by Vicki Batman
His manhands slid the length of my back and under the lacy, pink panties where he lightly grasped my hips, drawing us closer.
A thick maleness pressed against my femaleness. Oh my. He’s ready. He touched a sensitive spot, and suddenly, I transformed into the most beautiful, wonderful, sexually charged woman on earth.
Sensing the moment, he pushed off my underwear, gradually, deliberately, slowly. With his fingers, he resumed exploring the spot between my legs. A gush wetted his hand. Embracing the passionate sex goddess within me, once again, my back arched in response. Stars appeared.
“Now,” I commanded and whipped off his belt. His pants were next. Lastly, went the cute whitey-tighties.
His body was firm and strong, yet his skin smooth, covered with hair which caused teasing sensations when brushing against my breasts. His arms wrapped around me, sharing the heat of intimacy.
Nothing felt quite like a stripped man. Never had my favorite chocolate-covered peanut candy been this satisfying.
Naked to naked, male part to female part, we kissed, oohed and awed, gasped and clawed our way to the point we needed the final, but most important, element—the condom.
He rolled one on and returned to settle between my splayed thighs. We were so involved in exploring each other, that at first, I didn’t feel a soft slap on the top of my head. After another and another and a fourth, I rotated my head from side-to-side. Why is he hitting me? Is this some kind of sex game?
The annoying pats persisted, and ultimately, claimed my interest. My eyes fluttered open to determine why A. Wellborn hit my head. Instead, I found him giving lots of undivided lapping attention to my breasts. Watching him, I arced my body. “OhmyGod.”
He murmured, “Good?”
“Y-yes,” I said, closing my eyes to take it all in.
Another slap.
What the hell? Who multi-tasks during lovemaking?
Looking again, I found his hands weren’t on my head. They were tweaking the tips. What the hell is going on? What’s slapping my head?
Now, with my concentration quite diverted, I tilted my gaze toward the headboard. I bowed my back even farther for another look, and there, high on the pillow, sat Lucky. Lucky, the rat cat culprit, with suspended paw as he prepared for another whack.
“Stop it.” I flapped a hand in a small shoo-shoo motion, hoping to provoke the cat to go away and no more coitus interruptus.
No go. “Pupppppupppppupppppppppupppp,” went Lucky’s purr instead.
“Stop,” I called again.
A. Wellborn paused, resting his face on my shoulder. He inhaled deep heavy breaths. “I-don’t-want-to-stop.”
“Me, neither.” Another slap. My arms flailed and swatted around my head like I chased a herd of mosquitoes. “Stop it,” I ordered. “Not you...” meaning A. Wellborn. “The cat.”
My body rotated ever-so-slightly to the left, and then the right which joggled A. Wellborn’s position on top of me. My hand connected with a furry rump. “Stop. It.”
The headline news was the cat jumped off the bed. The blah news was our lovemaking drew to an unscheduled pit stop when I heard a buzzing noise. My gaze flitted around the room, searching for the poorly timed sound which could only come from a phone, and it wasn’t my ringtone. My phone was tucked in my handbag which I’d left downstairs.
He said, “Oh, hell.”
Our rendezvous positively screeched to a halt.
He rolled off me, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. After grabbing his cell phone and glancing at the screen, he snapped it open. “Wellborn.”
Who is more important than me? Sitting up, I tucked the sheet around me. My forehead rested on my bent knees as I collected the unsatisfied throbs quaking throughout my body. I underwent the ol’ three is a crowd experience. A. Wellborn, the cat, and whoever called his cellphone were way too many disruptions.
“’scuse me,” I said, tugging the sheet from under him. Regretfully, resignedly, and a little pissed, I collected my scattered clothing from the floor and skimmed to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind me. With a blotchy face and a fully aroused body, I tried with shaky hands to tidy my person. After rinsing a washcloth in cool water, I pressed it to my neck and arms.
“You stupid ass, you wanted this,” I berated myself. “No harm done. Now go back to his room and grab him.” But I couldn’t do it. My embarrassment held me back.
Black smudges were wiped away with a tissue. After which, I finger-combed my hair, then stopped, knowing nothing would help bed head. Does it matter anyway? Somehow, I managed to put on my bra and dress, but not my underwear. With frantic moves, I scrambled around the bathroom floor for the dropped undies with no luck. Going commando was so not me.
“Where are my panties?” I searched again for the missing lingerie, but couldn’t locate them. With a final glance in the mirror and followed by a half-ass shrug, I surrendered.
I peered around the bathroom door to find A. Wellborn gone. Tiptoeing through the empty room, I picked up my shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and put them on. I searched under his bed, through the sheets and comforter for my lost underwear. No luck.
At the loft’s landing, I looked over the railing and found him in the living area, staring out the apartment’s front picture window. He’d dressed, the shirt tail hanging out in a rumpled suggestive way, causing me to crave him even more. The music had been turned off. Ill at ease with what had transpired, I descended.
“I hate to say this,” he said without looking. “I need to take you home.”
Maybe hopefully, regretfully? Maybe, he sounded, oh, I don’t know, dejected? “Is something wrong?”
He turned, his gaze meeting mine. “The station called. I have to go in.”
“Why? It’s so late.”
“It’s the big case I’m working on. Can’t explain. Gotta go.”
I stared at the perfectly polished hardwood floor. I already had feelings of confusion; now I could add self-doubt. “Oh.”
“Look, only my mom, sister, and the office have my cell number.”
“And me.”
“And you.” Stepping closer, he pressed an errant strand of hair into place. “I wouldn’t go unless it’s very important. Are you okay?”
Hearing the tenderness in his voice, I nodded. Maybe everything between A. Wellborn and me had moved too fast. Too much wine and the almost wild, almost sex had left me with bewildered flashes tornadoing in my head. I collected the rest of my belongings and met him at the door.
He gathered me in his arms, pressing his face into the hairline at my temple. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I can’t say it enough. I’ve dreamed of this night.” Abruptly, he released me to open the apartment door.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
While driving me home, he broke the awkward span hovering over us, by asking, “You mentioned something about a large proportion of stolen parts claims being a particular SUV?”
Still in a confused stupor with what hadn’t taken place, I blinked while his question leached into my brain. When his query finally resonated, I drawled, “That’s right. I told you, I made a list to show Lester on Monday.”
Again, his cell phone rang, and he snapped it open. “Okay. I said okay. I’m dropping off something, and I’ll be there”—he consulted his watch—“in approximately thirty minutes. Yeah, right.” He snapped shut the phone.
Indignation straightened my spine. The something being dropped off appeared to be me, and I didn’t like the way the phrase sounded, like—I put a finger to my lower lip—extra luggage.
After A. Wellborn escorted me to my door, he smacked his lips against my forehead. “I’ll call,” and then he ran back to the truck.
What the hell had happened?
Chapter Fifteen
The day after the party, I wandered around the apartment waiting for a phone call from A. Wellborn. Would he call me? Should I call him? If he did, then what?
This was the stupid dating game part.
&nbs
p; I hated this game.
His call never came.
Jenny and I talked about the engagement party and our respective after parties. Hers sounded way more fulfilling, considering how she floated around on cloud nine. When Sunday afternoon passed, neither of us held much hope for me. I found myself on the well-known emotional roller coaster, and as a consequence, an emotional overeater. Translation: chocolate consumption hit an all-time record.
Jenny felt compelled to eat chocolate as well. Good pals do sympathy eating. Tossing back another handful the colorful peanut candies, she observed, “He must be over his masochist phase.”
Like that observation made me feel better.
On the way to work Monday morning, I prepared for my meeting with Lester. I had some concern about Opal and her thinking I’d meddled by doing something not required, and possibly, I’d broken an unspoken and undocumented B. R. A. guideline. An angry Opal could be a dangerous Opal.
I reviewed some more and came back to Buy Rite Employee Guideline #3: Show initiative. Oh hell, since the report was already done, I might as well go for broke and give it to Lester. After all, I was only the temporary. The worse that could happen was termination and rejoining the ranks of those searching for employment—again.
I watched Lester sequestered behind his desk, reviewing settlement checks against estimates. When I’d asked, he said he liked to do a “check and balance thing” on occasion, sorta like an internal audit. After I knocked on the doorframe and waved a little finger hi, I spotted him beckon me in.
Cough, cough. Outrageously thick cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. A desire to flap the door back and forth to clear the room seized me, but I didn’t.
Lester pointed to a once yellow vinyl armchair, now tinged gray with smoke, located in front of his early dental desk.
I sat on the edge to avoid contaminating my clothing. “On Saturday,” I began, “I did the data entry left unfinished when the computer crashed on Friday. Opal spoke to you about it and obtained a key for me to use.”
Lester nodded.
“While working, I suddenly realized... I can’t explain... I had an odd feeling. It’s like this: I entered a lot of Jeep claims.”
“We discussed this the other day,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Some models of cars are stolen more than others. Sometimes, we have a rash of claims on a particular make because of its popularity.”
“I understand. However, the number of claims is increasing, even whole ones are stolen. Gone. Whatever. The whole thing bothers me.” I waved my hands around for emphasis.
“Bothers you? In what way?”
I heard curiosity in his words and continued, “Like I said, I had a funny feeling. This is probably because I have a car with stolen parts. A couple of weeks have passed, and I’m still waiting for my settlement check.”
He took a thoughtful hit off his cigarillo. “The ol’ check is in the mail.’”
As an offensive cloud wafted around me, I held my breath and discreetly fanned the air with the papers I held. A cough threatened to erupt. “Must be. Anyway, the thought stuck with me. I checked the program to see if a special report might be generated, and sure enough, found one I could use.”
“So, let’s review here. You ran a special program to generate a report, one which detailed all the Jeeps which were stolen or Jeeps which had stolen parts.”
“Yes.”
“Over what time frame are we talking here?”
“The last three months, but you could run it longer.”
He strummed his fingers on his desk. “What did you find?”
“I found more than fifty models were missing parts or had been stolen.”
“None were involved in any accidents?”
“Only one.”
“Only one.” Lester leaned back in his arm chair. His brows scrunched together and his fat lips pursed. He flicked his cigarette in an ashtray.
God, if only he’d stop smoking. And instantly, I knew I could never be employed with Buy Rite for the long term. “I found some more claims in Opal’s inbox and processed those, too. As of now, the report is up-to-date.”
“Please leave me a copy, and I’ll look it over.” He sat taller while he straightened his reading pile. Picking up his stinky stick, he tapped ash into the ashtray and then dismissed me with a wave. “Thank you for your attention to your work.”
“Sure.” I put the report in his in-box. As I walked to the door, I remembered what we’d talked about before and turned back. “Excuse me, Lester, I’m curious about something else.”
“What, Hattie?”
“What did Buy Rite’s internal squad say when you called them?”
“Internal squad?”
“The other day you said you would call them about looking for an unusual number of Jeep claims.”
He smacked his hand on his desktop hard. I jolted. “I knew I had forgotten something. Must have had a senior moment. I haven’t called the Internal squad yet. I’m definitely putting this on this reminder pad.” He scribbled something on the yellow ledger next to his phone. “How’s your court case going?”
“Fine, I guess. We meet later this week, hopefully to conclude.”
“Well, good luck, and thank you for the reminder.”
“You’re welcome.” Hurriedly, I exited Lester’s office, coughing and waving my hands to clear away the smoke. In my haste, I almost ran into Opal who dallied outside his office. She had probably smashed her ear against his door so she could listen in on our entire conversation.
Precisely at noon, when I staffed her desk to answer the phones, the outer office door opened. A. Wellborn entered as silently as an exotic feline stalking his prey. Interesting, I widened my eyes, displaying my disbelief. First, because I hadn’t heard from him, and second, because I hadn’t anticipated him showing at Buy Rite. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze flicked around the office. “I need to talk to you.”
He seemed different. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Edgy. Dark. His tone sounded somewhat… preoccupied. “Oh? What about?”
“Stuff.”
“I haven’t a clue as to what ‘stuff’ is.”
While pacing the floor in front of my desk, he brushed his fingers through his hair. Frustration took over his eyes when he stood squarely in front of me, legs spread, hands on hips. “Hattie, quit fooling around. We need to talk about your job at Buy Rite.”
My left eye squinted, giving him the You Did Me Wrong After Almost Wild, Almost Sex eyeball. “My job? Why the big interest in my job? You know everything there is to know because I’ve told you everything there is to know. It’s just a plain-o, no big deal job.”
“I can’t explain and”—he darted his look around the office again—“won’t explain here.”
I arranged the items in Opal’s pencil jar, careful to avoid being punctured by her letter opener. “I need more specifics than that.”
“The report.”
“The report? Why would you care about the report?” I reshuffled the papers on Opal’s desk into neat stacks. “I told you I was giving it to Lester.”
“You gave the report to Lester?”
I patted a manila folder into place then looked up to meet his gaze. “Yes.”
“The same report you told me about on Saturday?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I gave it to him first thing this morning.”
“What did Lester say?”
“Thank you.”
“Smart aleck.”
I made a whatever face which involved rolling my eyes and crossing my arms across my chest.
“Did he call the internal squad?”
“Not yet. He said he’d forgotten and thanked me for the reminder.” All this interest in the stupid report messed with my brain. I planted my hands on the edge of Opal’s desk. “What’s really going on here?”
“We need to talk,” he said.
Obviously, he was evading my question. I leaned across the desk an
d papers. “What about? Oh, I know.” My finger went to my heart, and I plastered a firm look on him. I hoped he felt bad because I certainly did. “How about we talk about Saturday night and the phone call I didn’t get on Sunday?”
“Sorry. I’ve been”—he searched the ceiling for the appropriate word—“uh, busy.”
“What a news flash. Everyone’s busy.”
“I told you I had to go to work when the office phoned,” he said, and paced a three-foot path and returned.
“Well, why don’t you just explain something so little ol’ ignorant me will understand better what came up?”
“When do you go to lunch?”
“I go to lunch, let’s see,” I consulted my watch, “in precisely fifteen minutes when Opal returns in precisely fifteen minutes. Are you asking me to lunch?”
“Yeah. Sorta.” He swiped a hand through his hair again, his irritation showed in his jerky, abrupt movements. “How about I meet you outside?”
A. Wellborn seemed preoccupied with something and his “something” had piqued my curiosity. Not every day Mr. Hunky Detective sorta asked me to lunch. He’d quizzed me hard about the report, Buy Rite, and Lester. Maybe over some food he would relax and tell me what all the questions were about.
“Okay, out front, by the main doors in fifteen minutes. But the wait may be more like twenty as I can’t leave until Opal returns and the elevator—”
“I get it.” He departed as silently as he’d entered.
I watched the door shut behind him.
How long can fifteen minutes take?
In this case, it seemed to be forever.
****
Thankfully, Ms. Exact-on-Time-from-Lunch returned early. “I saw the cutest guy standing outside the building entrance, pacing about while waiting for someone.” Opal sighed, her eyes tilted with a wistful look. “Wish a boy waited for me.”
The temptation to say in “your wildest dreams” almost popped from my lips. Instead, I said, “I think you might be referring to my lunch date.”
“The tall, dark, handsome man who kept staring at his watch?”
“That’s him.”