by Norah Wilson
Dylan was on him.
Jesus H. Christ. Dylan had moved so fast, I’d barely had time to process it, but there he was, his hands tight on Gaetan’s shoulders. He was much larger than Gaetan, had a least a good eight inches on him. I knew Dylan, knew he wouldn’t swing, but there was no mistaking the threat he was laying on Gaetan, no matter that it was delivered as tightly edged advice: “I suggest you don’t ever talk to the lady like that again.”
All eyes were on Dylan. Especially mine. There was no mistaking the fire in his eyes, and he’d reacted way too quickly, too spontaneously, for it to have been mere role playing. His reaction had been instinctual. Visceral.
“Boys! Boys! No need for this! It’s a cuddle club! Let’s not ruin the atmosphere!” That from Ruth-Ann. Geez, I liked that lady. With one hand on Gaetan’s shoulder and one on Dylan’s she easily coaxed them apart. Expertly.
Dylan let go of Gaetan, but didn’t unlock his stare until Gaetan said, “Well... I guess accidents do happen.”
As if that was her cue, Babe (with Eva’s unsolicited assistance) started cleaning the mess up.
And speaking of messes... I scooted to the bathroom to remove the frosty from all over me. Especially where it pooled in my cleavage. Yeah, how charming was that? The frosty (did I mention freezing cold?) pink smoothie had pooled in my bra-enhanced cleavage. You know, in that area where you carry your cell phone, car keys, those little dogs that Paris Hilton is always carrying around in her purse. (Normal, right? Right?) Lots of women keep things in their bras. Peaches Marie is really into crystals and stones. She wouldn’t be caught dead at a yoga class without a small piece of amazonite stuffed in her sports bra. My mom’s friend, Mona, tucks a lucky dollar in there before every bingo game (and she’s oh so lucky at bingo.)
But not me. Apparently, I collected smoothies.
I headed to the slightly bigger family washroom just past the men’s and women’s rooms. There was one toilet, one sink, and one door, so I would be assured my privacy as I cleaned up. But as I walked down the hallway, I heard the soft sound of footsteps following.
And in a bolt of intuition, I knew who it was, and why he was following me.
The smoothie. It was evidence. And it had to be collected.
I stepped inside the bathroom, holding the door open for Dickhead, who ducked in behind me. I let the door fall shut and sighed. “Just do what you’ve got to do!”
He looked sick. Apologetic. Oh, fuck, he looked like a man condemned.
“I don’t like this any better than you do, Dodd.” Dickhead locked the door behind us. He took a few steps toward me, reached into the pocket of his black sweat pants, and pulled out a sealed specimen jar and a pair of latex gloves.
Yeah, he’d come prepared.
“What are the chances of you letting me do this myself?” I asked as he donned the gloves.
“Can’t do it,” he said. “You’re not a cop.” One gloved hand went into his other pocket and produced something else. He tore the wrapper off it and I realized it was probably a sterile tongue depressor. No doubt he planned to use it like a spatula to scrape up the smoothie.
Great. Just freakin’ great. I started to unbutton my silk top. Slowly. Oh so slowly. And no, I wasn’t trying to be seductive, but curse Aunt Gert and her attention to detail! Just like at the condo the other night, the buttons were too snug in the holes. After about twenty seconds of that, I cursed and whipped the damned thing over my head.
Dickhead swallowed audibly.
Oh God, let’s keep this professional.
Have I mentioned that Detective Richard Head is my arch rival? My sworn enemy? (And hey, I’m not kidding about the paperwork on that.) Have I mentioned too that I busted his cheating ass years ago? Oh, and have I mentioned he really isn’t that bad looking? And so here I was with my top on the floor, and—
There was a knock at the door. “Um, Debbie... I mean, Dix... are you going to be a while?”
Damn it! Starla! She’d have to clean up too. I motioned for Dickhead’s silence.
“Um, I’ll be a bit, Starla. You might want to use the other bathroom.”
“Oh,” she said. As patient as she had been when I’d spilled the drinks, it seemed I was wearing that patience thin now.
After a minute, I turned back to Dickhead—he was staring at me.
“This is going to hurt me a lot more than it’s going to hurt you,” he said. And I mentally, silently, thanked him for that. But I’m no fool, despite the sworn-enemy status, Dickhead was... not unimpressed by what he saw.
“Let’s just get it over with!” I said.
I stood perfectly still, closed my eyes even (some would call it a cringe) as he moved in with the jar.
There was a pause. A long, long—
“What are you waiting for?” I asked,
“Could you... assist?”
I looked down at my breasts.
Great, just great. (Yeah, they were pretty great, especially in the new bra I’d just bought, but that’s beside the point.) The problem was obvious. While I’m not exceptionally large-chested, neither am I flat-chested, and I’ve been carrying a little extra padding these past few years. Basically, the upshot was that there was no way Dickhead was reaching in for his smoothie sample without another pair of hands to assist.
“Okay, fine.” No way was I slinging my bra off too. But, hey, I am woman... I knew the mechanics of the situation at... er... hand.
Curse you tight and ample cleavage!
I grabbed my boobs from beneath, lifted and separated. “Make it quick.”
“Don’t worry about that, Dix.”
Dix.
Yeah, again without the derogatory suffix to my name. What the hell was wrong with this guy? Dix? Just Dix? I could have slapped him (and he was so close I wouldn’t have needed a hand; a sharp turn to the left would have poked him in the eye.)
True to his word, Richard Head did make it quick. And he was careful not to touch me with anything but the tongue depressor as he scooped the pooled smoothie from between my breasts. I held my breath the whole while (no exhales happening here). He gathered the evidence, sealed the jar, then grabbed for the door. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Neither could I. While I had every confidence they wouldn’t have cast the cuddle yet (and how could they without Our Ritchie?), I did need to hurry this clean up. I slipped out of my bra, and rinsed it and the silk top out in the sink. Oh boy, I did not relish putting either of those items back on. But I sure as hell wouldn’t be bouncing around braless. I hung the new bra strategically under the hot-air hand dryer, and that problem was solved within minutes. But the pajama top was another matter. I still couldn’t go out—
Another knock at the door.
“Starla, I’m sorry, but I’m still not done.”
“It’s me, Dix, Babe. Open the door. Quickly, before Gaetan sees I’m gone.”
I hurriedly put my bra back on and opened the door a crack. (Nope, not one for parading around in my underwear, even if the audience was just Babe.)
“Here, take this.” Babe handed me a shirt through the two-inch crack of open door. I recognized it even as I reached for it. One of her own creations—the very one she’d twirled around in yesterday, if I wasn’t mistaken.
As soon as my hand closed on the garment, she was off like a shot. Even before I could thank her.
It didn’t exactly match. I didn’t exactly care. I put it on, finished wringing out the PJ top the best I could, then headed back down to Gaetan Land.
Light spilled through the beveled glass in the door. Good, the lights had not yet been dimmed, and yes, when I opened the door no soft music played. Folks were just milling about, minus the usual smoothies, and they were looking a little grumpy and impatient.
Just the way I liked them!
Gaetan made a point of turning his back to the door—thus on me—as soon as I walked into the room.
Dylan smiled as soon as his gaze fell on me. Which was a little
unnerving. What was he smiling at? The change of clothing? The way I’d stopped the smoothie consumption? Or—oh, God!—he had to have realized why Dickhead had disappeared down the hall after me. Or was he just smiling at me?
Dickhead stood in the corner. As soon as my eyes met his, he looked the other way.
“Well,” Gaetan huffed, still avoiding all eye contact with me. “We’ll have to forego the drinks tonight—but no refunds of course. Ha ha ha... Not kidding.” Clap, clap, clap.
Well, I was about to become even more unpopular with Gaetan. (Seriously, if that little dude had a shit-list, I was number one on it. But like they say, in for a penny, in for a pound. Or was that a pounding?)
“Sorry about that, guys,” I called. “I guess I got a little overexcited about the smoothies.”
General mutter and grumbling ensued.
“But since we’re off track anyway, maybe we should do something different tonight. You know, rather than casting a cuddle.”
“No way!”
I turned—we all turned—to look where that shout had come from. Babe’s face reddened as she looked back at each of us, her gaze stopping on me. “I... I mean, it’s part of the... club. It’s...”
“It’s not up for debate!” With that, Gaetan walked to the counter, taking Cuddle-Uppies one by one from Babe as she unwrapped and handed them over.
Dammit.
I was afraid of this. I was afraid I’d have to resort to desperate tactics. Dire tactics. Oh God, painful ones. Oh shit, I wanted to puke. But a girl could only wash up so many times...
“Dylan,” I choked out. “How about you lead us in a sing along? A... tribute to Albert before we... Cuddle-Uppie.”
“Jesus, Dix!” Elizabeth Bee shrilled, clearly panicked. (Oh, so now she remembered my name!) She’d been out with Dylan and me and some others over at Donatta’s Karaoke Bar one night a few months back. She knew how horribly Dylan sang. His singing should be outlawed (actually, I think they were drawing up by-laws in some small Ontario towns). And the kicker—Dylan had absolutely no clue that his singing voice was bad, let alone paint-peelingly bad.
“I... I mean, is that really necessary?” Elizabeth continued.
“Well, it’s not against the rules,” Babe said quietly. “We usually get under the Cuddle-Uppies to sing, but—”
Gaetan whirled on her. “Are you still here?”
She wasn’t for long. Head down, shoulders drooping, Babe retreated to the back room.
“I think a memorial hymn would be great,” Dickhead said. I don’t think he’d had the privilege of hearing Dylan singing, but he knew I had something up my sleeve.
Ruth-Ann shrugged. “Why not? And... and I... I think our dear Albert would have liked that. And Faynelle and... our Telly too. We’ve lost so many dear friends lately. Maybe we could sing a hymn or two in their memory.” She had tears in her eyes. She really must have thought a lot of the gang. Or at least one or two of them.
“Let’s all join hands,” Dylan said, as if the debate were over. He positioned himself in the center of the cuddle floor. Gaetan’s head looked about to explode
I took Dylan’s hand.
Brandy was on his other side within seconds. “Come on, girls.” She smiled sweetly at her friends. Eva and Zoey latched on too. Soon everyone was filling in on the hand-holding moment.
Gaetan sighed. “Well, if it will shut this one up—” He jerked a hand toward me.
Dylan tensed beside me, and I felt his grip tighten. “Hey,” he said, his eyes darkening as they bore into Gaetan Gough. “I told you to watch how you talk to my lady.”
I’m no shrinking violet. (Hey, I eat shrinking violets for breakfast. Okay, not literally. Well, unless you count that one time at band camp. And strictly speaking, violets are edible...) Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I’m perfectly capable of sticking up for myself. But you know, the fact that Dylan was sticking up for me right now to this little turd of a man made me feel... great. Also, terrified.
Gaetan looked away from Dylan’s hard stare.
“Now!” I whispered to Dylan. “Amazing Grace. Start with that song.”
“Got it,” he whispered back. “I’ll have them in tears in no time.”
“I have absolutely no doubt.”
My knees were weak. My stomach was turning to lead. My ears were cringing in anticipation.
Dylan cleared his throat, and began, “Amazing grace, how sweeeeet the sound that saved a wretch like me-eee ieee...”
My eyes were watering. Ruth-Ann, who was standing between two older men, leaned on both of them for support. She looked at me, horrified, and I’m quite sure mouthed the words, “Don’t have children.” This from a bio-ethicist! Eva and Brandy stared at Dylan unblinking, their jaws hanging slack. I was quite sure they weren’t that pale when we got here. Zoey wasn’t doing much better. Elizabeth was cursing me under her breath. Oh, how I deserved that! Starla threw her hands up in the air, grabbed her coat and headed for the door. Oh, the look she shot me. Mabel from the other side of the hand-holding circle, reached up, turned something in her ear (I’m guessing a hearing aid) then smiled sweetly at Dylan. Gaetan Gough leaned against the counter, or rather over it. Like he needed help standing up.
But the main thing as Dylan finished—no one had tucked under the Cuddle-Uppies.
“Look at them,” he whispered to me. “They’re speechless. Oh, man, they’re motionless.”
Indeed they were.
Gaetan was the first to recover. “I think... I think we all need to—”
“Quick, Dylan, sing How Great Thou Art! Nice and loud!” I turned to the terrified crowd. “Just wait till he hits the high notes.”
“Elizabeth and I were just leaving!” Drammen said, speaking for both of them, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind. I’d never seen an old guy move as fast as he did then. Never! And Ruth-Ann elbowed past him on her way out the door. So did the guys who’d been at her side.
“Oh look at the time,” Brandy said. “I’ll be late for... family dinner.”
“Take me with you!” Zoey pleaded.
“Wait for me! I’m coming too.” Eva was right behind them.
The room cleared out in less than two minutes. The only ones who remained were me, Dylan, Richard Head, Gaetan, and Babe, who just then walked out of the office.
“Gaetan,” she said. “Do you still want the lights and air turned—oh!” she looked around at the near empty room. “What happened?”
Gaetan glared at me. “She happened.”
Guilty as charged. There was no love lost between Gaetan Gough and me, and I was quite fine with that. More than fine with that... it tickled me right to death.
“What the hell are you up to?” he demanded.
“Don’t you mean, what am I on to?”
I was almost ready to finger the guy for murder.
Gaetan turned on his heel and stormed off.
Chapter 11
DYLAN WAS still talking about his adventures in hymn-singing the next afternoon at the office. We were both sitting on the floor in the outer office, our lidded coffees beside us, as we unpacked yet a couple more boxes (thankfully the last of them). And yeah, we were waiting for that phone to ring. In fact, the first thing I had done when we got into the office this fine Monday morning was to check the voice mails. Dickhead had said he’d gotten the okay to expedite the analysis on the Cuddle-Uppie and the smoothie sample, and it would have been delivered to the forensic lab by 9 o’clock this morning.
No voice mails.
Okay, maybe five hours was pushing it, even for an expedited order. This wasn’t CSI Marport City.
“You shouldn’t have picked Amazing Grace, Dix,” Dylan said, sighing. With a box cutter, he sliced through the heavy packing tape. When he looked up his eyes were glassy, the smile serene.
Dumbly, I nodded. “Yeah, that song gets ’em every time.”
“Especially the way I sing it. It’s just too intense, I guess. People just can’t handle it. I ca
n’t tell you the people who’ve begged me to never sing that song again. I mean, did you see Ruth-Ann? She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And she wasn’t the only one who had to bolt. Starla. Hugh and Elizabeth. They all did. Even Mabel seemed to get caught up in my singing.”
Actually I think she got caught in the stampede.
I wanted to cry now myself just thinking about it.
“Where do you want these?” Dylan held up the six-pack of yellow pads.
“In my office. Right-hand desk drawer is fine.”
“Done.” Dylan stood, and walked into my office. I watched him go. Yes, he looked as good in those jeans going as he did coming. And no, we had not gotten it on last night after cuddle club. Not that we both didn’t want to.
I’d told him about Dickhead’s um, sample gathering. And I had watched Dylan’s reaction carefully. His face was neutral as I explained it all. Yep, detail after detail. Yet his expression remained guarded. What was he thinking? Was he jealous? Angry?
He’d burst out laughing. I mean uncontrolled, snorting laughter. The prick.
Okay, it was kind of funny. He’d had to pull off onto the shoulder of the road to collect himself, so as not to risk an accident. It had taken minutes for the snorts and peals of laughter to die down.
And in those moments—believe it or not—the world felt right. As we laughed at my shirt-tossing misfortune, recalled the smoothie dripping down my cleavage, and even the look on Gaetan’s face, it felt perfectly right. Easy. Dylan was a trusted coworker. My dear friend. Someone I really wanted to be with, if I only dared...
When he’d driven me back home, we’d fooled around in the SUV outside my condo building. I’ve never been much of a fan of petting in a car, but can I just say, that was so freakin’ hot! Of course, I’d never done it before with a guy who was quite so good at it. I’d been about to drag... er... I mean, invite him up when his cell phone had rung.
My happy buzz of remembered sexual arousal evaporated a bit as I thought about that phone call. He’d listened a lot, kept his answers mainly to yes and no, with a few whens and wheres thrown in there. Then he’d clicked the phone off, sighed, and said he had to go.
