“Probably not.”
I leaned in and got a lip press, a soft, warm peck that didn’t linger and didn’t have any discernable heat. Friends. Nice.
She backed the Audi out and sped away.
I watched her go, then went into the casino, sat at the bar, and ordered a sarsaparilla. Sweet and bitter, sort of medicinal, a hint of vanilla, hint of wintergreen. Dave wouldn’t be in for another two hours. The bartender on duty was a hefty gal in her midthirties in a Corti’s T-shirt, nice face, dark brown hair held back in a ponytail, smell of cigarettes around her whenever she got close.
“If you’re driving,” she said, pushing the sarsaparilla toward me, “I’ll have to cut you off at three of these.”
Smart-ass. Jeez, I hate smart-asses.
“Not to worry,” I smart-assed back. “Three of these and I’ll either be on the floor or swingin’ naked from the chandelier.”
She put her elbows on the bar and leaned closer. “I’m Cheryl. No one ever got fried on sas’prilla. But if you’ll do that chandelier thing, the next two’ll be on the house.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“You do that. Give me a little lead time if the urge strikes. My cell phone takes decent video. You could go viral.”
I was at the bar working on a second sarsaparilla when my cell phone rang. It was Jeri. She was the new national champion female powerlifter in her weight class.
She was almost giddy with happiness. “I did it! Omigod, Mort, I really did it! I mean, I thought maybe I could but I didn’t really know ’cause there’s this girl, Carla Neilson, who is really good, looks like a cement block, but I beat her by six pounds.”
“Wow! Super, Jeri! That’s great, terrific!”
She bounced all over the phone call for a few more minutes then settled down. “Where are you? Is Sarah there?”
“I’m in Gerlach. Sarah went back to Reno.”
“Oh. Well . . . why did she . . . ?”
“College, study. And she said something about giving it a rest.”
“Giving what . . . oh.”
“Yeah. That’s a bucket that can get pretty full.”
“You got, like, an eyeful, huh?”
“Plenty. So, you still getting back tomorrow? Southwest 1168 at nine thirty?”
“Yes. Oh, jeez, I can’t wait to see you. I’m still so high. First place was fifteen thousand dollars, and I got a big gold-plated belt buckle and a first-place ring and everything.”
“I can’t wait to see them. And you. Jeri?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s your engine?”
That stopped her for a few seconds, then: “It’s runnin’ hot.”
“Mine, too. Any chance of getting an earlier flight?”
“I don’t know. Want me to check?”
“Yes. If you can, do it. Spend some of that prize money. It’ll be worth it.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know. And, Mort?”
“Yup?”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too. Get that engine back here, huh? I’m about to throw a rod.”
“A rod, huh? That sounds serious. I’ll try.”
“Try hard.” I ended the call. Bartender Cheryl shoved another sarsaparilla at me and pointed at a deer-antler chandelier six feet above my head. “Got your trapeze ready,” she said. “I’ll hang onto your clothes.”
“Gotta give you a rain check on that. And I’ll take this sarsaparilla to go.”
“Well, shit.” She pouted. “Ain’t that just my luck.”
I arrived back in Reno at five forty-five. The day was still warm, sun a few hours above the Sierras. Jeri had called as I was near Fernley. She’d managed to get a red-eye flight out of Atlantic City that night at 9:15 Eastern. She was about to board the plane. With the change in time zones she would land in Reno at 12:35 a.m.
“Perfect time of night, kiddo,” I said.
“You’ll be still up?”
“I’m up now.”
“Well . . . keep it that way.”
We left it like that. Maybe this Holiday thing was working out. Maybe Jeri knew what the hell she was doing.
If I didn’t throw a rod in the process.
Coming out of the security barrier, Jeri slammed into me. Man, that felt good. And the kiss, and the supple, strong woman-stuff in my arms.
Really strong. During a hug she picked me up, all two hundred thirty pounds, which for her wasn’t hard but still felt weird. When she put me down I picked her up just to show off a little.
“Wow, Mort. You been workin’ out?” she said with her feet a foot off the ground, her face two inches from mine.
“Shows, does it?”
“Let’s go home and find out how strong you really are.”
“Your place or mine?”
She made a face. “Mine. Yours is probably infested.”
Media and cops. Back in July, early August, my house was a media-infested nest, which is what it was again, or had been the last time I saw it. When I finally caught up with the person who sent me that package, there was going to be one more homicide in Nevada.
Never say things like that, by the way. Something out there in the dark hears every word.
In fact, there was never any doubt that we would end up at her place, second floor, in a king-size bed less than a month old. We’d bought it in anticipation of a lifetime of good hard use together. It had a memory-foam mattress that can be something of a trampoline, which memory-foam isn’t supposed to do. That took place after a water-saving shower during which we got reacquainted with what it means to get wet, slippery, and naked, not in that order.
When pulse rates eased below eighty and I managed to get her left nipple out of my mouth, I said, “Say there, you’re a pretty hot little number.”
Her legs were wrapped around my waist. “Put that back in your mouth and do what you were doing. That felt really good.”
“Actually, I have a better idea.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a little aerobic. If you’re exhausted from your flight, you’ll have to okay it.”
“Why don’t you just show me? If I don’t like it, we’ll put that nipple back where it was.”
“Well, okay, then, here, check this out, sugar plum.”
Her eyes widened. “Omigod, yes, that’s a much better idea.”
I am a god.
CHAPTER TEN
STARVATION DROVE US out of bed at
