‘That’s nice,’ Lesley exhaled, ‘If you ever decide to give up the cop thing you could get a job as the shampoo girl in a pricy salon in Santa Fe. The ladies would love you. You’d make a fortune in tips.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind for when I retire.’
For a few minutes, he worked a pattern over her crown and down the back of her neck. Then her hair slipped through his fingers, his forehead came to rest against hers and he sighed. ‘How’s that?’ he asked.
She lifted her lids. That close up, his hazel eyes blended into one, right below what turned into a slightly arched mono-brow. ‘Thank you, Mr. Cyclops,’ she said, ‘That was nice.’
John lifted his head and straightened. ‘Was it Jason or Sinbad who ran a stake through the Cyclops’ eye?’
‘Neither, it was Odysseus.’
‘Yeah, the guy who told his wife he’d be right back and then was gone for ten years.’
‘I could never figure out why she took him back. I mean really, ten years?’
‘He came back. So he didn’t exactly lie.’
‘He didn’t exactly tell the truth either and that’s just as bad. Believe me, it’s just as bad.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘believe me when I say this is the truth, because I lied.’ He leaned forward, cupped the back of her neck and settled his mouth on hers.
Lesley planted her palms against his chest, ready to shove him away, but John was an accomplished kisser and the sensation wasn’t exactly unpleasant. She decided to go with it and slid her hand along his shoulders. Her fingers twisted into his coarse hair and she kissed him back, waiting to see what would happen with a little cooperation.
John made a self-satisfied sound and nudged her knees apart with his hip. He shifted between her thighs, coming closer, pressing against her, heartbeat to heartbeat. He did everything right. The ratio of lip pressure to moisture was faultless. He tasted like a man, smelled like a man, and felt every inch like a hard-bodied man intent on seduction. His hands were gentle yet firm as they ran down her spine, as they caressed and curved over her breast.
Shuddering because his fingers tickled, Lesley flicked her tongue over the seam of his mouth and kissed him so he’d feel it clear to the soles of his feet. John rose up on his toes and ran a hand down the length of her thigh. She scooted to the edge of the counter and wrapped her calf around his butt. His hands worked their way under the fabric of her skirt. His touch was warm against her cool flesh.
And it had about as much effect as a damp matchstick sputtering over a worn flint.
She’d told herself she was so sexually frustrated that need would flicker into the inferno it had with Dominic, but nothing was happening. Nothing. The capable mouth on hers was the wrong one. Those skilled fingers skimming up her thigh, trying to lead her into the edge of passion weren’t the right size. They had barely progressed to third base and like a bored lover she was picturing someone else in the bed.
Annoyed as hell, Lesley tore her mouth away. ‘Stop,’ she said, taking a breath, ‘This…stop…please.’ He went still and she leaned back on the countertop to put a little distance between them.
John tilted his head and looked at her, bewildered and guilty.
If anyone was supposed to feel guilt, it should have been her. He had no idea what he was up against. ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ she stammered, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong. It makes no sense, John, but when you kiss me, it’s…it’s…’
‘Like Marty McFly kissing his mother in Back to the Future,’ he said flatly.
She bit her bottom lip and exhaled, ‘Yeah.’
John sighed and wiped his mouth with one knuckle. ‘Damn. This should work. You know? You’re hot, I’m smokin’, we’re both funny, we have a lot in common, but when I do this,’ his hand curved over her breast, his thumb sliding across her nipple, ‘nothing happens.’
‘I know and I’m sorry. I like you. I really do. You’re a great guy, but I—.’
‘No, I mean nothing happens to me.’
‘What?’
‘A toothpick has more wood than I do.’
She squinted at him, ‘Are you serious?’
He raised an eyebrow, ‘Want to check?’
‘No, but how about you stop feeling me up now?’
He glanced down to find his thumb absently caressing and he smiled. ‘Sorry, but that’s my point. I forgot I was doing it.’ His fingers slipped away and he stepped out from between her knees. ‘We’ve got chemistry, but there’s no chemical reaction going on. We’re attracted to one another, but as soon as we get close we repel like two positive charges.’
Lesley groaned. The last thing she wanted was a reminder of Dominic. ‘Can we not talk about physics?’ She hopped down from the counter and looked around for the bottle of wine they’d had with dinner. She thought John had brought it inside. ‘Is there any more wine?’
‘No, why, you want to get drunk and try to fool around?’ he scratched his head. ‘OK, I guess we could try.’
‘No, I don’t want to do that….do you?’
‘Not really...’ his voice went sheepish, the colour in his face deepened, ‘unless you do. I mean, we could see what it leads to.’
‘Aw, John…’ she shook her head.
‘I know. I know.’ He reached into the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a bottle of Makers Mark. Once he had the top off, he had a swallow. He sucked in air through his teeth, held the bottle out to her, and said, ‘I haven’t had sex in eleven months. I expected to explode once I actually touched a woman again. I’m kind of stunned at the fizzle.’
So am I. Lesley stared at him for a couple of seconds before she took the whiskey and had a mouthful. ‘Eleven months, is that all?’ she said with a rasp.
‘What do you mean, is that all? John took the bottle back.
‘Try two years.’
‘God almighty.’
‘Yeah, so quit your belly-achin’. You have no idea what I was hoping would happen. I feel so damn defective. The things going through my mind make no sense.’
The muscle in John’s jaw leapt, his eyes narrowed. ‘This is a crime.’ The Makers Mark thunked when he set it on the countertop. A second later, his hands her were on her ass. He pressed into her, creating a gentle friction. ‘Anything?’
She looked up into his face. Curls had formed just above his forehead. He was going to need a haircut soon. She started to think about how his hair poufed up and out like Krusty the Clown’s from The Simpsons when it got too long. ‘No.’
His head bent, his tongue darting into her ear. ‘How about now?’ he whispered.
‘Ew, cut it out,’ Lesley shuddered.
Soft, warm lips drifted over her cheek, leaving a trail of delicate angel kisses that led to her mouth. John settled into a teasing kiss, murmuring, ‘How’s this?’
‘You tell me.’ She let her hand slip in between their bodies and come to rest on his perfectly flat fly.
John laughed into her face, blowing his amusement into her eyes. His hands dropped away and he took a step back. ‘So, if we can’t have sex, how about a little violence?’ He reached for the DVD’s on the counter and held them up. ‘Miller’s Crossing or Robocop?’
Chapter 13
As far as the Occupational Safety and Health Administration was concerned, sandals were not approved footwear for job sites. Fabian didn’t care. He was too happy to be out of the house and back on a job to worry about OHSA regulations. Black soil wasn’t going to puncture a hole in the sole of his shoe and a roll of turf wasn’t going to crush his foot. Caterpillar steel-toes were what he normally wore, but Birkenstocks were the only thing he owned that allowed his still-tender toe a bit of comfort.
Unfortunately, from the moment they arrived at the Sheridan’s house to lay turf Dominic’s recent sense of disaster kept trying to cloud over Fabian’s return to freedom. His friend hadn’t stopped bitching and nagging about the importance of on-the-job safety.
Dominic picked up a spade. ‘See this thing?
This is why you need to wear steel-capped boots. You’re just asking me to accidentally chop off that precious toe.’
Fabian sighed. By his count, this was nag number eight. ‘Actually I’m hoping you’d rake it off so we could look through a pile of mulch for it instead of flipping for who’s buying lunch.’
‘Forget lunch. We’re going to CB Fox to get you some proper footgear.’
‘Come on, we’re planting grass and petunias, not driving in fence posts.’
‘I can just see it,’ Dominic said, pushing the garden tool into soft dirt, ‘Your toes fly that way,’ he jerked his thumb to the left, ‘and you go screaming over that way.’
‘Well, aren’t we the harbinger of doom?’
‘No I’m the herald of good sense. If you want to continue this partnership, to stay in business, it’s safety first.’
‘OK. OK. Fine,’ Fabian’s smile was impish, ‘can I get a pair of red cowboy boots?’
The spade in Dominic’s hand froze, but he was unable to keep a frosty look on his face. His eyebrows twitched, giving way his surprise. He blew out a breath. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘It’s coming off you in steamy little waves any time I mention her. You’re pissed as hell at Terry, but you like her. A lot. I bet you’ve even thought about kissing her. Maybe you already have.’
Dominic took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, and tried very hard not to think about the way his mouth felt on Lesley’s breast.
The revelation his brother was a teller of tall tales only marginally clouded over how he’d been feeling about her. The fact was, for the past sixteen years, she had been a red herring Terry had used to conceal a criminal lifestyle. How many people had been conned? How many women had been hurt? And whose fault was it?
Well, it wasn’t Lesley’s.
‘We all believed it.’ Dominic plunged the spade into a dark mound of soil and leaned on the handle. ‘My entire family made him what he is today. I can’t figure out why I never saw that before. Jesus Lord, Fabian, how can you simultaneously love and hate someone at the same time?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fabian shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had to deal with that kind of amblivalence before. Mine is typically limited to I love Frito-pies, but hate them for the heartburn they give me.’
‘Ambivalence,’ Dominic managed to grunt. ‘I knew he was screwed up. I just didn’t realise I was responsible for it.’
‘You’re not responsible.’ Fabian banged dirt from his gloves, clapping his hands together, releasing a small fog of dust that settled on the bare tops of his feet. ‘Terry’s an adult.’
‘The woman had no idea what we all thought about her, the whole Tortillera thing. Good God, you should have heard what I said to her, the things I blamed her for.’
‘I know exactly what you blamed her for, and Stefanie was an adult too.’
Dominic wanted to pick up the spade up and snap it in half, or ram it into the earth as hard as he could, but he might miss and jam it right into one of Fabian’s nearly bare feet. Instead, he slapped it to the ground. ‘Why did I think I’d never have to deal with this again? Whatever gave me that idea? How could anything be settled when everything’s been rooted in a mountain of lies? I don’t know what to do now.’
‘Maybe you could apologise to Lesley.’
‘It seems all I do lately is apologise to her.’
Grinning, Fabian turned and picked up a tray of velvety purple petunias. ‘Then, by now,’ he said, looking back at Dominic, ‘you must be an expert at it.’
Skinny, slightly stoop-shouldered Mike ‘Aces’ Witteveen reminded Lesley of some famous actor. He had a dent in his chin and a slicked-back hairstyle he’d copied from old Hollywood. He rose from the park bench between CB Fox, the town oldest department store, and the Dixie Girl restaurant. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said, shaking her hand and grinning. His thousand watt smile turned him into Burt Lancaster in his heyday.
Lesley had a flash of the beach love scene in From Here to Eternity, but the couple rolling around in the surf and sand looked a hell of a lot like her and Dominic instead of Burt and Deborah Kerr. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said clamping her teeth together to bite off the images in her mind.
‘A pleasure, a real pleasure. I’ve heard all about you from your Grandpop. Say, do you mind if we skip lunch here?’ he pointed to the Deco-lettered Dixie Girl sign overhead, ‘I’d be happier with something sweet from next door. They have a carrot cake I just love.’
‘I’m fine with wherever you’ll be comfortable. Thank you for being so willing to tell me about the house. ‘
‘For carrot cake I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll make up stuff too.’ Mr Witteveen smiled again and picked up the paper shopping bag he’d left on the bench. It crinkled when he tucked it under his arm.
Lesley lagged a few steps behind the man. She caught sight of a blond teenager walking a puppy named Clementine and hurried her ass into Starbucks.
Ten minutes later, accompanied by coffee and dessert, she and Mr Witteveen sat at a cosy table, just beside the big picture window that offered a view of Kyle Brennan, his dog, and the stuccoed Post Office across the street.
Mike pointed at the structure. ‘That place wasn’t even built when I moved here with my dear wife back in 1953. She passed in 2000, just before the Cerro Grande fire.’ Mr Witteveen paused reverently for a moment. Then he pushed his fork into cream cheese icing and went on, ‘Anyhow, back in ‘53 all mail went down to PO Box 1663, in Santa Fe, that was everyone’s address if you lived up on the Hill. We were closed off to everything, in our own little world. There was a big fence all around the town then. Everybody had to have a pass to go through the main security gate. The gate tower’s still there, as you come into the city, but you grew up here and you probably know all this already.’
‘I imagine it was pretty dull living that way, with no outside contact.’
‘Aw, there was stuff to do. It was pretty social and close knit. We had a theatre and golf course, like we do now. Funny thing was, moving here was only supposed to be temporary for us. I’d been teaching mathematics at Northwestern until I was offered a three-year research contract with the government…’ Mr. Witteveen spent the next ten minutes reminiscing about his life in Los Alamos in between bites of his cake. By the time he finished they both needed more coffee.
Lesley set another latte and slice of cake in front of him and took her seat. ‘I appreciate anything you can tell me about the house, Mr. Witteveen.’
‘Mike. Call me Mike,’ he said, flashing another Burt Lancaster grin. His shopping bag rattled as he pulled out a fat leather photo album with black pages. ‘It’s all in here,’ he said, patting the book as he set it on the table, ‘Forty-five years of my family’s history.’
‘Judging by the architecture, I would have said the house was built in the late sixties or early seventies. I didn’t realise the house was nearly fifty years old.’
‘Oh, it’s not.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. When we moved here in ‘53, all the houses were government owned. That didn’t change until ‘57.’ He flipped open the dark brown cover and pointed to a black and white picture of a group of people standing around a barbecue made out of an oil drum. ‘We lived in a quad until 1962. That’s my wife, Miriam. This is Sarah and Roger Tighe, the Griffins and Digger Lawson – he died last year – with his wife Jacqueline.’
‘Your wife was very pretty,’ Lesley said after a sip of coffee.
‘Thank you.’ Mike flipped to the next page. ‘This here is our place on Rim Road. The first single home we bought in town. I’ve got nearly the same view of Pueblo Canyon from my studio at Aspen Ridge now.’ His finger tapped against another photo. ‘That’s my boy Matt when he was a baby. He’s nearly as fat now as he was then.’
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Just Matt.’
�
��You have the same eyes.’
‘You think so?’ Mike bent over the album to have a closer look and popped a chunk of cake into his mouth. A second later he shoved a finger into his mouth and dug around behind his front teeth. ‘Excuse me. I’ve got a piece of walnut stuck behind my bridge work.’ He had some of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth.
Lesley remembered what GP had said about Mike and his teeth. Was he about to mention his dentist? She picked up her latte and prepared to hide a laugh inside the cup.
Mike wiped his mouth and examined another picture of his son. ‘Matt always took after Miriam, but I think you’re right. He does have my eyes.’ He smiled at her wistfully, ‘They’re the same shape right across the brow.’ His fingers slid across his forehead. Then his mouth twisted, his lips went white, and the tip of his nose took on a rosy glow.
Lesley thought he was about to burst into tears.
‘You lying heifer!’ he hollered, standing up. He grabbed the last hunk of his carrot cake and dashed it into his latte.
Coffee splashed up and over the edge of her cup, splattering the front of her green dress with dark splotches and oily blobs of cream cheese frosting. Stunned, Lesley looked down at her chest.
And heard GP’s familiar laugh.
Positioned near the door, Martino watched Aces Witteveen’s nose turn bright red, just like Rudolph the frickin’ Reindeer. The man’s eyes bugged out of his head, too, and he leapt up, yelling as though his hair was ablaze. Martino had never heard his frenemy – he really liked that word since he’d picked it up watching Sex in the City – cuss before. Ace’s repertoire was usually limited to barnyard animals. It was plain the man needed pointers on how to swear as much as he needed tips for how to play Omaha Hi-lo.
His granddaughter rose and opened her mouth to say something, but she was drowned out by Witteveen’s shout, ‘You’re nothing but an insincere sow!’ He snatched up a photo album and shoved it into his shopping bag.
Eilish’s fingers tightened around his when she swivelled to look at the ruckus in the corner near the window. ‘Och,’ she gasped.
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