Nearly, because Ramirez reached out with quick cop-like reflexes and caught me in his arms. Strong arms. I put my hands up to balance and came up against a chest like a brick wall. I felt his heart beating beneath his six-day-a-week-at-the-gym muscles. I think I sighed.
“You okay?” His face was inches from mine. His eyes still twinkling with amusement.
“Uh huh,” I managed. Even though my limbs felt like Jell-o and I could swear visions of Damien’s package were swimming through my head. I suddenly had a burning desire to know for sure whether Ramirez was a boxers or briefs guy.
“Love the outfit,” he said, still holding me around the waist. His eyes dipped down to my Librarian wear.
“You’re mocking me again aren’t you?”
“Just a little.”
“It went over big at the porn studio too.”
Ramirez’s eyebrow shot up again. “Porn Studio?” His grin widened, showing off a row of white teeth. The better to eat you right up with my dear.
“See, I knew there was a little bad girl in you.” His voice was low and deep in a way that made me warm in all the right places.
I was still pressed against his chest and his hooded eyes looked wide awake now, intent on me. Making me think serious bad girl thoughts. Thoughts of bad cops in boxers.
Or better yet, nothing at all.
Try as I might to reign in Beefcakes Girl, her eyes strayed downward. Past his brick wall chest, beyond six-pack territory, until they zeroed in on that denim covered package.
“Are you staring at my crotch?”
At least I had the decency to blush. At least, I think it was a blush. Or maybe just one of Mom’s hot flashes at the totally X-rated thoughts racing through my mind.
“I was just wondering if you’re a boxers or briefs guy.” Did I say that out loud? Oh lord, I must be really drunk.
Before I had time to take back my Sluts-R-Us statement, Ramirez tightened his grip on my waist, pulling my body flush with his.
I think I had an on-the-spot orgasm.
His head dipped down, his lips grazing my ear. “Briefs,” he whispered.
And then he kissed me.
And not one of those nippy, soft, kissy things. This was a kiss. A serious lust-inspiring, picturing-you-naked-all-day, you’re-so-going-to-remember-the-sex-no-matter-how-many-Virgin-Marys-you-accidentally-drank kind of kiss. One that left no question in my mind whether Ramirez was a Damien or a Richard beneath all those clothes. I knew for a fact that Richards didn’t kiss like this. He was a Damien through and through.
His hands slid up my shirt and I did a quick mental inventory. Legs shaved? No granny panties? Just in case condom still in my purse? Check, check, and check. Beefcakes Girl did a mental woohoo! as I kissed him back.
His tongue touched mine and I suddenly felt like Ramirez was wearing way too many clothes. I slid my hands down his chest, fumbling like a nervous teenager at his belt buckle until his T-shirt came untucked. He didn’t protest in the least as I slid the fabric up and over his head. Though he did groan a little as I trailed my hands down his abdomen. Good lord, this guy was built. I bet he worked out more than Dana.
Ramirez picked me up like I weighed less than nothing and sat me on the kitchen counter. My skirt hiked up as his hands slid up my thighs, past my knees, past the oh-that-tickles spot, and on into where’s-that-freaking-condom territory.
I went back to fumbling with his belt buckle again. We were suddenly in a race. Who could get their clothes off fastest and the winner received the orgasm of their life. Ramirez’s shoes went flying across the room. My silk blouse was ripped off so fast one of the buttons popped off, pinging against my microwave. My bra was down around my waist and I heard the unmistakable sound of Ramirez’s zipper sliding open.
And then he froze. Okay, through my vodka-hormone cocktail it took me a second to realize he wasn’t kissing me back anymore. But when I did, I saw he was staring at a spot behind me.
“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“What is that?”
I turned around to see what he was staring at. My heart sank.
The EPT.
“Uh, it’s nothing. Just, um, a little pregnancy test.”
It was as if I’d said, “Just a little nuclear bomb.” Ramirez instantly put two feet between us, still staring at the bomb like it might go off any second. “Why do you have a pregnancy test on your kitchen counter? Are you pregnant?” He stared at my belly. Thankfully, I was still flat as a board. But I could see him mentally putting a basketball there.
“No! I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Well… maybe.”
His gaze whipped wildly from the test to me. Then he muttered a, “Jesus,” and sat down on my futon, scrubbing a hand over his face.
I slid off the counter, shrugging back into my bra as I sat down beside him.
“Richard’s?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Jesus,” he said again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know if there was anything to tell. And, well, I don’t know, you’re a cop and you thought I was in Greenway’s room. And then you came here and you looked so nice and you kissed me, and that was really nice, and well, I just kind of forgot to mention it.”
“You forgot?” He stared at me.
“Uh huh.” In my defense, Ramirez shirtless was enough to make a woman forget her own name.
“Hell, this is… this was…” He waved his arms from me to the EPT, seemingly searching for the right words.
My heart bottomed out when he found them.
“A mistake,” he finally said. “This was a huge mistake coming here.”
A mistake. My bottom lip quivered. Okay, so maybe it was a mistake. In fact, I’m sure had we actually had sex, I would have been thinking the same thing as soon as the Virgin Marys wore off. But did he have to say it like that?
I wrapped my arms around my middle, suddenly very conscious of the fact my shirt was on the other side of the room.
“Maybe you should just go then,” I said. Then bit my lower lip to stop that damn quivering.
“You’re right. I should go.” Ramirez got up and retrieved his shirt from the floor.
“Fine,” I spat back. I’m not sure why I was so mad at him, but it beat being mad at myself. “Go then.”
“Hey, look, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t come here for this,” he said, gesturing the counter where we’d been this close to being the stars of our very own porno flick.
“Oh, so you’re saying this is my fault? That I threw myself at you? That I’m some kind of drunken hussy?” The closer the words hit to home the louder I said them. Damn. I had thrown myself a little hadn’t I? But he’d been more than willing to catch me.
“I didn’t say that. You’re not a drunken-” He paused. “Wait, you’re pregnant and you went out and got drunk?” He stared at me as if I’d just confessed to shooting my grandmother.
That did it. The quivering lip shook out of control and big fat tears rolled out of my eyes. Did I mention I also tend to get a little emotional when I’m drunk?
“I-I-I’m a horrible p-p-person,” I wailed.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“I’ll be a horrible m-m-mother.”
Ramirez sat down beside me. “No, you won’t. I’m sure you’ll be a fine mother.”
“I didn’t mean to get drunk. I was tricked. I would n-n-never hurt a baby.” My words were coming out in big slobbery sobs and I was pretty sure my nose was running too. This was about as unsexy as you could get.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sure the baby is okay.”
“If there is a baby,” I reminded him between sniffles.
“Right. If there is one.” He put his arm around me.
“I’m sorry.” I sniffed again. “I’m a mess.”
Ramirez looked at me. He pushed one stray strand of hair behind my ear. Oddly enough it was an even more intimate gesture than having his hands up my shirt. More… touchi
ng. Wow. Who knew Bad Cop had a soft side?
“You’re not a mess. You’ll make a beautiful mother.”
Okay, so I knew he was lying. I was so far from beautiful right now. My mascara must be in streaks, my nose was running and red, and I’m sure my eyes were once again puffier than the Michelin man. But it was a nice lie. And he was a nice guy to say it.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’m sure you have stuff to do. Important Bad Cop stuff.”
He smiled. Not that smirky smile and not the sexy, wolfish grin either. Just a smile, like maybe deep down he really didn’t think I was such a mess after all. “Nope,” he said. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
He pulled me close to him and I laid my head down on his chest. I could hear his heart beating. It was a comforting sound. He smelled like fresh laundry and mellow aftershave. I took a deep breath, inhaling his scent.
I closed my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was the vodka, the good cry, or Ramirez’s steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, but for the first time in days I felt peaceful. Calm, peaceful and so very relaxed. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift, feeling utterly comfortable in Ramirez’s arms.
* * *
I heard a phone ringing, echoing through my head like a car with too much bass. Slowly I flexed one limb, then the other. My neck was stiff, like I’d fallen asleep sitting up and my mouth felt like sandpaper. I managed to open one eye a crack.
And saw Ramirez.
Yikes!
I blinked hard against the assault of sunlight coming through my windows. What the hell was Ramirez doing in my apartment? His head was lolled back on the futon cushions, his mouth slightly open as his slept, making deep breathing sounds. Slowly it came back to me as I watched him. The Virgin Mary’s, the EPT. Ramirez’s hands up my shirt.
Uhn. I groaned. Oh God, I’d practically thrown myself at him. And then bawled all over him. I’d made a drunken fool of myself. I shook my head. Ouch. And I had the headache to prove it. And where the hell was that ringing coming from?
I dove for my purse on the floor, every movement jarring my head until it pounded like a marching band. Oh my God, someone stop the ringing!
“Hello?” I croaked as I found my cell phone.
“Maddie! Where the hell are you?”
I held the phone away from my ear, Dana’s shrill shriek assaulting me in so many ways I couldn’t keep track.
“Shhhhh. Hangover.”
“Oh my God, Mads. You’re hung over? I knew I should have picked you up this morning.”
Picked me up?
And then through my hung over haze I had a moment of clarity. Oh shit. The wedding!
I spun around, producing a new round of pain in my temples, and looked at the clock on my kitchen wall. Oh shit. 10:00!
“Maddie? Are you still there? The ceremony starts in half an hour. Your mom is starting to freak.”
“I’ll be right there. Don’t start without me”
I hung up, throwing the phone down on the carpet.
“Shit!”
Ramirez opened one sleepy eye. “What time is it?”
“Ten. I’m late. I gotta go. Shit!” I ran to my closet and pulled the Purple People Eater out of its garment bag. I didn’t even take the time to grimace as I stripped off the rest of my librarian outfit and threw it over my head.
Had I more time I might have waited until Ramirez was gone to strip down. As it was, I think the sight of me half naked and running around like a crazy woman woke him up quickly enough.
“Late for what?”
“Wedding. Mom’s wedding. Riverside. Shit!” I panted, trying to get the Purple People Eater closed in the back.
Ramirez stood up and helped me with the zipper.
“Thanks.”
“How late are you?” he asked, still rubbing his eyes.
“Late. Riverside in half an hour late. I am so freaking late!” I looked wildly around for my dyed purple shoes. I found one under my drawing table and hopped around looking for the other as I scooped my cell phone back into my purse.
“Okay, I’ll drive.”
I stopped hopping and stared.
Okay - my first thought when Mom told me she was getting married (after the initial shock that Ralph was, in fact, straight) was of the awesome act of God it would take to get Richard to come to the wedding with me. We’d only been dating four months and the Wedding Date is really more of a six months-and-up kind of event. Rating just after meet-the-parents, and just before buying a puppy together. After weeks of procrastinating, and weeks more of begging, pleading and playing the we’re-not-having-sex-until-you-relent game, I’d finally convinced Richard to go on the promise he could leave early if they started doing the chicken dance.
And, after one drunken night of Maddie the Horny Tear Factory, Ramirez wanted to go to the wedding with me?
I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because Ramirez grinned as he explained.
“My car has a siren. We’ll be able to get through traffic.”
Right. Siren. Duh.
I shook off the tiny prickle of disappointment that he wanted a quick route and not an evening of close dancing with me as I found my other shoe and made a mad dash for Ramirez’s SUV.
Usually the drive from Santa Monica to Riverside is a good hour and a half – Santa Monica bordering the ocean and Riverside bordering the last known outpost of civilization before heading into the desert of doublewides between L.A. and Las Vegas. However, with Ramirez’s police siren blaring down the 10, we made it in twenty-five. It was a good thing too because as we pulled up in front of the Garden Grande Motel, Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt were pacing up and down like two vintage kitchy Energizer bunnies.
“Where the hell have you been?” Mom shrieked at me as I catapulted myself from the car.
“Sorry, I overslept.”
Mrs. Rosenblatt looked Ramirez up and down. Her gaze settled in his package region. “I can see why.”
My cheeks turned into two flaming pools of lava.
Ramirez just grinned.
“You, come with me,” Mrs. Rosenblatt instructed him. “I’ve got the perfect seat for you.” Before I could protest she grabbed Ramirez by the arm and steered him toward the back garden.
“No he’s just dropping me off, and…” I trailed off. What was the point? Mrs. Rosenblatt would probably just lecture me on the importance of sex for a healthy aura.
Ramirez just shrugged and grinned at me over his shoulder as Mrs. Rosenblatt led him away. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he was enjoying this.
“Where is Richard?” Mom looked from me to Ramirez’s retreating form with narrowed eyes.
“Uh, well, Richard is kind of, um…”
Mom waved her hands in the air. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re here. I’m getting married. That’s all that matters.”
Mom’s hands stopped waving. Her eyes got round. She visibly paled under her thick layer of foundation and startling blue eyeliner. “Oh God. I’m getting married.”
And then my mother began to hyperventilate. Right there on the sidewalk in front of the Garden Grande Motel in an empire waisted wedding dress with a two foot long train Mom had the breakdown to end all breakdowns.
“Oh God. I don’t think I can do this, Maddie. I mean, I want this,” she went on, “But oh my God, I’m getting married, and I swore I would never do this again, and maybe we should wait, maybe we should do it in the church after all, what if God really does want me to be Catholic, and what if he puts a curse upon our marriage, Maddie, you know I can’t take another failed marriage, I need God to be on my side, Mads.”
My head pounded, the marching band bringing out the big cymbals. “Take a breath. Pause for a period.”
Mom took another deep breath, still looking like she needed a paper bag. “What am I going to do if I blow this marriage too? I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Mom, if you don’t want to do this, now’s the time.”
Am I a bad pers
on that I almost hoped she’d change her mind and I could go home and commune with my Mr. Coffee instead of parading down the aisle in Barney on Crack for all to see?
She bit her lip, creating little red lipstick flecks on her teeth.
“I do Mads. But, it’s just been the two of us for so long. And, well, Ralph’s great, but everything’s about to change. And I don’t know if I can take it. The change. Maybe I’m just too old for change.”
And I realized as I stared at my mother’s ‘80’s blue eyeshadow and lipstick stained teeth, so was I. Maybe that was why I’d blocked out all things wedding for the past three months. I was afraid things were going to change. That I’d lose my keds-with-floral-Mumus Mom to Fernando’s ultra chic world.
And just as quickly I realized how ridiculous that was. There wasn’t a designer in Beverly Hills strong enough to pry my mom out of her 1983 ways, and to be honest, I didn’t think Ralph even wanted to try. Any man who would love Mom, blue eye-shadow and all, passed muster with me.
I wasn’t losing a mom. I was gaining a dad. A Faux Dad.
“Mom, do you love Ralph?”
Mom nodded without hesitation. “I do.”
I gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Then let’s go get married.”
Mom’s eyes teared up and she caught me in a hug that crushed my ribs even harder than the Purple People Eater. I held onto her hand as we took our places behind a boxwood hedge just as the strains of the wedding march began to play.
Chapter Fifteen
“Everybody on the dance floor for the chicken dance!”
Ramirez leaned in close. “Just so you know, this more than makes up for dinner at my mom’s.”
No kidding.
Actually Ramirez had been a pretty good sport about this whole thing, sitting all the way through the ceremony, even when my Irish Catholic Grandmother started saying her rosary halfway through the I-do’s, and even when every one of my cousins, aunts, uncles, and members of my mother’s Internet chat groups insisted on meeting Maddie’s New Guy. All things considered, Bad Cop was turning out to be an okay date.
We were seated at one of the ten round tables in the Garden Grande’s “great hall” (think Elk’s lodge décor - peeling wood toned vinyl walls and grade school cafeteria linoleum). Molly the Breeder sat across from me with her husband, Stan. Dana and an exhausted looking No Neck Guy were flapping their wings on the dance floor, and Ramirez was sitting on my left. Beside him sat my Irish Catholic Grandmother, back straight, lips pinched into a tight line, eyes narrow and shrewd, flicking between Ramirez’s tell-tale stubble and my naked left finger.
Spying in High Heels Page 17