“Anyway,” I continued, “I’m afraid I have a date tonight.” I relished the way this sounded as much as I dreaded the event itself.
“A date? With whom?” Jealousy smoked Liam’s voice, hinting at the fire burning beneath.
“That’s none of your business.”
“As your husband, I think it’s very much my business.”
“You are not my husband.”
“The Clark County court would say otherwise.”
“Not for long,” I replied. “I’ll be seeing about an annulment over my lunch break.”
“And miss your recyclable container of tofu and organic fruit? I would never hear of it. I’ll take care of the annulment.”
“Why haven’t you done it already?” The question flew at me from left field, derailing my intention of pointing out his tragically immature mockery of my lifestyle choices. “According to your normal procedures, you could have wiped this from the books before I had the chance to find out.”
“There’s a lot of things in my normal procedure that have gone undone since I met you, Matilda.”
Julie’s customary pre-appointment knock was nearly drowned out by the throb of my own pulse between my ears. I did and didn’t want to ask him what he had meant. “My next client is here. I have to go.”
“We’ll talk later,” he said. It was more of a decree than a request.
I disconnected and set my phone facedown on my desk. “Come in, Julie.”
Julie Harrison—blonde, petite, and bouncy—opened the door and tumbled in with the energy of basketful of puppies. “Tell me it’s not true,” she demanded.
“Tell you what’s not true?”
She laid a manila file folder containing the notes for my next client on the desk and perched on the edge of the chair across from me. “You do not have a date with Rolly tonight.”
I resisted the urge to bang my head on the desk’s slick wooden surface until the lights went out.
She knew.
Just this morning, I had accepted an invitation to dinner from Roland “Rolly” Boggs, the yeasty security guard who manned the front desk of the building housing my therapy practice. After two years of repeated refusals, I had shocked him to the point of bounding across the foyer to wrap me in a damp, bone-crushing hug.
The reason: his were the keys the blackmailer in question demanded that I acquire, and I had officially grown tired of waiting for Liam or Crixus to come through with a better option.
“Yes, Julie,” I sighed. “I do.”
She stared at me, her glossed lips frozen in a perfect little ‘O’ of disbelief. Julie had chronicled Rolly’s ill-fated suit with the dedication an archives historian. “You. Rolly. Out. Together?”
“It’s strictly a business dinner,” I informed her.
“That’s not what he’s telling everyone,” Julie said. “And when I say everyone, I mean Dr. Spencer had to push back a root canal this morning because Rolly wouldn’t badge any of the dental assistants up the elevator until they had stopped to hear about it.”
The urge to crawl under my desk and disappear for the next century overwhelmed me.
So much for asking Rolly to keep our appointment quiet.
“That’s…unfortunate,” I said through teeth aching with the effort of being clenched.
Julie leaned across the desk and pressed a warm hand to my forehead. “Do you feel okay?”
My burp of unexpected laughter made her jerk her hand back, the rhinestone tennis bracelet around her wrist winking like a pink disco ball. “What? What’s so funny?”
Thoughts that could never be spoken spooled their way through my mind. My next appointment is with a leprechaun whose mind houses St. Patrick and a magical river horse, my schizophrenic mother is being held captive by a blackmailer, and I have a date with Rolly ‘I’ll-probably-hump-your-leg’ Boggs. Also, I’m married to a hit man.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing is funny.”
Julie glanced around my office. Her knowing eye lingered over growing piles of paper, stacks of books I hadn’t managed to put back, and half-consumed green tea soy latte.
“Have you ever considered taking a vacation?” Julie twisted a blond curl around her pink-lacquered finger—her habit when she was about to suggest an idea she already suspected would be unpopular with me. “I’ve worked for you for two years now, and you’ve never even taken a day off. When’s the last time you left the state?”
I took a deep breath and considered this. “When I went to Las Vegas?”
“Weren’t you kind of being kidnapped at gunpoint?” she reminded me.
“The same way you were kind of screwing Crixus in the supply closet.”
Julie’s face fell, and she picked at imaginary lint on the sleeve of her hot pink cardigan.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry, Julie. I’m just a little on edge today.”
“It’s okay,” she shrugged. “You’ve been under a little stress lately.” Her chocolate brown eyes drifted to Sigmund’s tank, which she had replaced for the third time in as many weeks after my office visit with Adonis turned into an impromptu no-pants bone-dance.
Julie had been introduced to the pantheon of paranormal trailing through my office shortly after I had, but had accepted their existence with infinitely more grace.
Not that leaping onto my overstuffed armchair and hurling accent pillows at Cupid hadn’t been a stimulating way to begin our first session. Learning that we shared our world with an ever-growing assortment of non-human creatures had been one thing.
Deciding how to sort out their complex and often heart-breaking ailments was another.
“I suppose I have,” I admitted.
“Speaking of a little stress…” Julie winked as Flick—better known as Felicitous Firecractch McWhiskeybottom—appeared in the doorway.
He held his tiny emerald-hued top hat in his hands, his round head bald save for a tufts of orange cotton candy at his crown and temples. His typical jaunty attire of green breeches and gold-buckled shoes was in effect, a four-leaf clover sprouting from the front pocket of his coat.
“Oi!” he greeted us brightly. “Two lovely lasses in one office. I would say that I’m lucky, but I think the word is out on that account.”
I was encouraged by his use of the word “I’ after months of having used the word “we” to accommodate his mind’s additional occupants.
“Well hi there, Mr. Flick,” Julie said. “How are you?”
I caught a glance of lace panties beneath her skirt as she bent at the waist to offer Flick her index finger to shake.
No wonder Crixus hadn’t been able to keep his hands—and other appendages—off of her. Where my wardrobe consisted of sensible button-up shirts, skirts, and tailored slacks, Julie was firmly a member of the scoop-neck sweater, leggings, and knee-high boot crowd.
I had her beat in bra size, true, but most days I opted for outfits to cover rather than enhance my curvy figure—often necessary to ensure clients kept their focus on my questions instead of my cleavage. Still, I rarely resisted the siren song of a good stiletto heel or the occasional tube of glossy red lipstick.
“Oh, I’m just grand altogether, lass. Fit as a fiddle and twice as lively.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, Flick. Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat,” I said, motioning toward the couch.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Flick disappeared with a brief popping noise and reappeared on the leather cushion, a variation of one of Crixus’s favorite tricks.
Only without the spontaneous orgasm on my part.
“How’s that boyo o’ yours?” Flick asked, sending a wink in my direction.
“Which one?” Julie waggled her eyebrows at me over her shoulder as she made her way to the door.
I sent her a look that just missed being stern. Perhaps the indication that she associated Crixus more with me than she did with herself slid me a notch toward pleased.
Just as quickly, Liam, the blackmailer, and the other unwanted k
nowledge crowded into my mind, pushing out all other thoughts. Unwilling to look any longer at the chaos in my own head, I turned my attention to someone else’s—a welcome respite.
Eight hours separated me from my date with Rolly, but an eternity of thought separated me from my goal.
*****
If we eat with our eyes first, my breasts were Rolly Boggs’s entrée.
The steak on his plate, still bleeding pink juices into the bottom of his loaded baked potato, was only a side dish: shoved down his gullet at intervals timed to his habit of breathing open-mouthed.
He had parted his fine blonde hair down the middle for the occasion and slicked it to his head with enough gel to shellac a dining room table. His round, pale, baby-smooth face bobbed like the full moon above a collar buttoned tight to his chin. A sheen of sweat bloomed on his upper lip. The glossy drip of butter sauce sinking toward the folds of his chin caught the flickering light from the candle on the table between us. It was only a matter of time before it found his tie—a striped affair that hit him at mid-belly.
Rolly was trying.
The knowledge of this pressed on my chest like the boot heel of an unseen assailant.
He was wearing his best clothes, had selected one of the town’s better restaurants, and I had come with the express purpose of deceiving him. I was no better than Liam, really. Lying to get what I wanted.
I poked at my wilting spinach salad and considered backing out for the umpteenth time that evening. All the alternative options I played out in my mind doubled back to dump me off precisely where I found myself: out of options, and out of time.
An elastic-banded watch on Rolly’s wrist measured minutes that felt like miles. But it was the accessory clipped to his belt that interested me most.
There, clipped to the loop just left of his belt buckle, were Rolly’s keys.
His personal keys.
I had lingered at the office long enough to witness the changing of the guard the past couple nights. Each time, Rolly unclipped the larger ring of work keys from his belt, hung them on the board in the security office just off the foyer, and replaced them with his own.
What possible purpose any human could have for wanting them still baffled me, as had a previous blackmailer’s revelation that Rolly was apparently loaded for bear and possessed assorted degrees from Ivy League universities.
The soft mound of nervous energy piled in the squeaking chair across from me resembled nothing so much as the Pillsbury Dough Boy, sans the charming neckerchief and cap.
And yet, he had dodged three attempts already, the keys escaping from my grasp as he turned at the last minute, or stumbled off the curb, or bent to see to his perpetually untied laces.
My cell phone buzzed in my purse. Another missive from the blackmailer, no doubt, standing by for the handoff. He might even be in the restaurant, watching me. Waiting.
I drained the last of my wine in three big swallows, Dutch courage for what I had planned next. Desperate times and all that.
The black-aproned waiter appeared at my elbow as if summoned by the sound of glass stem meeting wood table. “Another glass of wine, Miss?”
“Scotch,” I answered. “Double. Twelve years or older if you have it.”
“Of course,” he nodded, disappearing through the maze of white linen-covered tables.
“Gee, Dr. Schmidt,” Rolly said around a mouthful of steak. “If I had three glasses of wine and a cocktail, you’d have to carry me out of here.”
“Call me Matilda,” I purred, sliding my salad plate to the side. I leaned forward on my elbows, affording him an extra inch of cleavage to ogle. “Not much of a drinker?”
I already knew the answer to this question courtesy of an ill-fated attempt on Crixus’s part to help Rolly meet women, but this seemed as good a question as any to launch the next phase two of my plan.
“Gosh, no,” he insisted. “One strawberry daiquiri and I can’t even remember my name the next day.”
“He’ll have a strawberry daiquiri,” I informed the waiter arriving with my scotch.
Rolly’s eyes widened. “But I have to drive home.”
“Lighten up, Rolly. That’s what cabs are for.” My wink felt traitorous.
“Okay.” His mouth widened in a lopsided grin. “Why not?”
I could give him dozens of answers to that question. They all looped back toward me like barbed hooks. Don’t trust me, Rolly, I willed his open, guileless gaze.
My hand sought out the comforting weight of the glass tumbler.
The smoky aroma of a charred wood perfumed my nostrils as I took the first silky sip. Warmth flooded my throat and gathered in some small, quiet center nothing else could touch.
Around us, couples bent toward each other in the candlelight, catching fingers and trading curved-lipped smiles. Some of it was artifice like my own. The subtle search of an agenda for its desired objective.
But not all.
It was the authentic, affectionate banter that hollowed me. The intimate laughter colored in by the intricacies of a shared life. By comparison, my reason for being here tonight was as empty and sullied as a dumpster in the wake of a garbage truck’s exhaust.
“Want some of mine?” Rolly’s fork hovered in the air between us, the bite of steak on the end weeping a single tear onto the pristine white tablecloth.
“No, thanks.”
The bite disappeared into his mouth. “You didn’t like your salad?”
Another swallow of scotch slid down my throat like a sunbeam. “The salad was great. I’m just not as hungry as I thought.”
“Could be all that wine,” Rolly observed. “I guess it takes up room too.”
“I guess it does.” But not as much room as the self-loathing.
The fork clanked against his plate as he released it from the prison of his clammy fist. “Can I ask you something, Doct—err, Matilda?” My first name sat as on his tongue as comfortably as a live lobster.
“I suppose.” I studied the crystalline swirl of liquid in my glass to avoid meeting his earnest eyes.
“Why did you say yes?”
The glass froze in place, the scotch continuing to slosh up against the side as I worked over a swallow. I had counted on Rolly’s being delighted by my acceptance. But I hadn’t counted on him asking why. “Like you said. Why not?”
“You seemed to have an awful lot of reasons why not before.” The server arrived with Rolly’s daiquiri—a tall, pink bell topped by a swirling pile of whipped cream and a skewered strawberry. He took a tentative pull on the plastic straw and smacked his lips together. “Not bad.”
“Another for you?” the server asked, nodding to the nearly empty drink in my hand.
“Why not?” I said again. There was a careless kind of freedom in welcoming whatever consequences might come as a result of these two words.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Rolly’s bushy blond eyebrows lifted toward his pasted hairline.
“No. I think it’s a great idea.” I tracked the server as he approached, waiting until he was only steps from our table. “And speaking of great ideas, I think I’ll use the restroom.” My chair scraped backward as I stood and lurched forward with the kind of loose-legged stagger a woman with three glasses of wine and one cocktail on board would be forgiven for employing.
My shoulder caught his perfectly, sending me toppling backward.
Right into Rolly’s lap.
“Oof!” Rolly grunted. His belly was warm and soft. What twitched beneath the back of my thigh was not.
I wanted to eject myself from his lap like the spring-loaded passenger seat in a spy’s car, but I had only seconds now. Precious seconds of commotion when I could search out the keys clipped to his belt.
“I’m so sorry,” I gushed, pushing cleavage into his face while fumbling at the loops holding his leather belt in place.
Nothing.
I quickly brushed my fingers over his waistline on the opposite side and found more of the
same.
He had moved the keys. But where? And when? My heart wedged itself up against the base of my windpipe. I felt the futility of my task, the impossibility of its completion. The blackmailer might as well have asked me to move Miami Beach, one grain of sand at a time.
I was never going to get the keys.
My mother would pay the price, and it would be my fault.
“Here, let me help you.” The server hauled me to me feet even as I made a last minute swipe over Rolly’s pockets and came up empty-handed.
Mostly.
A shudder worked its way through me and I wiped my palm against my skirt, as much to smooth away the skin’s memory of Rolly’s erection as to rid it of sticky spilled daiquiri.
“Do you need me to drive you home?” Rolly offered.
As was my usual custom on any first date, I had driven myself to the restaurant, wanting the surety of an easy escape. Doubly so due to the blackmailer waiting in the wings.
“It’s okay. Promise.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze and slid back into my chair.
“I’d be happy to do it. It would be no trouble at all. Honest. Plus I already know where you live.”
The wine and scotch in my stomach roiled like an angry sea as I remembered Rolly’s admission that he had once entered my apartment when I failed to show up for work three days running. As if a solo ambulance ride and waking up alone on the kitchen floor during a nasty bout of walking pneumonia hadn’t been enough to make me reconsider my bachelorettehood, the idea of Rolly traipsing freely through my apartment could certainly make a compelling argument.
Compelling enough to consider staying married to a hit man?
A dark surge of pleasure welled up inside me envisioning what Liam might have done had Rolly made the mistake of setting foot in my apartment while he was in it.
“M-matilda?”
Rolly’s voice dragged me down from the fantasy, back into real life where Liam killed people, Crixus banged anything with tits and a smile, and my salad sweated in the separating vinaigrette.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Can I drive you home?”
The refusal was already inching its way toward my lips, but stopped on a thought.
Driving home.
Unbearable Page 2