Page 23 of A Shot in the Dark
“Yeah, you do. Those nipples of yours and your pussy are the prettiest shades of pink that exist in the whole fucking world,” he says coolly. “The shade of your toy pales by comparison, but it was the closest color I could find that’d do the trick. And we need to make up some miles for me to hit my deadline. I think I can still do it…” He bows his head and rubs his forehead. “Put it to good use.”
Boots turns up the music as I follow his suggestion.
As excellent as his taste in gifts is, no matter how high Boots cranks the music, it doesn’t stop him from nearly plowing us headfirst into a median when I come with a howl.
“Fuck-fuck-fuck,” he whispers angrily as he gets the car back under control. Pounding the steering wheel, he catches his breath, then reaches back across the seat to pry the toy out of my hand, saying, “That’s enough ofthat.”
I give a little “hmph” of protest, but drift happily down into a heady afterglow that always cools my blood.
At least temporarily.
We drive in silence for a while, skimming past more state welcome signs as one set of mountains flattens into foothills then stacks back up into another mountain range—each different, each unique. Boots mentions some of the differences in the rocks that built them up and the forces that tear them down—everything a sensual but violent metaphor.
And lots of those metaphors include the word “fuck.”
It is most certainly his favorite word.
It’s not that Boots is incapable of a more “socially appropriate” vocabulary, he is—he even occasionally mumbles poetry.
Fuckingpoetry.
The first time I catch him, we’re paused at a light, a line of cars with their headlights on streaming across the intersection. Boots’ words are soft, nearly breathy when he utters them, watching the vehicles roll by, and I nearly miss them. “The carriage held but just ourselves — and Immortality. We slowly drove — He knew no haste, And I had put away, My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility…”
“What was that?”
He startles and glances my way. “Momentary lapse.”
“That was poetry,” I accuse. “You were recitingpoetry.” I search my memory, the high school and college classes that touched on such things. “Was that Dickinson?”
He shrugs.
“Itwas…” I am agog. Boots is so much more than the face he shows the world, and I’m getting another precious peek behind the curtains he most often keeps drawn. I cannot help staring at him.
“Quit that.Shit. A man makes a mistake and he never hears the end of it…”
I let it drop with a roll of my eyes. “I need to pee.”
He puffs out a breath. “Next exit.”
We stop at a fastfood joint and he lights up a cigarette the moment he’s outside the car.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I guarantee as I head for the restaurant door.
Car doors begin to open and I notice men standing up, looking at me. They’re all smiling. So friendly!
“Shit-shit-shit!” Boots is beside me, arm tight around my waist, saying in a loud, deep voice as he gets the door for me, “Sorry, boys, the lady’s with me.” He ushers me inside and straight back to the restrooms. All along the way men turn or glance in my direction, smiling.
“Everyone’s so friendly here,” I comment.
“Yeah, that’s what it is,” he grumbles as he opens the women’s room door and checks the stalls. “All clear,” he announces, pushing me towards a stall door. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Smoking?” I ask as I close the stall and take down my panties.
“No.Rightoutside,” he specifies.
“Okay.”
Coming out of the bathroom, I nearly bump into him. He stands, feet spread shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over his chest at the bathroom door, blocking everyone who needs to use it. “You’re being rude,” I murmur and he again wraps an armpossessively around me, this time tucking me under his coat and tight to his side.
