by Barr, Sue
“Tank—”
“Shh…..” He silenced me with a finger on my lips. “I don’t mean to complicate things, but I can’t stay away. And God knows I tried.” He walked over to my king-sized bed and lay down, making it look like a doll’s toy. He stretched out and, long legs crossed at the ankles, linked his hands behind his head and watched me. His biceps tensed and flexed with perfection.
I turned toward the dresser and grabbed a handful of underwear, shoving them into the cavernous pocket of my housecoat before Tank could see them. “You can’t waltz into my bedroom—”
“Our bedroom,” he corrected.
“—and think we can go on like nothing happened. You made your choice.”
I glanced over to the bed where he looked like the poster boy for Tall, Dark and Dangerous. Did he get my meaning? Marital relations were not going to happen. Not tonight, not tomorrow, maybe not ever. He’d left me for another woman, and my stomach clenched at the thought of him touching her. Loving her. Tasting her—
The taste of bile was bitter in my mouth as I turned toward the dressing room. I’d spent countless nights, crying myself to sleep at the thought of him loving another woman the way he’d loved me. It had taken everything inside me to crawl out of that hole of self-pity and I wasn’t going back.
I grabbed the closest tee shirt and a pair of jeans. With my skin still being moist from the shower, the jeans wouldn’t shimmy up over my hip as far as I’d like, but I couldn’t leave Tank alone any longer. I re-entered the bedroom, and stopped cold in the doorway.
My purse lay open and Tank was reading my notes from the Grant family meeting. He held up the open book and raised one eyebrow in question. “Grocery list?”
I stomped over and snatched the notebook out of his hand before grabbing my purse. Everything spilled out, which ratcheted my frustration up another level. I threw the purse back onto the bed.
“Get out!” I hissed, pointing to the door. “You have no right to go through my private papers. And you’re staying in the guest room, not here.” Clutching the notebook to my chest, I crossed over to the bedroom door and held it open. “Out!”
He pushed off the bed and strolled out of my bedroom. But not before he paused, lightly touched the exposed skin where my jeans had refused to go further, and leaned in. His warm breath feathered my ear, “Glad to see you still have your tattoo.”
Chapter Four
Ah, yes, the tattoo. On my right hip I had a tattoo of a small ‘T’ with a stylistic heart wrapped around it. During a wild, crazy holiday in Cancun with Tank I’d gotten it to show how much he was in my heart. That promise of love walked out my front door, but the tat was forever. Lucky me.
I wandered into the ensuite bathroom and perched on the edge of the tub. I tried to have a backbone when it came to Tank but he was my Achilles Heel. This was the twenty-first century. Tank could have sex with whomever he wanted and, technically, so could I, except Tank had been my first and only lover and I wouldn’t betray the bonds of marriage.
I stood and started blow drying my hair. Staring at my reflection, I gave my ‘self’ a pep talk.
“You’re a strong woman. You don’t need Tank to validate who you are. Get the job done and don’t let him get under your skin.” Firm with resolve to distance myself emotionally from Tank, I wandered down to the kitchen where I found him making coffee. Without turning he said, “That wasn’t nice, what you did out at the Grants. You could have warned me about the guard troll.”
How quickly I’d forgotten about Hannah. I choked back a little giggle. “What’s the matter Tank, couldn’t handle a little old lady?”
“Do you still take your coffee black?” He reached into the cupboard and brought down sugar for his coffee.
Tank continued to move around the kitchen with ease and I watched him. I longed to reach out and rub his back like I had in the past. To know that with one touch, he’d turn around, gather me into his arms and kiss me senseless. My hand rose, but then dropped back by my side.
This camaraderie in the kitchen brought back a lot of memories I chose to forget. Tears formed and my eyes burned. My firm resolve was melting as fast as the sugar in his coffee.
“What did the Grants want to see you for?” He took my cup and poured coffee into it. Quickly, I dashed the tears away with the back of my hand. I reached around and grabbed the mug.
“Nothing much. They want me to track down a cousin or something. She has to sign some papers for their business.”
I hated lying. It went against every Sunday school lesson I’d learned and Pastor Nolan’s preaching. Whoever said lying could be cathartic for a bruised psyche was dead wrong. He shook his head, turned around and poured a third spoonful of sugar into his mug.
Coffee in hand, I walked into the living room. I set the coffee down and flopped into my easy chair before turning on the television. Tank stayed in the kitchen and set up his lap top at the kitchen table.
It was surreal, having Tank in the next room working while I watched television. We’d fallen right back into the routine we had before he left. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. After the local news, I remembered my date with Polly. I placed my cup in the dishwasher, headed for the front door and had just grabbed my purse when a creak echoed down the hall.
Tank stood in the entrance of the kitchen, his large frame filling the doorway. “Where are you going?”
“Polly’s,” My throat felt tight, “It’s our movie night.”
“That’s right. It’s Tuesday.” He turned back into the kitchen.
After this case I was getting my head examined. On my own I was a confident, independent woman. Tank showed up and suddenly I became a blubbering, mindless, love-starved moron. There must be workshops I could take that addressed this kind of thing. The gym I went to always had posters advertising self-help classes. I was going to sign up for one and take back control of my life, right after my trip to L.A.
When I got to Polly’s my jaw ached from clenching my teeth. Soft light from recessed pot lights pooled onto her front entrance and when she opened the door, I smelled popcorn.
“I wondered when you’d get here, you’re late.” She wore a fluffy pink robe and bunny slippers. I was probably the only person on earth who ever saw Polly this way. Not her usual, sophisticated style. Most people probably thought she reclined about her mansion in silk robes and sexy slip-on mules.
“I know. Tank’s at my place.” I pushed by her and made my way to the theatre room, where she’d set up the DVD.
“Ah. That explains it.” Polly shut the door and followed me in. She offered me a cola before sitting and re-wrapping herself in a homemade afghan.
I plopped down on the other end of the sofa and grabbed a bowl of popcorn. Harley pattered in and jumped up on my lap. “So what are we watching?”
“Casablanca.”
My shoulders slumped. Not again. It was so…so… black and white. And Humphrey Bogart didn’t do it for me as a leading man. Now, if Rick Blaine was played by Henry Cavill, I’d wear the DVD out.
“We’ve seen it a gazillion times. Isn’t there anything else? Something that’s been produced in this century? In color? I’ll even watch Steel Magnolias again.”
“Nope, Casablanca. I love when Rick says to Isla, I remember everything. The Germans wore gray. You wore blue.”
“All right, but you’ll be sorry next month. For my choice I’m thinking Space Ship Troopers… Part II.” It was Polly’s turn to groan.
“Oh, shush. You love this movie as much as me. I’ve seen you cry when she has to leave Rick.” She pointed the remote control at the TV and started the movie.
I grabbed another handful of popcorn and settled in, allowing Harley to eat out of my hand while the credits rolled.
“At least Isla left Rick, not the other way around.” I whispered to Harley.
I forgot how good Polly’s hearing was. One of the things that made her a good secretary.
“Hon, you ha
ve got to stop looking back. Keep doing that and you’ll never see the good things ahead of you.” She grabbed some popcorn out of my bowl. “Take the bull by the horns. Talk to Tank about why he left. Get it out in the open.”
“He didn’t leave, I kicked him out.” I pulled my bowl away from her.
“That’s horse puckey and you know it. This is me you’re talking to. He walked out and you fell apart. You need to find out why or every time he comes around, you’ll keep spinning your wheels.”
I knew she was right, but I was glad the movie started so she wouldn’t see the tears trickle down my face. Tears Harley softly licked off my cheek. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have commented. Polly never betrayed confidences. Not even when I snuck out with Ben Grady after I’d been grounded.
****
Later that night, as I lay in bed, my mind scampered in a million directions. I had to devise a plan to side track Tank and keep him from discovering I was going to L.A. Ideally he’d leave again – my heart cramped – and I wouldn’t have to worry, but I had a feeling he was here for a while. And because he was my roommate-du-jour, he’d figure out pretty fast I was up to something.
Tank had Spidey senses, like Peter Parker’s Spiderman, when it came to me, so I needed him deaf and blind. Call it self-preservation or just plain pride, but I didn’t want him in my business. He lost that privilege when he moved out.
The next day at work I hatched and discarded idea after idea. Tank knew me too well. It was on the drive home, when I saw an ad for ‘Don’t Drink and Drive,’ that it hit me. Get him drunk. Then he’d pass out and sleep like a baby while I packed my bags and took off.
All I had to do was figure out how much it would take to knock him out. Tank could put back a few beers, but I’d never seen him drunk and the whole operation had to be subtle or his internal radar would start pinging. I decided to start with something small, like drinks with dinner. That would work. My drink would be sipped and I’d top his up on a regular basis.
After I’d been home for about an hour I heard keys hitting the hall table. There was a time when I’d drop everything, run down the hall and jump into his arms. I continued to grate parmesan.
“Mmm, smells good. What are we having?” Tank came into the kitchen and sat at the island. He placed his laptop bag on the floor beside his stool.
“Lasagna and salad. Want a drink?”
“Nah. I’m good. Can I help?”
He came around and started ripping apart the romaine. Plan A shot down before it even started. On to Plan B—wine with dinner.
Supper was quiet. There were too many emotional landmines we both were dancing around. Also, my thoughts were focused on creating a Plan C. He’d refused the offer of wine with his meal. This was proving more difficult than I imagined.
While I cleared the table, he settled on the couch. Even though we were no longer a couple I admit to being miffed when he brought out his laptop. Soon he was texting, checking messages and generally ignoring me. Fine by me, I had my own stuff to do.
I sat and twirled my hair.
Last night Polly suggested we go shopping and now I wished I hadn’t blown her off. She would have helped me think of devious ways to get Tank drunk.
Through my eyelashes, I observed Tank. Totally immersed in his work, his rugged face illuminated by the artificial light from his laptop screen, he had no idea I watched him. Every line, every angle of his face was familiar. I knew if he smiled, one lone dimple would appear. His face would be rough to my touch from the five o-clock shadow dusting the lower half of his face. His breath warm on my palm as he turned to kiss it.
A familiar ache tightened my chest. He was no longer mine and the sooner I solved this case and he waved goodbye, the better.
Reigning in my thoughts, I re-focused on my plan. I chewed my lip and twirled my hair some more. Then it hit me. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Polly had given me some sleeping pills after Tank left and there was almost a full bottle left.
I needed to get him into the hard stuff, so I could mask it. He’d never know I slipped a little something ‘extra’ into his beverage. And, with any luck, he’d be gone to la la land in no time. Great plan in theory, but how would I get him to drink? He’d refused every offer so far tonight. Mentally I slapped my palm against my forehead. I’d been making the wrong offer.
I would utilize the time-honored method of diversion, a game of strip pool. No way would I play strip poker; Tank would have me naked in two straight hands. But at pool—I could take the guy. We played this a lot and I’d beaten him regularly.
Time to put Plan C in motion.
“Tank, I’m bored.” I maneuvered myself so I lay draped over the big easy chair, letting my leg swing back and forth over the arm. “Wanna play strip pool?”
His head rose, like a buck scenting a doe in heat. He’s not stupid, he had to know I was up to something, but he was willing to play along. After putting away his laptop, he leaned back and stretched his arms across the back of the couch, all smug and cocky. “Rack ‘em up, darlin’. Call me when you’re ready to break.”
“I’ll mix some drinks, you rack and break. I’ll be right down.”
As always, I loved it when a plan worked.
Chapter Five
The sound of balls being racked floated up the stairs while I prepared the drinks. Tank had gone for it. Tomorrow morning he’d be pretty embarrassed about falling for my ruse. In a small way, I felt bad for him.
How could I even hint at having sexual relations with Tank when we hadn’t worked out our problems? Deceit had an insidious way of making a person do unethical things. On the verge of backing down, I mentally pictured him kissing another woman and twisted open the bottle.
I estimated an ounce for each drink and poured the amber liquid over ice cubes, followed by some cola. For extra insurance, and because I was still mad at him, I threw another splash of rum into Tank’s glass.
I rummaged through my medicine cabinet, found the sleeping pills Polly gave me and shook out two little blue capsules. They were kind of small and Tank was pretty big, so I added one more. Three should keep him out of the way until I was safely in the air, enjoying my complimentary in-flight package of peanuts. After breaking them open, I poured the powder into his glass and threw the tiny casings in the garbage.
It took only a few seconds to stir the drink before heading downstairs and hand Tank his before placing mine on the bar behind him. I walked over to the wall-mounted rack and grabbed my cue stick. Confidence surged through me as I returned to where he stood, drink in hand. I reached around and picked up mine.
“Here’s to me kicking your butt.” I tapped my glass against his and watched him take a nice long swallow. I hid a smile against my glass and enjoyed a sip too. It tasted good. Tasted like victory.
“Best two out of three?” I asked.
Tank nodded the affirmative, placed his drink on the bar and walked over to the table. He lined up his shot and with a quick, powerful hit, sank two balls.
Lucky break.
He moved around the table, analyzing all angles and then sank one, two, three balls in a row. Impressed, I sipped my rum. Two of his balls were left on the table when he missed the fourth shot. With a slight shrug, he turned to face me. “Let’s see what you got, darlin’.”
“Ha. What I got is a perfectly executed game about to happen. Stand aside.”
I chalked my cue stick while I walked around, checking out the lay of the table. I was pretty good at pool, I had to be. In my line of work, you hung out at bars and pool halls, talking to people and I’d picked up a few tricks. I made some fancy bank shots, double backs, and sank four in a row.
My fifth shot was impossible to execute, so as a nasty treat, I tapped my ball and left the white cue ball tucked behind it. The only way he could make the shot was by hitting the cue ball down the length of the table, strike a precise, exact location and roll back, just kissing his ball so it would slide into the pocket.
Laughing outright I said, “Let’s see you get out of this one, big boy.” I toasted him with my drink again.
“I’ve got moves you’ve never seen, babe.” A wolfish grin crossed his lips.
Normal Tank was dangerous, but playful Tank was lethal and a familiar energy sizzled through my system. He threw back about half his rum, put down the glass and lined up his shot. Slow and deliberate he pulled the cue stick back—paused and winked at me—and made the shot.
I levelled a narrow glance at him. How long would it take for those pills to kick in? He was making some pretty impressive shots and if he won, I’d have to remove a piece of clothing.
Standing rules between Tank and I are this: in strip pool, we played best of three. When one person lost two matches, the game was called and the winner got whatever he, or she, wanted. I took a quick mental inventory of what I had on. Jeans, sweater, tee shirt and not much more. Maybe he’d let me take off my watch.
He dropped his seventh ball no problem and my eyes widened when he called and pocketed the eight ball, back left corner.
There were still three of my balls on the table.
I went to remove my sweater, but a tap on my arm stopped me. Tank’s cue stick rested on my forearm and I followed the smooth line of the glossy stick until my gaze reached his face. Amusement shone out of his eyes as he shook his head and with the cue stick, pointed to my jeans.
“You don’t get to choose. I’ll take off my sweater.” No way would I parade around in my underwear. Not anymore.
I slid my sweater off and draped it over the bar. So far, Plan C was not working the way I envisioned and there was no Plan D. Maintaining composure as best I could under the circumstances, I tugged my tee shirt back into place.
Because Tank won, I had to break. While I gathered the balls and arranged them in the triangle brace, Tank leaned against the bar, crossing his long muscular legs at the ankles.
Easy for him to be all relaxed, he didn’t have to win two games in a row. Stifling a big yawn, I took a firm grip on the cue stick.