'Oh, dear,' Phillie said aloud. She looked at Bridges. 'You're a lawyer. Why are you taking part in this operation that has so many illegalities to it?'
Bridges sighed. 'Lots of reasons. Personal loyalty to Wes. Money? That, too.' He shrugged. 'But mostly because I am just so fucking-if you'll pardon the expression-bored with my life. This is the most fun I've had in years. Worth being shot over if we get caught in Africa.'
Phillie's already very large and very green eyes widened still further. 'Ummm . . . did you say ‘shot'?'
'Well, that's become traditional there for people whom they can fit in the category of mercenary, and even though we technically aren't, they're not too keen on the letter of the law.'
'Thanks, Mr. Bridges,' she said, rising unsteadily. Shot?
'Please, call me ‘Matt.''
'Okay, Matt. Thanks. I have some thinking to do.'
'One other thing to think about, Phillie,' Bridges said. 'If it helps any, we're doing some illegal things, but we're doing them in a good cause.'
Chewing her lower lip, she nodded and left. Bridges turned back to his computer, tracing the planned route of MV George Galloway.
Phillie's excuse had been that she needed to go to her own place to pick up some clothes. In fact, she just needed to be alone to think.
Her apartment was considerably closer to the hospital where she worked than Stauer's was. It was also considerably smaller, and much less neat than her lover's usually was. The bedrolls littering the floors back at Wes', and the piles of pizza boxes and pyramids of beer cans, had rather changed that. Her place was also, and this mattered, considerably quieter than the other.
She wasn't a cat person, and the complex didn't allow dogs of a size that would make her consider a dog to be 'real.' Thus, she only had to move some clothes to make room to sit. She did, then thought better of it and went to the kitchen sink, under which she kept a bottle of bourbon. She rinsed a glass that looked clean enough anyway, then bent down, opened the cabinet door, took out the bottle and poured herself a stiff one.
A quick stop at the refrigerator garnered some ice cubes. With that, drink in hand she returned to her living room and sat down, kicking off her sneakers and putting her feet up on the glass-topped coffee table.
'What the hell have you gotten yourself into, girl?' she asked, rhetorically. 'What kind of sentences do they give people who do what Wes is planning to do?'
She sipped at the bourbon, laid her head back, and stared at the ceiling.
The problem, Phillie told herself, is that I stuck am on a sliding scale. Right now, Wes is utterly attractive. Right now, as near as I can tell, I'm in love with him.
She shifted gears to think about that. In love with Wes? Let's see, pitter-pattering heart when we near to being together, even if I saw him just that morning? Check. Ache with emptiness when we're not together? Check. Perpetual horniness? Check. Dreams about raising children together? Check. Me pleasing him feels better than him pleasing me? Check. Think about him all the time, even to distraction? Check. Swallow rather than spit? That one's a no brainer. Of course.
Willing to go to jail for him? Harder . . . buuut . . . check.
Willing to go to jail for him over something like this? Let's put that one off for a minute.
Another sip of the bourbon. Another. Another. Jail? JAIL? Big long drink; glug-glug-glug.
Phillie got up again. This time she stopped at the refrigerator first, to get ice, before going to the sink. When she returned to the sofa she brought the bottle with her.
She was thinking much more clearly now, she was certain. Back to sliding scales. Sip. In three years the age of the men I'll find attractive is going to be about sixty. Sip. In eight years, when my biological time bomb clicks out, they'll be closer to seventy. Sip. And that's just impossible. I'll never have a baby if I wait that long. And I wanted THREE of them.
Sip. Sip. Sip. Glug-glug. Pour some more.
Not going to be a mommy if I'm shot, either. Sip. Sip, sip, sip.
The warm caramelly taste of the bourbon filled her mouth. Would prefer it was Wes. A pleasant glow had spread across her body. Prefer that was Wes, too. But SHOT?
Then again, it has been fun these past few days. Fun like the ER never is. Sip. And isn't a person entitled to at least one real adventure in life? Sip. And to have it surrounded by men like those Wes has collected? They would never let me be shot? Sip. What am I worried about?
Sip. Well there's still jail . . . the chance of jail. No matter, I already agree that Wes is generally worth jail. Worth jail for this, though? Well . . . this thing he's doing makes him happy. And maybe that's enough.
Phillie heard a key enter the lock of her apartment door. The bolt fell back with a clump. The door opened and in the doorway she saw Stauer. She nodded to herself, half drunkenly, then stood up and walked to meet him. One hand reached out and pulled him inside. She closed the door shut behind them.
'Bridges told me you were-'
'Shut up, Wesss,' she slurred, turning the interior lock. She turned and put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him against the door. 'Ah'm going with ya on this, so ya better get me fitted for armor. Meanwahls, we haven' ha' any tahm for this since your crew showed up . . . ' Phillie's accent tended to revert to rural Texas when she'd had a few. Her hands fumbled at his belt as she began to sink. He thought she was falling and reached to hold her up. She shrugged his hands off and finished sinking to her knees just as the belt came undone.
Phillie took him in hand and gave a few light flicks with her tongue. Then she looked up at him, smiled, and asked, 'Did Ah evah tell ya Ah'm in love with ya, ya bad old man?'
Phillie lay asleep and lightly snoring, her head on Stauer's chest and one long leg thrown across his. His right arm cradled her head and wrapped around to cup one breast. With the left hand, he stroked her cheek.
A man is only as old as the woman he feels, Stauer reminded himself. But I foresee the day coming fast when I'll have to mainline Viagra.
And why are you here with a woman-hell, she's nearly a girl-half your age, you dirty 'bad old man?' She's not just a convenient port in a storm, so to speak. Never has been. Been with her longer, too, two years now, than any woman I can think of.
Okay, so why?
Well, it isn't just the sex, as good as that is. Process of elimination maybe? The fact that women my age or near it rarely look good, while women much younger than Phillie, or even her age, are usually, to be brutally honest, just airheads? Or, even if that's not fair, and it probably isn't, we just don't, even can't, share world views?
Yeah, all right. Maybe that's part of it. Phillie because so many others are just poor fits. But that's not the whole story.
His eyes jerked in Phillie's direction. I wonder if you'll ever guess I told Bridges to give it to you with both barrels, to see if you'll scare off. Kind of confirms my judgment, generally, that you didn't. Was it a dirty trick? Well . . . yeah. But, on the other hand, you didn't scare off. So we'll be fitting you for armor tonight, and tomorrow morning you report to Terry's people down in Somerset for the quickest basic combat training course in history.
Not that I intend for a New York minute letting you fight; but you have to become part of the team. Course, if Terry downchecks you then you're not going past Brazil.
D-119, Somerset, Texas
The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Phillie pulled up to the lodge in her car. Terry Welch was there to meet her. She didn't really know what to expect. She knew she was scared, and that a lot of that fear came from ignorance. Yet what she thought she did know about scared her still more.
But I said I'd go through with it. So, God damn it, I'm going through with it.
She looks half terrified, poor thing, thought Terry, as he watched her car pull up to the lodge. He had his doubts, more about himself and his team than the woman. She . . . impressed him. I've never tried to teach basic
