remembering how his mouth felt. I know my dreams tonight will have nothing to do with blue-eyed men and danger, but will be filled with a dark-eyed man whose kisses still linger on my lips.
Chapter 11
The Signature Room in Chicago has unparalleled views. I like to be this high, ninety-five floors up, towering above the city and lake, seated right up against a window that reaches all the way to my feet. The restaurant is deserted at five p.m. except for a couple at the bar. I take a sip of my drink and run the cold liquid around the inner surfaces of my mouth before swallowing. The Glenlivet Scotch whisky is older than my daughter, and tastes wonderfully rich and smooth. My gluteus muscles relax into the chair and the tension flows out of my neck and back.
I need this time to prepare myself for the arrival of the tracker. After she soiled my sanctuary during our last meeting with her fetid presence, I vowed not to let her near my precious belongings again. So, I’m sitting at this lovely restaurant in the middle of downtown, admiring the spectacular view of Lake Michigan, trying to get into a Zen state before she comes. I even have my squeezy ball for tension release handy. And then, if all else fails, there’s my Glock.
Oh, God, here she comes. My muscles tense as my relaxed state flees like a pursued criminal. Lord, have mercy, what does she have on her feet? There seem to be cast-iron stoves at the end of each leg. She mistakes my look of horror and repulsion for admiration.
“Harley -Davidson Ladies Dipstick Steel Toe Riding Boot. They’ve got a male version, too.”
“I can’t wait until we’re finished so I can run out and buy a pair.” I would sooner have a needle driven slowly through my left eyeball than be caught dead near a pair. “And is that a new dress?” I ask politely. She’s wearing a shapeless sack the color of dog snot that comes just to the top of the Dipstick Shit-toe shoes. I nod approvingly at the mess.
“Why, yes, Howard.” The corner of the tracker’s mouth actually twitches upward. Dear God in heaven. Could she think I like her? How incredibly revolting and amusing. “It was so nice of you to ask me to dinner.” Is that what she thinks? Oh, please, oh Lord, oh no; don’t force me to watch her eat.
“Of course,” I say, hopefully recovering quickly. “A much more pleasant way to do business. Speaking of which, what do you have to report?” If we get down to business, maybe the unpleasantness will all be over with before I lose control. But Rita has another agenda. She is ignoring me, humming to herself, arranging her silverware just so. She suddenly whips her napkin in the air, nearly giving me a heart attack and waves it vigorously over her head.
“What can I get for you?” A waiter has materialized and is graciously awaiting her command. The waiter is tall and thin with a face like a clown fish, eyes way far apart.
“Johnnie Walker Red, double, ice on the side. Please keep them coming.” She settles back in her chair, contented, light glinting off her coke-bottle lenses. The waiter nods and leaves. She looks out the window at the view and starts licking the mole under her lower lip at an even pace. There are distant sounds of a busy kitchen doing routine dinner prep. The couple at the bar breaks out in laughter. Oh, come on. How long can you lick a mole?
My blood pressure is rising along with the bile in my throat when she starts pumping her lips in and out. Ah, she’s thinking. The waiter returns and sets a glass with amber liquid in front of her and a tumbler full of ice to the side. Rita takes a generous sip of her drink and digs several ice cubes out of the other glass with her thick fingers. She then pops the cubes into her mouth and crunches them loudly with her back teeth. Ice chips fly all over the table. She looks like an old dog eating very hard to chew dry dog food. I look around the room, feeling desperate. If I shoot her, there are too
Chapter 11
The Signature Room in Chicago has unparalleled views. I like to be this high, ninety-five floors up, towering above the city and lake, seated right up against a window that reaches all the way to my feet. The restaurant is deserted at five p.m. except for a couple at the bar. I take a sip of my drink and run the cold liquid around the inner surfaces of my mouth before swallowing. The Glenlivet Scotch whisky is older than my daughter, and tastes wonderfully rich and smooth. My gluteus muscles relax into the chair and the tension flows out of my neck and back.
I need this time to prepare myself for the arrival of the tracker. After she soiled my sanctuary during our last meeting with her fetid presence, I vowed not to let her near my precious belongings again. So, I’m sitting at this lovely restaurant in the middle of downtown, admiring the spectacular view of Lake Michigan, trying to get into a Zen state before she comes. I even have my squeezy ball for tension release handy. And then, if all else fails, there’s my Glock.
Oh, God, here she comes. My muscles tense as my relaxed state flees like a pursued criminal. Lord, have mercy, what does she have on her feet? There seem to be cast-iron stoves at the end of each leg. She mistakes my look of horror and repulsion for admiration.
“Harley -Davidson Ladies Dipstick Steel Toe Riding Boot. They’ve got a male version, too.”
“I can’t wait until we’re finished so I can run out and buy a pair.” I would sooner have a needle driven slowly through my left eyeball than be caught dead near a pair. “And is that a new dress?” I ask politely. She’s wearing a shapeless sack the color of dog snot that comes just to the top of the Dipstick Shit-toe shoes. I nod approvingly at the mess.
“Why, yes, Howard.” The corner of the tracker’s mouth actually twitches upward. Dear God in heaven. Could she think I like her? How incredibly revolting and amusing. “It was so nice of you to ask me to dinner.” Is that what she thinks? Oh, please, oh Lord, oh no; don’t force me to watch her eat.
“Of course,” I say, hopefully recovering quickly. “A much more pleasant way to do business. Speaking of which, what do you have to report?” If we get down to business, maybe the unpleasantness will all be over with before I lose control. But Rita has another agenda. She is ignoring me, humming to herself, arranging her silverware just so. She suddenly whips her napkin in the air, nearly giving me a heart attack and waves it vigorously over her head.
“What can I get for you?” A waiter has materialized and is graciously awaiting her command. The waiter is tall and thin with a face like a clown fish, eyes way far apart.
“Johnnie Walker Red, double, ice on the side. Please keep them coming.” She settles back in her chair, contented, light glinting off her coke-bottle lenses. The waiter nods and leaves. She looks out the window at the view and starts licking the mole under her lower lip at an even pace. There are distant sounds of a busy kitchen doing routine dinner prep. The couple at the bar breaks out in laughter. Oh, come on. How long can you lick a mole?
My blood pressure is rising along with the bile in my throat when she starts pumping her lips in and out. Ah, she’s thinking. The waiter returns and sets a glass with amber liquid in front of her and a tumbler full of ice to the side. Rita takes a generous sip of her drink and digs several ice cubes out of the other glass with her thick fingers. She then pops the cubes into her mouth and crunches them loudly with her back teeth. Ice chips fly all over the table. She looks like an old dog eating very hard to chew dry dog food. I look around the room, feeling desperate. If I shoot her, there are too
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