“I keep thinking about those poor people, the Metranos. It just doesn’t seem right. Here are good people, love their kids, do the right things for them, invest their hopes in them. The very worst thing that could happen to them is to have one of their children taken away. Then I think about old Sly. Would anybody even notice if he got snatched? Where’s the justice here? We’re one kid short on one hand, one kid left over on the other. But the equation will not balance.”
“Which cliche do you want, Maggie? Shit happens? Life ain’t fair? Go figure?”
I looked over at him. “So we know Pisces was Hillary Ramsdale. Do you think Hillary could have been Amy Elizabeth Metrano?”
“Anything’s possible. Not likely in this case, but possible.”
“Too bizarre, though. That equation doesn’t seem to work, either.”
“You sound tired,” he said. “You okay?”
“It’s been one hell of a day, hasn’t it?”
“What do you want for dinner?” he asked. He had dark circles under his gray eyes. “We can go out or stop at the market for something to cook. Barbecue some chicken if you like.”
“Whatever you want. I’m not very hungry. It’s too late to eat.”
“We haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
I had been fiddling with the set of handcuffs Mike always had dangling from his turn indicator. They were tarnished, a little rusty at the hinges.
“Things been slow at the office, dear?” I asked. “From the look of these cuffs, you haven’t arrested anyone for a while.”
“I don’t use that set for arresting people,” he said, playful malice shining from his narrowed eyes. “You like to play with handcuffs?”
I laughed. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You really need two sets to do it right, though. I think I have some more in the trunk.”
“Keep them there.”
“You might like it, Maggie. Cuff you to the bedpost tonight, I could have my way with you all night long. Make you scream in ecstasy fifty times in a row. If I wanted to.”
“You don’t need cuffs for that, cupcake.” I was laughing, though I wasn’t quite sure whether he was serious. All right, so I didn’t have him completely figured out yet, either.
“Think about it,” he said.
“Right.”
Mike winked lewdly at me and flicked the handcuffs to set them swinging. “So? What’ll it be?”
I took the handcuffs off the turn indicator, opened them, and snapped one over Mike’s right wrist.
“Real funny,” he said, nonplussed. The empty cuff dangled from his wrist.
“Hope you have the key,” I said, and locked the second cuff around the steering wheel. “Now you’re trapped. I can do anything I want with you.”
“Jesus, Maggie,” he laughed, but he was nervous, pulling against the chain. “Get them off me. The key is on the ring in my right pocket.”
“The key ring’s in your pocket?”
He stretched up from the seat so I could get my hand into his pocket. I put my hand into his pocket all right, but I didn’t bother with the key ring.
My hand was cold and his pocket was deliciously warm, so I just felt around inside there. Rubbed his flat tummy, reached all the way down to the pocket’s bottom seam, squeezed his thigh, worked my way down into his groin.
“Maggie,” he said, rattling the cuff against the wheel. “Knock it off. Unlock these damn things.”
“Hell, no. I’m having fun.” I stroked him through the fabric, felt him rise under my hand. “And so are you.”
“I am not. Now stop.”
“Your lips say no, no, no, but your hard-on says yes, yes, yes.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re going to make me hit something.”
“Then pull over.” I took my hand out of his pocket and started to work on his belt. I opened his fly. Up to that point, I had only been teasing. The fun was all in making him wonder – okay, worry – about how far I would go. Keep him off guard. As soon as I touched his bare skin, the game changed.
“Oh, for God’s sake, baby,” he said, feigning shock when my fingertip grazed him. But he tilted his hips forward and helped clear his belt away with his free hand so that I could get to him more easily. He caught my hand for just an instant. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make you scream with ecstasy fifty times in a row.” My hand was inside his shorts. I ran two fingers down his smooth, firm length, circled his balls, started up again. His breath was coming in deep, regular sighs.
A greaseball astride a Harley roared up beside us on Mike’s side, looked in, figured out what was going on, gave me a grin and a raised-fist salute, then roared off screaming “Yeeha,” or something close to it.
“People are watching,” Mike said.
“Let them.” I cuddled up against him, kissed the side of his neck, ran my tongue around the rim of his ear while my hand stroked him. With my lips against his five-o’clock shadow, I said, “What do you want me to do?”
He shrugged, smiled shyly. “I swear, you’ll make me run into something.”
“Just give me warning when you see it coming,” I said.
“I promise,” he said, and sighed again.
I opened his suit pants as far as I could, and went down on him. He was a very sweet man, lovely to behold. I took as much of him into my mouth as I could. I licked him, sucked on him, worried about bumps in the road, but gently bit him anyway. Never in my life had I imagined doing such a thing on the freeway, in traffic – cars zipping by on either side. Just thinking about where we were added a certain dimension to the pleasure. Weird, maybe. An antidote for fatigue, absolutely.
I couldn’t see Mike’s face, but I could hear him. And I could feel the car’s movement. I think we made a couple of unplanned lane changes, accompanied by irate horn honking. The horns lent appropriate background for Mike’s version of “Yeeha.” Then we rolled over a lot of lane-divider turtles, swerved sharply right, and the car began to slow.
“Maggie,” Mike moaned hoarsely. He grabbed my collar and tugged me up. I thought he was just being fastidious. But when I raised my head I found we were on an off ramp, on a direct collision course with the stop sign at the bottom. When the front bumper met the stop-sign post we were hardly moving. Still, there was a bump.
I looked up at Mike’s face. His teeth were clenched, but he was smiling. I started to laugh.
Mike began to tuck himself in one-handed. I reached into his pocket, found his key ring, and unlocked his handcuff. “What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s a good way to die.” He wrapped me in his arms and gave me a lovely long, deep kiss. When he finally looked up again, he said, “Do you have any idea where we are?”
“Not a clue,” I said, as he bumped down off the curb and accelerated into traffic.
CHAPTER 7
Sunday morning, the doorbell rang while Mike was in the shower. I pulled on one of the sweatshirts from the assortment of clothes littering his floor and answered the door.
A courier handed me a large package addressed to Mike in Lyle’s extravagant scrawl. I forged Mike’s name on the delivery register, shut the door, and opened the package as I walked toward the kitchen. Inside the box I found the videotape we needed. Lyle had also tucked in my vitamins and a dozen of his homemade bran muffins. He is such a fuss.
I poured two mugs of coffee from the Mr. Espresso on the kitchen counter and carried them with two muffins and the tape back to the bedroom. I turned on the TV, slipped the tape into the VCR, and sat down on the end of the bed to watch it.
Mike came out of the bathroom, all fresh and smooth-faced, smelling of baby powder. His blue boxer shorts complemented his eyes.
“What are you watching?” he asked. “Debbie Does Reseda?”
I paused the VCR. “The Pisces tape arrived.”
“Good. I want to see it.”