Unplugged

by Lois Greiman

  “Fuck,” Rivera murmured, then, “Everything’s fine, sir. She lost her . . . Doberman.”

  “Oh.” The jogger was prancing in place. He was either trying to keep his heart rate up or he had to whiz something terrible. “That’s the shits. Maybe I can help you look.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Rivera said, then to me, “Will you unlock the frickin’ door?”

  “Hey.” The jogger again. “I know this neighborhood like the back of my hand. I could—”

  “The dog’s dead!” Rivera snapped.

  I hiccuped, but managed to shove my key into the lock.

  “Oh.”

  “Got run over by a bus,” Rivera said, then quieter, “Get the hell inside.”

  I attempted to do just that, but my hands were busy trying to wipe my nose and juggle my purse.

  Rivera pushed me away, turned the key, and prodded me inside. He gave the jogger a glare, stepped in after me, and closed the door behind us.

  We stood faced off like angry pugilists. Well, he was angry. I was just kind of soggy.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

  I sniffled, remembered my security system, and punched in the code. “You didn’t have to kill my dog.”

  “Jesus.” Turning me toward him, he reached up, flicked down my lower lid, and stared into my eyeball. “Are you high?”

  I jerked away. “No, I’m not high. I’m . . .” Tears were threatening again. “I’m hungry, and you made me . . . me . . .” I motioned toward the sidewalk. I was hiccuping.

  “Just . . .” He held up a placating hand. “Just take it easy, McMullen. I’m going to . . .” He shook his head and gritted his teeth. “I’m going to run over to Chin Yung.”

  I blinked. My eyelashes felt fat. “Really?”

  “Yeah. What did you have?”

  “Kung pao . . . chicken.”

  “Uh-huh.” He turned away, then stopped. “If you’re not here when I come back, I’m going to find you and handcuff you to your sink.”

  “Really?” I said again, and blinked my fat eyelashes.

  He cursed. “Lock the door behind me,” he said, and left.

  I wasn’t sure how long he was gone. But when I awoke, I was on the couch and someone was pounding on my front door. I stumbled groggily to my feet.

  “If you’re not in there, McMullen, I swear to God . . .” he growled from the far side.

  Memories, all of them embarrassing, rushed in on me. For a moment I actually considered leaving him out there and heading out the back, but I could already smell the peanut sauce. It wafted inside, convincing me there might be a reason to go on living.

  I opened the door. Rivera stood there with his fist raised and his expression mean.

  “What the hell were you doing?” he snarled.

  I shrugged and dropped my gaze to the paper bag in his hand. It was big. The sweet scent of Shangri-la drifted to my twitching nostrils. I could feel the saliva pooling at the back of my mouth. He took one look at my face, shook his head, and pushed his way inside.

  I followed like a bloodhound on a hot scent.

  “Lock the door,” he said, without turning around.

  I did so. By the time I reached the kitchen, he was already pulling the lovely little boxes from the bag. I reached for the closest one. He slapped my hand away. “Go wash,” he said, and retrieved plates from my cupboard.

  I considered arguing but I felt weak and kind of faded.

  Seeing myself in the bathroom mirror didn’t help. The San Andreas Fault wrinkled my left cheek, and my hair stood up like Pee-wee Herman’s.

  I tried to pat it down, but it stood its ground. So I washed my face, gave my hands a perfunctory scrub, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  Rivera was just pouring milk into two beer mugs. They said “Beer With Me” on the side and had a picture of an intoxicated grizzly quaffing liquor. I’d gotten them on my solo visit to Milwaukee, and I liked the word “quaffing.”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I sat, but not because he told me to. He was divvying up the meal and the sight of it made my knees week.

  He shoved a fork in my hand.

  “Eat.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. We ate in absolute silence. For me, it was a spiritual experience, and I didn’t dare defile the moment. As for Rivera, he might have been too angry to speak, but just then I didn’t much care.

  By the time I glanced up again, his plate was empty and he had tilted his chair back onto two legs. His expression was inscrutable.

  “Where were you that you could see into the Georges’ backyard?”

  I knew immediately what he meant. I wished I didn’t.

  “What?” I said, and trying to look casual, took another scoop of rice from his box. He hadn’t eaten all of his. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “I’m guessing you were up on the ridge to the south of the development.”

  My throat felt tight but I managed to swallow. I’m a genius that way. “Who’s George?”

  He shook his head. “I should throw your ass in jail. You know that?”

  “For what?”

  He shrugged. “Invasion of privacy. Falsifying a police report.” He paused. “Murder?”

  I was nice and full, and a little too tired to be scared witless. Which probably meant there were other reasons for my witlessness. In fact, I felt a little drugged. It would have been fun to think Rivera had doped my food, but copious amounts of calories often affect me this way. “I didn’t kill anyone,” I said.

  He glared at me. “Probably the only damned law you haven’t broken.”

  “I haven’t coveted my neighbor’s wife, either,” I said.

  “I was thinking more civil than biblical.”

  “Oh,” I said, and nibbled on a water chestnut. It was the only thing left on my plate.

  “What’s going on, Chrissy?”

  “Nothing. What do you mean?”

  “You’re starving. You’re jumpy. You look like you haven’t slept for a month.”

  “Been busy.” I fished a slice of chicken out of his moo goo gai pan. If I were the pope, Chin Yung would be canonized—along with waitresses—in a big ceremony with lots of food. “Work.” I glanced up as I chewed, but there was hardly a need to masticate. The meat melted in my mouth. “You know.”

  He dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor and propped his elbows on the table. “I know you’re a piss-poor liar. Tell me about Solberg.”

  “He’s a nerd?”

  “God damn it!”

  I jumped but held my ground, and shockingly didn’t burst back into tears.

  “What’s wrong with you? You’re in deep shit! What makes you think they’re not going to show up at your back door?”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “Who?”

  “How the hell would I know who? You don’t tell me crap.”

  “I just . . . I . . .” I almost spilled the truth, almost told him everything. I felt alone and vulnerable and scared. And he was . . . well, he was Rivera. Impenetrable and irritating as hell. But I remembered the strangled sound of Solberg’s voice on the other end of the line. Life or death. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  He stared at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt. It looked like hell anyway. I held his gaze as best I could and in a moment he jerked to his feet.

  “Christ,” he said, running his hand over his face and turning away to stare out my kitchen window.

  His back was rigid, his hips narrow, his legs lean. His dark dress pants were wrinkled, and his shirt had come partly untucked. For some reason the sight of it made me want to blubber like a baby and confess all.

  “Not even locked,” he said, and shook his head as he turned back toward me. “Would it kill you to lock the window? To be just a little bit aware?”

  “I’m aware.”

  He snorted.

  “I check for strange cars al
l the time.”

  “Really? Where’s my Jeep parked?”

  I scowled at him. “I was kind of tired—”

  “Good God,” he said, and retrieving his plate, turned toward the sink.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning up,” he snarled. “When you’re murdered in your sleep you don’t want to have a messy kitchen, do you?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “You haven’t thought about a lot of things.”

  His patronizing tone made me feel a little pissy. I snatched my dishes from the table and slapped them down beside his. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Yeah?” He faced me, eyes snapping. “Maybe I think it’s wrong for you to be an idiot.”

  “I’m not—”

  The phone rang on the counter beside me.

  He glared at it. “Who’s that?”

  “Still not psychic.”

  It blared again.

  “Answer it.”

  “I’ll answer it if I want—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, and shoved me toward the phone. “Answer it.”

  I picked up the receiver, glaring as I did so.

  “Hello.”

  “Where is he?” The voice was low and gravelly.

  The blood froze in my veins. I snapped my gaze to Rivera. His eyes narrowed immediately and he stepped close.

  “I . . . I think you have the wrong number,” I said.

  “Tell me where he is or you’ll wish to hell you had,” said the voice. The phone slipped from my hand like pudding.

  Rivera caught it and brought it to his ear in one smooth motion. “Who is this?” His brows lowered like dark clouds. “Who the hell is this?”

  The click on the far end was audible. He slammed down the phone.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I remained standing, staring numbly.

  “Sit the hell down,” he said, and pushed me onto a chair. Twisting me toward him with his hands on my upper arms, he stared into my eyes. “Who was that?”

  I shrugged.

  “Damn it, McMullen, answer me.”

  “I don’t know who it was.”

  “What’d he say?”

  I blinked. “He asked where he is.”

  “Where who is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shook me. My head bobbled loosely. “Who?”

  “He didn’t say.” My eyes stung. I wondered rather vaguely if I was going to cry again, or if I was crying already.

  He tugged me to my feet and led me like a lost lamb to my sofa. I sat down without being told, like a big girl.

  “Have you had other threatening calls?” He was looming over me.

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Okay.” I was beaten. Beaten and scared.

  “Have you heard his voice before?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It didn’t sound familiar?”

  “There wasn’t enough time.”

  He cursed and paced. “I shouldn’t have spoken. Should of had you keep talking.” He cursed and paced again, but in a minute he sat down beside me. I turned toward him.

  “Think hard, Chrissy. Did it sound like anyone you know?”

  I thought hard. It made my head hurt. I shook it. He inhaled carefully. He looked big and hard and strong. I felt small and soft and weak.

  “Tell me about the night you were attacked.”

  I considered lying, but I was too tired. I told him everything. Well, I might have neglected the part about the disk I’d stolen from Solberg’s house, but I didn’t see any reason to slip past the stupid line and into the too-stupid-to-live area.

  He asked questions. I told him more.

  He nodded, rose to his feet, and paced. I watched him.

  “You should get some sleep.”

  I blinked at him, numb as a newel post.

  “Come on.” He held out his hand.

  I took it. He led me to the bedroom and glanced around.

  “Where are your pajamas?”

  “Pajamas?”

  The left corner of his mouth jerked up a hair. “You don’t sleep in the nude, do you?”

  “Mom says nice girls don’t do that,” I said, and realized rather belatedly that he was unbuttoning my blouse. I glanced down. “What are you doing?”

  “I think I might be undressing you.”

  “Whaaa—” The sound I made was something between a gas leak and a siren. I jerked away. My buttons were undone almost to my navel. “You can’t undress me.”

  He raised his brows. “Awake now?”

  “Get out of here.”

  He shook his head. “I’m staying with you tonight.”

  I laughed out loud. It sounded better than the “whaaa,” but not by much. I buttoned my blouse with tingly fingers. “You are not.”

  “Here or in jail,” he said.

  I gritted my teeth and shoved him.

  He rocked back a step, laughed, and lifted his hand to my cheek. “Where the hell have you been all night, McMullen?” he asked, his voice soft, his eyes like dark, crystal balls, pulling me in. “I sort of missed you.”

  Feelings skittered through my parched system. I tried to hose them down, but my water pressure was weak. “Go away,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Hope you’re not the kind to hog the covers.”

  My mouth dropped open. He put a hand beneath my jaw and closed it, then turned with a chuckle and paced into my living room.

  I followed him in numb silence. By the time I caught up he had taken off his shoes and was unbuttoning his shirt. It was a moment before I could find my voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Your virtue is safe, Chrissy. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No you won’t.”

  He opened his shirt. During the past three months I had spent a considerable amount of time trying to convince myself that, despite my lurid memories, Jack Rivera was not built like a chiseled Greek god. I hadn’t been very successful. One sight of him half-naked and I remembered why. I braced myself against the wall beside me.

  “You have to leave,” I said.

  He tilted his head in disagreement and removed his gun.

  I watched the movement—brown hands against smooth-grained wood. A dark metal barrel against the backdrop of his rippled obliques.

  Now, I like to think I’m a mature woman, one not inclined to wild, girlish fantasies. I don’t like macho men, and I have long since put my obsession with Batman behind me. But my knees felt a little sloppy, and my mind was chanting something like “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

  He set the gun on the end table and straightened.

  “Something you need, McMullen?” he asked.

  My mouth was open again. I nodded. The movement was jerky. “Yeah,” I said bravely. “I need . . .” The world swam by in lurid slow motion. “You to leave.”

  He laughed. The sound rippled like hot-buttered rum through my battered system.

  He reached for his belt. And suddenly, somehow—I don’t know how—I found myself gripping his buckle in both hands, holding his pants together as if it were Pandora’s infamous box.

  He stared down at me.

  “Swear to God, Rivera,” I said, “if you take off your pants, I’ll call the cops.”

  His mouth twitched. “I am the cops, McMullen.” He tilted his head. “And I do.”

  His abdomen was hard and warm against my knuckles. My throat felt like it was being strangled from the inside. “You do what?” I croaked.

  “Sleep naked.”

  My stomach dropped to floor level. “Not here you don’t,” I breathed.

  His hands moved. Mine tightened on his fingers and the offensive belt buckle.

  “You can’t expect me to sleep in my pants,” he said.

  “Your pants, your shirt.” I thought I felt a pulse beating in my eyelids. “Maybe a full suit of armor.”

&n
bsp; He chuckled. I could feel the movement in his abdomen “My last breastplate rusted, McMullen.”

  “I’ll run out and buy you a new one.”

  “All the armor shops close at nine. I think you should get some sleep.”

  “Sleep!” I was making funny noises again. Something between a snort and a hiccup. “I can’t sleep, with you . . .” I loosened one hand from his belt and waved rather wildly at something between him and the toilet bowl. “I can’t sleep with you . . .”

  He raised one brow.

  “In here . . . without . . .”

  “I’m not going to molest you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.

  “Well.” I laughed. “That’s a relief. I mean, whew! ’Cuz that’s what . . .” I was wheezing like an exhausted hyena “That’s what I was worried about. That you’d . . .” I felt panicky and as high as a kite. Maybe he’d drugged my meal after all. Maybe I had no choice but to sleep with him. And holy shit, last time I’d had a half-naked guy in my house, he’d been fixing the kitchen sink and up to his hairy armpits in sledge. “That you’d—” I began again, but then he kissed me.

  Fireworks zipped from my head to my toes and back.

  “Jesus, you drive me crazy,” he murmured.

  I was breathing hard. Not panting, of course. Panting would be uncouth.

  “You’re not even my type,” he said, and kissed me again.

  I may have whimpered, just a little. “Rivera. Listen. Sometimes . . .” I licked my lips. “Self-restraint isn’t my long suit.”

  “Yeah?” He kissed my neck. “What is?”

  My head fell back. “Tuba?” I suggested.

  He drew back slightly, watching me.

  “I’m a hell of a tuba player.”

  He chuckled, and reached for my buttons again. I tried to stop him. Really. But my fingers were too busy. His chest felt like sun-warmed marble beneath my palms as I pushed his shirt aside.

  He ran his hands down my arms, peeling my blouse away. I shivered hopelessly and pressed against him.

  He moaned. Or maybe it was me. I hope it wasn’t me.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

  I hope that wasn’t me, too.

  His hands were on my bra strap. I tried to escape, but only managed to arch into him. Then suddenly, he froze.

  “You hear something?” he asked.