by Terri Nolan
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
nineteen
Ron was an engaged speaker with an audience of one. Conversational lulls were rare and there was no awkwardness. His speech was kind and thoughtful in a chivalrous way.
They sat at opposite ends of the couch. Ron scooted closer and pointed at the silver chain that disappeared under her shirt. “What’s that you wear around your neck?”
“Sentimental juju.” She untucked it and held it out for him. He fingered it. “It’s a medallion Frank gave me for memorizing Latin prayers. This is Saint Francis de Sales, the patron saint of journalists and writers. I wear it near my heart.”
“It’s nice,” he said. “And a handcuff key?”
“Matt’s lucky charm.”
The probing look in his eyes suggested that he wanted to ask questions. About her faith? Or Matt? She’d freely tell him anything. But she had to be asked. The moment drew out too long so she moved on.
“I know you didn’t want to show Madi, but I’m curious what kind of tattoo a deputy detective wears. The part that’s visible looks like snake skin.”
Ron rolled up his sleeve. “It a coiled serpent.” Tiny scales were outlined in thin black lines and colored gold and red. The head of the serpent had one green eye open, one closed. Two carefully curved scripts followed the contour of the creature: Semper Fidelis and Semper Paratus.
“Always faithful and always prepared,” she said.
“Always faithful or always ready; depends on the translation.”
“Is it okay to say beautiful in regards to a tattoo on a man?”
“It’s fine. Remember the Saker I mentioned? Would you like to see it?”
“The one watching your back? Okay.”
Ron turned his back toward her and lifted his shirt. The broad expanse of his upper back and shoulders was covered with a large, bird-of-prey in flight, coming right at her. Birdie pushed back in reflex. “Whoa.”
She’d never seen anything like it. The bird had brown upperparts with contrasting grey flight feathers. The head was a paler brown with streaks and spots running down its chest. The thighs were thick and ended at sharp talons. The tattoo was so detailed and fine with the various shades of brown, gray, and tan that she swore Ron pasted a photograph on his skin.
“The first time I saw a Saker falcon was in Central Asia,” he said, as he pulled his shirt down. “Then I saw one in the Middle East. Sakers are aggressively fierce hunters. Popular with falconers.”
“How long did it take to do?” she said.
“’bout forty hours.”
“Ouch. The same artist did both?”
“The serpent was done in Southeast Asia and the Saker done at home in Oceanside.”
The phone rang. Birdie silently cursed the intrusion.
“Hey, Birdie, it’s Jimmy from the Westend. You wanted me to call, remember?”
“What do you have?”
“Nothing about Matt. Something else. When you were here with Gerard, that retired cop, Soto, stayed the whole time and watched you from the bar. And Thom and Arthur watched him. I figured Soto for a dirty ol’ man. After Gerard said goodbye to Soto, Thom got in his face. He and Soto had a heated discussion. I couldn’t hear what was said.”
“Then how do you know it was heated?”
“Body language. Arthur watched it and stood as if he were about to get involved when it suddenly broke off and Soto left. Anyway, I got busy ’cause my bar back had to leave early and I forgot about it ’til this evening.”
“Thanks Jimmy. I’d appreciate your discretion.”
She could ask Thom about the fuss, but he’d know that Jimmy had called. Bartenders were like priests. There was a code. Hear everything, repeat nothing. She wouldn’t want to make things uncomfortable for Jimmy. Besides, the encounter probably meant nothing. Still …
“Problem?” said Ron.
Birdie shook her head. “Don’t think so.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
She hadn’t realized they were. “Alcohol withdrawals. But really, anything can make them quiver: nervousness, agitation, a craving, stress.”
“A suicidal jobber breaking into your home?”
“That will do it.” Birdie clenched her fists.
Ron pointed to the gun and badge that he still wore on his belt. He unclipped the badge and placed it on the library desk. The gun holster was not only clipped to the waistband of his jeans, but it was also threaded by the belt. He unbuckled the belt and pulled it through the loops, freeing the holster. The way he shed the hardware of his profession seemed deliberate. Like undressing. Everything that followed would be personal.
“I’m goofy footed with damsels in distress,” he said, spreading his lips into a nervous smile. “But I’m a great hug.” He opened his arms.
She didn’t answer. She pressed her body into his. They stood together, arms wrapped around the other. Comfort. Birdie’s head pressed tight against Ron’s chest listening to his heart, a ballad chasing away the uncertainty and confusion. She felt connected to him. Here was a man she was just beginning to know, yet she felt secure in his arms. She perceived a sensation of compassion and trust. It was scary. And thrilling.
Birdie allowed her hands to gently move up his back, feeling the taut skin underneath the soft cotton of his shirt. Down his spine and around the small of his back. He didn’t protest, so she allowed her hands to move under his shirt, her fingertips lightly touching his smooth skin and iron-man strong muscles. He inhaled. One of his large hands cradled her head; his fingers grasped some hair as he applied a very slight pull.
Birdie’s pulse quickened with the rush of warmth that precedes sexual awakening. Ron presented a physical manifestation of the same arousal.
Her fingers spread out as she moved them up his side, thumbs pressed harder as her hands traveled upward toward his underarms. He sucked in his breath at the increased pressure.
Suddenly Ron pulled her head back, twirled her body and gently pinned her against the wall. Hazel eyes locked on Birdie’s blue ones. His mouth centimeters away. His body didn’t touch hers yet it was close enough that she could feel his heat.
“What do you want?”
What could she say? That she was attracted to him, but felt like she was betraying Matt? Or that she wanted him to screw her so that she could feel grounded and stop thinking about the brain bits that were on her lawn. Or that she desired to ravage him to take her mind off Reidy’s murder or the mysterious key Matt left behind or the unsolved Paige Street murder. Or should she tell him that Frank’s fear had scared her and she simply wanted his strong body next to hers.
She opened her mouth in invitation for a kiss. Her lips grazed his and she felt them twitch. Kiss me, she pleaded silently.
“Tell me,” he said.
To hell with it. She pressed her lips to his.
Big hands moved to her face and pushed her head back.
“I want to have sex with you,” she said. “Is that clear enough?”
“Why?”
She interpreted his question as a rejection. “Forget it.” She pushed him off. What kind of slut would ask a man to have sex with her just days after the man she loved died? Yeah, she had boyfriends. Sexual partners. But that was before she and Matt had said the words. Everything was different now that the words were floating in the ether.
“Don’t take it back,” said Ron. He grabbed her arm and held her so close that she thought he would steal her breath. He whispered in her ear, “I’m already off the reservation. Still, I’m a little old-fashioned. Please understand that I need to know it’s me you want. If your only interest is a ready dick then I’ll make a call and get you a number for a safe stud service. Otherwise …”
Birdie couldn’t quiet the noise of silence. She did want Ron. No conflict here. Humans are hard-wired for sex and
she was attracted to Ron in a natural, earthy way, like bees to lavender. But there was something else that lingered: an overwhelming emotion that bubbled its way to the top of all of the others. She’d felt it only once before. It was that part that made her feel unclean. But before she could retreat and apply some logic, the words spurted out. “I want you,” she said.
Ron took her face into his hands, smoothed back her hair and kissed the hollow of her throat. There was no ambiguity in his lips or desire as he twirled her around and explored her shoulders, neck, and the back of her ears. His tongue tasted the base of her scalp even as his hands moved across her belly, up to her breasts.
Birdie’s flesh was hungry and her knees quaked. She felt certain she was going to faint.
“I … I’m going to fall.”
“Let me catch you.”
_____
At two a.m. Birdie awoke to an unfamiliar sound. A muffled purring. In the twilight of a hard sleep she thought it was George’s cat performing some nocturnal kneading until she remembered she was home. Slowly the reality set in. It was the vibrating buzz of a cell phone, loud in the slumbered night. Her eyes swept across the nightstand. Ron’s cell phone rested silently next to the house phone. He must have another.
She became aware of Ron’s body comfortably wrapped around hers. Oblivious to the sound. Marines must learn how to sleep with any amount of noise. When the buzzing stopped, she expected to hear the beep of a new voicemail, but the phone started again. The caller obviously didn’t want to leave a message.
She nudged Ron. “Your phone.”
He reached across her to pick up his cell.
“The other one,” she said.
Birdie heard a puff. The sound of displeasure pushed out his nose. He carefully extricated himself from Birdie and quietly tumbled across the bed. He got up and dug through his duffle resting on the chaise. In the glow of the phone, Birdie watched him check the number and then turn it off. It wasn’t uncommon for cops to carry two cell phones. Thom did. One personal. One business.
Despite the hour, it must not have been urgent.
“Who calls at two in the morning?” Birdie mumbled.
“Only an asshole,” whispered Ron, resuming his spoon position. He put his hand on her hip then slowly massaged it down around her butt, across her thigh, back up and forward, down her belly and reached between her legs.
Birdie felt him harden against her backside. She scooted forward and rolled over.
twenty
Thursday, January 12
Day 244. This day was gonna be a tough-ass day.
Birdie was agitated. Forty minutes of hard running on the treadmill didn’t help. She was disturbed and angry for giving in to her physical desires at a time of emotional upset. I love Matt. Not Ron. I love Matt. Not Ron. The words were the rhythm of her cadence. One-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, one-two. Like a dance step that missed the forth beat.
Two floors above her head a man was asleep in her bed. The place she had saved for Matt. She had never shared it with men for sleep or sex; that’s what the guestrooms were for. Last night she’d led Ron upstairs to the room across from hers. He sat on the bed and bounced. Then he walked across the hall and sat on her bed, repeating the bounce. He declared that he preferred her rack and that’s where they were going to be for the night. There was no discussion. Other men had asked for the same privilege of sex in her bed and every one had been denied. She wasn’t sure why she relented so easily to Ron and this upset her.
He was also the first man she ever slept with. The previous routine was sex in a guest room and afterward she’d get up and sleep in her own bed. Sure, it caused hard feelings, but her terms weren’t negotiable. She felt that sleep was the most intimate and vulnerable act two people could share. It took a complete trust to lay unconscious, baring the body and soul to the unknown of sleep. The rule was a way to stay emotionally detached from her lovers. Like she really needed it—she loved Matt and that alone kept her from loving any other.
The two a.m. wake-up call aside, she experienced a deep sleep with a virtual stranger. What frightened her more than the entire sum of events in the last five days was a fledgling emotion that Ron brought out in her. Though it was a strange sensation she recognized it immediately. She was falling for him.
As a lover, Ron was brutal, kind, hard, giving, all at the same time. Birdie ravaged him with an intensity she never knew possible. It was so raw that she cried with repressed emotional energy that preceded rapture. And the tenderness he showed after a mad session of sex was a smooth nightcap.
She finished the run just as Ron arrived. She pulled open the multi-paned glass wall that separated the gym from the lanai.
He held her chin and gave her a lingering kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue.
“Good morning. Thank you for last night.”
“Are you always this nice the morning after?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s sit outside.”
The sharp morning air was a refreshing bite on her hot skin. The skies remained clear overnight yet the patio furniture was still damp. She sat on a brick step and wrapped her arms around her bare legs. Ron sat next to her.
“Nice gym,” he said.
“Matt built it.” She pointed to a mound hidden under a blue tarp beyond the patch of grass marked with the yellow tape. “That’s a pile of lumber. It was to be his next undertaking. It’s supposed to be a gazebo. The plans are in my garage.”
“I’m confused about your relationship.”
“We were each other’s life project.”
Ron screwed his face in noncomprehension.
“Our relationship can’t be compressed into a simple answer.”
“Tell me a story then.”
“About eight months ago a two-year relationship ended. Right after, I did something stupid that could’ve landed me in prison. I got lucky when a judge ordered me to rehab. I took the deal, but escaped after one day. Matt vouched for me with the court and brought me home. He made a drunk tank in the empty room next to mine. Put a mattress on the floor. A lock on the door. He maintained a vigil over me for an entire week while I suffered delirium tremens.” Birdie fought back the tears. “It was awful. I sweated, and shit, and pissed, and threw up in that room. I yelled obscenities and assaulted Matt. I screamed in pain and wanted to die. Yet he fed me, cleaned me, gave encouragement, prayed with me. He never complained or argued. And here I am, my body purged of poison and still suffering withdrawals.”
“That takes a true friend,” said Ron, “but I have a few who’d do it for me.”
“In turn, I cared for him. You already know about the domestic. When Matt was released from the hospital, I brought him home, helped him with his physical therapy. Including the civilian time, he had twenty-seven years invested with the LAPD. He loved the job. Tried to go back. The physical pain was overwhelming and interfered with his duties. They moved him inside, but he felt claustrophobic. He loved the streets and couldn’t hack it on the inside. Then one day he had a seizure and had to go back out on disability. The gym, the future gazebo, they were a way to keep his mind and body occupied until he figured out what he was going to do.”
Ron interlaced his fingers with hers. “You said a lot and still didn’t answer the question.”
“Not to your satisfaction.”
“Hum. I guess what I want to know is … well, there were photos of you all over his house. Hoy told me how much he loved you. How much you loved him. You mention boyfriends. Wasn’t he your boyfriend?”
“We never had sex if that’s what you want to know.”
“I was curious about that. What kept you apart?”
She reclaimed her hand. “Ron, I’d like the answer to that, too. Since his death, I’ve discovered a side of him that I never knew existed. I have to figure that out.”
&nbs
p; Ron cracked an imaginary egg over her knee. The simple tactile sensation tickled and she laughed. Yeah, he’d snuck up on her, but the relationship was doomed. Like the rest. She respected him enough to end it sooner rather than later. He was an excellent respite amid the turmoil of the last five days. But she had work to do and he had become a distraction she couldn’t afford. How you gonna pull this one off, Bird? Screw up some courage and get moving.
She rubbed the goose bumps on her legs. “About last night—”
He heard the dismissal in her voice. “It looks different in the daylight?”
“I’m emotionally unbalanced. I don’t need nor want a relationship right now.”
“That’s a quick slice to the essence of things. Look, I don’t want to complicate your life and I sure as hell can’t compete with a dead man.”
“If Matt were alive, last night wouldn’t have happened.”
Ron got up and scratched his scruffy face. “Yes. But if Matt were alive we never would have met.” He began to pace.
“What? Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings.”
“Even though we skipped the audition and went straight to the play, I do want a relationship.”
“It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you live, what? Ninety miles away? And I’m grieving the loss of the only man I’ve ever loved. Let’s add my commitment issues and that I feel guilty for enjoying myself with you. I really like you. I do. But I don’t want to give you any false hope.”
“You’re an independent woman. I’m an independent man. You like your space, I like mine. We’re a perfect fit.”
“Wouldn’t work.”
“Give me a good reason.”
“I just gave you several, but okay, here’s another, even if I don’t feel an emotional connection with the man I’m with, I have to have a monogamous understanding. That’s what I require. The geography alone prevents that. For argument’s sake, let’s say we give it a try. We’d be spending so little time together that when we did hook up we’d spend all our time in the sack. As much as I like you as a sex partner, I need more than that.”