The Quickie - James Patterson [7]
“You could get one at the emergency room when you drop me off,” I said, smiling.
I had just enough energy to prop up my head on a pillow as Scott walked to the bathroom. I could see him in the mirror when he turned on the light. He was beautiful. Honest to God he was.
His bunched muscles dug into his sides and his tanned back. He looked like something off a Calvin Klein billboard.
It had been . . . perfect, I thought. Better than I had had any reason to expect. Undeniably hot, but also sweet. I hadn’t thought Scott would be so affectionate, that we would connect emotionally as well as physically.
I’d needed to have this happen, I realized. To feel hot and then warm. To laugh. To be held close by someone who liked me and who thought I was special.
And I refuse to feel guilty, I thought, listening to another close explosion of thunder.
What’s good for the goose is definitely good for the desperate housewife. Even if this never happened again — and maybe it wouldn’t, shouldn’t — it was worth it.
Chapter 9
IN THE CRAMPED DARK of his Toyota Camry parked half a block north of the apartment over the garage, Paul Stillwell stared, mesmerized, as another flash of lightning illuminated Scott’s shiny red motorcycle.
He’d actually seen the Ducati in the centerfold of the FYI section of Fortune magazine once, one of those impossibly expensive fantasy boy toys. Something a movie star or the devil-may-care heir to a European shipping conglomerate might ride.
And happy assholes like Scott, Paul thought, staring at its fighter-jet contours, red and slick as lip gloss in the shimmer of light.
His throat tightened as he tore his eyes away and went back to scrolling through the pictures file on his Verizon cell.
He stopped at the shot of Scott that he’d taken when he followed Scott home from work the week before. In the photograph, Scott was astride the Italian bike at a stoplight, his full-face helmet perched back on his forehead. Lean, powerful, and as cocky as the expensive machine between his legs.
Paul closed the cell and stared out through the rain at the light in the garage’s upstairs window.
Then he leaned back and lifted the Ping 3 iron from the floor of the backseat. The golf club had good heft and balance.
It was a drastic solution, he knew, staring at the heavy, fist-size metal club’s face. But what choice did you have when a man invaded your house and took what was yours?
Everything was in jeopardy now, he reminded himself. Everything he’d worked for was in danger of slipping through his fingers.
Maybe he should have done something sooner. Headed things off before it came to this. But maybes and should haves and if onlys were beside the point now, weren’t they? One question remained: Would he allow this bullshit to continue or would he not?
No, Paul thought, cutting the ignition. There’s only one way to end this.
The rain rattled on the roof of the Camry. He pocketed his cell phone and took a deep breath. With slow, almost ceremonial deliberation, he wrapped his black-gloved hand around the grip of the perfectly weighted club.
The extreme hard way, he thought, and he opened the car door and stepped out into the driving rain.
Chapter 10
“SO, WHAT NOW?” Scott said, pulling his jacket on over his bare chest as he came out of the shower.
“Surprise me,” I said. “I like surprises. I love surprises.”
Scott bent over and took my left wrist. My vision went double as he softly kissed my pulse point.
“How was that?” he said, smiling.
“Nice start,” I said when my lung function finally returned.
“You stay here while I spin by the all-night market. I’m out of fresh basil and olive oil,” Scott said, standing. “You don’t mind if I whip us up a late dinner, do you? I have some great veal cutlets I got on Arthur Avenue yesterday. I’ll make you my mom’s sauce. It’s better than Rao’s.”
Mind! I thought, envisioning Scott in an apron. A man actually cooking for me?
“I could probably suffer through it,” I said after I finished swallowing really hard.