The Other Man(55)

And then we went to bed.  Separately.

He’s a man of his word, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.  He hadn’t even tried to take it further.

I woke up turned on and to the smell of bacon.

I recalled vaguely the feverish dreams that had my sheets twisted up around my hips.

Stretching, I smiled and wondered if Heath could actually cook.

And then it hit me.

Fuck.

That wasn’t Heath cooking for me.  It was Kevin, and I felt guilty as hell for the slip-up.

I got dressed and tried my best to forget how I’d woken up.

We had breakfast.  Kevin made a killer omelet.  There didn’t seem to be a thing he was bad at.

“I got us tickets for that romantic comedy you wanted to see.  Matinee tickets,” Kevin said as we were finishing up.

Kevin loved romantic comedies.

I had that tick again.  Opposite.

We were leaving the house, headed to the show in Kevin’s car, which was parked at my front curb, when the strangest thing happened.

Deborah of the Dickhead Dillons, my least favorite neighbor, crossed the street and approached us.  She was a small woman, thin, with a haggard face and eyes that seemed never to blink.  Today her dark hair hung lank and oily around her face, clearly in need of a wash.

“Um, hey,” I said to her, awkwardly, because I’d stopped trying to greet her ages ago.  She was one of those people that didn’t wave back.  I’d never understood how you could do that, just ignore a wave or a greeting, but it seemed to be a consistent attribute for crazy people.  I mean, how hard was it to stop pretending you didn’t see anyone around you and just wave?  Why wouldn’t you want to be friendly in the most casual of waves with the people that lived next door to you?

Because crazy.

She didn’t hey me back, just launched into one of the strangest speeches I’d ever heard in my life.

It was so disconnected and hard to make sense of that I didn’t catch what she was talking about for a solid two minutes.

And when I did, I raised a hand and stopped her.  “Are you telling me that my ex is suing me?”

Eyes wide, she nodded.

“For what?”

“For money.”  She said this part like it was obvious, which I suppose it was.

“But how does he think he’s going to sue me for money?” I tried.

“Remember when you beat him up, back when you first separated?”

I sighed and nodded.

“For that.  Damages for that.”

Kevin had been silent for the duration of our strange exchange, but I felt his hand on my waist tense when she said that.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked her.  She was not the type to do anyone any favors without incentive.  “What does any of it have to do with you?”

“Well, he came straight to my house the day you beat him.  Did I ever tell you that?”  I shook my head.  She had not, because we never talked to each other.

Because crazy.

“Well,” she continued, “he was bruised and bloody, and I saw him come out of your house that way.  I’m part of the lawsuit.  A witness, since I saw that it was clearly you that beat him up, since he came out of the house and only you and he were home.”

“That’s hearsay,” Kevin piped in quietly.  “You weren’t there for the event, so nothing you have to add has any relevance, in court or in life.  You have no idea who else was in that house.”

She glared at him and shrugged jerkily.  “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

“Why are you telling me any of this?” I repeated, my tone very careful, as it usually was when I dealt with crazy people.

Her glare moved to me.  “I’m telling you this because if you don’t want me to testify, I’ll be happy to stay silent . . . for a price.”

I barely managed not to roll my eyes.  “Not interested, Deborah.  You have a nice a day.  We were just on our way out.”

“You’ll be sorry,” she said to my departing back.  “I won’t make this offer to you again.”

I didn’t say anything snotty back.  All she got from me was silence.

I figured Kevin would comment on that exchange, but he didn’t say a word, just drove us to the movies, pretending like it hadn’t happened.

I was fine with that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I was dreaming.

I was in bed on my stomach.  My lacy underwear were being pulled down my hips in slow, gentle tugs.

I squirmed a bit as they were freed past my thighs, down my knees, then poof, gone.

Hands started rubbing at my feet, running a big thumb up the soles, then knuckles ran down the arch.  Special attention was spent working at the sensitive pad below my toes, knowing just where to target, lulling me with a rough, addictive touch.

I knew those big, skillful hands.

They were Heath’s, of course.

Who else would I be dreaming about?

I moaned into my pillow as he massaged his way up to my calves, digging deep into the muscle tissue.

When he reached my thighs, I pushed up on my elbows and knees, rising a few inches from the bed.

This was my dream, after all, and I was in the mood for more than a massage.