebe step out of the car and close the door. She leaned back down and tossed the thermos through the window onto the seat. "You can bring it back tomorrow night." I reached into the floor and got a paper, handing it to her. "Go inside before you catch cold." "See you tomorrow night, Jobeth." I circled the drive and continued my route, confident that Phoebe McMasters would be my newest challenge -- possibly the most thrilling -- and wondered why that knowledge made me uneasy. * * * * We had been meeting every night for two weeks, and I had learned a lot about Phoebe -- some of it unspoken, but understood. Her husband, Steve, was the son of very wealthy businessman, and Phoebe had money of her own willed to her by a doting late Grandmother who discovered a knack for the stock market. Phoebe also owned stock in numerous Fortune 500 companies. At 35, she was one of the most wealthy people in town; maybe in the state. But money didn't buy the things that she needed most. The interruption of her nursing career had left her longing for that little something that would make her feel valuable, needed. She had a hunger inside her that had never been slaked. She had not had an orgasm in almost two years; only what she called "a bit of release." Phoebe did have a healthy self-concept, and was content with her body (which I recognized immediately as rare), but even so, sex had become a mechanical undertaking. Phoebe felt she had to be in love before she could feel passion again. This pronouncement gave me a moment of anxiety, until my ego kicked in and told me that it wasn't love Phoebe needed, but to be with a woman. * * * * On the fifteenth night, I delivered my entire route early, and drove like a mad hatter to finish with enough time left over for Phoebe. An intuition told me that tonight would be the night. I had never waited this long to make a move on a woman; I was beginning to take this friendly-shoulder routine a bit too seriously. When I pulled up in the drive and flashed my lights, it was 4:05 a.m. Phoebe came out and got in. "You're late. I thought you were going to skip me tonight." "No. I did the rest of my route, so we could talk without a time-clock." I lit a cigarette, offered it to Phoebe, lit one of my own, and opened the glove box. From it, I took a half-pint of 'Hot Damn' Schnapps. "Have a drink, Phoebe." She looked pleased. "Don't mind if I do." Phoebe unscrewed the cap and took a swallow, shivering only slightly, and licking her lips as it went down. "That ought to counteract the coffee I drank tonight waiting for you." "Phoebe. We seem to be developing a friendship, so there's something you should know. Two things, actually." Phoebe took another sip. "Sure. What's the first thing?" "I'm gay." Phoebe just stared at me without blinking or moving for a moment, then took another drink and puffed on her cigarette. "Is that a problem for you?" I knew that it could go either way in these situations. You had to give them the opportunity to beat feet in the other direction. I realized with dismay, that Phoebe's reaction mattered to me; the women I had pursued previously were like toys. And even if they were initially put-off by my admission, curiosity would get the best of them. Phoebe was not a toy; if she bolted, I knew this time I'd feel it -- maybe a little more than I wanted to. I even caught myself rehearsing a speech about being platonic friends with Phoebe, if that was how she wanted it. These thoughts were horrifying. Like those little tragic fantasies you have sometimes about something horrible happening, even though it's the last thing you really want. One of those quagmires of the human mind. Phoebe sighed from her place in the passenger seat. "I don't want you to go away and never come back, if that's what you mean." "You do have that option. I mean, I could just throw your paper in the drive like everyone else's, and you could just mail your payment every month." She took another drink, and handed the bottle to me. "I should feel shocked and disgusted, right?" "Not necessarily. You feel what you feel. Don't let any one else's opinions shape your own." I studied the label of the bottle. Phoebe smiled. "That sounds like good advice." She rolled down the window and tossed the cigarette onto the drive. "For some reason, I'm neither shocked, nor disgusted..." She looked over at me, raking me with bold eyes. "What was the second thing you wanted to say?" My heart quickened. "I think I'll save the second thing for another time." Phoebe grunted peevishly. "Don't torture me, you little imp." I took a long swallow of the cinnamon liquor, letting it slide down my throat like warm coffee. I was nervous. Damn it all to hell, the woman had unnerved me! "I'm very attracted to you, Phoebe." I squeezed my eyes shut on a sigh. The admission had come out sounding timid, meek. I was losing my touch. Phoebe moistened her lips and stared back at me. "You're ... you are?" "You sound surprised." Phoebe picked up the thermos in the seat, and unscrewed the cap. She poured a bit of coffee into the thermos lid and stared down at it as if she'd dropped something into it. "It's a new idea, that's all." I laughed. "It's older than you realize." "Would it be awful of me to confess that I'm curious as hell?" "No," I stilled the leaping animal in my chest. "It would be honest." I tossed out my own cigarette. "Admit it -- " I said, regaining some of my old composure while rolling up the window. " -- there was at least one time in your life when you fantasized about being with another woman." She smiled, taking a quick drink. "I don't really have to answer that, do I?" She giggled. "Okay. I did have a fierce crush on my English teacher in Junior High." "What did you fantasize about?" She went through the memory in her mind and gave a breathy, half-laugh. "Private lessons..." I caught a glimpse of that throat in the moonlight. "I think you're beautiful." Oh, boy. I said that outloud. Phoebe came out of her schoolgirl memories and stared at me, but said nothing. I discovered these were new rules for that familiar game I used to play by rote, and that knowledge was disturbing. I was unsure of what to say next; the script had been ripped from my hands. I would have to ad lib for the first time. Was this the part where I waited for a signal, careful not to frighten the woman away, careful not to blow what I used to call a golden opportunity? The truth was, I had a genuine affection for Phoebe. I had grown fond of that overt vulnerability that had her talking about personal things; the way she ran her fingers through her hair; the way she laughed ... Am I letting her get to me? Phoebe reached over and put her hand on mine. I almost jerked it away, but caught myself just in time. "Are you going to give me a sample?" she asked. I laughed, anxious to be out of the whirl of questions in my head. "Do you mean a sample, or an example?" "I mean, are you going to kiss me?" Prepared for almost anything, I was still caught off guard by Phoebe's candidly daring question. "Why?" "Well, how am I going to know if I like something, unless I try it?" For an instant, I wondered if Phoebe was toying with me, and silently cursed my own hesitancy. Phoebe slid over in the seat close to me and waited. I could feel the woman's body heat. I could hear her short, expectant breaths. Swallowing in an effort to moisten my dry mouth, I reached up and brushed the hair away from Phoebe's eyes, touched her face, and leaned closer, until I could feel her breath against my face; I brushed my lips against her cheek. First one side, then the other. Her reaction was immediate; she began to tremble. I pressed my lips to Phoebe's and kissed her long and gently, exploring a bit, but not letting myself be too abrupt about it. Her breaths became shorter and more rapid then, and my left hand slid down her waist, down the side of her leg, my palm making the pivot at the kneecap, to travel the top of that thigh up again, my thumb easing into the fold where leg fused with loin. I felt my own pulse begin to race as Phoebe's arms come around me, drawing me in. I moved my hips out from under the steering wheel to lean in and bury my face in that place where Phoebe's neck and shoulder joined. How many times had I been teased by that neck in the moonlight? I brushed my cheek against the soft skin there, Phoebe's pulse pushing against my lips. Finding the cord of tendon there, I took a bite, scraping my teeth along it and sucking the skin into my mouth like a morsel of white chocolate. I lifted my face to find Phoebe's lips again, and then Phoebe broke the kiss, caught her breath, and whispered, "Sweet Christ -- " She changed her mind. It was too good to be true after all. "What's wrong?" "I just..." Her voice was hesitant, as if she could not get the language center in her brain to connect with her vocal cords. "had ... an image of someone..." Her eyes fluttered to the bedroom window. "Steve?" "No." She glanced over at me, sighed quickly -- one of those underwater-too-long breaths. "Actually, I was thinking about this woman at the country club." She pressed both hands to her face once, and drew a calming breath. My tired brain finally made the correlation. "Would this be a woman that you ... are attracted to?" Her head snapped over to look at me. "How did you know?" I smiled. "So there has been another crush besides your English teacher." Phoebe looked away and smiled. "I saw her first in the locker room at the club. She was changing to play tennis. I glanced over at her and was ... you know, sort of admiring her form -- " "You're not talking about her back-swing?" I chided. "No." She tossed me a grin. "Her body. At first, I just thought, 'wow, she's got great legs, I wish I had legs like that' ... stuff like that. But then I found myself looking at her ... looking at all of her. I was admiring her, but at the same time, I felt myself getting excited ... I got out of there fast." I knew I was going to need a cigarette for this one, so I pulled one out. "Did you ever see her again?" "Many times." "And?" I said through the cigarette in my lips. "And I kept having these reactions to her." Phoebe borrowed the first drag off my Carlton after I lit it, then handed it back. She released the smoke toward the front window, where it dispersed across the glass and encircled us. "What kind of reactions?" She caught my eyes solidly. "The kind I just had with you." I thumped the ash from my cigarette out the open wing of the window and ran my right hand around the steering wheel. "You haven't told me yet exactly what that reaction was..." She reached over and touched my leg. "You know what it was, Jobeth." She hasn't changed her mind. She hasn't changed her mind. I knew it was best if I let her make all the connections from this point. I knew it, and yet, I couldn't figure out why. It was not my usual approach to these precarious decisions. If the fire needed another log, I was the one who tossed it on, and stoked the flames around it. But contrary to that, I knew I should allow her to not only choose the log, but to decide whether or not to stoke it. She had been watching me throughout my reasoning process, and now she was sliding closer to me. "Jobeth ... kiss me again..." I tossed my cigarette out the window and tried to read the future in her eyes. They weren't telling. So I leaned over and kissed her softly. She pressed against me, pulling at the lapel of my jacket. I placed my hands on her jaw-line, caressing her face as I deepened the kiss. She moaned against my lips, and the vibration of it shot through me. I tried to suppress it, knowing that she would need time to think it all over, time to -- "Let's get in the back seat -- " She breathed in my ear. I could hardly find enough moisture in my mouth to activate my dry tongue, but managed, "Aren't you a bit old to be making it in back seats?" "I've never done it in a back seat," she said, through heavy breaths. "Just for your information." "I'm not pressuring you, Phoebe. We don't have to move this fast. We don't even have to do this at all -- " What am I saying? This is the chance of a lifetime, and I'm wringing my hands?! "I thought you said you were attracted to me." Phoebe leaned back to regard me with an openly rejected expression, her chest undulating with her ragged breaths. "I am." Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into? "I just want you to be sure." I never cared whether they were sure before ... has my libido finally shriveled from overuse? "I'm sure." Phoebe released a long breath and I thought I heard a slight growl. I looked at the upstairs window from our usual position in the back driveway. "What about Steve?" "He sleeps like a rock these days..." She lifted my hand and placed it against her chest. "please ... I want to -- " I smiled and followed her over the seat. "You're not going to have second

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 594