For You (The 'Burg Series) (71 page)

“Feel like waffles,” he muttered against my mouth.

I knew what that meant.

Something else to look forward to.

One of my hands went up his neck and my fingers sifted into his hair before I replied, “Me too.”

He grinned against my mouth then he took it in a deep kiss and, after, he did other things at other places on my body with his mouth. Then he was between my legs, lifting and spreading them wide and cocked with his hands behind my knees. He took me with his mouth, making me come then he moved up and over me, fucking me slow and sweet, then harder, then faster, then even harder, his hands on me, my hands on him, our mouths locked, tongues sparring, building it again for me, but now also for him, until I exploded the second time just moments before he lifted my knees high, rammed in deep and groaned.

After, when Colt was gliding gently in and out of me, his tongue tracing my necklaces, I was thinking I was pretty happy I’d packed the waffle iron with the stoneware.

* * * * *

Colt waited for his waffles because I did yoga.

Seeing as I’d had two orgasms, I didn’t really need to do the yoga to relax and de-stress, but I did need to do it to practice and keep fit.

Colt sat at the bar on a stool wearing a pair of shorts and a tee, reading the paper and drinking coffee. I was in the den, my yoga mat down the length of the pool table, one of the scented candles that I brought over from my place burning and I had Norah Jones playing. I was trying to concentrate, clear my mind, focus on my positioning, my muscles, my breathing, deepening the poses, rooting myself to the floor for the balancing ones but this was difficult. This was difficult partly because there was a lot of shit to think about so clearing my mind was a challenge. This was also difficult because, more times than most when I caught Colt in my vision, he was watching me.

“Don’t watch me,” I ordered as I moved from triangle pose to downward-facing dog.

“Baby, your ass is in the air and you’re wearin’ tight clothes. Not watchin’ you is impossible.”

“You’re breaking my concentration.”

“With practice, you’ll get used to me enjoyin’ the show.”

I rolled my eyes to the floor which luckily Colt couldn’t see.

“Next time, you’re doin’ this with me,” I told him and he burst out laughing so I asked, “What?”

“I do yoga the day you play basketball.”

Morrie and Colt had often tried to get me, Jessie, Meems or whatever girl Morrie was dating at the time to play basketball with them. It was supposed to be a low contact sport but the way they played it was not. I figured it was their way to look superior as well as bump into girls a lot. I didn’t mind that, it was all the running and sweating and dribbling and
rules
that I minded.

No way I was going to play basketball. Ever.

“Enjoy the show,” I invited, and dropped down into child’s pose as I heard Colt chuckle.

Something about his chuckle, maybe the satisfaction I heard mixed with the humor, freed my mind. Everything left it and all I had was the scent of ocean in my nostrils, Norah in my ears, my mat under me and my muscles releasing.

* * * * *

I made Colt waffles. We ate them both of us sitting on the counter. He helped me clean the kitchen, which I thought was nice until I realized he did this to delay taking a shower so he could do it with me.

The shower we had was nicer than him helping me clean the kitchen. A lot nicer.

We got ready for the day. This took Colt five minutes. It took me forty-five.

We went to my apartment and got another load, leaving behind nothing but my bed, nightstands, lamps, dinette set, table and armchair. While we were in the truck with the boxes on the way home, we discussed the rest of my belongings and how it was too bad Mom bought that bed from Bud because now we had an extra one. Still, Colt figured he had enough room in his garage to store it all until we could find homes for it. I’d called my landlord and he was happy I was jumping my lease by a few months. Our town was a popular location for city commuters and retirees looking for accommodation that took less than three hours to clean so he had a waiting list.

However, when we hauled the boxes into his house and went out to check the garage, we found Colt wasn’t correct, mostly because Mom put all the shit from his second bedroom in the garage.

We stood staring at the stuff piled up in his garage, so much only a small amount of moving space was available.

“I’m not a big fan of scraping ice off my car,” I commented, staring at all the crap in his garage and I felt his eyes come to me.

“Feb, for two years, you parked under a tree.”

I was seeing that being a detective’s girlfriend might not be as cool as I’d thought it would be, considering to be a detective you kinda had to be pretty sharp and you definitely couldn’t let anyone pull anything over on you.

I looked up to him and replied, “Yeah, but I didn’t
like
it. You got a garage, we should use it. The truck won’t fit in here. My car will.”

“It doesn’t have an electric door opener.”

“We’ll put one in.”

“Baby, I just put in an alarm.”

Shit, he was saying he didn’t have the money.

Denny Lowe was
such
an assface.

“I’ll pay for it,” I declared.

He gave me a Man Look which communicated the fact that he wasn’t a big fan of me paying for shit, seeing as I had a vagina and breasts. When we divvied up household responsibilities, his look foretold I’d get groceries, cleaning implements, clothing and linens with the odd knick knack or standing kitchen appliance thrown in. The garage was part of Man’s World, not to be touched by female hands or updated with the woman’s money.

Then he wisely decided to let that go and tried a different tactic. “The boat’s gotta stay where it is.”

I turned and looked out the little, high-up, square windows in his garage, which incidentally, seriously needed to be cleaned, to see the boat under the sided awning which would be a perfect fit for his truck so
he
didn’t have to clear snow or ice.

My eyes moved back to Colt. “How ‘bout we build a side thingie for the boat? You can park your truck where the boat is.”

“Maybe I didn’t mention that I got the full-on deluxe edition of an alarm,” Colt noted.

I braved another Man Look. “I’ll pay for the side thingie too.”

I didn’t get a Man Look because, instead, his brows snapped together before he asked, “You got that kinda cake?”

“I moved my belongings to your house in two trips, using two cars and a truck, Colt. I go to work in t-shirts. I got a low overhead,” I pointed out. “Each month I have three CDs that mature in three different banks across the US of A.”

“You cash in your CDs, you buy yourself a shitload of heels and a new car,” he said, or more like,
decreed
.

It was then I asked the question I should not have asked. Not only was it my experience it was a useless effort to discuss clothes with men and therefore should be avoided it was also my experience you should
never
discuss cars with men. First, they knew more about cars than women, or more to the point, women if that woman happened to me. There were many men who even made cars a lifelong study but I, personally, couldn’t care less. Second, because they knew more and
knew
they knew more, men usually acted annoyingly smug when any car discussion came up. That alone was reason to avoid car discussions. Third, they tended to be right, which was the biggest reason of all to avoid such discussions.

Even knowing all this, I asked, “What’s wrong with my car?”

“Nothin’, ‘cept it was built during the Carter Administration.”

Now he was pissing me off. I liked my car. Sure, it was old. Sure, it was small. Sure, it wasn’t all that attractive. But it got me from point A to point B, it had a kickass stereo and it started up every time.

Well, most every time. It might need some coaxing on the really cold days.

“It was not,” I defended my car.

“Does it have airbags?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Was it built in a time when there
were
airbags?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, getting more pissed.

“You get into a collision, baby, your compact will fold like an accordion and you’ll get stuck in that shit,” he said, looking back to the pile of stuff in his garage and the tone with which he said his next words meant he’d come to a decision. “You need a sedan.”

Visions of me in a staid sedan, which probably had a shit stereo, flooded my head. Then I realized Lorraine owned a sedan. So did Chris Renicki’s wife, Faith. So did Drew Mangold’s wife, Cindy.

And so had Melanie.

My neck started itching mainly because of the heat which was collecting there, which was mainly because I was moving from pissed to pissed
off
.

 
“We’ll talk about this later,” I said.

He nodded and threw an arm around my shoulders, guiding me out but he did so while saying, “Soon’s this shit’s over, we’ll go to Ricky’s, look at some four doors.”

I decided to completely ignore the words “four doors” which made my head get light and I suspected if I uttered those words my hair would turn instantly blue.

Instead I focused on Ricky.

Ricky Silvestri owned six different car dealerships in the county which meant Ricky had expanded the family business since when I was growing up, his Dad only owned four. Ricky was a born and bred car salesman and trained all of his employees in the art of sixty years of car salesmanship as passed down from father to son. If Colt and I walked into any one of his dealerships together, I would instantly become the invisible woman. If I walked in alone, they’d screw me three ways ‘til Tuesday.

“I’m not getting a sedan,” I said as he closed the door to the garage.

“I thought we were gonna talk about this later?” he asked, taking his arm from around me as he locked the garage.

“We were, until you brought Ricky into it.”

“Ricky’s a good man. He’ll swing us a deal.”

Colt and I clearly had different definitions of “a good man”. I knew Ricky still played football with Morrie and Colt when they pulled together games every once in awhile. I also knew Ricky could hold his liquor and be quiet while fishing. But, from bar talk with Molly Jefferson, who was Ricky’s second wife, Theresa’s best friend, I knew he didn’t pay child support unless Theresa put out, or at the very least gave him a blowjob. Rumor had it Ricky took it hard when Theresa left him, seeing as he still loved her. Making matters worse, Theresa still loved Ricky, hence her putting out or giving head. Though she had little choice but to leave since he was screwing his secretary and everyone but Theresa knew it, until she found out.

Since I usually kept bar talk to myself, instead of sharing any this with Colt, I said, “We’re not talkin’
us
here, Colt, we’re talkin’
you
.
I
don’t want a new car.”

“And
I’m
not gonna bust my ass so you and me can survive this Denny shit and then be called to the scene of an accident and watch them cuttin’ your dead, mangled body outta that death trap you drive,” he shot back.

Yet another indication that being a cop’s girlfriend might not be as cool as I thought it would be.

I decided, since I was forty-two years old and the time had probably come, to try and be mature.

So I suggested, “All right, Colt, I’ll look at cars with you,
not
sedans and
definitely
not four door sedans, but we’ll have a look around if you consider helpin’ me clear out this garage, we get an electric door opener and we build on a shelter for the boat.”

His brows collided again and he asked, “How many CDs you say you have?”

“Nearly forty,” I answered, “but I haven’t mentioned the savings bonds.”

His forehead cleared, he grinned and threw his arm around my shoulders again, leading me toward the house saying, “Shit, my girlfriend’s loaded.”

I thought about it and realized I kind of was. I wasn’t a millionaire or anything but I reckoned I had enough money for a garage door opener, a shelter for the boat
and
to buy a new car, all of this free and clear. It would strike deep but it wouldn’t wipe me clean. There was more than enough to hold back for a rainy day even if we took a killer vacation thrown on top.