The Night She Got Lucky

by Susan Donovan

  The power in that kiss left him dazed. It felt as if he had pulled her very spirit inside him and delivered his own into her. Their bodies melded. His heart melted. They collapsed to the tile floor, where he cradled her in his arms.

  It was not enough. He could not get enough. She was hot and sighing and pushing her breasts against him as they kissed with such abandon that Lucio felt a jolt of confusion. Where had this kind of need originated? Why had he never felt it before? Lucio thought he’d experienced all that sex had to offer!

  “God. Take me.” Ginger’s breath was hot against the side of his neck. “I want it. Now. Please. Please don’t make me wait another day for you.”

  She clawed at his clothing. He helped her unbutton his shirt, open his belt, pull off his trousers. With two smooth and economical movements, he had the sports bra up over her head and the exercise pants down around her ankles. She lay there before him in the glow of the skylight, wearing only a pair of the flimsiest, palest pink panties he’d ever seen. He could see her red curls pushing up against the crotch, her juices already darkening the thin strip of material. That thin strip was the only thing between him and her opening.

  “Joder!” he hissed roughly, dragging his lips over her belly, her thighs, back up to her breasts and hard nipples. It was a beautiful realization—the soft pink of her nipples matched the soft pink of her panties. She was beyond beautiful. Her hands were in his hair.

  Without warning, her body seized under his touch. She called out his name. She had come from the merest attention. He hadn’t put his lips to her sex and just barely sucked on her breasts, yet she’d come in a fierce shudder.

  How deprived she must be.

  Suddenly Ginger sat up, her back straight, horror claiming her face. “Get up. Now. Get your clothes. Go! ”

  “What?”

  She jumped to her feet, pulling up her pants. It was over! For some reason, Ginger had taken herself from him, and now she was ordering him to get dressed. He had not been intimate with many American women. Briefly, he wondered if this were a particularly aggressive type of foreplay.

  “Get in the living room! Go! Here, take your clothes! Hurry!” Ginger shoved him toward the sitting room.

  Lucio stumbled through the room and around the corner to the dining area, where he stood behind the wall as he dressed. This was not foreplay, he decided. This was him getting the boot.

  “What is wrong? What is going on?” Lucio had seen women change their minds, most certainly, but never with this conviction and speed.

  The little dog began to bark. Ginger had already pulled on the sports bra and was tucking her hair back into its holder when the front door flew open.

  From his hiding place, Lucio saw two tall, towheaded young men. One opened a bloody mouth to show missing teeth. The other opened the folds of a towel, which contained the teeth.

  “In the car. Now.” The boys did as ordered. Ginger raced to the kitchen and back to the door in seconds. In one hand she carried a pair of athletic shoes and in the other a purse. Clenched in her teeth were a set of keys. With a panicked glance in his direction, she slammed the door behind her.

  She was gone.

  The dog toddled up to Lucio and sat at his feet, the very tip of her little pink tongue protruding from her tiny lips.

  “Is it always so unruly here in the Garrison home?” he asked her. “Is this your natural habitat?”

  She wagged her miniature feather duster of a tail, her tiny black eyes filled with anticipation.

  “I suppose this is where I show myself out, yes?”

  Lucio strolled through the sitting room and back to the foyer, the dog at his heels. He spied a telephone table near the door, where there was memo paper and a pen. He jotted down the phone number for Rick’s Pacific Heights home and this message: I will be waiting for you.

  He moved toward the door, almost stepping on the little white dog, which had placed itself between him and the exit. It was almost as if she wanted him to stay.

  “Is there something you need?”

  Those must have been magic words, because the dog popped up and toddled away, looking over her shoulder to make sure Lucio was following, which he was. Admittedly, he knew very little about domesticated canine behavior, but this struck him as unusual.

  The dog went into the nicely furnished sitting room, and made her way to the far corner, near the fireplace. On the floor was a bed. A dog bed. Lucio cocked his head to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing—a creamy café au lait satin pillow, tufted. A matching little blanket, also satin. A bed ruffle, pleated. All on a raised platform about six inches off the carpet. The dog waited.

  “I am at a loss, little one,” Lucio said. “What is it I’m supposed to do?”

  With that, the white fluff ball put her front paws on the edge of the pillow, glanced over her doggie shoulder, and waited. Lucio had seen that look many times in his life—it was the look of a woman who expected a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled out. There was no mistaking it.

  Lucio took a few cautious steps toward the dog. He leaned down and picked up her hindquarters and scooted her onto her throne. The poofy-headed creature circled a few times before she settled in, resting her pointed little nose between her front paws. Then she turned her face away and closed her eyes.

  Lucio laughed softly. He knew the meaning of that universal gesture, as well—he had just been dismissed.

  He let himself out.

  There were so many reasons Ginger was unhinged that she hardly knew where to begin.

  Joshua was in oral surgery because his twin brother had punched him in the mouth, knocking out one top and two bottom teeth. Their fight had been over Larry, who was not answering his cell, his pager, or his hospital or private practice line. All the while, his nurse hadn’t a clue where he was.

  And there Ginger sat, outfitted in a sports bra and a bare midriff, an ensemble she hardly felt comfortable wearing at home with the blinds drawn, let alone in public. The man three chairs down didn’t seem to mind her clothing selection, however, and Ginger clutched her bag to the front of her body, trying not to smear dried blood on the orange leather.

  Worse yet, Ginger could not stop cringing at how she’d let a hot rush of insanity rule her the second Lucio Montevez walked through her front door. She’d never had such a ferocious sexual response in her life, including the night on the porch. Apparently that was just the way it was with Lucio Montevez. All he had to do was show up, and Ginger was stripping down. No one had ever done that to her. Just as no one had ever looked into her eyes and instantly known the truth.

  “You have never known a man’s love, have you ? ”

  How could a stranger know this about her when she’d only recently acknowledged it to herself?

  Ginger fidgeted in the plastic waiting room chair. It was horrible to admit, but it bothered her that she’d left Lucio in her house. Alone. She wasn’t thinking he’d steal the big-screen TV, necessarily, but it did highlight an unsettling reality: She’d almost had sex on the floor with a man she didn’t know well enough to leave in her home unsupervised.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  As all of this tumbled around in her mind, she had to wonder—maybe Lucio really was what Mrs. Needleman had warned her about. Maybe Lucio was who she’d warned her about. Maybe meeting him really was more than a coincidence.

  Whatever it was, it was wild, and it scared her. She decided to call Mrs. Needleman the first chance she had.

  Ginger squeezed her eyes against the throbbing in her head and waited for the pressure to subside. It didn’t. But when a familiar melody began wafting down from the waiting room speakers, her eyes slowly opened in comprehension. The universe had chosen a soundtrack for her mental breakdown, and it was the Muzak version of the Clash’s “Rock the Casbah,” which meant that, in addition to everything else, she’d just learned that her high school prom theme song was old enough to become elevator music.

  She laughed out loud.
It was an unstable kind of laugh.

  “Are you okay?” Jason sounded concerned.

  “No. Of course I’m not okay.”

  “I’m really sorry, Mom.”

  That was the twentieth time her son had apologized in the last hour. Ginger tapped her fingertips against her forehead, hoping to loosen the frown lines that had probably become canyons in the last hour.

  She turned to Jason, prepared to give him the lecture of a lifetime—he’d just caused grave injury to his brother! But when she looked at him, she saw how his blue eyes were filled with remorse. He looked almost meek. Frightened.

  How could such a sweet boy be capable of such rotten behavior? Where had she gone wrong?

  He’d been a joyous and happy baby, sleeping through the night by eight weeks, always wanting to be cuddled. Then he became a sociable toddler, fearless among the little ones in his playgroup—a natural leader. Next, he became a high-energy kid with a passion for baseball, like his father. And now …

  Ginger studied Jason’s face and saw the same boy she’d always known, intelligent and defiant. But he no longer liked to be hugged. There was blond stubble on his chin and upper lip. He was no longer interested in being a leader. And his passion for baseball ended last year, when Larry berated him for not making the traveling team.

  According to the family counselor they’d been seeing, Jason needed to develop strategies for identifying and handling his emotions. In Ginger’s opinion, her son’s problem was far simpler than all that—he was so angry with his dad he couldn’t see straight.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him this bad,” Jason whispered. “But he drives me nuts with all his insane whining about being president—I’m sick of it, Mom! You’ve got to get him to shut up about it. I can’t take it anymore.”

  Ginger wouldn’t go so far as to call it insane, but she did know that Josh had the tendency to grate on a person’s nerves. He’d come home from his fifth-grade social studies class one afternoon and announced that he planned to become president of the United States. Everything he did from there on out, he said, would be with that goal in mind. Ginger and Larry had smiled and encouraged their sweet, idealistic son, knowing his attention would soon divert to cars or computers or the newest Xbox game. They’d been wrong. When Josh began working on the costume crew for his school’s theater productions, they were thrilled, thinking maybe he’d found another passion.

  He hadn’t. Joshua stuck to his plan, making sure that every day was a steppingstone toward his eventual role of commander in chief. He’d joined the debate club. He’d volunteered for local, state, and national political campaigns. He’d helped with voter drives and the bloodmobile and environmental projects. And though he was now only in tenth grade, Josh had collected a hundred college catalogs and designed a complex spreadsheet comparing course offerings, Washington, D.C., internship opportunities, and famous political alumni. It made Ginger’s head spin.

  In fact, during their emergency dash to the dentist’s office just an hour before, Josh had held the bloody towel to his jaw and said he worried the injury might dilute the photogenic quality of his smile, or alter his profile.

  Ginger sighed. “I know Joshua can be annoying sometimes, but that doesn’t give you the right to beat him bloody.” She shook her head. “Besides, you already said this whole thing was about your dad. What did Josh say that made you so mad?”

  Her son’s eyes flashed before he turned away.

  “Tell me what got you so upset.”

  Jason ignored her. Ginger was about to demand he answer her question when she felt the creepy stare of the guy three seats down. That was all she could take—she heard a distinct snap! inside her head. She knew it was the sound of her last nerve, now officially shot to hell.

  Ginger swiveled her head to catch the man admiring her spandex-clad hips. She cleared her throat and smiled at him pleasantly. Then she spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone in the crowded waiting room and most of the office staff. “Excuse me—aren’t you here with your wife?”

  The man dragged his eyes from her butt and frowned. “Huh?”

  “I thought so,” Ginger said sweetly. “I am here with my son, who required emergency dental work.”

  The man seemed confused. “Okay,” he mumbled.

  “And I was exercising in the privacy of my home when he was injured, so I didn’t have time to change.”

  His mouth fell open.

  “Do you know where I’m going with this?” she asked, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. “No?”

  “Uh…”

  “If you don’t stop ogling me, I will march right in there and interrupt your wife’s appointment and tell her what a sleazoid pervo scumwad you are. Don’t think I won’t.”

  The man stared at her, stunned.

  Ginger pointed a French-tipped nail in his direction. “You picked the wrong damned day to mess with me,” she hissed.

  That’s when the man gathered his Sports Illustrated and his wife’s purse and moved to the other side of the waiting room.

  Pleased with the results, Ginger returned her attention to Jason.

  “Gee, Mom,” he said. “That was kinda disturbing.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yeah? Well, the same goes for you, Jason. You’ve picked the wrong damned day to mess with me.” Ginger lowered her voice. “It’s time to spill it. What in the hell is going on with you, Jase? It’s like you’re trying to screw up your life just to make a point.”

  Jason remained silent.

  “I’m so worried about you.” Ginger tried not to allow her voice to break. “First the curfew violation and the drinking, then the destruction of property and the cheating at school. What’s this about, honey? You can tell me. You have to tell me.”

  He shrugged and looked away, saying nothing.

  “Answer me!”

  He slowly swiveled his head in her direction. In a surly, exhausted-sounding voice, he said, “I’m a teenage boy, Mom. Get over it. So, is Dad coming or not?”

  The dentist chose that unfortunate moment to enter the waiting room and motion for Ginger and Jason to join him. He escorted them to his office at the end of the hall, where Joshua waited, sporting a metal wire across his top and bottom teeth, much like the one he’d sported when he’d had braces.

  “The teeth will reattach just fine,” the dentist said. “But no solid food at all for about ten days. Just liquid. And after that only soft foods. He won’t be eating anything like hard pretzels for about four weeks.”

  Ginger nodded, her brain frazzled.

  “I’ll need to see him back here next week.”

  “Okay,” she said, her worried eyes darting from the dentist to Josh and Jason.

  “Why isn’t Larry here?” The dentist looked at all three members of the Garrison family for a reply. “Didn’t you page him?”

  “He’s stuck at the hospital.” Jason jumped in before Ginger could think of how to respond. Clearly, her son was protecting Larry’s reputation with a man who happened to be one of his dad’s golfing buddies. “Medical emergency—you know how it is,” Jason added, smiling.

  “Sure.” The dentist nodded. While writing out two prescriptions for Joshua, he added, “No more right hooks to your brother’s face, got it?”

  Jason swallowed hard. “Got it,” he whispered.

  The dentist looked up over the rims of his glasses. “Out in the real world, that’s a felony. You know that, right? I’m sure your dad has explained that to you?”

  Jason stared blankly for a second, then nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Sure.”

  At that point in the conversation, Joshua let out a distressed wail. All eyes turned to him. Then he said something that sounded like, “What am I supposed to eat for ten freakin’ days?”

  The dentist smiled. “I recommend milkshakes and smoothies. And I’m sure Jason would be happy to make them for you. Am I right about that?”

  Jason sighed deeply. “I live to serve,” he said.

&nb
sp; “Here—have some more, my friend.”

  Lucio held out his wine glass and smiled. Sometime after the disastrous meeting, Piers had revealed the depth of his compassion and loyalty by going out—on his own, no less—and purchasing two bottles of Rioja from a little wine shop in the city. The gesture had required research, Lucio knew. Piers had gone out of his way for him. Lucio raised his newly refilled glass in gratitude. “Muchisimas gracias, mi amigo.”

  “De nada,” Piers said, raising his glass in concert with Lucio. “So, go on. What happened next?”

  “Where was I?”

  “She had just run out the door with her purse.”

  “Ah, yes.” Lucio had been rambling on to Piers for nearly an hour, describing the series of strange encounters he’d had with the delectable Ginger Garrison. Of course, he’d not gone into great detail. He’d skipped over how, the night of Rick’s wedding, he’d drunk from Ginger’s vessel of love right out on the front lawn of the ranch. He also left out how he felt inexplicably drawn to Ginger every time he saw her. In addition, he’d failed to mention the power of that afternoon’s kiss, or how his heart had stopped at the vision of her stretched out on the tile in that see-through scrap of fabric that passed as underpants. He only wanted his friend’s advice, and he could get that without stooping to locker room stories.

  “Well, she runs out of the house and leaves me dressed in only my socks and shoes!”

  “You mean that was it?” Piers looked disappointed.

  Lucio shrugged, taking another sip of the rich red elixir and letting it mellow in the back of his throat. For a man who knew virtually nothing about wine, Piers had made a fine selection.

  “But where did she go? How serious was her son’s injury?”

  “What do I know?” Lucio gestured to the world in general. “She has not contacted me since. I am concerned about her son—and I can only assume those were her sons—but what do I know? I know nothing!”

  Piers grinned. “No time for formal introductions, I take it?”

  Lucio laughed. “Perhaps we will save that for when I am clothed.”