Big Guns Out of Uniform

by Nicole Camden

  “See, now, there’s the really scary part.” Delia’s voice was very small. “I do trust you.”

  Nick made a strange, rough sound in the back of his throat. “So answer the question, darlin’,” he softly demanded. “Whatcha got on under that T-shirt? Black leather motorcycle pants? A chastity belt? Knickerbockers? What?”

  “God, I don’t believe I’m doing this,” said Delia, cradling her forehead in one palm. “Panties.”

  “Bikini or thong?”

  “Oh, God.” Delia felt her face growing warm. “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m visualizing, Doc,” he whispered, his voice dark and hot. “Sensual visualization. See, last week, I thought I was starting to lose interest in sex.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Oh, no, sugar, I’m serious as a heart attack,” he insisted. “Then, remember last Friday? When you told Menopausal Marge from Montreal how to use sensual visualization to—you know, to get herself fired up? Well, you were right, Doc. That shit works. I’m imagining you in your panties right now, and I’m hard enough to hammer nails.”

  “Nick.” Delia giggled. “You are not menopausal.”

  “But it’s still working real good for me. So, come on, Delia. Help me out. Describe every inch of your tight, sweet body, baby, and I swear, I’ll never tell a soul. But first, let’s get back to those panties.”

  As if to hide from herself, Delia wriggled under the covers. “Okay,” she finally whispered. “They’re hip huggers. Pink ones.”

  “Pink,” groaned Nick. “God, Delia, are they the same color pink as your cheeks when you blush? The cheeks on your face now, I’m talking, because honey, I gotta confess, that’s about the prettiest shade of pink I’ve ever laid eyes on. So far.”

  “Is…Is it really?”

  “Delia, darlin’, I get hot just thinking about it.”

  She was very quiet for a moment. “Nick, you’re weird.”

  “Nope,” he insisted. “I’m a normal, healthy male with normal, healthy appetites, burning with a whole morning’s worth of thwarted lust from watchin’ you in that weird skirt and those ugly shoes. Besides, remember what you told Tricia from Tallahas—”

  “God, please do not mention my job again,” interjected Delia.

  “Why?”

  “Because I…I don’t find talking about my job very…well, you know.” Suddenly Delia of the million-word vocabulary couldn’t find the right one.

  “Erotic?” His voice slid over her skin like silk. “Is that it, babe?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if I talk about other things,” he whispered, “you might feel otherwise?”

  “Yes. Maybe. Oh, Nick, I don’t know!”

  “I can work with a maybe,” he said reassuringly. “Shoot, just breathe heavily into the phone, darlin’. Given your voice, that’ll probably do the trick.”

  “Wh-what trick?”

  Nick laughed his wicked laugh again. “Oh, Delia, you just don’t know what you do to me.”

  Despite the darkness under her bedcovers, Delia squeezed shut her eyes. “Then tell me,” she whispered.

  That caught him off guard. “Umm—tell you?”

  “Go ahead, big boy,” she whispered, giggling. “Tell me everything.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, then hesitated. “But listen, sugar, something just occurred to me. Are you on a hard line?”

  “Mmm, hard,” she whispered, mimicking his voice. “I like that.”

  Nick laughed a little nervously. “Now, be serious a minute, darlin’,” he cautioned. “’Cause frequencies float, and we don’t want to give old Bud Basham a coronary here.”

  “Oh,” breathed Delia. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now, is that a remote phone you’re using?”

  “No, it’s under the covers with me. Cord and all.”

  “Lucky phone,” he rasped. “Delia, know what I’d do if I was under there with you?”

  “No. What?”

  Nick breathed heavily for a moment, and it didn’t seem feigned. “Oh, I don’t know, baby,” he whispered. “It’d be so hard to choose.”

  “Choose.”

  “Okay.” The springs squeaked again. “Okay, first, I think I’d slide my hands up your thighs, then just keep going, right under your T-shirt. What color did you say that was?”

  “Black,” she whispered wickedly. “It’s vintage AC/DC, from the original Back in Black tour.”

  “Oh, baby, you rock,” he choked, but she could tell he was about to laugh out loud. “I just knew you had a dark side. Okay, so, what I would do is, I would ease my hands along that pretty, pale flesh of yours, right up over your ribs, touching every one of ’em, just enough to make your skin shiver.”

  “Mmm.” It really did sound good.

  “Mmm is right, darlin’,” Nick whispered. “And then, I’d brush the very tips of your nipples with my palms. Just to make sure they were nice and hard.”

  “Ohh,” said Delia.

  “Are they, Delia?”

  She hesitated. “A little.”

  “Just a little?” Nick sounded crushed.

  “A lot,” said Delia. “Hard. Tingly.”

  “Jesus, Delia.” His voice was sincere. “Touch them. Tell me for sure.”

  “Hard, Nick,” she whispered. “They feel…heavy. Maybe…kind of lonely.”

  “Wait.” Nick swallowed hard. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Nooo.”

  “Oh, yeah, darlin’, I think I’d rather take your panties off first.”

  “Would you? Why?”

  “Because I just can’t wait, Delia,” he whispered. “Because I’m about to come all over my couch. And because I’m betting you’ve got some other pink parts that are prettier than your cheeks, sweetheart.”

  Delia giggled. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe my white cracker ass,” he rasped. “So I’d slide those silk panties down your legs, Delia—and I know they’d be silk, darlin’, ’cause it’d be a sin for a woman like you to wear any other kind—and I’d slide ’em right down to your ankles. Maybe just rip ’em right off, then, and buy you new ones later.”

  “O-okay,” said Delia. “No one ever bought me underwear before.”

  “Then you have not lived the life you deserve, sugar.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Delia?”

  “Yes, Nick?”

  His voice was dark and steady. “Slip your hand under those pink silk panties,” he commanded, “and tell me what it feels like.”

  Delia hesitated. “Oh, Nick.”

  Nick’s breath ratcheted up sharply. “Come on, baby,” he begged, his voice thick now. “Do it. Do it for me. Don’t stop me now. Please. Just slide your palm down your belly and under the elastic, okay? And slip your fingers between your legs. Are you wet, Delia? Are you? Good God, honey, say yes, ’cause I’m dying here.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “Yes. Wet. Dripping.”

  Nick swallowed hard again. “God almighty, girl,” he whispered. “I really am gonna come just listening to you.”

  “Are you, Nick?” Delia asked, her voice deep and foreign. “Really? Because, you know, I think you have such an incredible butt. I watched it half the afternoon, sticking out of the hood of my car, so tight and perfect. You know, I really am sorry I missed your hot tub.”

  “Ah, God, Delia,” he groaned. “Oh, God. Keep talking, baby. Just keep talking. ’Cause, I swear—I swear—”

  “Holy shit!” screamed Delia, leaping from beneath the covers.

  “What the hell is that?” he barked. The pounding on Delia’s kitchen door was so loud, Nick could hear it through the telephone. “What the hell is that? Delia? Delia—?”

  Someone punched the bell. Six times. “Open the goddamned door, Delia!” bellowed Dr. Neville Sydney. “Open it right now. Don’t you dare touch my fucking speedboat, you hear me?”

  “Delia?” said Nick. “Delia? Baby, put the phone back to your ear. Put the phone back.
Talk to me, sugar. Talk now—or I’m coming over there.”

  “Holy shit, Nick, it’s Neville!” hissed Delia into the phone. “And for this, I really ought to kill him.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Nick. “Delia, do not answer that door. I’m coming over there. And I mean now.”

  Delia’s back floodlights were already on by the time Nick slid into his jeans, shoved his service pistol into his waistband, and started across the yard. He could see a big, black Lincoln Navigator idling outside her garage, its chrome trailer hitch glistening yellow beneath the lights. He could already hear the argument, too. Because Delia, of course, had not listened to him and kept her damned door shut. Instead, she was leaning half out of it, going nose-to-nose with Mr. Rhinoplasty himself.

  Delia’s ex-husband was waving wildly in the direction of the garage. “You vindictive bitch!” he heard Neville shout. “You’ve changed the remote codes! You can’t hold my boat captive! How dare you?”

  “Neville, have you always been such a twit?” snapped Delia. “The damned Liftmaster is broken. Didn’t you hear it grinding?”

  “Well, howdy, howdy folks,” said Nick, sidling up to Neville.

  He wasn’t sure who was more taken aback, Delia or her ex-husband. She looked at him, shut her mouth, then opened it again. “Nick, Neville,” she said, waving between them. “Neville, Nick. As in Woodruff. The riffraff behind your pine trees. Remember?”

  Neville didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Fine. Whatever. Delia, I want my boat.”

  “And didn’t I tell you, not six hours ago, to come get it?” snapped Delia, still in her vintage T-shirt. “Believe me, Neville, I have lots more stimulating things to do with my evenings than stand here talking to you.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, his voice smooth and smarmy. “This is all about Alicia, isn’t it?”

  Nick could see Delia had got hold of a big, fancy wineglass, and she was brandishing it now. “Oh! Oh!” she screeched, balling up her empty fist. “News flash, Neville! Everything is not about Alicia, okay? Some of this is about you dumping me with this overblown excuse of a house, and then not moving your shit out of it.”

  Neville crossed his arms petulantly. “Well, now I’ve come for the boat.”

  “Get the boat, Neville. Take the boat! You think I want it? You think I want any of that high-end crap in the garage, Neville? I mean, what kind of self-absorbed, asinine misogynist uses engraved silver golf tees? Or a titanium racing bike? Can you tell me that, Neville? I mean, let’s face it, you are so not Lance Armstrong.”

  Neville smirked. “Jealousy does not become you, Delia.”

  “Oh, screw you, Neville! Do you have any clue how glad I am to be rid of you?”

  Neville seemed to find this impossible to fathom. “My God, Delia, have you been drinking?” He drew back in horror. “And—heaven forfend!—is that the antique Baccarat you’re waving?”

  “Nope,” said Delia, crowning him with the wineglass. “Not now.” The bowl of the wineglass bounced off Neville’s head and hit the concrete driveway, shattering into a spray of diamonds. Delia waved the stem triumphantly.

  Nick couldn’t remember what a misogynist was, didn’t give a shit what a Baccarat was, and was pretty certain real men didn’t use the word forfend. But he damn sure knew when to step into a fray. “Okay, folks,” he said, calmly elbowing his way between them. “This is the point in our evening’s festivities when I introduce Mr. Badge and Mr. Beretta,” he said, withdrawing both.

  Delia and Neville turned to stare at him.

  Nick smiled his best Southern-boy smile. “Now, this just got official,” he said sweetly. “Y’all shut the hell up before Bud Basham calls the Durham police and this gets written up someplace official, okay? ’Cause, trust me, it won’t look good on your résumés.”

  Neville really didn’t have a clue. “Look, Woodstock, don’t piss her off any further,” he said high-handedly. “I’ve had a long day, I don’t need the theatrics, and she obviously is not the nice, mild-mannered college professor she seems.”

  “I’d guessed that already, Dr. Snidely.” Nick’s drawl was even slower than usual. “In fact, I’d guess old Delia here can get pretty danged hot under the right circumstances. And she has a bad temper, too.”

  “It’s Sydney,” snapped Neville. “Dr. Neville Sydney.”

  “No shit?” said Nick, drawing back an inch. “What a coincidence. I’m Woodruff. As in Nick why-don’t-you-take-your-friggin’-boat-and-get-the-

  hell-outta-here Woodruff.”

  “Hilarious,” said Neville, turning back to his ex-wife. “Look, Delia, do you think you and Sheriff Taylor here could just put the goddamned garage door up? I’m on call.”

  Chapter Four

  By late Sunday afternoon Nick had worked his way deep into the bowels of Delia’s station wagon and was fast developing an appreciation for Swedish engineering. The car looked like a piece of shit on wheels, but it was definitely built to last. Maybe her automotive taste wasn’t so bad after all, he mused, cracking loose another greasy bolt near the head gasket.

  Her taste in men, though, was highly suspect. Bud Basham’s description of Neville Sydney had turned out to be a kind one. Sydney adored himself, and it was obvious. But Nick had been relieved to see that Delia didn’t adore him. Not anymore, at any rate. Maybe she never had? Maybe marrying him had been a career move?

  Nick shook his head and went to his tool chest to change sockets. Nope, maybe he didn’t know much about Delia, but he was sure she wouldn’t do that. Probably she’d just been too young to know better.

  Delia still hadn’t given Nick the owner’s manual for the Volvo, and he was wondering when she’d dredge up the courage to come over. She’d been just a tad tipsy last night. And in the bright light of day, he knew Delia was going to be mortified by her behavior. Just picturing her conking old Neville with that wineglass last night made Nick laugh. And on the phone before that…whoo boy. Nothing funny there. The way he’d been feeling about Delia was deadly damned serious.

  Scary serious. But the lust he felt—jeez, that was serious, too. And he was going to have to do something about it, or explode. One way or another, he had to get Delia Sydney into his bed. Underneath him. Around him. Inside him. Any way he could take her, he meant to have her. What he felt was worse than an ache or an itch. He didn’t even know what it was. Didn’t want to think about it, either.

  Bedding her was doable, though, he thought. Oh, not long-term. He definitely wasn’t Delia’s type. He wasn’t intellectual enough, or polished enough, and they had nothing at all in common. Besides, he didn’t think long-term. His job asked too much of him, and once the internal investigation was finished and his administrative leave was over, work would only get worse. He’d be back on the job and working twice as hard to make up for lost time. Still, there was no reason he and Delia couldn’t have a blazing hot affair. Good sex was good sex, no matter your background. And clearly, Delia needed to get laid.

  Still, Delia lacked self-confidence where her sexuality was concerned. That was understandable, he supposed, after a divorce. Clinically, as Delia would say, she probably knew it, too. But a woman’s psyche was a delicate thing, and it looked like old Neville had stomped all over hers. And all Nick had to do was convince her that he was just the man to bolster her spirits, so to speak.

  “Nick?”

  Nick jerked his hand back, almost cracking a knuckle on the engine block. He straightened up to see Delia standing by the corner of his shed, two sweaty bottles of Bud in one hand, the Volvo’s manual in the other.

  Nick forced a casual grin and shoved his wrench in his back pocket. “Well, hey there, Doc,” he said, taking the manual. “I was wondering when you’d roll out of bed and sober up.”

  Delia blanched. “I wasn’t drunk,” she said softly. “I just…I don’t know, had temporary insanity or something. Here, I brought you a beer. I’m sorry about last night.”

  Nick tossed the manual aside
and took the Bud. “I’m not sorry,” he said, then drank down a healthy gulp. “Best entertainment I’ve had in years.”

  Delia dropped her head. “Gosh, I was terrible to Neville, wasn’t I?”

  “Neville?” said Nick. “Hell, who cares about Neville? Delia, that was not what I was talking about.”

  “Oh, Nick, don’t tease me!” Delia sat down in her chair—he thought of it as hers now, anyway—and rocked it back against the railing. “I feel like such a fool, acting like some horny teenager on the phone with you, then hitting—hitting!—Neville like that. Just bam!” She smacked herself in the forehead with her open palm. “I can’t think what got into me. I’m always so…so in control.”

  She really did look distressed. So she’d gotten a little tooted and whacked her ex-husband, a man who probably deserved worse. Big deal. But Nick kept forgetting how seriously women, especially women like Delia, took such things. Today she wore red Keds, an old University of Pennsylvania sweatshirt, and a pair of baggy athletic shorts, all of which served to make her look even smaller and younger than before.

  He moved his work stool closer to Delia’s chair and sat down. “So, Doc, you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

  “Talk?” Delia shook her head. “No way. I’d rather just sit here and quietly hate myself. But I do owe you an apology.”

  Nick shrugged. “Well, you’re obviously holding on to a whole heap of repressed anger in there, darlin’,” he said. “Maybe the finality of Neville’s carting that boat off bothered you more than you thought it would? Or maybe the boat was—hell, I don’t know, some sort of symbol or something?”

  Delia waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, come on, Nick,” she said. “Who’s the psychologist here? Of course I have repressed anger. But I don’t miss Neville, and I don’t give a hoot about that boat.”

  Nick sipped his beer and shrugged. “Have it your way, sugar,” he agreed. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, right?”

  “Oh, right, go Freudian on me.” Her expression soured.

  Nick winked at her. “So you’re more of a Jungian, huh?” he teased, trying to cajole her into a good mood. “Or an Adlerian, maybe? Now, me, I’m just a good old existentialist myself.”