neighboring passenger who admired Penny.
As we disembarked from the bus, Hank didn’t even spare me a glance, but plucked the keys from my hand and beeped open my 4Runner. I tried to open the back, but it was still locked. “Beep it again, dammit.”
“Thing’s a pain.”
“So, you could have brought your own car.”
“I got a ride. Thought we’d drive back together.” He beeped the keylock.
“It’s still locked, Hank. You’ve got to beep it twice in a row.”
He stabbed with the remote, as if it were a person he was killing. I heard the click and lifted the back. I flung my rollie into the cargo area, slammed the trunk shut with way too much force, and stomped around to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive.”
He didn’t move. “Get in.”
I snorted, walked around, opened the back door and waited while Penny gathered herself and leapt. I slid into the passenger side and grabbed the handle.
“Where’s Peanut?” I asked, missing Hank’s giant Irish Wolfhound.
“Not here,” he said, pronouncing “here” like “heah.” I laughed.
As expected, Hank crept out of the parking lot at the speed of sludge. He paid, and we were on our way back to Boston, which, given his driving style, would take years, if not decades.
C HAPTER N INE
Amazing that Hank could move even slower going across the Sagamore Bridge. He knew it drove me batso when he crawled along in the car. The more irritated he was with me, the slower we went. Revenge. That was what this was all about.
“Nothing happened, Hank.”
“Yup suh.”
“You know,” I said, “I’m so frickin’ glad to see you, and all you can do is scowl. Dammit. I was with Kranak because he was investigating a crime scene. Nothing more.”
He didn’t move.
“I can’t even see your eyes behind those stupid cop sunglasses.”
The glasses remained on his face.
“You drive me crazy.” And he did. But the whole story about why I was on the Vineyard and Izod man and my cut face avalanched out. “Satisfied?”
He slipped on a Bluetooth earpiece, which I somehow found shocking in my retro fella. He pressed and mumbledsomething into the earpiece I couldn’t hear, nodded. Then he pushed the off button.
I waited a good ten minutes while the tarmac of Route 3 plodded by. “C’mon, Hank,” I finally said.
“It’s your face, Tal.”
Not a trace of Maine-ese. “I know. It’s a mess.”
“He cut you.”
“I had it stitched on the Vineyard. It’ll be fine. I . . .”
He hates it. He thinks I’ll look ugly with a scar snaking down my cheek. He . . .
Well, I guess I hadn’t thought he’d react that way.
I peered out the window, saw nothing, felt that hollow place inside.
A warm hand, more like a bear paw, covered mine. “I don’t give a fuck about your scar, Tal. I’m pissed the fella’s dead, ’cause I want to kill him myself. I’m trying to get a handle on that fury. Y’know?”
I tried to cry, let out a string of epithets. I leaned closer to Hank—wished the 4Runner had bench seats—kissed his cheek and lay my arm across his belly for the rest of the ride home.
Nothing was better than making love with Hank Cunningham. He touched my left breast, pinched my nipple lightly. Geesh, I wanted more. “Christmas, Hank.”
His rumbled chuckle drove me higher, and I rubbed his groin with my pelvis. His hardness made me feel full and wet and electric. I pushed my toes against his, opened, and when he slid inside me, I arched like a quivering bow.
“Oh, Hank, what you do to me, love.” The scent of him drove me crazier.
“Let’s ride,” he gasped.
Lips on mine, pace tormentingly slow, hands pressed to my back, my arms wrapped around his shoulders. We found nirvana again.
Monday morning, I heard Hank open and close the front door.
“Did you get the paper?” I said.
He winked and tossed it on the bed.
“What are you up for today?” I checked the headlines, then lounged on the bed, scratching Penny’s ears, while he
As we disembarked from the bus, Hank didn’t even spare me a glance, but plucked the keys from my hand and beeped open my 4Runner. I tried to open the back, but it was still locked. “Beep it again, dammit.”
“Thing’s a pain.”
“So, you could have brought your own car.”
“I got a ride. Thought we’d drive back together.” He beeped the keylock.
“It’s still locked, Hank. You’ve got to beep it twice in a row.”
He stabbed with the remote, as if it were a person he was killing. I heard the click and lifted the back. I flung my rollie into the cargo area, slammed the trunk shut with way too much force, and stomped around to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive.”
He didn’t move. “Get in.”
I snorted, walked around, opened the back door and waited while Penny gathered herself and leapt. I slid into the passenger side and grabbed the handle.
“Where’s Peanut?” I asked, missing Hank’s giant Irish Wolfhound.
“Not here,” he said, pronouncing “here” like “heah.” I laughed.
As expected, Hank crept out of the parking lot at the speed of sludge. He paid, and we were on our way back to Boston, which, given his driving style, would take years, if not decades.
C HAPTER N INE
Amazing that Hank could move even slower going across the Sagamore Bridge. He knew it drove me batso when he crawled along in the car. The more irritated he was with me, the slower we went. Revenge. That was what this was all about.
“Nothing happened, Hank.”
“Yup suh.”
“You know,” I said, “I’m so frickin’ glad to see you, and all you can do is scowl. Dammit. I was with Kranak because he was investigating a crime scene. Nothing more.”
He didn’t move.
“I can’t even see your eyes behind those stupid cop sunglasses.”
The glasses remained on his face.
“You drive me crazy.” And he did. But the whole story about why I was on the Vineyard and Izod man and my cut face avalanched out. “Satisfied?”
He slipped on a Bluetooth earpiece, which I somehow found shocking in my retro fella. He pressed and mumbledsomething into the earpiece I couldn’t hear, nodded. Then he pushed the off button.
I waited a good ten minutes while the tarmac of Route 3 plodded by. “C’mon, Hank,” I finally said.
“It’s your face, Tal.”
Not a trace of Maine-ese. “I know. It’s a mess.”
“He cut you.”
“I had it stitched on the Vineyard. It’ll be fine. I . . .”
He hates it. He thinks I’ll look ugly with a scar snaking down my cheek. He . . .
Well, I guess I hadn’t thought he’d react that way.
I peered out the window, saw nothing, felt that hollow place inside.
A warm hand, more like a bear paw, covered mine. “I don’t give a fuck about your scar, Tal. I’m pissed the fella’s dead, ’cause I want to kill him myself. I’m trying to get a handle on that fury. Y’know?”
I tried to cry, let out a string of epithets. I leaned closer to Hank—wished the 4Runner had bench seats—kissed his cheek and lay my arm across his belly for the rest of the ride home.
Nothing was better than making love with Hank Cunningham. He touched my left breast, pinched my nipple lightly. Geesh, I wanted more. “Christmas, Hank.”
His rumbled chuckle drove me higher, and I rubbed his groin with my pelvis. His hardness made me feel full and wet and electric. I pushed my toes against his, opened, and when he slid inside me, I arched like a quivering bow.
“Oh, Hank, what you do to me, love.” The scent of him drove me crazier.
“Let’s ride,” he gasped.
Lips on mine, pace tormentingly slow, hands pressed to my back, my arms wrapped around his shoulders. We found nirvana again.
Monday morning, I heard Hank open and close the front door.
“Did you get the paper?” I said.
He winked and tossed it on the bed.
“What are you up for today?” I checked the headlines, then lounged on the bed, scratching Penny’s ears, while he
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