by Jody Wallace
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Cool Springs.” I crossed my legs in what I hoped was a sensuous manner, but instead of being sexy, I thwacked my knee on his dash. Hard.
The glove box fell open. A mad amount of crap erupted like convicts escaping prison.
“Yikesabee.” I grabbed and stuffed. How had he squeezed so many maps and ketchup packets and receipts and tire gauges and...was that a set of wind chimes?...into such a tiny space?
“Sorry about that. I need to get that latch fixed.”
“And do some cleaning and sorting.” Bending and contorting to scrabble on the floor, I stomped a pack of ketchup. It splooged across my shoe. “Gross.”
“There’s napkins,” John said helpfully.
“There’s a kitchen sink.” He wasn’t pissed I’d violated the sanctity of his truck with tomato product. Good. Guys could be funny about their cars.
“I want you to know,” I said, my voice echoing from the floorboard, “I appreciate your help. I tried to strap my mattress on top of my Volkswagen, but it kept sliding off.”
I had ketchup between my toes and inside the petals of the jaunty flower on my shoe. My sweet white and blue shoe.
He chuckled. “You’re in Tennessee now. You need a truck.”
“Why, when you have one?” My toes clean, I abandoned the flower, discarded the napkin into a small trash container, and straightened. I crossed my legs again, avoided the dash, and smiled flirtatiously. “That’s what friends are for.”
He apparently didn’t care to dwell on the level of friendship implied by truck-borrowing because he changed the subject. “How’s your training with Beau going?”
“He’s not happy with my progress.” An understatement. “How am I supposed to keep him from figuring out I have abilities beyond my half-assed fading?”
“You’re not that bad. Beau’s gifted in two areas. He can be uncompromising.”
“Two!” I commented, startled. “I thought he was a chameleon.”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” John flicked on the radio, the soft buzz of country filling the cab. “Only he can tell you, and I bet he won’t. It’s not in the Registry.”
More supra etiquette. Don’t ask, don’t tell. A person with a skill like mine, also not in the Registry, should be sympathetic, but knowing Beau could work some unknown freaky mojo on me was not cheering.
“Why are you so nice to him?” I asked. “He’s not nice to you.”
John shrugged. “I don’t have to like him to work with him. He’s an excellent trainer, able to discern what a person ought to be capable of to help them achieve it. Not knowing the full extent of your abilities hinders him. I’m sure he’s frustrated.”
Yuri’d had to employ a little subterfuge of his own to delay further DNA scans of me so no one in the lab would get suspicious. Jolene hadn’t said anything, but I caught Beau poring over my charts several times a week.
“I noticed.” I checked my purse for the bed receipt. “Still doesn’t answer how I’m going to perform as a bona fide consultant. Beau will be assigned with me as my trainer.”
“Maybe you’ll have enough of a breakthrough to convince him you’re getting your information like a chameleon.”
And maybe not. “I didn’t do well with Samantha the other day, and I don’t have to hide from her. I couldn’t find anything to help Pavarti.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” If he’d been another man, he might have given me a one-armed hug. “You didn’t have a chance to prepare. A consultant’s suprasense isn’t the only thing she needs on site.”
I didn’t want to argue when I had a much more harmonious evening planned. “I’m sure it’ll come to me. First assignment jitters.”
We reached Cool Springs, a suburban shopping community that had a retail density somewhere in the platinum card range. In one of the higher end furniture stores, I’d ordered a new bed, queen-sized, the better to share with someone.
I could have had the store deliver for an extra eighty bucks, but it had occurred to me John might be the type who couldn’t resist a damsel in distress, or at least a damsel in need of a tall, strong guy. If I could arrange for a large spider to be in my apartment, I could further reinforce his image of me as a girl like other girls, someone appreciative of his manliness.
I needed to coax him past the seeing lies part of me. I’d steer the conversation away from work. It wouldn’t be easy, considering his disinclination to discuss his personal life. I don’t know what lies he was afraid I’d see.
I started out with a standard. “Seen any good movies lately? How about that new Bond flick? Summer’s the big blockbuster season.”
“Nah.”
Oh, yeah. John didn’t watch movies. Maybe the small screen.
“That was some season finale on Hero Wars. You know, that show about people who find out they have superpowers?” Even before I’d been introduced to the supra community, the show had entertained me greatly. “Did you catch it?”
“I don’t ever remember to record it. Drives me nuts how unrealistic it is.”
Inviting him to watch with me and drink every time a hero exhibited an ability that didn’t exist in the supra world was more obvious than I wanted to be (let’s get drunk at my place!). Besides, neither of us was a drinker. I could bitch about the show but that wouldn’t involve him in the conversation. My goal was to get him involved—with me.
“You said you followed the Titans, right?”
He nodded. “I don’t have season tickets since we schedule a lot of out of town assignments in the fall, but I always catch the games on television.”
John didn’t seem the type to break the guy mold. He probably mowed his yard every Sunday, and the only thing he could cook was TV dinners and steak. “You think they’re going to have another rebuilding year or follow up on the momentum they gained at the end of last year?”
John raised an eyebrow. “You watch football?”
“What?” I asked with a shrug. “A girl can’t watch football?”
A girl couldn’t read up about the Titans before her date with a man who liked the Titans?
We parked in front of the furniture store. John almost took my elbow to cross over the driving lane but pulled back before he made contact. What a gentleman.
Inside, the transaction went smoothly. The salesman from whom I’d gotten a great deal, naturally, asked John to pull around back. Lucky for me and my tight skirt, two store employees loaded the pieces in John’s truck and tied them down, and we were back on the road before I could say, “Dude, I knew you’d lied about the free lamp, but I don’t care because it was tacky.”
Everything had gone so smoothly, the evening was going to draw to a close sooner than I’d intended.
“After we set my bed up, would you like to...” I paused and coughed, because I’d nearly said, “would you like to try it out.” “Would you like to have a late dinner?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
I figured he’d have eaten by now. John liked his schedules. I’d suggested dinner so I could hit him with...
“Dessert, then. I get such a sweet tooth at night.”
Since he’d turned me down for dinner, he’d be more likely to cave on dessert. I had homemade brownies, ice cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and cherries.
John glanced at his watch. “How long do you think it will take to put the bed together?”
“Not long.” I crossed my fingers. “We don’t have to put it together tonight. I can sleep on the mattress.” I’d rather use the time to concoct my seduction sundaes.
“Beds are easy to assemble. It’s not a problem.”
He said that now, but getting him to agree to a time and date had been an uphill struggle with a boulder in front, and you know what happens to people who push boulders uphill. Right—they get flattened. But here we were, finally, two flights of stairs between us and my apartment.
John idled in the fire lane. All the good pa
rking spots were taken at this time of night. My complex housed more old folks than it did hip singles who went clubbing on weekends. Bonus, it was quiet. Minus, the parties never had single men. Single men my age.
“Where’s your apartment?”
“Second floor, up those stairs. That’s my balcony with the plants.” Yuri had gifted me with several ferns I’m sure I’d kill soon enough.
John started to cruise the lot in search of a space, but I stopped him. In the short time I’d been here, anyone who needed to move stuff parked illegally.
“Don’t worry about security. They don’t care as long as they like you, and they like me. One of them really likes me.” Rooster was twice my size and very into NASCAR and squirrel hunting.
We hopped out of the truck and untied the straps used to secure the mattresses and bed parts. Carefully, John lifted the footboard out. I balanced the end so it didn’t scratch his truck. We headed for the stairs, me first since I was shorter.
Not smart. Ever tried walking backwards upstairs in tippy flowered sandals? I made it one step. Two. Three. Four.
My heel caught on the fourth step. I canted sideways. Parts of me met the stairs, and I flailed for the railing with one hand.
“Shit!” Pain razed my knees. I dropped my end of the bed, heard something tear. The bed thonked on the concrete stairs, directing its weight into John’s chest. He caught it with an oof.
I clenched the railing, heart racing, and cursed as my knees and several spots on my shins throbbed and smarted.
The late sun arrowed through the breezeway into John’s face. “Are you all right?”
First his glove box, now this. Did a klutz count as a damsel in distress?
“Just embarrassed.” My knees were scraped. One dribbled blood. Bruised and dirty, I clambered to my feet. “I need to go forward instead of backward.”
“I can carry this piece by myself.”
“No, I got it.” I balanced it against the railing, turned, and grabbed it behind my back, gripping the knobby post. I wanted John to think I was plucky instead of incompetent.
“Uh, Cleo,” John said. “Your skirt.”
“What about it?” Facing up, I jiggled the footboard experimentally, and it didn’t overbalance me. Still shaky, I took that first step.
“I think it has a hole.” Cooler air than expected tickled my thighs, all the way up to my bottom.
“I think you’re right.” It put new meaning in the word breezeway. “Don’t look,” I joked but I didn’t stop. Momentum ruled. Flashing butt cheek at John with every step, I navigated the rest of the stairs, no problem, except for the problems that arise when climbing stairs with bloody knees and a skirt ripped up to your hoo-hah.
When I unlocked the door, rotated sideways to hide my underpants, Boris executed a mad dash for freedom. Not that he ever did anything interesting with freedom—froze in astonishment at the vast size of the outdoors—but one of these days. I hooked him around the belly with a foot.
“Get out of the way, Boris.” I booted him to the side. Unfortunately I used too much swing, and my sandal accompanied him, clattering across the tile of the foyer.
Boris pounced on the shoe and clutched it to his chest, kicking ferociously with his back feet. With his large teeth, he ripped at the pretty flower as if it were a flank steak.
“Dammit, Boris, stop that!” I leaned the footboard against the jamb while John waited in the doorway. I attempted to rescue my shoe with the hand not cinching the back of my skirt—I mean, they were really cute shoes! Boris leapt to his feet and growled.
Was it the ketchup? “Give me my shoe or no tuna treats for you, cat.”
Boris was as large as many dogs and often acted like one. He clamped down on tasty leather and dashed toward the living room, pieces of flower scattering in his wake.
Clickity clickity click. The heel of the shoe dragged the floor between his front legs.
Annoyed, I hefted the footboard and clumped, one shoe off and one shoe on, into the apartment so John could kick the door shut.
“Back to the right.” I stomped through the sparsely furnished living room, and we set the footboard against the bedroom wall. I could see Boris in the open closet, ripping my sweet shoe to shreds.
“You were right about the shoes. They’re not good for moving furniture.” Men loved to be right. Okay, okay, humans loved to be right. Blood trickled down my calf, not unlike the ketchup from earlier. “I need to change.”
“I’ll leave.” John beat a hasty retreat. Tentatively, I reached behind myself and...
Yep. My sexy skirt had undone itself, popping the back seam all the way to my drawers. Fancy drawers, satin and lace, but still. I’d never intended to share them without foreplay.
In the bathroom, I disinfected my scrapes, yanked on the khaki shorts I found wadded in the hamper, and slid into some Christmas house shoes that didn’t match any part of my outfit. Well, the shorts and slippers were both frumpy, so they were thematically harmonious. John offered no comment when I emerged in new clothes from the waist down, oozing blood at the knees.
First I locked the cats in the bathroom with their cat pan. No more shenanigans.
“Ready?” I asked. We headed downstairs to finish, the faint tinkle of the silver bells on my shoes accompanying our endeavors. The mattress was so heavy I was forced to curse a lot. The box spring was awkward but light. John carried the frame by himself, waving me off when I attempted to help.
By this point, especially after how many times I set the mattress down for a little rest, I’d worked up a sweat. My fingertips burned from pinching the heavy Sealy tighter than necessary, scared it would escape and knock John over. My up-do was a down-do, hanging around my face in damp wisps. My shirt stuck to my ribcage and hugged areas I didn’t want it to hug.
We panted by the truck and inspected the last piece, the headboard.
Correction. I panted. John did not.
“That’s a very solid piece,” he said.
I liked to stockpile books, beverages, MP3 players, tissues, and other useful things within reach of my bed, and I’d chosen a headboard with shelves I could cat proof. It should put an end to the cats knocking everything from nail polish to popcorn off my bedside table.
But all that shelving meant it was going to be heavy. Substantially heavy. I blew a string of hair out of my face and put my hands on my hips.
“We can do it.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” John muttered.
While John stared at the headboard, deep in thought, I realized it was time to face facts.
The hot date wasn’t going as planned. Instead of sexy banter and locking gazes over the mattress as we smoothed my new white Egyptian cotton sheets on the bed, I was bruised, bloody, and scuffing around in my house shoes. I’d ripped my skirt and Boris had eaten my sandal, which I’m sure he’d puke up at an inopportune moment.
John’s respect for my brainpower had to be in the can. I felt foolish and sheepish and all those other painful ishes.
I’d labored since I’d come to YuriCorp to impress John. While he seemed to enjoy my company—at work—he ignored hints. I’d chased him like a hussy while turning down a variety of other trysts. I’d deceived myself into thinking John had smiled at me more than his usual frown to smile ratio.
There was no smile for me tonight.
“Do you have telekinesis?” I asked. “Staring at the headboard won’t move it.”
“Doesn’t exist.” John continued to stare. Glower, really, as if the headboard had personally offended him when the offending party was myself.
He needed to get laid. Why did he not seek love amongst the cubicles? He was practically the only person at YuriCorp who avoided office romance. Even Yuri had met his wife at work, though now she stayed home to mind their flock.
Literally—they kept goats. She sold cheese and soap at some organic farmer’s market.
Attraction can exist without any desire to act on it. Tons of guys at Y
uriCorp were hot, but I wouldn’t want to date them. The college student who worked the front desk, for example. Had to be a model. For another, Beau, when he wasn’t going chameleon. You just had to ignore the personality and the hair.
That being said, I’d rather have a fling with Rooster than date Beau’s mean ass.
Maybe I didn’t lather John’s soap. Just because we liked one another’s chests didn’t mean it was a love connection. He’d never be able to tell me I didn’t look fat in those pants. Never be able to say, “I forgot your gift at the office.” Then there was tonight, me going for sex kitten but ending up with Boris the Mad Shoe Eater.
Suddenly I was done trying to seduce him, and I felt ten pounds lighter.
Easiest diet ever.
“I know this evening hasn’t been enjoyable,” I said in as sensible a tone as I could muster, “but you can’t carry the headboard alone, and if you don’t get it out of your truck, you’ll be stuck here. With me.”
John raised both eyebrows. “You could hurt your back.”
“Roxanne can fix that.”
“Roxanne can’t heal a ruptured disk.” John’s shoulders inched closer to his ears as he tensed. “Why don’t we call Al?”
“I told you, he’s at his daughter’s dance recital. I’m not dragging him away from that.”
“Do you know any neighbors you could ask for help?”
What did he want me to do, knock on doors and see which of the sexagenarian set wanted to risk their spines, knees and hips with my headboard?
“I haven’t had a chance to get to know everyone.” I glared at him. “Full time with YuriCorp means twelve hours a day, six or seven days a week.”
“It won’t always be like this. You just need to get up to speed.” He didn’t mention the other half of my job, mole hunting. But he never did.
“I can do this. I didn’t drop the mattress.”
“This will be heavier.” John glanced around the parking lot as if a likely candidate were going to emerge from the bushes. Hopefully not using a walker.
“I’m wearing sensible shoes this time.”