"What's the matter?" he asked, rinsing the plates and loading the dishwasher. He was good about that, I had to give it to him.
"Got a headache," I said.
He gave his imitation of what he thought was a sexy sneer. "No room for headaches tonight, I've got plans for you."
"Change 'em," I said quickly.
He looked startled. "You mean you really have a headache? Sorry, hon, I thought you were just playing around. Here, go sit down and I'll give you a neck rub."
"Hell, no!" I exclaimed, before I could stop myself. "You hurt when you rub my neck or my back, you do it way too hard."
"Just trying to get the kinks out of the muscles," he defended himself. "Men want the best for the women they love."
Where it came from, I don't know. But I couldn't have stopped myself if my life depended on it. "Yeah, well, I don't even like you."
I had such a reputation for straight-faced kidding that it didn't even phase him. I could and actually did say some absolutely outrageous things at times, at home and in the office and everybody was sure I was kidding, because nobody ever said exactly what they were actually thinking, now did they? I found it a very handy skill.
"I know, honey, I know. I don't like you either, you know." He glanced at me appraisingly. "Hey, you want me to go home and let you take some Tylenol and go to bed?"
"Yes, actually, that would be lovely," I said, plastering on a pitiful expression and rubbing the back of my own neck.
"Well, okay. If you're sure. Call you in the morning, honey."
"Fine," I said, locking the deadbolt behind him. I stared thoughtfully at the door. You know what? Maybe I really didn't like him. And maybe he didn't really like me either.
Chapter Six
I had a bad hair day the next morning, and then I changed clothes three times because I had a bad outfit day too. So I was a little bit later than usual when I blew into the office. The mail was already there, so I made myself go get my coffee and open the mail before checking the emails, and yes, between the Saturday and Sunday spam and junk mail and Monday's real emails, there was a long list waiting. And I purposely made myself not look down the list first to see if there was one from war@war-n-wit or chad7777@hotmail. This served the purpose of keeping me in a very heightened state of anticipation. Nothing.
Of course there wasn't. What had I expected? See, it was a very good thing I hadn't ruined my day off by running into the office to check, now wasn't it? I put thoughts of Chad Garrett out of my mind and turned back to business.
When there was still nothing by Friday, I clicked for a new email and sat looking at the blank screen for a while before typing.
Oh, I see. You've found another email flirt to catch your fancy. Well, come back and visit if you get bored, it breaks up the day.
Then I hit the send button before I could change my mind. The next week passed. Nothing. What a very good thing I was such a sensible girl because of course he'd just been flirting on a slow day. What a very good thing I was engaged to such a steady, reliable man.
It was the next Wednesday when I found a chad7777 in my inbox. Heart racing, I clicked. An internet link? Two and a half weeks and he sends me a freakin' internet link? Which I couldn't pull up because the secretaries didn't have internet? I forwarded it to Anderson's box and raced into his office. Anderson was still at the beach, not an unusual event. I pulled it up and debated. What if it was a virus and I infected the office? Then the office would just be infected. I pulled it up and was rewarded with an advertisement for Viagra. Whoopee. Shit.
I went back to my desk. He'd gotten a bug in his computer and it was spamming. And yeah, I was disappointed he hadn't returned to flirt, but he was a PI and one thing he didn't need was a bug in his system that he didn't know about. I clicked the reply button. "Darlin', you got a bug in your system or you tryin' to tell me you need Viagra?" I went back to work. After lunch, chad7777 made an appearance.
I'm super sorry about that, I've been on a couple of very tough, very long skip traces and I seem to catch all sorts of crap when I have to flip around so much on the internet. Nothing on this one, is there? No, there's no flirt can touch you, baby girl, just had a mass of work out of the office I had to take care of. I'm about done and then I'll be back for some serious flirting. P.S. Do I need Viagra?
I laughed. I couldn't help it. Even though my first thought was to wonder if he thought I was so stupid I hadn't caught the "Sent from my Blackberry" on the bottom of some of the emails from that marathon email day.
You'd know about that better than me. Certainly you don't need it on my account. But I know in your business you don't need a bug you don't know about and I didn't know how long it'd take you to trip on it if somebody didn't tell you.
There was nothing for the rest of the week. And then, on Monday morning, as though he'd never been gone, he was back. In full pursuit. I could always tell when he was actually in the office because those emails were long and conversational, and when he was in a tearing hurry he let me know he was around with the funny little emails that proliferate along the internet, including one or two that were more than a little off-color and had me hitting delete, delete in a red-hot hurry. All office email's subject to being monitored, you know. Though all the emails had a remarkably similar and repetitive theme, they also ran the gamut of ordinary conversation, current events, the state of the world. However, that remarkably similar and repetitive theme was enough to make me hit delete delete on anything he or I sent. After I'd printed them for re-reading, of course.
And they began merging to reveal the inner soul of a unique individual; kind, intelligent, charming, funny, discerning. And after saying that, this sounds as though I'm blowing my own horn and I'm really not—but he reminded me a lot of me. In male form, of course. Any thoughts of writing fiction flew out of my head; I sent him an email of my day during pretty much every lunch hour, along with thumbnail sketches of my sister, my friends, the folks in the office I didn't consider my friends, the attorneys—whatever happened to be going on that day.
What I didn't do was admit why I was doing it. Not to him, of course, though it's kind of hard to lie to yourself about a fascination rapidly becoming an obsession. And I wasn't about to admit I had an obsession. Been there, done that, not going back. I'd had obsessive exciting and it hadn't worked out well. And that, friends and neighbors, is the understatement of the century. It damn near killed me and left me virtually numb for at least five years, which is why it was so important that—go ahead, speak the truth and it will set you free—why it was so important that I marry a good, steady, boring, man like Scott who would never make the top of my head explode when he kissed me, but wouldn't tear my heart out while it was still beating and throw it away, either. He was safe. I cared about Scott, well, I thought I did though now sometimes I wondered. I appreciated his many virtues. But he'd never hurt me because I didn't care enough. And that was exactly what I wanted. I wasn't going through exciting again.
And so, in my emails, I was happily engaged, I had no intention of changing that status, I was very happy with my life. And I was sure he wouldn't like me in person anyway, because I was very stand-offish and actually not sexy in the slightest, which I euphemistically phrased as not being very touchy, certainly did not possess the beauty he proclaimed absolutely screamed from the picture I'd sent him, and really didn't take to people very well or very often.
He responded in kind, alternating teasing with sarcasm, never backing down an inch from his contentions that I was sexy as hell, that with the right man (implication himself) I'd be touchy as hell, that for somebody who didn't take to people very well or very often, I certainly seemed to have a large circle from which to draw descriptive entertainment. However, when broken down and analyzed, he didn't really tell me anything about himself. Well, he did, but he didn't, though I don't know if that makes any sense. I resolved to rectify that situation.
You know so much about me because I talk a lot, but that's what you get w
hen you start corresponding with a writer. You get some long-ass emails, and talking to you in my little missives has become the high spot of my day. But I know so little about you. Let's start telling each other some little known fact or tidbit about ourselves that not many, if any, people know. As in, don't tell me you're a crack shot, I can figure that out by myself. Tell me you tear up over Disney movies or you're a great cook. I'll go first. I'm a classical pianist, formal lessons third through twelfth grade and some in college, though I don't play much anymore and would have to practice for several hours in private before I'd ever consider playing in front of anybody now. Which makes me sad at Christmas, like now, when I hear the Hallelujah Chorus because I used to be able to play that and I know I'll never be able to again. And while you're at it, I have three questions that you don't have to answer but I'd really like to know. (1) Did you remember me from that complaint you served for Mark, really? (2) You pursued relentlessly through the course of one whole day and then you completely disappeared for two and a half weeks. Why'd you go away? And why'd you come back? And would you have come back if I hadn't emailed you about that bug your system had caught? (3) And have you ever done this with anybody else? You're a natural flirt, you know you are.
I hit the send and wondered what the response was going to reveal.
Chapter Seven
I didn't expect an answer that day and I didn't get one. I knew he was out in the field. He'd told me that via an earlier email and besides, it was a bad weather day which translated into good hunting weather for any process server/bounty hunter as outdoor workers such as construction and roofing men stayed home, another secret of the trade he'd shared. The problem was I had an unsettling feeling that I'd have known where he was even if he hadn't told me and that was just crazy.
I like long-ass emails. AND receiving yours has become the high spot of my day. We've both wondered what this connection is that you like to deny, and music could be a major part of it. I'm a brass player, prefer the trumpet, played for all the grammar school and high school flag raisings, and actually played in the brass section for a couple of local symphonies when I was a teenager. And no, I haven't played in years and no, I'm not about to bleed my lip up again for anybody, even you. But I wish I could sit beside you on the piano bench and feel you as you play. As to the other, I'm a sucker for the chick-flicks on Oxygen and Lifetime and I'll tear up in a heartbeat. Also over Gone with the Wind, Dr. Zhivago, Love Story (don't laugh). Tears don't make weakness. And I am, by the way, a crack shot, with several trophies for first place in some competitions back in the days on the force when we drank till twelve and pissed till dawn. But they never knew about my musical past. And now it's time and probably past time to tell you something I hope won't upset you. I think about you far more than you deserve and certainly haven't earned yet. Do with that as you will and please keep the emails coming because I do read them all many times. They make the many lonely miles go by so much better and for that I do thank you. Please give consideration to granting my only Christmas wish, which is to sit across from you in a restaurant, or better yet, side by side, and look into each other's eyes while we talk. Of course, I'd prefer a more private location than a restaurant but I realize I have to start somewhere and a restaurant would still beat the hell out of this damn computer screen. And by the way, that was five questions, not three. And I'm a little hurt that you don't know how special this is and that you could think I've done this before. No, never.
I closed my eyes. I was in so much trouble. No real man breathing actually possessed this balance of sensitivity and toughness. Did they? And how like me he was in that retreat back to toughness after the show of sensitivity. "…And I am, by the way a crack shot…back in the days on the force when we drank till twelve and pissed till dawn..." I was in way over my head. And I needed to talk about it with the only person on God's green earth that would even halfway understand. I hit Stacy's intercom button. "Smoke break," I said, when she answered. "Now."
"Cal's on a roll, trying to get him out the door. I need to get him out of here first."
"How long?"
"Ten minutes?"
"Hurry. Please."
There must have been something in my voice bordering on desperation. She appeared at my desk in seven minutes flat. I knew the effort it took to get Cal Spencer out the door with the minimum of seven or eight boxes of notebooks and files that accompanied him to any deposition or hearing.
"Damn, you're better than I am, little sister, fast work!"
"Yeah, whatever! Let's go!"
We went down to the parking garage and settled in the front seat of my car. Fully a quarter of the BLAH girls smoked and in these days of anti-smoking, I took that as confirmation that being a legal secretary was a high-stress profession and not one for sissies. It made girls who'd never even looked at a cigarette run screamin' down the halls to bum one.
"Well?!?" Stacy lit up and turned to face me. "So—give!!"
"Oh, Antsypants," I said, reverting to my big sister's pet name for baby sister. "I am in so much freakin' trouble!"
I lit up myself and pulled out the last emails between us that I'd printed. "See, it's like this—"
I talked at what probably approached the speed of light and I'm not sure anybody but a sister would have understood me. Then I mutely handed her the printed sheets.
Her eyes moved rapidly down, her expression changing, softening.
"Ohhhh…" she breathed. "Ohh, my Lord! He writes just like you do, this is almost prose poetry in places." Her expression hardened. "Dump him."
I started. "Excuse me? You just said…"
"Not the prose poet, Ari, get real. Scott. Dump Scott. Yesterday. Now. Last week. Last year."
"I know you've never really liked him, Antsypants, but he's what I need."
"Like hell! This—" she shook the paper emphatically. "This is what you need!"
"I've never even met him!"
"Yeah, but you're going to. You can lie to yourself if you want to, but you can't lie to me. Or him either, apparently. Now, go get him! I know you better than you think, and it's time to wake up! You've been sleepwalking for years, get over it! And for God's sakes, go get laid by somebody that knows how to do it!"
"I'm not getting laid, I don't know where that thing's been! And just wait till we go back in and I show you his picture! With his career! He's ex-Fort Lauderdale PD and ex-Florida Bureau of Investigation! Can you say chick magnet?"
"And you're so sure of where Scott's thing's been for the last year?"
"Well, actually, pretty sure, yeah."
"Oh, hell, so am I. I was just being pissy 'cause he's so damn boring! But Ari, where it's been ain't been doing you a lot of good."
"Excuse me?"
"I said don't try to lie to me. I know better. And I've seen you BFH and AFH, don't forget. And I know what you looked like during FH!!" That was private slang between myself and Antsypants for "before" a certain individual whose name I did not permit to be spoken and "after" a certain individual whose name I did not permit to be spoken.
I sighed and Stacy pounced.
"So, you'll go back in and tell him where and when?"
"Yeah," I breathed. And then more strongly, I re-affirmed. "Yeah. I think I'm going to do just that."
"Praise God and Hallelujah!!"
I sat back down at my computer and stared at the screen. And started typing.
Here's the deal…this Thursday would work for me. There's a little funky Mexican restaurant called Rosita's, pure Mexican Georgia Redneck on Pio Nono. It's a dive but I love it. If you let me know when you're close, I'll leave to meet you. My cell is 555-7777. Text or call when you're outside Macon. And I'll take the rest of the day off to finish Christmas shopping and you can trail around after me if you still feel so inclined after lunch. You might not even like me, you know. My voice might grate on your nerves. I'm a bitch from hell when I get mad. I'm really not very touchy. Whichever one of us gets there first, just stay in the car and
wait till the other arrives. And we can get the first hug you keep harping on out of the way, and if you want, even a first (probably last) kiss out of the way, 'cause I'm not stupid enough to think that's not going to happen, instead of sitting there wondering about it all through lunch. Though I warn you, I smoke, which I've never told you. And I'm a coffee addict. So I will taste of smoky coffee. So if you want to wait till after lunch when neither of us will taste anything because Rosita's salsa is freakin' hot, or forego altogether, that's okay. Ordinarily, I'm considerate enough to brush my teeth or at least chew gum when I know I'm going to be in close proximity with others, but I'm going to be so damn nervous and so flat-out scared, I won't even try to lie about it, I'm going to smoke like a steam-shovel all the way there.
I hit the send before I could change my mind, something I'd become quite familiar with over the last few weeks. Five minutes later my cell phone announced the arrival of a text. "Please don't be afraid of me baby girl" There wasn't a name, but not much question about the source.
"I'm not afraid of you…I'm afraid of me" I sent back. And programmed his number into my cell. And that afternoon, with the exchange of a few emails, it was so arranged that sometime between 11:30 and 12:00 on Thursday next, two days away, my life as I knew it would be over.
Chapter Eight
He caught a batch of rain on I-75 coming up, so I got there first. I sat, smoking furiously, with an unwrapped piece of gum on the seat beside me at the ready, watching the traffic for a slowing Chevy Equinox. I'd known he'd drive either a small SUV or a pickup—what else would be logical for a bounty hunter—but I'd forgotten to ask the color when we exchanged vehicle information. Probably silver, a good color for the shadows. And there it was, a silver Equinox, slowing for the turn. I closed my eyes, doused my cigarette in the dregs of my coffee cup, grabbed my stick of unwrapped gum and chewed furiously for a few seconds before hastily removing it and throwing it in the coffee cup after the cigarette. I got out and stood waiting, leaning against the door as he walked towards me.
War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Witch Page 3
