“Oh, boy,” man and hologram chorused, each with their own distinctive expression.
CHAPTER THREE
“Oh, boy,” Al repeated, yearning stark in his voice. Sam would have elbowed him if it would have done any good. “But Sam, look at her!”
Sam was looking. He couldn’t not look; the room wasn’t big enough to make it convincing to look anywhere else, and besides, he was human, too. But he was a gentleman as well, and not really Wickie Gray Wolf Starczynski, and this woman wasn’t talking to the person she thought she was. She’d probably be really embarrassed if she knew she was standing there, in panties and garter belt and shirt hanging open and . .. and nothing else, in front of a total stranger. She was an older woman, perhaps in her late forties, with graying roots beginning to show under dark auburn hair piled up high, vivid lipstick, heavy eye makeup, and scarlet toenails; she kept herself in shape. In very, very good shape indeed, in fact. The delicate smell of lilacs filled his nostrils, and he found himself taking a very deep breath, savoring the fragrance.
Al had maneuvered himself past Sam and was trying to look past the front panels of the shirt. It was a blue plaid flannel, too big for her, but it probably fit Wickie perfectly. It was draped across her breasts in such a way that Al couldn’t quite see, and he raised one hand, caught sight of Sam’s frankly murderous glare, and thought better of it.
“Wickie, honey, what’s wrong?” The woman obviously thought the glare was meant for her. Sam made a hasty decision based on inadequate data and hoped he wasn’t too far out of line. The woman had all too obviously made herself at home. He could only hope that she had another home somewhere else, too. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“N-nothing’s wrong,” Sam stammered. “I just didn’t expect to see you here.”
“You weren’t supposed to expect me. I wanted it to be a surprise. It’s been way too long, sweetheart. Weeks, in fact. I figured it was time to do something about that.”
He was reminded of the wall of heat from the burner of the hot air balloon; he could feel himself gasping for air. She licked her lips, slowly, pink tongue against dark red lipstick, ran her hand down his chest, twined her arms around his neck, pulled him closer. It would have been a parody of lust, if she weren’t so obviously teasing him.
In all senses of the word.
And rather successfully, too.
Even if she did taste of old tobacco.
Oops.
“Oh ho,” Al chortled. “Looks like you’ve got a fan, Sam. And a very . . . attractive one, too.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just—I’ve got a real bad headache,” he said lamely, wishing he could get his hands on Al’s virtual throat. “The truck—it almost went off the road—”
“What?” the woman snapped. The image of the playful seductress snapped abruptly out of existence as she stalked across the room and through Al to yank down the blinds and peer at the truck parked outside. “You know I can’t afford more bills right now—Was there any damage?”
“No,” Sam said, still reeling from the transition and wondering if she was going to ask about damage to Wickie, too. The most important thing appeared to be the truck, though. He didn’t remember following the woman, but somehow he was standing next to her again.
“A headache?” Al interjected. “I haven’t heard that since my second—no, my th—Come to think of it, all my wives used that line on me, one time or another. . . .”
“Who is she?” Sam mouthed behind the woman’s back. Based on her reaction to the news about the truck, he had a pretty good idea, but it would be nice to get some confirmation.
“Huh? What did you say?” Al asked, belatedly realizing Sam was trying to communicate with him. Sam jabbed a finger in the woman’s direction, almost catching her in the breast as she spun around; he snatched his hand back again and laughed self-consciously.
“Don’t play tickle with me, dammit,” she snapped. “What happened with the truck?”
“Er, nothing. It’s okay, really. Really. Not a scratch on it.” He winced, remembering the tree branches scraping the roof. “Well, not to speak of.”
“Aw, now you got her mad,” Al mourned.
She was past him, pulling the shirt off as she walked through the doorway into the next room. Sam, remaining where he was, caught a tantalizing glimpse of her back. Al followed her as if on a leash.
“Al!” Sam said between his teeth. The hologram paused in the doorway without looking around. “Al, will you please get back here?”
“The view is better from here,” Al responded, not moving.
Sam took a very deep breath and let it out, slowly. He couldn’t kill Al, though the urge was overwhelming; Al was his best friend. His buddy. His Observer, his only contact with his own life.
More to the point, Al was out of reach. “Al, will you get back here and tell me what I’m supposed to be doing here?”
“It’s too late. She’s getting dressed.” Al sounded depressed.
“I don’t think I’m here to make love to a total stranger,” Sam said through his teeth.
“Since when am I a total stranger?” the woman snapped, reentering the room by walking through the hologram. She was fully dressed now, wearing sandals, flowery bell-bottom pants, and a short, rib-hugging top to match. “And you better believe, if there’s any damage to that truck, it’s coming out of your paycheck.” She marched past Sam and out the door.
Paycheck? It had to be Rita Marie Hoffman. Sam watched her examine the sides and fenders, and hoped she wouldn’t raise the tarp. He didn’t think she’d be happy about finding a full quarter-keg back there.
Fortunately she didn’t find enough damage to send her back into the cabin, looking for blood. She glanced back once at the bewildered man standing in the light of
