But he was in a committed relationship that didn’t allow for touching other women’s hair, or asking out a feisty photographer — and wouldn’t she take him to task for the word feisty. A committed relationship where he wasn’t getting any either.
And his body noticed the woman in front of him and reacted. Mac sighed.
He wanted to make a relationship with Kate Fairchild work. So, he cleaned up his language, and he took her to church on Sundays. Well, some Sundays. They went out on dates. He had Sunday dinner at the Fairchild boarding house with Kate and her mother, Naomi, and assorted other boarders. All devout, evangelical Christians.
And while Kate insisted he shouldn’t change for her, he couldn’t see how a relationship would work if he didn’t. Would he want her to change to be with him? To don a skin-tight dress and go dancing at the Bohemian? Or to spend the night in his bed? Well OK, he wanted the last at least, but he wasn’t going to seduce a good Christian girl — even a 26-year-old one — into losing her virginity.
Even if he’d gone without sex for six months now.
Even if that was five-and-a-half months longer than he’d ever gone without sex since he discovered girls at 13. Even when he’d been fighting in Afghanistan.
He believed a man should control his body, not the reverse, and so he stayed celibate to see if he had a chance to build a lasting relationship with one of the smartest women he’d ever known. A kind, happy woman with no shadowed corners. He wanted that. He wanted the sense of home he found at the Fairchilds.
His best friend Shorty had asked, “You in love with the girl, Mac? Or do you want to be adopted by her mother?”
Mac had to admit there might be some truth to that.
He’d grown up poor with a single mother who moved across the country at a whim, who left him alone for days when he wasn’t even school-aged yet to hook up with different men. A mother who had a borderline personality disorder and should never have been allowed to raise a child, according to his aunt. His aunt had taken over his rearing when he was 15, but by then he was already headstrong and roaming the streets. He went into the Marines at 18 to avoid a felony auto theft charge.
So yeah, damn right he wanted a home. A real one.
So why hadn’t he proposed? As Shorty said, time to shit or get off the pot. For a math teacher in well-to-do Bellevue, Shorty could be crass. But he was right. And Mac didn’t know why he hadn’t proposed.
At least he’d get regular sex then.
He shook his head, refocused on what Angie was doing to his photos, and ignored the pull of that damn fuchsia hair.
“OK,” she said. “Tell Janet, I sent three to her queue. A broad shot of the walls of weapons, a closeup of someone tagging one, and the one of what looks like the murder scene with the detective. She probably won’t use it, but it’s there.”
“Thanks,” Mac said. “Could you also do your magic on the ones that are photos on the wall? And send them to me? I want to take a closer look at them.”
“Will do,” she said, and handed back his camera. “Now quit hovering and get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, teasing, and she laughed.
Mac put the camera in his backpack. Looking at his watch, he swore under his breath, and headed for his desk. He was behind schedule. He needed to get this story written and make his morning calls to all the law enforcement and fire departments to collect information on anything else that had happened over night — blotter items. And the clock was ticking. Janet needed them all by 8 a.m. Not 8:02 a.m. but 8 fucking a.m.
He glanced at the large clock on the wall above Janet’s workstation. There wasn’t any art on the walls. Bulletin boards. And the damn clock. The newsroom was primarily a bunch of desks with computers on them. Linoleum floors in some non-descript beige pattern. High ceilings with overhead lights that most companies would have replaced years ago. Beige walls.
Besides that damn clock, the only decoration to be seen were the bulletin boards with agendas and minutes thumbtacked on them, and the piles of newspapers and reports that accrued on every desk, intermingled with coffee cups and half-filled pop cans.
A few reporters might have a personal token on their desk. Or a smart-ass sticker on their computer. Mac didn’t. He didn’t do personal stuff at work. And Seth Conte, the other cop reporter, had given up on personalizing their work space. He also accepted Mac would not allow dirty coffee cups.
But Mac had finally conceded the battle over the stacks of paper. He came to realize that most reporters — including Seth — didn’t even see them. It seemed to comfort them to have the paper there, like rats making a nest out of paper they shredded. So, Mac had grimly come to tolerate the paper. He’d learned to tolerate the rats as a child after all.
He tidied it up on occasion, but he didn’t throw it away anymore. He didn’t even shove it in a desk drawer. And Seth, who was actually a good guy in Mac’s book, took it graciously as the win that it was.
Mac sat down and turned on his computer. He pulled his notebook out of his backpack, and flipped to the page with phone numbers of all the law enforcement and emergency services departments, and began the calls.
While on hold at the Bellevue police department, he looked over at Janet Andrews, the news editor and his boss. “I’ve got a story about
