Chapter One
You
can’t keep a good man down... uh, out...
NICK
DICELLO POUNDED on the apartment door with one fist. The other clutched the
legal document he’d just received from the subpoena server he’d been dodging
for weeks.
"Paula! Paula, are you in
there? Answer the door!”
The only response was the
wild barking of a dog.
He took a key out of his
back pocket and tried, unsuccessfully, to open the door. "Damn! She must have
changed the lock.”
Nick pressed his forehead
wearily against the cold wood of the doorframe, then stiffened with
determination. Paula wasn’t going to hide from him this time.
A
locked door. No problem. Not for a cop in Newark, New Jersey. Hell! Not for a
guy who’d grown up on the streets of Newark, either.
Pulling
a flat leather pouch from the inside pocket of his sport coat, he selected a
small tool. Within seconds, he was inside.
He
braced himself for the sound of her security alarm, but silence greeted him. The
same old Paula! he thought, with disgust. He closed the door after him and
checked the keypad. Yep, despite his nagging, she’d forgotten once again to
turn on the alarm system.
The
dog leaped forward then and almost knocked him to the floor. Backing him up
against the wall, the huge German shepherd stood on its hind legs and put its
lethal front paws on his chest.
"How
ya doin’, Gonzo?”
The
dog lapped his tongue across Nick’s face in reply.
He
pushed the dog aside with an affectionate ruffle of his fur and walked around
the familiar room, checking the door with its numerous locks, the windows, and
the high tech, direct-link police security console—unplugged and obviously
never used.
Satisfied
that everything was okay, Nick dropped down into a chair, planning to wait for
Paula’s return. He flicked on the remote for the TV and surfed the channels,
stopping at A Woman’s Edge, with Dr. Sheila Storm.
Lord,
what do women see in this broad?
Dr.
Sheila was interviewing a bunch of psycho psychics who claimed they could help
people improve their love lives.
"Hah!”
he remarked to Gonzo, who sprawled at his feet adoringly. It was nice to have
someone show a little appreciation for him. Even if it was only a dog.
Pointing
to the TV, he told Gonzo, "Women believe all this relationship crap, you know,
but we men know better.”
"Woof!” Gonzo agreed.
"If
women would just tell men what they really want, instead of expecting us dumb
schmucks to figure it out on our own, there wouldn’t be any need for scam
shrinks. Or divorce,” he added bleakly.
Gonzo
gave him one of those male looks that said, "Women! Go figure!”
"So,
how’s your love life, boy? Better than mine, I hope.”
Before
Gonzo had a chance to respond, Nick heard water running in the bathroom down
the hall. The shower. Uh-oh! Paula was home, after all.
Briefly,
he considered joining her for a quick one.
Nah,
she’s gonna be mad enough that I’ve broken into the apartment.
On
the other hand...
He
couldn’t stop picturing Paula. He knew exactly how she’d look. Her
shoulder-length auburn hair slicked back wetly. Soap bubbles covering the
nipples of her full breasts, sliding down her flat belly, through silky curls,
onto her long, long legs.
Oh,
hell!
His
heart slammed against his chest wall, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to
look back at the TV, where another loony bird was now advising that men should
find out what women crave.
Nick
tried to listen, but he was unable to stop thinking about Paula in the shower.
Remembering. And a long-neglected part of his body—the one with no common sense
at all— jump-started into a full-blown, mind-blistering hard-on.
It
had been way too long.
He
slipped off his loafers, then his socks. Just testing, he told himself. He
wasn’t really stupid enough to try joining her in the shower. Mentally
patting himself on the back for his great self-control, he decided, like
brain-dead men throughout the ages, to test himself just a little bit more by
removing his slacks and jacket and shirt.
And
the intelligence cells in his brain melted.
Testosterone
took charge.
"Maybe
Paula wouldn’t really mind my company. Maybe she’s as horny as I am.”
Gonzo
rolled his eyes. That was doggie for, "It’s your funeral, buddy.”
Rub-a-dub-dub,
clueless man style...
PAULA
STOOD UNDER the shower, her face raised to the warm spray. She’d been there a
long time, but still the tears kept coming.
Her
lawyer had called a little while ago to tell her that the divorce papers had
finally been served on Nick. Their hearing would be in one week.
"So,
it’s finally over,” she said aloud.
"Never!”
a harsh voice said, and Paula jumped with shock.
Nick
opened the shower doors and stepped inside, totally, gloriously nude. At first,
relief flooded over her that it wasn’t a stranger who’d broken into her
apartment. But her relief soon turned to outrage.
"Nick,
get out! You know our lawyers said we shouldn’t be talking.”
"Actually,
it wasn’t talking I had in mind.” He smiled at her crookedly, his black hair
already wet, beads of water rolling down his neck onto his broad shoulders.
Paula
recognized the gleam of passion in his pale blue eyes, and it was impossible to
ignore the powerful arousal standing out from his body—what Nick used to call a
"blue steeler,” a particularly virile erection.
"No,
Nick. My lawyer says we should stay away from each other. Let
alone... you know.” She backed up against the tile wall and
Nick followed. A predator, dangerous and out of control.
"What
do lawyers know?” he murmured, pressing his body up against her, rubbing his
crisp chest hairs against her sensitive skin. He moaned huskily with
appreciation. "You’re my wife. I’m your husb—”
"No!
We haven’t been husband and wife for a year,” she cried out and pushed against
his chest, to no avail. "You creep! The last time I saw you was at Casey’s
Tavern a month ago. You were three sheets to the wind, and your arm was wrapped
around Sheila Zeppenzipper.”
"Zapper,”
he corrected, putting his hands on her waist and nuzzling her neck.
"Huh?”
Paula’s mind was fast turning fuzzy as Nick’s hands cupped her bottom and
lifted her, parting her legs in the process. He fitted her to his hardness and
moved against her rhythmically.
"Zeppenzapper,
not zipper.” He lifted her higher so her breasts came level with his mouth, her
toes barely touching the floor.
"Aaarrgh!”
Paula wasn’t sure if she groaned over his semantics, or the excruciating
pleasure of his mouth suckling her.
"And
the reason I was drinking”—he explained with deceptive calmness, deliberately
teasing her by pulling away, aware that she didn’t want him to stop—"is that I
saw you on the other side of the room with your friends. And you were ignoring
me. And I wanted to make you jealous.”
"Jealous!
You’re a fool.”
"I
know.” He appeared contrite with his black hair plastered to his head and water
dripping down the fine bones of his face, like a little boy, but his innocent
look was belied by the expert fingers working their magic between their bodies.
"You were trying to make me... oh,
my... ah... jealous?” Her knees grew weak,
and she tilted her hips forward, reflexively, accommodating his intimate
caresses. "After punching Jerry Sullivan... stop that”—she
slapped his hand away, only to have it move to another equally erotic place—"in
the nose... the week before? Just because he delivered
some... some... legal papers to
my... uh... apartment?” She knew she was
blabbering incoherently. She couldn’t help herself.
Paula
hated her weakness. After refusing to see or talk to Nick in person the past
year, how could she suddenly succumb to his advances? It must be because he’d
caught her off guard, she told herself. And because, with the delivery of the
divorce papers today, the clock had begun counting down the final hours of
their marriage. Only seven more days.
"There’s
a perfectly good explanation.” He brushed her lips with his, back and forth,
coaxing her to open for him.
She
jerked her head aside. "Huh? What explanation?”
He
chucked her under the chin, knowing the effect he was having on her, and loving
it. "An explanation as to why I punched Jerry Sullivan, honey. I thought he was
your date.”
"Oh,
you are incredible! He’s my lawyer, for God’s sake! But even if he was my date,
you had no right to hit him.”
"I
know. I know.” He closed his eyes on a deep moan as he lifted her once again,
wrapping her legs around his waist.
She
could barely hear over the roar of blood in her ears.
Taking
his erection in his own hand, he placed himself against her.
"What
did you say?” she choked out.
"I...
don’t... know,” he whispered on a gasp. Before he’d barely
entered her body, she began to convulse around him. "That...
feels... so-o-o... good.”
It
was her turn to gasp.
Trembling
with hard-fought restraint, Nick embedded himself in her with one long stroke
and began to push her against the shower wall. The stall shook with the force
of his thrusts.
Her
orgasm never stopped.
Over
and over he moved inside her, hard, violent plunges into her woman’s center.
The
small spirals of her climax widened, becoming harsher, longer in duration.
Nick
seemed to grow larger inside her body’s sheath, reaching for her very womb.
It
was over in minutes.
His
neck arched backward with a guttural growl of masculine release.
Paula
felt him jerk inside her, and she shuddered once more with a violent internal
convulsion.
Drawing
in deep draughts of air, Nick finally pulled away and let her feet slide to the
floor. The shower continued to pelt them both with its hot spray.
Leaning
back against the opposite wall, fighting for breath, he said, "I love you,
Paula.”
Then
he grinned with typical male self-satisfaction.
He
probably expected her to swoon and say, "Oh, Nick, you are so wonderful. I
forgive you everything.”
Instead,
she swung her arm in a wide arc and punched him in the stomach.
Love
hurts, for sure...
FIFTEEN
MINUTES later, Paula padded into the living room in her bare feet, having
donned only jeans and a T-shirt. She was still drying her hair with a towel.
"Nick,
I told you to leave,” she said testily.
He’d
combed his thick black hair off his face, but it was still wet from their
shower. She tried to shut off her sensual awareness of him, but memories
assaulted her. How many times, over how many years, had she seen him looking
just like this?
She
had trouble swallowing over the lump in her throat.
He
was sitting in front of the television, fully dressed in khaki, pleated slacks,
open-collared Oxford shirt, and navy blazer, watching The Woman’s Edge.
Dr.
Sheila? Nick?
His
long fingers were idly stroking Gonzo’s fur. The traitorous beast sat at his
feet, making doggie sounds of slavish ecstasy. A lot like she had a short time
ago.
Oh,
Lord!
"We
have to talk, Paula.” He waved the divorce papers at her angrily.
"Like
we just did in the shower?”
"I
didn’t plan that. That’s not why I came over here.”
"Hah!
The devil made you do it, then?” She threw down her towel with disgust and
finger-combed her hair back off her face.
"Nah,
it was some other... being,” he countered and winked, looking
down between his legs.
Well,
she’d stepped into that one. But she’d had enough of his foolishness.
"Listen
here, you big jerk. Don’t ever, ever, break into my apartment again and
assault me. Because, believe me, I’ll have you arrested. And don’t think I
can’t.”
"Assault!
Hey, you’re suffering a memory lapse here, babe.” His strong chin lifted with
affront. "You wanted it as much as I did.”
She
felt her face flame. "Yeah, well, it’s not going to happen ever again. I’ll get
a restraining order if I have to. I mean it. This marriage is over.” So, why
do I feel like he’ll always be mine?
"If
you think a restraining order would stop me, you’ve got another thing—”
Holding
up a hand to halt his bitter words, Paula tried another tack. "While you’re
here, Nick, there is something I wanted to tell you.” Her voice softened. "I
got my master’s degree last week. Finally.”
"Oh,
Paula, that’s wonderful!”
She
knew that Nick’s enthusiasm was genuine. She’d been an elementary school
teacher, attending college at night the past three years to get a master’s
degree in social work. He, more than anyone, knew how much time and heart she’d
put into her studies.
He
stood and opened his arms for her, to hug her in congratulation. She ducked and
stepped away. No way could she risk the temptation of his touch. Again.
Suddenly,
he seemed to think of something, and an emotion like fear transformed his
handsome face. "You’re not... oh, no...
don’t tell me. You’re not quitting your job, are you?”
"Yes,
I am. I have a couple of interviews set up, including the Patterson Projects,
as a youth activity coordinator.”
"No!
That’s a DMZ, the most dangerous section of the city. You can’t!”
"Yes,
I can, Nick, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And while we’re on the
subject, I want you to stop having patrols go by here every night. I’m a grown
woman, not a baby. I can take care of myself.”
Nick
cringed as all the old arguments resonated between them. This was not the point
of her telling him her news.
"Paula,
honey, let’s not fight.”
"Don’t
you honey me. And fighting is the only thing we do well anymore.”
"Not
everything,” he reminded her gently.
"O-o-oh!
It’s just like you to think a quick romp in the shower is the answer to
everything. Wham-bam, and I’m the cream in your coffee again. You are so
predictable.”
He
flinched at her uncharacteristic crudeness. Nick hated it when she used street
talk. He always wanted her to be up on this impossible nice-girls-don’t
pedestal.
"Give
me another chance. We can work things out.”
"Nick,
don’t do this,” she cried. "You and I have talked till we’re blue in the face.
It’s over. Dammit, it’s over.” Her voice cracked with the last words.
Nick’s
face flushed with angry resolve. He wasn’t a man who accepted defeat easily.
"Over? Never! I’ve made mistakes, but—”
"Nick,
stop it. Stop it right now.”
"Paula,
I love you...”
She
started to cry.
".
. . and I think you love me, too...”
She
hiccupped.
".
. . let me just hold you, sweetheart...”
She
blew her nose.
".
. . and maybe we can discover what your... ah, problem
is... what you really want.”
She
could tell by the stunned look on his face that he immediately regretted his
poor choice of words.
"My
problem?” she shrieked, her mood changing like quicksilver. "You think I have a
problem?”
"That’s
not what I meant, honey.”
"Let
me tell you something, Nick—you’re right. I do have a problem. I crave things
you will apparently never understand. And that’s what this divorce is all
about. How can a guy who’s so smart be so dumb? I’ll see you in court in one
week, you turkey. Be there!”
Seconds
later, standing out in the hall with the door shut behind him, Nick shook his
head. He felt like he’d been blindsided with a sucker punch.
Women!
He
didn’t need a crystal ball or a psycho psychic, like the one jabbering away on The
Woman’s Edge, to realize he’d screwed up again. But he didn’t exactly
understand where he’d gone wrong, either.
One
week. Seven lousy days.
Maybe
he needed some outside help.
Chapter Two
Day One
All he needed was a little advice. Or a
lot...
"CRAZY... out-of-this-world
crazy... that’s what I must be.”
Nick
continued to mutter as he stepped gingerly up the rickety staircase of the faded
yellow structure, wondering whether the rotting planks would hold his 210
pounds. Hell, it would serve him right if he fell and cracked his thick skull.
It would be just payment for the stupidest damn thing he’d ever considered
doing in all his thirty-five years.
Nick
looked furtively back over his shoulder at the busy highway, hoping no one
would recognize him entering such an establishment. He’d never live it down.
Never.
Grimacing
with self-disgust, Nick knocked on the door before he lost his nerve. Tapping
his foot impatiently, he studied the hand-lettered sign in the grimy window:
MADAME NADINE: FORTUNE TELLING, LOVE POTIONS, MIRACLES. And in smaller letters
at the bottom: HAIR WAXING AND TATTOOS, BY APPOINTMENT.
He
should turn around and go home.
But
the prospect of another night alone turned his blood cold. Besides, he had only
seven days left until... until... oh, God!
Nick
took a deep, painful breath. He felt like a vise was squeezing his heart.
This
time he rapped harder, and the door was jerked open.
"C’mon
in, honey. I been expectin’ you.”
Nick’s
mouth dropped open incredulously, but not at the words of invitation.
The
woman standing before him—only a few inches shorter than his six-foot-one—had
stuffed her big-boned, overweight body into a tight purple dress covered with
huge yellow sunflowers. Lots of sunflowers. So bright they made his eyes water.
A
cigarette hung from her crimson lips, its long ash threatening to fall onto her
mammoth bosom at any moment. Its acrid odor filled the air, and smoke streamed
about in misty, eerie clouds.
"Whattaya
mean, you’ve been expecting me?” Nick finally choked out.
"You
been drivin’ by every day for weeks, too proud to ask for my help.” She flashed
him a toothy, gloating smile. "Guess you weren’t desperate
enough... till today.”
Yup,
desperate, that’s me. Desperate and nuts.
Nick
followed the floozy into a bright sitting room with windows on three sides and
dozens of pots filled with flowers of every variety imaginable. Outside, the
heads of sunflowers the size of hubcaps peeped over the windowsills. He raised
an eyebrow in question, and Madame Nadine—he presumed she was Nadine—raised all
six of her chins defensively. "We don’t got flowers where I come from.”
Where’s
that?he wondered. Probably prison.
"Are
you a Gypsy?” he asked suddenly. Weren’t Gypsies supposed to be especially good
at fortune-telling and stuff? If she was a Gypsy, maybe she really did have
some talent that could help him.
The
blowzy babe flashed him a look of utter disbelief. "The only Gypsies I know are
moths. You want a Gypsy psychic, you better call one of them 900 numbers.”
Nick
barely heard her. His eyes kept coming back to the growing ash on her
cigarette, amazed that it still held on.
Noticing
the direction of his gaze, the fortune-teller added, "We don’t got cigarettes
where I come from, either.” She put her hands on her hips belligerently. "Any
objections?”
"Nah,
I used to smoke myself.”
"I
know.”
"Huh?”
"Sit
down,” she ordered, shoving him rudely into a straight-backed chair drawn up to
a round table in the center of the room. Immediately, three cats slithered up
and rubbed themselves sinuously against his pant leg. He shivered. Lord, he’d
hated cats ever since he was a kid in the projects, and the super’s answer to
rat control was cats. Every time he saw a cat, he
remembered... well, he remembered too much.
He
raised his eyes mutinously to the woman who was easing her ample rear into the
chair opposite him. Two more cats ambled in and jumped up onto her wide lap.
"Let
me guess. You don’t have cats where you come from, either.” When she didn’t
answer, he asked, "Do you charge extra for cat hair?” Damn, I’ll be covered
with hair when I get home. Probably smell like cat, too.
"You’ve
got a smart mouth on you, boy. Be careful, or I won’t help you.”
His
eyes widened hopefully. Oh, please, God, I need help so bad. "Can you
help me?”
"Do
angels have wings?”
"I
don’t know. Do they?”
Ignoring
his sarcasm, Madame Nadine reached under the fringed tablecloth and pulled out
a round glass ball, open on one side. She dusted it off on the hem of her dress
and plunked it ceremoniously in the center of the table. It was the most
pitiful-looking crystal ball he’d ever seen—more like an upended fish bowl, or
a ceiling light globe.
"So,
what’s your problem, sonny? Want a tattoo? Or a body waxing? Yeah, I bet that’s
it. You’re one of them modern manscaped fellas? You want your chest hairs
removed so you can be smooth as a baby’s butt all over?”
He
slapped a hand to his chest defensively. "You’re not pluckin’ anything from my
body. No way!”
"Fortune
told?”
"Well...
maybe.” Nick could feel his face flame. But he never blushed. And he’d never
been shy about expressing himself before, about anything. What was wrong
with him? "I was thinking more on the lines of...
well... oh, hell... a love potion.”
Madame
Nadine’s ash finally fell into the cleavage of her dress, and she immediately
lit up another cigarette. He watched, fascinated, as she blew a waft of smoke
his way, which hovered in the air, then swirled about the glass globe, finally
filling it with a murky sheen. Then she turned her attention back to him,
studying his face with disconcerting thoroughness.
"A
love potion ain’t gonna do you diddly-squat, sweet cakes. You need big help.”
Tell
me about it! "How do you know?”
Madame
Nadine shrugged. "You are one screwed-up hombre. But maybe you’re not hopeless
yet. Start from the beginning, and let’s see if we can unravel this mess you’ve
made of your life.”
This
was ridiculous. He’d been a fool even to enter this rattrap. The chick was a
scam artist if he’d ever seen one, and he ought to know. He stood abruptly and
threw a few bills on the table. "Thanks for your trouble, but I’ve changed my
mind.”
He
hightailed it for the door.
She
called after him, "Don’t wait too long, sweetie. You only got seven days left.”
The
fine hairs stood out on his neck as he pivoted slowly. "What did you say?”
"You
only got seven days till your divorce is final, hon.” She was leaning back in
her chair, blowing smoke rings with studied casualness. "If you want to save
your marriage, you better not dawdle.”
"Who...
are... you?” he asked, spacing his words evenly, as he
plopped back down into his chair.
"Madame
Nadine. The answer to your prayers. So, you better start showin’ some respect.”
He
pressed a thumb and forefinger of one hand to his eyes, closing them tiredly
for a second. Paula refused to see him or take his phone calls. How could he
save his marriage if she wouldn’t talk to him? Despair enveloped him like a
shroud. He had nowhere else to turn.
When
he unshuttered his eyes, Madame Nadine patted his hand compassionately. He
could swear he felt a tingling sensation where her skin brushed his.
"Tell
me what happened, and let’s see what we can do,” she advised and lit another
stinking cigarette.
Nick
surprised himself by spilling his guts, giving her a brief capsule of his
problem, finally ending, "So, even though Paula and I have been separated for a
year, the divorce doesn’t become final until next Wednesday.”
"How
long you been married?”
"Five
years.”
"Why
did you split?”
"She
left me,” he admitted bleakly.
"And
you just let her go? And you waited till now to try to get her back?” She
looked at him as if he was the most brainless, ass-backwards blockhead in the
world.
He
was. It must show on his face.
"Just
like a man. Dumber’n a doornail.” She made a tsking sound of disapproval. "Do
you love her?”
His
throat closed over, and he had trouble speaking. Finally, he answered in a
raspy voice, "Yes.”
"And
does she still love you?”
"Yes...
no... damned if I know.” He blinked rapidly, feeling his eyes
begin to water. It must be the damn cigarette smoke. "Paula said that in the
end love wasn’t enough.”
Madame
Nadine nodded as if she understood perfectly. He wished he did.
"And
now you want her back?”
"Desperately.”
"Desperate
is good.” She ground her butt into an ashtray and studied the cloudy fish bowl,
waving her long fingers over it with a practiced flourish. Then she raised her
two hands in a voilà fashion. "It’s simple.”
"What’s
simple?” he asked, frowning. Had he missed something here? Maybe his brain was
becoming numb from nicotine and cat breath.
"All
you need to do is find your wife’s heart craving.”
Some
memory flickered at the back of Nick’s mind. Hadn’t that psycho shrink on The
Woman’s Edge said something about men needing to discover what women
craved? And, holy cow, the last time he’d seen Paula, she’d said he didn’t have
a clue as to her cravings.
"Heart
craving? What the hell is a heart craving?”
"That’s
for you to discover,” Madame Nadine said with a mysterious smile. Then she
added dismissively, "That’ll be twenty dollars. Shut the door on your way out.”
Stunned,
Nick watched as Madame Nadine waddled toward a beaded curtain on the other side
of the room.
"But
I don’t understand. What kind of craving? For food? Like chocolate? Or sex? Or
kids? What?”
But
Madame Nadine was gone. The only thing left was her cigarette smoke—and about
two zillion cat hairs on his dark trousers.
And
the words, "Heart craving, heart craving, heart craving...”
echoing in Nick’s puzzled brain.
When
dumb gets dumber...
THREE
HOURS LATER, Nick was at the bookstore in the mall, doing another really dumb
thing.
He’d
decided to seek some reference materials.
When
the salesclerk stepped away for a moment, he punched "craving” into the computer,
and about two hundred entries came up, most of them in the "human sexuality”
section. He wondered idly if that was different from the "unhuman sexuality”
section.
So,
the craving thing did refer to sex, after all. Well, he could handle that.
Not
that he didn’t know his way around the block, and then some. And not that he
and Paula had ever had sex problems. But... Hmmm, maybethere was something he’d been missing all these years. Or, rather,
something she’d been missing.
Women
were always examining things to death—reading how-to books, trying to make
their relationships better. They watched too much Dr. Sheila, in his opinion.
But
he had an open mind. Maybe something new had been invented in the sex
department recently that he hadn’t heard about yet.
And,
frankly, he was willing to try anything at this point. Anything. Yeah,
he was cool with this stuff. He was an open-minded guy. He was willing to
learn.
Aliens
must have stolen his brain.
Still,
Nick gave himself a mental push and headed toward the sex books.
An
hour later, a dozen books lay at his feet, and Nick was bug-eyed and
gape-mouthed with amazement. "Who reads all this stuff?” he muttered.
"My
wife,” a skinny guy of about ninety answered with a groan. His trousers were
hiked up practically to his armpits, and four inches of white socks showed at
the ankles. "Lorna—that’s my honey—Lorna says she wants to spice up our lives.
I think she’s tryin’ to kill me.” He grinned with lewd satisfaction.
"Get
outta here!”
"It’s
the truth.” The gray-haired codger pulled a paperback from the shelf and handed
it to Nick. "This is Lorna’s favorite.”
Nick
turned the slim volume over in his hands and read the title aloud: "How to
Make Your Baby’s Motor Hum When Her Engine Needs a Tune-Up.”
"The
diagrams are pretty good, I must say.” The old coot winked suggestively.
God!Against
his better judgment, Nick flicked through the book till he came to the
illustrations. Turning his head this way and that, he tried to figure out just
where the "spark plug” was on this particular model.
"I
think you have it upside down,” his newfound friend informed him.
"I
don’t believe this,” Nick said when he finally figured out the drawings.
"I’m
partial to the chapter on lube jobs.”
"Did
you get a look at this dipstick?” Nick exclaimed, with a low whistle. "This guy
must need a wheelbarrow to haul his equipment around.”
"Lorna
calls me Mr. Eveready—”
Nick
slanted him an incredulous look.
"—but,
I must say, that fella musta invented the expression ‘hung like a horse.’”
Nick
slammed the book shut with disgust and put it back on the shelf. Then he
gathered up the pile of books at his feet, wanting to put as much space as
possible between himself and this old-age pervert.
Just
before he turned away, the guy added, with a chuckle, "And, I must say, the
book has good advice on how to prime her starter.”
Yep,
I’m going off the deep end.
"Was
that guy bothering you?” a teenage girl at the checkout asked as he stacked the
twelve books he’d chosen on the counter. "The manager says he’s harmless, but I
think he’s a pre-vert. Do you want us to call security?”
Nick
shook his head with amusement. "Nah, he’s okay.”
Cracking
her chewing gum loudly, the girl began to call out his purchases as she rang
them up on the register, out loud, in a grating, singsong voice.
"Women’s
Sexual Fantasies, $4.95.”
"Miss,
do you think it’s necessary—”
"Two-hour
Orgasms, $10.99.”
"Can
you keep your voice down?”
"Huh?”
She stared at him blankly, then went on, "The All-Time, Most Spectacular
Sexual Position in the World, $34.50. Criminey! $34.50? I hope it’s worth
it.”
"I
hope so, too,” Nick murmured.
"Women
Who Ejaculate, $15.95.”
The
man in line behind Nick craned his neck over his shoulder and whispered,
"Where’d you get that one?”
Nick
pointed, and the man, along with two others, left the line and headed back
toward the section on human sexuality.
"Listen,
can you just hurry this up?”
Ignoring
him, the girl yelled to a clerk on the other side of the store, at least a mile
away, "Hey, Hank, can you look up the price on this one? G-Spots and Love
Knots.”
Every
single person in the store turned to look at him. Nick thought he’d like to put
a knot in the big-mouth’s tongue.
That
night, Nick ordered pizza and sat down in his living room, surrounded by his
purchases, planning a long night of "research.” He was going to save his
marriage or die trying.
The
high school student who delivered his pizza an hour later scanned the room
while Nick dug in his pockets for a tip. The kid snickered over the titles,
boasting, "I know everything in these books.”
"Yeah!
You wish!”
The
teenaged Casanova picked up one paperback, exclaiming, "Hey, I read this one. AThousand Ways to Kiss Your Lover.”
"Go
away,” Nick said, shoving the money in his hand. First, he got advice from
Gypsy Rose Wacko, then a senior citizen, now a pimply-faced adolescent.
Walking
away, the know-it-all called over his shoulder with a laugh, "You oughta try
the slide kiss. The women melt every time.”
"You
wouldn’t know melt if it hit you in the face.” Nick slammed the door shut.
"Smart-ass,” he added to the closed door.
Then
he couldn’t resist. He picked up the book in question, turned to the index, and
moved his fingertip until he found "slide kiss.” He read the brief chapter. Wow!A few moments later, he added "slide kiss” to the list on his notepad.
It
was midnight before Nick finished the last book. He studied the voluminous
notes he’d taken and saw a common thread in many of the books. In fact, he’d
written an exact quote from one of the texts: In their hearts, many women
crave sexual fantasy.
Hearts.
Crave. Sexual Fantasy.
Hell,
that was a definition for heart craving if he’d ever heard one.
Nick
leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his neck, and grinned. He
had the solution to his problem.
Paula
didn’t stand a chance.