“Hold it, Shelley!” Sam said, grasping her by the arm. She peered at him questioningly. “I’m sorry I seem so rude-it’s just that I’m still in shock that you’re here. I was also passed out on the sofa and haven’t quite joined the living yet. Here, let me help you off with your jacket.”
Shelley nodded and lightened up a bit as Sam helped her out of her rain-sopped denim jacket. He draped it over his arm, noticing that the rain had soaked all the way through to the cashmere sweater she was wearing.
“Christ, Shelley, you’re drenched to the bone! How long have you been out in this shit, anyway?”
“About half an hour. It took me at least twenty minutes just to trudge through the mud to get to your house. I’ve been beating on the door the rest of the time.”
“Well, you need to get out of those clothes before you catch pneumonia. Why don’t you take a hot shower and I’ll throw your things in the drier in the meantime,” Sam suggested.
Shelley smiled graciously. “Thanks, Sam. I’m sorry I’m such a pain.”
“You’re not a pain, Shelley. C’mon, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”
She followed Sam down the hall to the bathroom. He switched on the light as Shelley brushed past him and immediately began to peel off her soaked clothes. Sam stood in the doorway and watched in awe as she wrestled herself out of her jeans, unable to take his eyes away. She looked every bit as good if not better than she had on that fateful night: tall and lean with slender legs, slim hips, and firm, nicely-rounded breasts. She gathered up her wet clothes and grinned nonchalantly as she handed them to Sam.
“Here. I won’t be long,” she said.
“Take your time,” Sam replied, attempting to appear unaffected by her lack of modesty. “Would you like something hot to drink-some coffee?”
“You have something a little stronger?” Shelley asked as she leaned over the tub and valved in the water.
“Beer and whiskey.” he answered.
Shelley glanced at him coyly. “Whiskey would be nice.”
“You’ve got it,” Sam said, feeling an electric pang in his groin as he watched Shelley Hatcher step into the tub and draw the shower curtain.
Sam closed the bathroom door, carried Shelley’s clothes down to the basement and threw them into the drier. Returning to the kitchen, he realized that he was going downhill fast as he cursed the relentless throbbing in his head. He was more hung over than drunk now, having slept just long enough to plunge himself into the worst of both worlds.
He needed a good strong belt to set him back on course.
He went over to the cupboard, found the bottle of Jack and poured himself a couple of ounces. He drained the glass in a single gulp, grimaced, and refilled the glass before pouring another drink for Shelley. He made his way to the den and plopped down on the sofa.
Sam lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply as he attempted to collect his thoughts. The sudden arrival of Shelley Hatcher wasn’t only a shocker but and out-and-out mind-blower. Why, he wondered, had she really come here? He seriously doubted that she’d come just to say howdy and show him her photography portfolio-that hardly seemed worth all the bother she’d gone through. Nope, he decided, there had to be more to it than that.
But what?
All he knew for certain was that he felt uncomfortable about Shelley showing up. Seeing her reminded him that had he never fooled around with her in the first place, he’d still be a happily married man now. It wasn’t Shelley’s fault of course, and never once had he blamed her for his own folly. After all, it wasn’t really her fault that she was young, beautiful, and had flirted with him one too many times on the job. He could still remember the subtle way she used to less than innocently brush up against him during an assignment; or the way she’d purposely lean over every now and then in such a way that he couldn’t help but see those lovely tits beneath those perennially loose-fitting tops that she always wore.
Jesus, he thought. Did she even own a fucking bra?
But the bottom line was that Shelley Hatcher was bad news. There simply wasn’t any other way to put it. She brought him bad luck. After all, how many guys in the history of mankind had gone out on their wives just one piddling time and ended up getting caught? Then, ended up being divorced over it? Not too many, he supposed. Only the sorriest of souls, like his own luckless self.
Sam heaved a sigh and drained his glass dry. Stubbing out his cigarette, he went to the kitchen to replenish his drink. He felt the welcome glow of inebriation returning as he went back to the sofa and sat down, staring blankly at the test pattern on the television set.
In spite of all the hell that Shelley Hatcher had created for him in his life, he now realized that deep down, he was actually glad she was here. Seeing her strip down to nothing but her birthday suit had been the biggest thrill he’d had in over six months. The inviting prospect of another round with her in the sack suddenly zipped into his head. What would he do if that opportunity arose? he wondered. More importantly, how would he feel afterwards?
Sam grinned to himself as he considered the absurdity to both of these questions. He’d jump on Shelley Hatcher’s bones at the drop of a hat and wouldn’t hesitate for a second. As for how he’d feel afterwards, what in the fuck difference would it make how he felt? He was after all, now a free man living in a free world, wasn’t he?
This is probably just what the doctor would order, he decided. And he doubtlessly would feel like a million bucks afterwards. After all, he’d had nothing but an empty, lonely existence ever since Ann dumped him. And lately, since Marsha Bradley’s murder, he’d been more than a little stressed-out and on edge. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to get his mind off that for a while…
He heard the water shut off in the bathroom. Deciding to check on Shelley’s clothes in the drier, Sam stood up and went down to the basement. He felt the clothes-they were still soaking wet-then reset the drier and went back upstairs. After topping off his drink he returned to the den, found an old Cars CD and put it on, cranked up the volume. Just What I Needed blared out of the speakers as he plopped back down on the sofa.
Shelley Hatcher suddenly entered the room. She was wearing a towel that was wrapped around her just enough to cover less than two-thirds of her breasts and about one-tenth of her thighs. Her hair was still wet, combed out, and she was carrying the drink he’d left for her on the kitchen counter.
Shelley took a long sip of Jack Daniels as she sauntered over to the sofa.
“I borrowed your comb-I hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” Sam said. “I’m afraid your clothes aren’t dry yet. I can find something of mine for you to put on if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “That’s all right-I can wait.”
She sat down beside him, close enough that he could smell her. Her scent was as enticing as her half-naked body was. Shelley took another sip, set her glass down, and gazed at him intently.
“Have you been able to forgive me yet for what happened?” she asked.
Sam held her eyes. “There’s nothing to forgive, Shelley. It wasn’t your fault. I told you that a long time ago.”
“I know, but I still feel guilty about it. I mean, I know how much you love your wife. And it’s my fault that- ”
“It’s all water under the bridge,” Sam interrupted. “Let’s not even talk about it, Shelley, okay?”
She smiled. “Okay, Sam. I guess I was just trying to see where I stand now. I mean, I thought you might hate me or something.”
Sam couldn’t help but laugh. “Hate you? You’ve got to be kidding!”
Shelley smiled again, apparently satisfied that all was okay between them. She retrieved her drink and took a sip. “I really would like for you to take a look at my portfolio. I’ve been freelancing for the Ashland Times the last couple of months. I don’t get a whole hell of a lot of assignments but at least I’ve had plenty of time to work on my book. You want to see it?”