I couldn’t tell where he began and I left off.
I wriggled out of my boxers; tore at his T-shirt. I felt myself nearing an edge, ready and willing to tumble into a lovely abyss.
Everything faded; the day’s dreadfulness, the struggles of the last six months. I feel a puddling in the middle of me. A tight spot in my chest that had been there for months dissolved. It was as though Buster had reached inside me and kneaded that spot until it softened and spread.
When I woke up, the sun was shining and I was alone. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed last night, then I felt the soreness along my jaw, scraped raw from Buster’s unshaven face. I stretched like a pampered cat, feeling every nerve ending sing. Buster had tended to my body like no one else ever had, and I’d enjoyed every minute of it.
There was a note on the pillow. “Lesson number one.” A pencil sketch of a guitar punctuated the sentence. I felt myself grin.
Greedily, I ran though the possibilities for a repeat performance. I could get free today. I didn’t have much to do at the quilt show without the computer. Being the fourth woman in a three-man booth meant I was more of a hindrance than a help. Buster was going to be there. Late last night, he’d said he was going to be interviewing witnesses in the hotel conference room. Setting up on-site had solved the logistics of getting all the out-of-towners over to the police station.
I sank back on my pillow. I had never taken a guy into my bed so quickly. What had I been thinking? Buster was in the middle of an investigation. Claire was dead—a terrible tragedy for her and her family, and all I was thinking about was getting Buster back in the sack.
And then there were Sanchez’s accusations that I murdered Claire.
Talk about your rude awakening. I felt my gut wrench.
On my way to the shower, I heard my neglected cell phone beeping irritatedly in the living room. I retrieved the messages. The first three were old, from Kym, yesterday. I wasn’t looking forward to facing Kym after our blowup. I knew she would do anything to stop me from computerizing. But she wouldn’t want me to sell either. She just wanted me to do things her way. I punched the delete key without listening to any of her messages.
The next was a brief call from Dad, repeating what he’d told Kevin—he’d be home Sunday, in time for take-down. The sound of his voice made me tear up. I could have used some of his strong silence right about now.
The last was from Justine. “Hey, Dewey. I heard you found Claire. Please come to my room tomorrow morning. Room 511. I need to talk to you.”
I would like to talk to her, too. I felt a connection with her. Being the show’s organizer, she probably had a good sense of who might be interested in buying the shop.
And I wanted to ask her about Claire.
Had she seen anything when she left Claire’s door? I glanced at my watch. It was only eight thirty. I had time to shower, dress, and get over there, see Justine, and still get to the booth before the show opened at ten.
After I talked to Justine, I would look for a potential buyer for the shop.
I hustled through my morning routine. When I got to the point where I usually made my bed, I could see the dent Buster’s body had made in the side of the bed that usually was empty. I liked the way it looked and left it unmade.
The Dixie Chicks blasted out of the CD when I turned on the car, singing about needing a boy like a hole in the head. Like a wild goose chase. Were they right? Did I need a boy like Buster like a hole in the head?
____
I entered the hotel from the lobby connected to the convention center and went into the elevator. Without thinking, I pushed a button. I was lost in thought, bouncing between moments with Buster last night and wondering what Justine would tell me. The door opened. To my surprise, I was looking right into the conference room where Sanchez and Buster had questioned me yesterday. I glanced up at the
I wriggled out of my boxers; tore at his T-shirt. I felt myself nearing an edge, ready and willing to tumble into a lovely abyss.
Everything faded; the day’s dreadfulness, the struggles of the last six months. I feel a puddling in the middle of me. A tight spot in my chest that had been there for months dissolved. It was as though Buster had reached inside me and kneaded that spot until it softened and spread.
When I woke up, the sun was shining and I was alone. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed last night, then I felt the soreness along my jaw, scraped raw from Buster’s unshaven face. I stretched like a pampered cat, feeling every nerve ending sing. Buster had tended to my body like no one else ever had, and I’d enjoyed every minute of it.
There was a note on the pillow. “Lesson number one.” A pencil sketch of a guitar punctuated the sentence. I felt myself grin.
Greedily, I ran though the possibilities for a repeat performance. I could get free today. I didn’t have much to do at the quilt show without the computer. Being the fourth woman in a three-man booth meant I was more of a hindrance than a help. Buster was going to be there. Late last night, he’d said he was going to be interviewing witnesses in the hotel conference room. Setting up on-site had solved the logistics of getting all the out-of-towners over to the police station.
I sank back on my pillow. I had never taken a guy into my bed so quickly. What had I been thinking? Buster was in the middle of an investigation. Claire was dead—a terrible tragedy for her and her family, and all I was thinking about was getting Buster back in the sack.
And then there were Sanchez’s accusations that I murdered Claire.
Talk about your rude awakening. I felt my gut wrench.
On my way to the shower, I heard my neglected cell phone beeping irritatedly in the living room. I retrieved the messages. The first three were old, from Kym, yesterday. I wasn’t looking forward to facing Kym after our blowup. I knew she would do anything to stop me from computerizing. But she wouldn’t want me to sell either. She just wanted me to do things her way. I punched the delete key without listening to any of her messages.
The next was a brief call from Dad, repeating what he’d told Kevin—he’d be home Sunday, in time for take-down. The sound of his voice made me tear up. I could have used some of his strong silence right about now.
The last was from Justine. “Hey, Dewey. I heard you found Claire. Please come to my room tomorrow morning. Room 511. I need to talk to you.”
I would like to talk to her, too. I felt a connection with her. Being the show’s organizer, she probably had a good sense of who might be interested in buying the shop.
And I wanted to ask her about Claire.
Had she seen anything when she left Claire’s door? I glanced at my watch. It was only eight thirty. I had time to shower, dress, and get over there, see Justine, and still get to the booth before the show opened at ten.
After I talked to Justine, I would look for a potential buyer for the shop.
I hustled through my morning routine. When I got to the point where I usually made my bed, I could see the dent Buster’s body had made in the side of the bed that usually was empty. I liked the way it looked and left it unmade.
The Dixie Chicks blasted out of the CD when I turned on the car, singing about needing a boy like a hole in the head. Like a wild goose chase. Were they right? Did I need a boy like Buster like a hole in the head?
____
I entered the hotel from the lobby connected to the convention center and went into the elevator. Without thinking, I pushed a button. I was lost in thought, bouncing between moments with Buster last night and wondering what Justine would tell me. The door opened. To my surprise, I was looking right into the conference room where Sanchez and Buster had questioned me yesterday. I glanced up at the
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