“That actually happened?”
“It sure did. About six weeks ago. He lost a pretty big contract because of it.”
After hearing her stories, I thanked God Tyson wasn’t like Mister Hildreth. “That’s crazy,” I said with a laugh. “But, like you said, at least he’s a good cook.”
“He sure is.” She chuckled. “I’ll ship your things by end of day tomorrow, and like I said, I’ll forward tracking numbers to you on Facebook.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Miss Watson.”
“Tell Scott thanks, too.”
“I will.”
“Bye.
“Bye.”
I hung up the phone and bounced from my seat. “Jenny! Guess what?”
In the middle of two-stepping alone, she paused, and turned around. “The FedSex man poked his tongue in your butt?”
“No, not yet. This might even be better news.”
“Better than a tongue in your ass?
“Maybe.”
“What’s better than that?” she asked.
“SD Hildreth’s wife called. She’s sending fifty books!”
Her eyes shot wide. “Fifty?”
“Fifty.”
“We can make a huge banner and hang it on the canopy,” she said. “This place will be crawling with horny housewives.”
“I know, right?”
“Was she nice?” she asked.
“She was really nice.”
Still facing me, she began to two-step again. “Makes sense, then.”
“What makes sense?”
“That she’s nice.” She shuffled to the left, spun in a circle, and then shuffled to the right. “For a relationship to work, there’s got to be darkness and light. Without experiencing the stench of a pile of horseshit, you’ll never truly appreciate the aroma of the honeysuckle along the fence line.”
I laughed. “You’re funny.”
She tipped her imaginary hat. “Funny and right.”
If she was right, I couldn’t help but wonder why Tyson and I got along so well. It was quite possible that I was the light to his darkness, but I wasn’t sure that I was aware of what his darkness was.
While Jenny continued to shuffle across the floor, I wondered if I’d ever find out.
28
Tyson
We’d reached yet another Saturday and were out on what had become our ritual date night. Headed to a steakhouse we’d both agreed on, I recalled the night of our first date, and chuckled at the thought of Jo barfing on my car.
“I was just thinking of the first night we went out,” I said.
“It seems like so long ago,” she replied.
I chuckled. “The look on your face when I stomped the gas pedal was priceless. I thought you were going to shit your pants.”
“I’m not saying this because I’m trying to impress you or something. Believe me, I’m saying it because I mean it,” she assured me. “I really mean it.”
In the midst of changing lanes, I glanced over my right shoulder. “Shit. I’m scared to ask what you’re talking about.”
“This car,” she said. “I love it. It’s, I don’t know. It’s exciting not knowing what’s going to happen next. When you get frustrated and stomp the gas, it’s like riding a roller coaster. I love it.”
I grinned. “It can be exciting, that’s for sure.”
“When you mash it, it just goes. It scares the crap out of me,” she explained. “But at the same time, I find it exhilarating. Exciting.”
“For me, it’s therapeutic,” I said. “When I get depressed, or when I’ve been having a bad day, I’ll drive this thing for half an hour. After that, all is well.”
“I can’t imagine having a car like this. I’d either be in a ton of trouble, or…” She looked at me as if apologizing for something she intended to say. She swallowed heavily. “I’d get a lot of tickets, for sure.”
“I haven’t received a single ticket in it.”
Her eyes went wide. “How can that be?”
I pointed at the row of LED lights in the dash. “It’s got a built-in radar detector. And, I use Waze on my phone when I’m driving on the highway.”
“Waze? What’s that?”
“It’s a GPS app that allows drivers to load information showing where the police are running speed traps.”
She shook her head. “I don’t even speed that much, and it seems I’ve always got two speeding tickets on my record.”
I laughed. “You’d lose your driver’s license if you owned this car.”
She adjusted her seat belt’s tension, and then relaxed in her seat. She looked at me and grinned. “I’d have no driver’s license and a wet pussy.”
I gave her a look. “A wet pussy?”
She nodded. “When you go fast, it makes my pussy wet.”
“Really?”
Her eyelids fluttered. “Uh-huh.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror and then checked both side view mirrors. After making sure there was no traffic, I downshifted two gears and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The shrill whistle from the supercharger was drowned out by the sound of the exhaust as the engine climbed to 7,000 RPM.
I shifted gears and glanced at the speedometer.
125 miles an hour and climbing fast. I shifted again.
145 miles an hour. As the needle reached 155, we approached a slow-moving truck. I shifted the car into neutral and changed lanes.
With both hands on the steering wheel and my eyes fixed on the road ahead, I asked the only question that mattered.
“Is your pussy wet?”
“Soaked.”
“I guess I’ll always know how to get you wet,” I said.
She laughed. “You get me wet when you look at me.”
“What?” I looked her up and down. “When I look at you?”
“Look at me. Kiss me. Touch my shoulder. Kiss my neck. Rake your fingers through your hair. Wet, Wet, Wet, Wet, and wet.”
“Really?”
She raised her right hand. “I swear. Scout’s Honor, or whatever.”
I’d felt like a weak-minded idiot since Jo and I met, because merely looking at her caused my dick to go stiff. Consequently, I only looked at her for short periods of time, and never took time to truly appreciate her beauty.
At least not in public.
If she suffered the same level of arousal I did, it was no wonder we ended up fucking every time we saw one other.
“I get stiff by just looking at you,” I admitted.
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“I can see it,” she said. “You’re hard all the time. I can see the outline of it in the leg of your shorts. Even when you wear jeans.”
“I’ve always wondered if people notice.”
“Oh. They notice.” She laughed. “Believe me.”
A state trooper parked at the side of the road caught my attention.
“Cop!” Jo shouted. “Cop! Cop! Cop!”
“Thanks. I saw him.” I glanced at the speedometer. Our speed was 72 miles an hour, only two miles an hour above the speed limit. “We’re fine.”
“How fast are you going?” she asked.
“Seventy-two.”
“Thank God,” she said.
As we rolled past the trooper, he pulled out into traffic. Ten seconds later, his lights were flashing, and his sirens were wailing.
I changed lanes.
He changed lanes.
I pulled onto the shoulder on the right side of the highway.
He did the same.
“I won’t say a word,” Jo said. “Don’t worry.”
I watched in the rearview mirror as the officer spoke in the hand-held receiver of his radio. My muscles tensed. He had no reason to pull me over, other than his desire to be a prick. As the twenty-something trooper sauntered toward my car, my blood began to boil.
He stepped alongside my door.
I rolled my window down app
roximately one inch.
“Roll the window down, Sir,” he barked.
With my hands positioned on the steering wheel and my eyes fixed on the windshield, I responded. “I can hear you just fine.”
“License and registration,” he said.
“What’s the reason for pulling me over?”
“Speeding.”
I looked at him. “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “I was in neutral and preparing to take the off-ramp. Do you have my speed recorded on radar? May I verify it?”
“License and registration, please.”
I cleared my throat. “I have a legally owned, properly registered, and loaded weapon between my right thigh and the console of the car, Sir. Would you instruct me as to how you’d prefer I obtain my license? It’s in my right rear pocket.”
The officer pulled his gun from his holster and trained it on me. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
My mind flashed to the night my father died. The blood. My crying. I desperately wanted to wipe my brow but didn’t dare move my hands.
“I’m not moving, Sir,” I said, my voice cracking from emotion. “Neither is my passenger.”
“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them,” he shouted.
“I’ll advise you that this is being recorded, officer,” I lied.
If his ridiculous overreaction was being recorded, I felt that he might refrain from shooting until he felt he absolutely had to, and I had no intention of giving him any reason to do so.
“Driver,” he shouted. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel.”
“Understood,” I said.
“Passenger,” he barked. “Using the index finger and thumb of your left hand only, lift the weapon and place it in the vehicle’s rear seat. Slowly.”
Visions of the day my father died came to mind. I hated that Jo was being brought into the equation, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
“Take your time, Jo,” I said. “Just like he said. Left hand. Thumb and forefinger.”
Jo complied by lifting the gun’s holster from its resting place. After placing it in the rear seat, she returned her hand to her lap.
Clenching the steering wheel as if my life depended on it, I cleared my throat. “What now, officer?”
“Roll down your fucking window!” the officer demanded.
I shook my head. “I can hear you just fine.”
“Tyson,” Jo pleaded.
My jaw tightened.
“Keep your right hand on the wheel,” the officer said. “Use your left hand to retrieve your license. Hand me the license through the window.”
I did as the officer asked, performing the awkward task without giving him reason to be alarmed. After handing him the license, he asked that we both get out of the car.
“For what reason?” I asked.
With his weapon still pointed at me, he explained his reasoning. “My safety.”
He was young and inexperienced, that much was certain. There were over a million civilians in the state of Texas that were legally licensed to carry handguns. One would think he’d be more versed on how to handle such matters professionally.
The last thing I wanted was for Jo to live her life after having witnessed an unarmed citizen being shot by an overzealous, inexperienced cop.
“Instruct me on the procedure you’d like me to use to get out of the car, officer,” I said, my tone rich with frustration. “Step. By. Step.”
“Driver, use your right hand to disengage your seatbelt. Slowly,” he barked. “Use that same hand to open the door. Passenger, use your left hand. One at a time. Driver first.”
I complied. Once I was safely out of the car, Jo followed.
While the officer ran my license check, we stood facing one another with our hands flat on the top of the car.
Jo’s frustration was clearly etched on her face. “You should have rolled your window down,” she whispered. “That made him mad. He scared the crap out of me with that thumb and forefinger thing.”
“He wasn’t mad about the window. The fact I had a handgun in the car was what ticked him off,” I argued. “I’m sorry you’ve been put through all of this. It’s completely unnecessary.”
“Why do you insist on carrying that thing?”
“What thing?”
“The gun.”
“For my safety, and for the safety of those I love,” I responded adamantly. “There’s far too many criminals in this state carrying guns illegally for me not to carry a gun. I’m not planning on becoming a statistic.”
She forced an exhaustive breath and then looked at me. “I’m guessing the odds of ever actually using it are pretty low.”
“You’re right. They are.” I held her gaze with angry eyes. “But, I’ve lost the two people I loved the most, already. I’m not willing to lose a third.”
“I’m glad you’re willing to protect those you love, but carrying that thing causes a lot of problems.”
“The problem is that a police officer pulled me over without cause,” I seethed. “He’s got a job to do. Fucking with me because he’s got a hard-on for guys who drive fast cars isn’t it.”
“Why are you so mad?” she asked. “Because we’re out here with our hands on the car like criminals|?”
I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it. Obviously, I was wrong.
“Personally, I’m not pissed off about this.” I drummed my fingertips against the top of my car. “I’m pissed off because he pulled me over. He didn’t have any right to do so.”
“You were speeding. Earlier.”
“His car was pointed away from me. He has no proof. I guarantee you that he pulled me over because my car has a loud exhaust and looks fast. He’s hoping I have an outstanding warrant, so he can arrest me and look like a fucking hero.”
“You don’t think he’s going to write you a ticket?”
“If he does,” I warned. “He’ll probably end up arresting me. I’m not signing a fucking speeding ticket. I can guaran-goddamn-tee you that.”
“Why do you hate cops so much?” she whispered.
My gaze fell to my feet. After an unsuccessful attempt to calm my nerves, I looked up. It was time to tell her the rest of the story.
“Because,” I seethed. “They killed my father.”
29
Jo
I wanted answers, but I had no idea what to say or how to say it. Driven by nothing but instinct, I proceeded with caution and the utmost respect.
“I thought your father died in a car wreck?”
“I alluded to that, but I didn’t specifically say it,” he explained. “I wasn’t at a point that I was ready to talk about it yet. I guess I am, now.”
My topsy-turvy stomach gave warning. I didn’t want to know what happened. If Tyson was ready to talk about it, however, I needed to be ready to listen.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk,” I assured him. “I’ll listen.”
He looked past me, beyond the edge of the highway’s overpass. “His car was a six-speed, and I had no idea how to drive it. He was persistent, always demanding that I learn. ‘A man needs to be able to drive a stick shift’ he’d say. We’d gone out every night that week, practicing stopping, shifting, and taking off from a dead stop.”
He gestured toward the roadway below with a nod of his head. “We were down there somewhere, driving in a residential neighborhood, because there wasn’t much traffic. It was getting dark and we were ready to call it a night. A kid came out of nowhere on a bike. I went to push in the clutch and hit the brake instead. The car stalled, and I stomped the gas by accident. We shot right toward the kid. I yanked the wheel. The car spun out and slid sideways. I lost control and slammed right into a telephone pole. It tore the left side of his new car open like someone had done it with a can opener. Headlight. Fender. Door. Hood.”
He looked away and shook his head.
“I was pretty shaken up. My father wasn’t even mad. He took the driver’s se
at, and we headed home. Just after we exited the off-ramp, there was a police roadblock set up. When we came to a stop, he looked at me, said ‘shh’, and set the brake.”
Gazing blankly at the front of the car, he blinked a few times, and then continued. “They were looking for an escaped prisoner who’d stolen a car and eluded the cops. There was a helicopter, dogs, the whole bit. One of the cops saw the damage on the car and asked where we’d been. He told the cop he didn’t think it was any of his business where we’d been. To be honest, it wasn’t. We weren’t escaped convicts, we were just a father and a son, going home on a Sunday night. The cop took offense and got an attitude. He asked for my father’s driver’s license.”
With my hands pressed against the top of the car, I stood on shaking legs, waiting for the conclusion to a story that I already knew the ending to. An ending I feared I didn’t want to hear a detailed description of.
He shifted his eyes to meet mine. “He didn’t have his wallet, and I knew it. I wanted a Gatorade when we started, and he realized he’d left it at home. He did it all the time. He hated carrying that thing. My father told him he didn’t have any reason or right to see his license. He explained we’d done nothing to warrant being detained or being searched. He said we were just trying to get home, which was only a few blocks away. The cop called the canine officer over. When the dog got to the car, it uhhm. It started barking. That’s when things went to hell.”
The primary color of his eyes had changed from green to brown, making them seem much darker and far less inviting. He didn’t need to continue. I felt sick. In fact, I was mortified, and he hadn’t even finished the story.
“Everything happened…it all happened at the same time. The helicopter shined its light in the windshield. Shadows flickered. Someone screamed ‘don’t move’. Someone else screamed ‘show me your license’. And then, someone screamed…he uhhm…someone yelled, ‘gun!’. The uhhm. The first shot was deafening, but not so much that I didn’t hear the other two cops empty their service weapons into the car.” He looked up. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. “I watched him die, Jo. For nothing. For absolutely fucking nothing.”
The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Page 19