Your Bed or Mine?

by Candy Halliday

  Rick waved to the man.

  Stewart “Scrappy” Adams waved back.

  Scrappy was a top-rate kennel master who had earned his nickname during his tour of duty in Vietnam—the nickname was self-explanatory. Though in his late fifties now, Scrappy was still in better physical shape than most men twenty years his junior.

  One look at his close-cut gray hair and his camouflage fatigues told you he was military to the bone, and apt to stay that way. One look at his résumé proved why his consultation services were frequently sought by the US Customs Service, the US Secret Service, and even the FBI.

  Or as Scrappy often liked to brag—he’d already forgotten more about explosives than Rick would ever know.

  Rick had been able to recruit a man of such caliber, mainly because Scrappy lived rent free at the center on a full-time basis. This was Rick’s reason for renting the apartment rather than staying at the center himself and risk invading his kennel master’s space.

  Scrappy claimed he preferred living at the center because he didn’t like nosy neighbors, didn’t have time to take care of a place of his own, and he didn’t want any damn lawn to mow. But Rick suspected the barracks-like feel of the training center was what appealed most to an old vet like Scrappy who had no close family, no children, and had been married and divorced three times—what Scrappy referred to as “three tours of duty in the middle of hell.”

  A big fan of marriage, Scrappy wasn’t.

  Which is why it didn’t surprise Rick when the first words out of Scrappy’s mouth when he walked up to the Hummer were, “Next time, Rick, just pick out a pretty girl walking down the street and offer to buy her a house. It’ll save you a whole lot of bullshit all the way around.”

  Rick laughed, but he didn’t have the energy to explain.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Scrappy,” Rick said.

  “Then we won’t talk about it,” Scrappy agreed.

  And that, Rick thought is the beauty of being a guy!

  But not women. Hell, no!

  All women want to do is talk about it.

  Twisting words around so you forget what you’ve said, like the big fight he’d had with Zada the day he left. Her, accusing him of using sex to end any argument. Him, just trying to put an end to the yelling.

  Jesus!

  Scrappy backed away from the Hummer.

  Rick opened the car door and said, “But I do need to bunk with you tonight Scrappy, if that’s okay.”

  “Glad to have the company,” Scrappy said. “I just made a pot of chili so spicy I’ll never know if the tears running down your face are over losing your ass in the divorce, or from the badass jalapeños I tossed into the mix.”

  Scrappy headed for the upstairs kitchen.

  As an afterthought, Rick yelled out, “Hey, Scrappy. Tell me the truth about something. Do you consider me obnoxious?”

  Scrappy turned back around to face him.

  He thought the question over carefully for a second.

  “Intense,” Scrappy finally said. “Guys like us are intense, Rick.” He shook his gray head. “Hell, in our line of business, how can anyone expect us to be anything else?”

  “Intense,” Rick mumbled as Scrappy disappeared up the staircase.

  Hell, yeah!

  Scrappy was right.

  I’m not obnoxious.

  I’m intense.

  Like Scrappy said, how could anyone in their line of business be anything else?

  For the first time since Zada uttered those fatal words “game on” Rick actually felt a little more confident. Why should he even be worried at all? He faced danger every day, worked with explosives far more dangerous than Zada.

  He’d outlast her if it killed him.

  As for that smart remark she’d made about hanging out at some guy’s place, he’d deal with that, too, when the time came.

  Or not.

  A guy even talking to Zada made Rick want to puke. He couldn’t let himself think about more than talking. Not unless he wanted to spend his life behind bars.

  Damn you, Zada!

  You knew that remark would make me crazy!

  Rick let out a long, tortured sigh.

  He’d had enough angst for one day compliments of Zada. Tonight, he wasn’t going to think about Zada at all. Definitely not that tongue thing she did, which also drove him crazy.

  In places he didn’t want to think about.

  Or the silky feel of her long, tanned legs.

  Or the taste of her full, sweet lips.

  Or the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Or the funny little noise she made that told him she was getting close, and he could stop holding back and take them both straight to nirvana.

  Or . . .

  Dammit!

  When I’m six feet under.

  Rick knew then—and only then—would he ever stop thinking about Zada.

  “What on earth were you thinking, Zada?” Jen wailed. “You’ve been avoiding Rick the entire six months you’ve been separated because of your so-called fatal attraction to him. And now you’ve agreed to let him move back in! Rick’s right. You’ll end up in bed in five minutes flat.”

  “Not this time,” Zada vowed. “I realized after I got so flustered when I saw Rick again that we’d never have any closure unless I faced him head-on. And believe me, trying to live together again will bring both of us plenty of closure.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jen said, looking over at Tish for support. “Almost as ridiculous as you expecting us to help you trash your own house.”

  Exactly the response I expected from you, Jen.

  Zada had known her winner-takes-all battle plan wouldn’t appeal to logical-to-a-fault Jen.

  Jen was petite, short black hair, big doe-brown eyes. She was dressed in the standard summer ’burb uniform like Zada was wearing now—shorts, flip-flops, a simple cotton T-shirt. A stay-at-home mom, Jen was the perfect mother to her seven-year-old daughter, Sonya, and the perfect wife to her corporate executive husband, Charlie.

  In Zada’s opinion, Jen needed to lighten up a little.

  Just as Jen thought Zada was way too blasé.

  The only thing they did agree on was that their friendship brought out the best in both of them.

  “What you’re suggesting really is pretty extreme, Zada,” previous beauty queen Tish chimed in.

  Tish had made it all the way to the Miss America Pageant her junior year in college, and never had a hair out of place on her auburn head. Even the shorts she was wearing, like her blouse, were pressed with a razor-sharp crease. The majority of her time was spent trying to keep her eight-year-old twins, Mike and Mark, just as freshly pressed—a task she never quite achieved.

  Still, Tish was the marvel of Woodberry Park.

  How Tish managed to keep herself looking like a runway model 24/7; supervise twin boys by herself during the week while her salesman husband, Joe, traveled; and still stay involved in every school function and civic organization available, would always be one of those unsolved mysteries.

  And the thing Zada liked best about Tish?

  Tish could always be lured to the “dark side”—as Jen called it—without too much persuasion.

  “I don’t call what I’m suggesting extreme at all,” Zada said. “By Rick’s standards, the house is already trashed.”

  Tish laughed. “By Rick’s standards, even Jen’s house is trashed.”

  Which was absurd.

  Jen’s house was always spotless.

  “My point exactly,” Zada said before Jen could intervene. “And pushing Mr. Neat-and-Tidy’s buttons as hard as I can push them is my only hope if I want to keep Simon and the house.”

  Zada looked around her living room, hands on her hips.

  “I want this room so messy,” Zada said, “that Rick won’t even put his bags down when he walks through the front door in the morning.”

  Jen said, “And you wonder why the judge called you self-absorbed an
d childish. The judge was right. You and Rick are being ridiculous. You know you still love each other. If you’d stop trying to match each other tit for tat, you might be able to save your marriage.”

  Zada groaned. “I’m too stressed out for another lecture about saving my marriage, Jen. And,” Zada added, “it was being called immature that made me angry, not self-absorbed. This is all about me, Jen! My house. My dog. My life!”

  Jen rolled her eyes.

  “And don’t roll your eyes at me,” Zada said. “It’s a funny thing to me that in the nineties if you stood up for yourself and went after what you wanted, people called you assertive. Today, you’re considered self-absorbed and shallow.”

  “Maybe you should start your own support group,” Jen quipped. “You could call it Self-absorbed Unanimous.”

  “Maybe I should,” Zada said, not the least bit offended by Jen’s comment. “It’s time self-absorbed people got the recognition they deserve.”

  Tish said, “And that kind of recognition would be?”

  “You just had to ask,” Jen mumbled.

  Zada said, “Who do you think buys everything from luxury automobiles to Botox injections? Self-absorbed people keep up the demand, so workers supplying the goods can earn a paycheck every week.”

  “That’s pretty deep thinking for someone claiming to be shallow,” Jen said.

  “Well, contrary to popular belief,” Zada said, “shallow people are extremely bright. That’s why we don’t waste time contemplating the true meaning of life. We’re smart enough to know life is exactly what you make of it. And I intend to make my life right here in Woodberry Park. Not in some condo Rick picks out for me!”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Jen said.

  “But,” Zada said, “do you know the absolute best thing about us hopelessly self-absorbed people?”

  “I’ll pass,” Jen said.

  Zada told her anyway. “You’ll never catch us talking about anyone other than ourselves.”

  Tish laughed.

  Zada grinned at her own joke.

  Jen rolled her eyes again.

  “Well?” Zada asked. “Now that I’ve explained the virtues of the self-absorbed, are you going to help shallow me trash this room?”

  Jen said, “How likely is it that just for once, you would look at this situation from a logical point of view and forget the whole trash-the-room idea?”

  Zada thought for a second. “I’d say about as likely as you successfully nailing Jell-O to a tree in my backyard.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jen said. “And no! I will not participate in some juvenile delinquent prank to help you trash your house.”

  Tish’s smile was deviant. “But you will stay and keep us company, won’t you?”

  “I’ll stay as a stand-in for the conscience the two of you obviously don’t have,” Jen huffed.

  “Excellent!” Zada exclaimed. “Just stay out of our juvenile delinquent way.”

  Zada’s enthusiasm, however, prompted a loud bark.

  Simon was sitting stoically in the archway that led into the dining room, waiting patiently for her to notice him.

  “There’s my big boy,” Zada said happily.

  She walked over, bent down, and scratched the big dog lovingly between the ears. Simon returned the affection by lifting his head and giving Zada a few sloppy doggy kisses on the side of her cheek. Satisfied with the attention, he trotted back through the house, heading, Zada knew, for his favorite chair in the den, just off the kitchen.

  “That reminds me,” Zada said when she turned back around. “We can’t put anything on the floor that Simon could bump into.”

  She walked back to where her partner-in-crime Tish was standing, awaiting her instructions. “And I think for optimum effect, we need to focus on the things that really drive Rick up the wall.”

  “Like parking on his side of the garage?” Tish said with a giggle.

  Zada grinned. “Perfect. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  She pointed to the two floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanking the living room fireplace. “I want those bookcases to look like one of Rick’s dog training bombs exploded right in the middle of them,” Zada said. “And there’s nothing Rick hates more than magazines littering the coffee table.”

  Tish walked over and began removing magazines from a magazine rack sitting by one of the matching chairs that were positioned in front of the room’s large bay window.

  “Those will do for now,” Zada said. “But I have tons more stored in boxes in the garage.”

  “Of course you do, you pack rat,” Tish chirped, reminding Zada that her refusal to throw anything away was another one of Rick’s big pet peeves.

  In minutes, Tish had magazines all over the sofa, on the chairs, and a ton of magazines strewn across the coffee table in total disarray.

  “You have to admit this really is kind of fun,” Tish said as she tossed the last magazine onto an end table.

  Busy at the right bookcase, Zada giggled.

  Standing in the middle of the room shaking her head in disgust, Jen said, “I have to be insane to stand here and watch this.”

  “Welcome to Woodberry Park,” Zada quipped. “The official insane asylum of the suburbs.”

  Jen snorted. “That’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard you say today.”

  It took another hour and a few trips to the garage for more magazines before no further havoc could possibly be wreaked in Zada’s living room. They all three stood in Zada’s foyer, where Zada insisted they all should stand in order to get Rick’s first impression when he walked through the front door.

  “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition,” Zada said proudly.

  Jen said, “Poor Ty Pennington would swallow his freaking megaphone if he saw this place.”

  “And his tool belt,” Tish added.

  Jen said, “Please tell me the living room is the only room you’ve chosen for your master disaster plan.”

  “For now,” Zada said. “I truly think this little welcome home statement will be more than enough to send Rick right back out the door.”

  Tish nodded. “I agree. One look at the living room, and Rick will realize he’d never last a full ninety days with this mess staring him in the face.”

  Jen raised an eyebrow. “And if Rick decides to clean the mess up himself and stay?”

  Zada shrugged. “He cleans up. I mess up. Not a problem.”

  “Oh,” Jen said. “You mean the same way it was before you and Rick separated.”

  “Jen!” Tish scolded.

  “No, Jen’s right,” Zada said. “It’s no secret I’m not the neat-freak type. But I sure don’t feel the need to apologize for it. My idea of a home is where I can leave the Sunday paper spread out on the floor all day without once feeling the need to pick it up. I live in my house,” Zada stressed for emphasis. “And if you can’t live in a house, what’s the point in having one?”

  Jen blushed slightly.

  Like Rick, Jen was the neat-freak type.

  And they all three knew it.

  “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental,” Jen finally conceded. “I was just trying to point out that your plan might not be as foolproof as you think.”

  “Well, look on the bright side,” always-the-diplomat Tish said. “If Rick does clean this mess up, at least we won’t have to be the ones who carry all those magazines back to the garage.”

  “He’ll fold,” Zada said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Jen still wasn’t convinced. “Everything happens for a reason, Zada. You should have been divorced today, but you aren’t. Doesn’t that make you wonder, even a little, if you’ve been granted an extra ninety days because you and Rick really are meant to stay together?”

  “Not even a little,” Zada said.

  Jen frowned. “Do you know the number one cause of divorce, Zada?”

  “Yes,” Zada said. “Marriage.”

  “Lack of communication,” Jen said, frowning at her again. “There are always t
wo sides to a divorce.”

  “True,” Zada said. “My side. And shithead’s. Who, you keep forgetting, walked out on me.”

  “How could anyone forget Rick walked out on you?” Jen’s hands were on her hips now. “You’ve practically worn a sign around your neck for the last six months that said ‘Rick Clark walked out on me!’”

  I. Beg. Your. Pardon!

  Zada was speechless.

  “Girls!” a nervous Tish said. “Kiss and make up right now, or I’m going to throw cold water on both of you.”

  Jen said, “Be honest with yourself, Zada. It was almost a relief when Rick walked out. You’d been waiting for him to disappoint you like your father did from the moment you married him. He did disappoint you, and he apologized for that. But you’d rather sacrifice your marriage than take him back and admit you’re every bit as human as your mother and your sister.”

  “Well, thank you, Dr. Phil!” Zada exclaimed.

  But Jen was right on target as usual.

  Zada finally reached out and put her arm around Jen’s shoulder. “Look,” she said, giving Jen a let’s-not-argue hug. “I know you love me. And I know you’re equally fond of Rick. I also know you only want what you think is best for both of us. But if you really want to be a good friend, Jen, you’re going to have to respect my decision, whether you agree with it or not.”

  “Okay, you win,” Jen said with a sigh. “I give up.”

  “Thank you,” Zada said. “Let’s just hope Rick gives up when he arrives to play Survivor in the morning.”

  Chapter 5

  When her alarm sounded at Rick’s idea of morning on Saturday, Zada opened one eye long enough to slap the clock back to sleep. Why anyone would get up at such a ridiculous hour would always be a mystery to her. She glanced toward the large bay window on the other side of the bedroom, looking for any signs of early morning light.

  Black as pitch.

  At 0500 hours, even Mr. Sun was still snoozing.

  Bay windows, Zada thought.

  She knew it was silly, but she’d always been a sucker for bay windows. This house had a bay window in every major room, including her master bath.