Caught Off Guard

by Ramagos, Tonya

“I take it what’s his name…Kevin, doesn’t fit the bill,” Judy said, swinging her legs, the heels of her shoes hitting the counter wall with a soft thump.

  Lacy scoffed. “The only reason I have to climb a wall with that man is to get out. Which I did last night,” she added with a pleased grin.

  “You broke it off with him? Wow!” Veronica hadn’t met Kevin Beresford, but from everything Lacy had told her about the man, she already pegged him as someone she had no desire to know. How did Lacy end up with such dweebs? she wondered, but she knew the answer without asking. Her friend still saw money first. Not that all men with deep pockets were dweebs. Plenty of wealthy men out there could please a woman two ways from Sunday. Lacy simply got stuck in a dweeb rut, had been all her life.

  But Veronica couldn’t fault her friend for the men she had been with in her life. Hadn’t she been married to the dweeb king for over four years? Yes, Robert had been wealthy. Yes, he had been a cop—not a normal profession for a wealthy dweeb. Yet, he hadn’t known the first thing about pleasing her. Although to be fair, he had tried. It had been her fault that he hadn’t been able to succeed, because she didn't know exactly what would please her for the first two years of her marriage.

  “He was in my house when I got home yesterday afternoon. In my house!” Lacy added with a near shriek. “The man takes it upon himself to uncover my spare key, enter my house of his own free will, and make himself at home.”

  Was it the power of a rich man that made him think he could control everything and everyone? Veronica wondered, thinking of the way her father had always controlled her mother, had controlled her.

  “Did you tell him to get the hell out or you were calling the police?” Judy asked.

  Lacy laughed. “Don’t think for one second that it didn’t cross my mind,” she said. “But it would have been pointless considering I’m the stupid idiot that keeps a key under the plant outside the front door. And I’m an even bigger idiot for letting Kevin know that.”

  “Yeah, I guess the police wouldn’t have been much help in that case,” Judy conceded.

  “What did you tell him?” Veronica wanted to know, unable to picture her friend angrily confronting a man. Lacy was head strong and confident when it came to business matters, but where men were concerned, Veronica knew her friend usually walked away like a scolded cat with her tail tucked between her legs.

  “Nothing at first,” Lacy admitted on a sigh. “I walked in, and he was in the kitchen. He had brought Chinese takeout and was emptying the contents of the boxes into bowls. Heaven forbid the man eat from a box.” She rolled her eyes. “And the whole time he’s doing this, he’s complaining about getting the juices on his hands. That’s how finicky the guy is. Can’t stand to get a drop of anything on him anywhere. And suddenly that became absolutely infuriating to me.”

  “You got angry because the man didn’t want to get General Tao’s Chicken sauce on his hands,” Judy said, an amused smirk quirking her lips.

  “It was Kung Po Chicken,” Lacy corrected. “And that wasn’t it exactly. He didn’t want me to get close to him for fear that he might get some on me. Not that I really wanted to get close to him. I was already pissed. But it got me thinking. I had this sudden urge to have hot, slippery sex against the kitchen counter, to smear food or any of that stuff,” she gestured with her hand toward the display of edible lotions and oils, “all over a man’s body and take my time licking it off. Not Kevin's body, mind you,” she added quickly. “He would have been appalled to know the idea had crossed my mind.”

  “So you wanted to have slippery, Chinese food sex,” Veronica said, attempting to make sense of her friend’s rambling.

  “I want to have adventurous sex. I want a man who isn’t afraid to get down and dirty. I want a man that doesn’t just assume he knows what’s best and expect me to obey. Anyway.” Lacy sighed. “All through dinner, I was imagining how things would be with Kevin, remembering how they have been since we’ve been together and fantasizing about how they could be with someone else. By the last bite of Kung Po, I had made up my mind. I told Kevin it was over.”

  “How did he take it?” Judy asked.

  “He wasn’t happy about it. But, to his credit, he didn’t argue. He just…left. But I don’t think I really hurt him. He wasn’t in love with me, and I certainly don’t love him. Ending it last night, realizing what I want, it felt great! Exhilarating!”

  “Well you go, girl,” Veronica said on a laugh even though she was thinking her friend better change her preference in the type of men she dated if she expected to get even one of those wants she had mentioned.

  “Am I the only one who sees the irony in this situation?” Judy asked and jumped down from the counter. “Here we are, three attractive woman, about to open the doors to a sex shop—pardon the term,” she shot Veronica a quick apologetic glance before amending, “A store geared to put romance in a couple’s lives, and neither one of us has a significant other.”

  “So we find one.” Lacy shrugged, obviously empowered by her new revelations.

  “I already have,” Veronica said, and when the surprised gazes landed on her, she realized she had spoken aloud. “He just doesn’t know it yet. But I think he might have a good idea.”

  “Do tell, sweetheart.” Judy glanced at her wristwatch. “We have five minutes till opening.”

  Veronica laughed. She didn't intended to tell anyone about the plans she formed in her head for her favorite Captain of the Silver Springs Fire Department. She certainly wouldn’t tell them what she had already done to him. But, okay, what would it hurt to give them a name? “Dean Wolcott,” she said. When Lacy’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor, Veronica burst into hysterical laughter. “And now we’ll spend the next four minutes and fifty-five seconds waiting for Lacy to scrape her chin off my newly tiled floor.”

  Chapter 3

  Dean would have been doing more than scraping his chin off the floor if he had known of the conversation about him currently taking place at Romantic Illusion. Instead, his complete attention was focused on the game. The Silver Sprigs Fire Cubs were playing against the Pascagoula Mustangs. He, of course, rooted for the Fire Cubs but most of all for little Timmy Walker. The boy had stepped up to the plate and prepared to bat. They were down by two, and with two outs in the bottom of the seventh inning, the boy couldn’t afford to strike out. Timmy nodded at the pitcher indicating his was ready. The first ball sailed through the air and he swung and missed.

  “Strike one,” the umpire bellowed, and Timmy’s face fell to the ground.

  Don’t get frustrated, Dean coached silently in the stands. Shrug it off and try again. As the next ball was pitched, he could see it would fly outside of the strike zone before it even reached the batter. Don’t swing. Don’t swing.

  Timmy didn’t.

  “Ball one,” came the umpire’s voice.

  Timmy lowered his bat, shifted his position, lifted the bat again and nodded. The next pitch was perfect, gliding through the air and straight to Timmy’s bat. He swung, hit, dropped the bat, and broke into a run for first base. The ball flew through the air, and the Fire Cub who had been waiting idly on third base made it home. Timmy reached first, glanced around, saw that the other team still scrambled for the ball, and made a try for second. He was mere inches from the base when the other team recovered the ball, passed it to their man guarding second, and tagged Timmy.

  “You’re out,” the umpire yelled. The game was over.

  Dean sighed as he stood and made his way through the crowd of parents to the field. Time to be big brother. He wasn’t actually Timmy’s big brother, but he played that roll in their little game. Timmy Walker was in fact an only child with a loving mother who worked three jobs just to support them. His father had abandoned them when Timmy was a baby and had never paid a lick of child support. Dean knew that the Department of Human Services attempted to track the man down, but they had been for several years, and he doubted they would have any luck.

&nbs
p; The man was obviously a dead-beat dad. Dean knew all about those. His own father had been the dead-beat king. But unlike Dean’s childhood, Timmy had a mother who wasn’t a dead-beat, a mother who loved him and had stuck around. He also had Dean.

  Dean met the boy one rainy afternoon nearly a year ago. He was in the IC truck returning to the station from a fire when he spotted the boy walking home in the rain. Timmy had been soaked to the bone and alone. The sight pulled at Dean’s heartstrings and he immediately stopped, offered the kid a ride. Despite the boy’s reluctance—he had been well taught not to talk to or accept rides from strangers—Dean managed to convince Timmy that he was a firefighter and only wanted to be sure he got home safely.

  Though Timmy’s mother tried to be there to pick him up from school everyday, she often got stuck at work, and he was forced to walk home. He lived only three blocks from the school and a very responsible seven-year-old. Even working three jobs, his mother had somehow managed to schedule them so she was home with her son most nights. That afternoon in particular, she arrived home a mere five minutes after Dean pulled into the driveway with the boy.

  The boy’s situation hit a soft spot with Dean, and since that day, he had become the primary male figure in Timmy’s life. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to grow up the way he had, alone and staying in constant trouble to simply remain entertained. He took the kid under his wing, spent as much time with the boy as he could squeeze, and attempted to show him the rights and wrongs of the world—things he himself had learned far too late in life. Well, not too late really but almost.

  As Dean expected, Timmy was walking off the field, his head to the ground by the time Dean reached him. “Good game, sport,” he said and slid an arm around the kid’s bony shoulders. He was a tall kid even at the young age of seven, the top of his head nearly reaching Dean’s waist.

  “We lost,” Timmy mumbled, not looking up.

  “Yeah, I know, buddy. But it was still a close one.”

  “We wouldn’t have lost if I hadn’t made a play for second.”

  “Maybe not.” Dean nodded slightly though the kid still hadn’t once looked at him. “Then again, the next batter could have struck out, and you would have lost anyway. Baseball is a tough game. You never know how it’s going to pan out until it’s over.”

  “It was still a stupid move,” Timmy grumbled and jerked off his Fire Cubs baseball cap.

  “So you’ll remember that the next time you find yourself in that same situation,” Dean said and gently propelled the boy toward the parking lot. “How about we go get some ice cream and forget about today’s game.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Timmy brightened but only marginally. “Mom said I have to be home by one. She took the afternoon off, so she can take me clothes shopping.” He cringed at that and Dean laughed.

  “Then you definitely need some ice cream first. A triple scoop of chocolate, so you’ll have the energy to put up with a woman and shopping.”

  Timmy finally looked up at him and grinned. “Yeah, no kidding. I hate shopping!”

  “Most men do, son.”

  * * * *

  “Distasteful.”

  It was the first word to reach Veronica’s ears when she stepped out of the office around 4:00 that afternoon. She stopped, scanned the store. Since the doors opened at 10:00, there had been a steady stream of customers in and out, most of them purchasing some little something and all of them—at least the ones she had the chance to speak with—were happy that she had opened the store and promised to return with friends or lovers. She had expected to eventually run into someone who would be offended by the stock she carried, and apparently her first someone was in the store now.

  From her vantage point just outside the office, she could easily see most of the store. There was a couple—mid to late twenties, she guessed at quick glance—who appeared to be discussing their preferences in tastes by the shelves of flavored body paints and lubricants. Another couple seemed to have separated in their browsing of the merchandise but was no doubt together because they kept whispering for the other’s attention and holding up an item when they found something of interest. A woman who looked to be about the same age as Veronica inspected the small section of lingerie. She had two pieces draped over one arm and wore an expression that clearly read she didn’t need any assistance in making her selections. Veronica would leave her alone.

  Judy was talking with a woman by the display of bath sprays, soaps, and lotions. From the little conversation Veronica was able to hear, the woman was looking for a non-perfume spray that her husband would enjoy. Judy suggested a pheromone spray, and Veronica smiled, silently praising her employee for being familiar with the stock.

  Then she saw the three ladies slowly walking down the far aisle of the store. One was wide-eyed and wore an expression that seemed to say, Wow! I didn’t know they made stuff like this; the second woman appeared to be a bit more intrigued by the stock, her mind opening to possibilities. It was the third woman who was so obviously not impressed. If anything, she wore an expression of pure repulse.

  “Silver Springs is not a town for such filth,” the third lady said in a loud whisper. “Poor Clair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she never shows her face in this town again. How could Veronica do such a thing to her mother? I tell you, I would disown any child of mine that even attempted to open a place like this.”

  You don’t even have any children, you old bat , Veronica thought as recognition of the woman took hold. Stella Franklin. She was the town's biggest gossip and busybody, a crabby woman in her early sixties if Veronica’s memory served correctly, short and plump with a head of gray hair piled high in the resemblance of a beehive. Veronica remembered that the woman had always been more tolerated than liked by her acquaintances, and if the expressions on the other two women’s faces were any indication, it still remained true.

  Upon further inspection, Veronica saw that she knew Stella's companions as well. Emma Stilks and Norma-Jean Dupree. As she walked toward the women, she heard Emma, the one with the wide-shocked stare, say, “I don’t know, Stella. Some of this stuff looks pretty interesting.”

  Norma-Jean said, “Why didn’t they make stuff like this when I was a young woman?”

  “And speaking of young women,” Stella continued also in a loud whisper. “The nerve of Veronica to hire sweet little Judy to work in a place like this. The poor dear will be warped for life!”

  “Judy is twenty-three now, Stella,” Norma-Jean reminded and turned her head before rolling her eyes so the other woman wouldn’t notice. But Veronica saw, and she had to stifle a laugh. Obviously, Stella didn’t know Judy at all.

  “Twenty-three is a very impressionable age,” Stella said as if she were the authority on such matters. “Why, when Veronica was twenty-three, she was still a virgin. I know. Her mother told me so. At least she was until she got married that year."

  Veronica gasped, horrified. How could her mother have shared such an intimate secret with that woman?

  "She should remember that. Judy doesn’t even have a boyfriend much less a husband. She has no business around such…such…”

  “Neat stuff,” Emma supplied, still mesmerized, and Stella gasped, sounding utterly appalled.

  Veronica did laugh then but managed to keep it short and quiet. When she had her composure under control once more, she pasted her best greeting smile on her face and stepped into view of the women. “Ladies, what a pleasure to see you again. It’s been so long.”

  “Oh my, but, yes, it has,” Norma-Jean said and reached for Veronica. The woman pulled her into a tight hug before stepping back. “And look at you. You’ve gotten so big. Why, I remember when you were just a little tot scurrying behind your mother. My, how the years fly.”

  “Yes, they do,” Veronica agreed. She turned her attention to the other two women. “Mrs. Emma, Mrs. Stella, it’s always good to see you.” And wasn’t that a big fat lie? Well, not to Emma. She was a nice enough woman, though Veronica didn�
��t know her well. On the other hand, the only time it would be nice to see Stella would be if she were put in a muzzle and a straight jacket.

  “We were just leaving,” Stella said and grabbed Emma’s arm.

  “Oh, well, I’m glad you stopped by, and I hope you will come back sometime,” Veronica said politely though she prayed she would never see Stella in her store again.

  “You have a very interesting store here, Veronica,” Emma said ignoring Stella’s tug on her arm as her gaze scanned one of the shelves. “Are these really safe to eat?” she asked and held up a pack of edible underwear.

  “Absolutely.” Veronica nodded and bit back a grin. Emma Stilks, are we getting feisty in our old age? she wanted to ask but refrained. “They’re very tasty, too. Really turns a man on.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and Emma laughed.

  “Well, I never!” Stella scoffed. “Come on, girls,” she said and stomped away. Emma and Norma-Jean bid quick goodbyes and scrambled after her.

  “Honey, the day you turn on a man will be the day that the rest of the female population of the world goes lesbo,” Veronica muttered and whirled around when she heard a soft snicker behind her.

  “Is that any way to talk to a customer?” Dean asked. His eyes lit with amusement and goose pimples danced across Veronica’s flesh.

  Though she had spent much of the day beaming and nearly giddy with satisfaction over the success of the store’s opening, there had been a slight twinge of disappointment deep in her gut, because Dean hadn’t showed. With any other man, she might have been concerned that he simply had no desire to see her again, that he had gotten what he wanted from her. She had made him come, after all. Yet, she had known that wasn’t the case with Dean. He admitted to dreaming of her, but surely she hadn’t made his every dream come true with one single act. Men loved blowjobs, but come on, he had to want more.

  She finally resigned herself to the fact that he probably worked. She hadn’t thought to ask if he had to work when she issued the invitation and she walked out of the locker room without giving him a chance to speak. After hypothesizing and calculating, she reached the conclusion that it was quite possible that he did have to work. Some fire departments operated on a twenty-four-on, forty-eight-off schedule. If he had been at work on Wednesday, wouldn’t that mean that he would have been off on Thursday and Friday and back to work on Saturday? She looked at him standing in front of her now seeming larger than life and way too dammed handsome and said a silent thank you that her mental calculations had been wrong.