She dropped the blouse and the bra to the floor, casually, and walked back into the kitchen, topless. There she stepped out of her skirt and revealed a half slip, which she also shed, letting me in on one of Victoria’s best secrets: lacy-edged pink panties cut high on the hip. Then she stepped out of those, as graceful as a dancer but so much more natural, moving on, leaving the clothes behind, littering lingerie. Her ass didn’t sag, either, her back beautifully dimpled above the firm roundness.
I paused for a moment. Shadowing this woman to fill a contract was one thing; but watching her disrobe seemed wrong, somehow.
Still, surveillance was surveillance…
Taking to the trees again, I scurried around the house, tripping on a root but not quite falling, and found my way to the rear of the place, where glass doors looked in on a swimming pool room, fairly elaborate, about two-thirds the size of the similar area back at Sylvan Lodge, and similar faux-rustic.
I positioned myself where I could see her as she entered-she was nude now, and wholly at ease, because how could she know some asshole was watching her, getting a hard-on?
But who could blame my dick for getting stiff? This was a nice-looking woman. No shaved pussy for my librarian, this was a full, old-fashioned bush, maybe trimmed back just a little, dark blonde and a nice contrast to her pale, creamy flesh. She had a classic shape, five foot five with a rib cage providing a nice display area for the perky rack, waist wasping in, hips flaring out. Her legs were a little heavy by today’s standards, but fuck today’s standards.
This was a woman.
A woman who walked to the deep end and dove in.
Which to witness, I don’t mind telling you, was in its way thrilling.
So I watched her swim. I watched her swim for a long time, taking her relaxation at the end of her working day by stroking the water, smoothly graceful, and then on her back, a dreamily sensuous if unintentional performance, and why wouldn’t it be?
She was nude, and she was beautiful.
And so I did my job, keeping her under surveillance, and my dick throbbed in my pants. Which is where I left it. I wasn’t going to unzip and jerk off or anything.
Jesus.
What kind of guy do you think I am?
Seven
Pushing the southern outskirts of Homewood, Sneaky Pete’s was one of those slightly upscale country-western bars where shitkickers were not welcome but young professionals were. In the low-slung brick building’s barely lighted parking lot-asphalt not gravel-you’d be more likely to see a Navigator than a Ford F150. Once inside, the music was that painfully homogenized country pop of the Faith Hill and Brooks and Dunn variety; the only saving grace was line dancing having gone out of fashion.
This was just your typical middle-class/upper-middle-class meat market, and a guy in his fifties had to work to look inconspicuous among all these twenty- and thirty-somethings.
It helped that the place was packed-this was Friday night, and lively with laughter, clinking glasses, and the promise of hooking up. Even though I was not a smoker, the notion that a bar like this was A SMOKE-FREE ENVIRONMENT seemed wrong, even wacky. Would entire generations of Americans grow up going out Friday and Saturday nights, not coming home with their bodies and clothing reeking of smoke? Another communal experience lost…
I was not able to sit as near Janet and her friend Connie as I would have liked. They were in a booth to my back, with a cluster of tables between us. But I was facing a bar with a mirrored wall, and my lip-reading skills came in handy.
The conversation I am about to report I admit took some filling in with my imagination, when my vision was blocked by patrons or wait staff, including the bartender (or ’tendress-a good-looking brunette in her mid-twenties in the red-plaid shirt and jeans that all the help wore, though she had her top tied into a Daisy Duke’s halter).
And I could actually hear some of Janet and Connie’s discourse. The nature of the loud music and yelled conversation made it possible to hone in on them, and pick some of it up.
Janet, in her emerald silk blouse and new jeans, was probably the most conservatively dressed woman in the joint-her blowsy gal pal Connie, for instance, was in a low-cut red sweater, an angora number that would’ve put a big grin on Ed Wood’s face, and jeans camel-toe tight.
They were drinking margaritas-on their second round.
And Connie was saying, more or less, “Honey! You should go after it- really.”
And Janet shook her head and said, “But you’re more qualified, Con. Plus, I can think of three people with more tenure than me!”
“ You’re the qualified one, Jan- you have the degree.”
A guy stopped alongside Connie, facing Janet; he was angled enough that it made him a tough read, but I got it: “ My wife won’t have to work.”
Rick.
Hadn’t recognized him at first-there were dozens of Ricks in Sneaky Pete’s. But this was a specific Rick, Rick the prick, the abusive boyfriend who had dropped by the library this afternoon, in his ongoing campaign to make this young woman’s life miserable.
Slender, taller than I remembered, he wore a brown leather jacket and black jeans, a glimpse of darker brown shirt beneath. A good-looking guy, as vapid sons of bitches go.
Connie said something I didn’t catch, but Rick said, “Fuck you very much” to her, and shoved in beside Janet.
He was turning toward her, so I only got part of his face, but figuring out what he was saying wasn’t tough-he wasn’t exactly Noel Coward.
“Very funny,” he said to her.
She didn’t look at him, concentrating on her margarita, or pretending to. “What is?”
“Keeping me waiting.”
“Is that what I did?”
“I waited my ass off at the Brew for you, for half a fuckin’ hour.”
Now she looked at him. Her expression was commendably withering. “We weren’t meeting. We didn’t have anything set up.”
He shook his head, peeved. “So you make me go lookin’ for you? Lotta bars in this town. That any way to act?”
Connie, staring daggers at their uninvited guest, said, “Do you mind? We were talking.”
He leaned toward the big-hair blonde. “Probably you were talking…You mind giving us some privacy?”
“Let me see, let me give that a little thought-how about, I don’t frickin’ think so.”
Rick’s expression turned menacing. “ I think so.”
Connie looked at Janet.
Janet, reluctantly, nodded to her friend.
Disgusted with both of them, Connie got up and left. She hadn’t gone two steps when a guy asked her to dance, and they went out onto the floor and bumped loins to Kenny Chesney.
Rick came around to the other side of the booth, to sit across and make eye contact with Janet, who wasn’t cooperating.
Leaning halfway over, he said, “I wasn’t kidding, you know. About marriage.”
Janet’s eyes widened and she began to shake her head. “The last thing I want to do is marry you, Rick.”
“That’s not what you said, before.”
“That was weeks, maybe months ago. That was when…when you were still being…nice.”
“I’m always nice to you!”
She just looked at him.
He shrugged. “Well…I’ll be nice in the future. How’s that sound?”
“Insincere.” Now she leaned forward, and worked hard at softening her expression. “Rick-we’re over. You must know that. Can’t you see? Let’s just walk away friends.”
Suddenly he was out of the booth and reaching for her, dragging her out of her seat. He said something I didn’t quite catch, but along the lines of: “We’re gonna talk this out, now.”
Then he took her roughly by the arm and hauled her through the bar, toward the door. She was protesting, and I didn’t have to read her lips to catch what she said-hell, everybody in the place caught what she said: “ Rick! Please! No…no… ”