Page 10 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
“That I did. Another pea-sized pair of balls to add to my collection.” I sigh in satisfaction. I really do love my job. “I’m going to make a sandwich. You want one?”
Her attention still glued to the computer screen where two shirtless, barefoot guys are beating each other to within an inch of their lives, Juanita says, “Nah. I’m good.”
I eye all the junk food wrappers scattered around her. “It wouldn’t kill you to eat some real food once in a while, kiddo.”
Juanita makes a face. “Sure thing, Lourdes.”
Lourdes is her mother’s name. It’s what she calls me when I’m meddling.
She calls me Lourdes a lot.
“Suit yourself,” I say breezily, and leave Juanita and Elvis to enjoy their show.
In the kitchen, I kick off my shoes and open the fridge. Unlike the rest of my home, it’s packed. An empty refrigerator is one of the few things that frightens me.
“Roast beef, provo
lone, tomatoes, lettuce,” I say, gathering everything. “Hello, my beauties!”
I get the bread from the pantry, make myself a sandwich, and eat it standing up over the kitchen sink. Then I make another sandwich, tuck it inside a Ziploc bag, and slip it inside the backpack Juanita left on the console by the front door.
Then I go upstairs and unpack. When my things are put away, I pad down the hallway to my office, fire up my computer, and check my email.
Zip. Nada. Crickets.
And the old, familiar loneliness pops its head around my shoulder and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
This is the worst time, when I come home from a job and don’t have anything else lined up. When I’m working, my mind is occupied, and when my mind is occupied, I can go days or weeks without once wondering what the point of everything is. But when I’m not working…
“I’m betting you’d go out of your fuckin’ mind if you didn’t have a puzzle to solve. Right?”
Jarhead and his annoyingly astute observations.
The thought of him is equivalent to a migraine. How can anyone stand to be around that cocky, irritating jerk? I know he runs a successful business, so he’s got employees, clients, vendors, people he has to interact with on a daily basis. He’s probably even got friends…girlfriends?
No, I think, wrinkling my nose. He wouldn’t call them “girlfriends.” He’d call them…gashes. Or something equally repulsive.
I really hate that chauvinistic prick.
“And we’re breathing,” I remind myself as my stomach tightens. “Again.”
Connor Hughes is bad for my blood pressure.
From downstairs Juanita yells, “We’re outta here! See you after school Monday!”
I yell back, “Good luck on your calculus test!”
“Suck a bag of dicks, hooker!”
A laugh, and then the front door slams.
“Love you too, kiddo,” I say, smiling.
I change into my running clothes and head over to Washington Square, the big park a few blocks away. I run my regular circuit on the paths that wind through the park, nodding at the old guys playing chess, dodging the street performers and families and couples walking their dogs. It’s a bright, beautiful spring afternoon, and the park is crowded with people picnicking around the main fountain, enjoying the weather.
This is why I run in the mornings. All these people make me twitchy.
An hour later, sweaty, my thighs aching, I head back to my house. I finish a book on the Chernobyl disaster, recategorize my CD collection by genre, and then decide to shower before I head out to find a place for dinner. Saturdays I usually head over to a little French wine bar in my neighborhood. I like to watch all the date-night couples gazing adoringly at each other over their overpriced glasses of Bordeaux and speculate about who’s cheating on who.
