Unscrewed Page 5

  The chair trembled in Rivera’s hand. He set it aside, straightened, then shifted his gaze to me, smoldering hot with tight-coiled frustration.

  I opened my mouth, but if I had any fabulous verbal plans, I have no idea what they were. He was Rivera, as volatile as meth, as unpredictable as a schizophrenic. Maybe he was innocent. But maybe he was guilty as hell.

  Our gazes fused for one elongated moment as he probed my soul, and then he nodded grimly, turned, and walked out the door.

  The captain closed his eyes and eased his big hands open. Around me, people began chattering like startled chipmunks.

  The senator spoke first. “I am sorry.” Kindred turned toward him. “I very much hoped he had matured.”

  “He’ll be all right,” said Kindred. “Just needs to blow off some steam. He’ll come around.”

  But the older man shook his head. “I fear our past stands between us. His mother and I…” he began, then smiled sadly. “But these are not your troubles, are they? Thank you for your efforts, Leighton. I shall not forget them.”

  The captain turned with a scowl toward his office.

  The senator focused on me, gave a slight bow. “Ms. McMullen.” He reached for my hand with both of his, drawing me close, holding me with his gaze. “He needs a friend now. Someone who believes in him.”

  I tried to step back. If there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that Rivera had read every rabid doubt in my head, every raging fear in my weak-bladdered soul. “I don’t think I’m—”

  “If not you, then who?” he asked, smiling gently. “Go to him. Give him the comfort only a beautiful woman can give a man,” he said, and patting my hand, he turned to leave.

  Beautiful? I stood like a dumbfounded monkey, staring after him in bewilderment and wondering if he’d noticed my mismatched shoes.

  6

  Marriage is like a toothbrush. It starts out smooth and gets kind of prickly toward the end.

  —Howard Lepinski, who brushes twelve times a day

  IT WAS A long night, during which I did a lot of tossing. I would have turned, too, but Harlequin took up most of the available turning space. By Monday morning I felt like my brain had been rolled in sawdust and deep-fried in pig fat.

  The clock said 8:42. My first session was at ten. Time to rise and shine. Well, no time to shine, just to rise.

  I remained where I was.

  The memory of Rivera’s dead-set eyes seared me to the bone. He’d looked at me as if I were somehow culpable. As if he could blame me for doubting him, when the truth was, I didn’t know him. Had never been given a chance to know him. All I was sure of was that he was as unstable as nitro…and a liar. He was lying nitroglycerin. Well, at least he was a neglecter of the truth. He’d never mentioned Salina. Not one word. Not one damned syllable. What was I supposed to think? That his presence during her death was simply coincidental? That he was as innocent as a kiwi? That he’d walked into his father’s living room, found her dead, and decided to take a nap on the hardwood?

  Well, none of it mattered. It wasn’t my concern. If Rivera had wanted a real relationship, he would have made some sort of effort toward that end. Would have told me about his past. Or at least about his present. Holy crap! His father had been engaged to his ex, who happened to look a lot like a slinky version of Salma Hayek.

  I slapped my hand over my eyes and moaned. How did I keep making the same mistakes? Well, okay, not exactly the same mistakes. My boyfriends weren’t generally accused of manslaughter. So I had to get points for originality. I mean, it wasn’t easy constantly coming up with all-time lows in my history of less-than-romantic entanglements.

  But this time I knew one thing for certain.

  I dropped my hand from my eyes and sat up like a toy soldier. My days of living stupid were over. I didn’t need a man anyway. I had a good job. Well, I had a job. And a nice house. Well, I had a house. I had a good life. Well…anyway, from now on I was going to concentrate on nothing more grandiose than keeping all three.

  And if I dated—if I dated—it would only be with pedigreed men. Men with taste, men with substance, men who neither accused me of murder nor were accused of murder themselves.

  I rolled out of bed. Eeyore’s tail wiggled on the back of my pajama top. My silk nightie had gone AWOL again.

  I wandered into the bathroom, used the toilet, then eyed the scale near the sink. It stared back, cocky as a Frenchman. But this was a new me. A confident me. The scale was not the enemy. Striding up to the plate, I stepped boldly onto the smooth white surface, and winced.

  Ten minutes later I was laced into my running shoes and stepping out the front door. Harlequin looked dashing in his red nylon leash. Controlling him was kind of like trying to box up the wind, but after the turmoil of the past six months, there was something comforting about having a rhino-size carnivore on a string. And there was the added bonus of his tendency to pull me up the hills.

  The jacarandas were capped in purple blossoms and blooming early on Opus Street. Had I not been sure my lungs were about to explode I would have stared in awe. Dr. Seuss couldn’t have conjured up anything more outrageous, but I turned my back to them and chugged up Oro Vista. True to form, Harley did his part to tow me along. Downhill was like trying to water-ski behind a Zamboni. By the time I reached my own slanted stoop, my right arm was two inches longer than my left and I wasn’t sure which of us was panting harder.

  Sloshing water into Harlequin’s dish, I set it on the floor near the kitchen counter. He slopped it up while I retreated to the bathroom. No water for me. Instead, I stripped off every thread of clothing, gritted my teeth, stepped back onto the scale, and glared. Maybe it wasn’t the enemy, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to invite it over for pizza and beer. Stepping off, I slipped off my watch and removed my hair binder. Then, picking up the scale, I placed it on a cushy portion of the carpet in my pencilsized hallway and gave it another chance.

  One hundred and thirty-two pounds.

  Not bad. If I didn’t eat for a week and shaved my head, my weight would be perfect.

  I was inspired to eat light. Breakfast consisted of seven raisins and a glass of water. Not because I wanted to look good for men. The new Christina McMullen didn’t care about such outdated considerations.

  Jack Rivera might have bone-melting eyes and an ass like a hot cross bun, but that only mattered to the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was playing it smart. Living right. Keeping her nose to the grindstone.

  Where the hell did one find a grindstone?

  I pondered that on my drive to work and studiously did not think about buns of any kind. When a guy in a Chevy truck with license plates that said BOSSMAN cut me off, I ground my teeth, bided my time, and returned the favor at the first possible opportunity. Huh. The new Chrissy seemed to be almost as vindictive as the old one.

  Eleven minutes later I was sitting across from my first client. Jacob Gerry was thirty-one, attractive, and successful. Luckily, he was also as gay as a bluebird. Ergo, no temptation to fraternize. Fraternizing with clients is a big no-no and tends to jeopardize one’s career. After the debacle with Andrew Bomstad, mine didn’t exactly need jeopardizing. Not that the new Chrissy would have been tempted even if Gerry fought fires in his underwear while simultaneously curing cancer. The new Chrissy was grinding her nose.

  “Do you believe everyone really has a soul mate?” Jacob’s voice was quiet and earnest, his eyes solemn. He worked in advertising, dressed like a Macy’s mannequin, and probably made enough in an hour to pay my mortgage. But he was short one mate for his soul.

  “What exactly do you mean by a ‘soul mate’?” I asked.

  He smiled, showing teeth just a little shy of perfect. Somehow it only made him more appealing. “Is this a clever ploy to induce me to discuss the meaning of life?”

  Actually, no. I just honestly had no idea what a soul mate was. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t a guy who ate the center out of my birthday cake or used my e-mail address to converse wi
th girls who had names like Satin and Honey.

  The new Chrissy shrugged enigmatically. “Perhaps,” she said.

  Jacob glanced out the window, smile fading. The view was less than awe-inspiring. Unless you were inspired by the sight of the Sunrise Coffee House. Which, by the by, had darn good scones. The old Chrissy had sometimes been inspired.

  “I used to think I needed someone…” He paused, thinking. “Right.”

  “‘Right’?” I repeated, clever as a fox.

  “You know. The right image. The right apartment. The right friends.”

  I steepled my fingers. “And now?”

  “Now…” He looked wistful and tired when he turned back toward me. “Now I think I might be an ass.”

  By the time Jacob left, the new Chrissy was a little confused. Weren’t we supposed to be fussy? Weren’t we supposed to aim high? By lunch she was only hungry. Turns out raisins don’t stick to your ribs like, say,…food.

  So I trekked to the coffee shop early, obsessing over a Bacon Brava sandwich on a croissant with extra mozzarella and potato chips. I ordered a turkey on rye and returned to the office feeling smug and a little resentful. Damn freakin’ poultry.

  I saw four clients back to back without even coming up for air.

  At 5:51 I heard Howard Lepinski talking to Elaine in the reception area. I finished updating Peggy Shin’s records and dutifully set the rest aside. The old Chrissy wasn’t real concerned about punctuality. Five minutes late was spot on time as far as she was concerned. But I was different now. I opened the door at six o’clock on the dot.

  Lepinski settled onto my couch like a little old lady protecting her pocketbook, knees pressed primly together, back straight as a pin.

  I said hello. He managed the same. A few seconds ticked away in silence before I decided to give the proverbial ball a shove.

  “So how was your—”

  “I’m thinking of going back to my wife.” The words sped from his lips like 220 sprinters.

  I sat dumbfounded. If I had been Lepinski’s mistress this might have been bad news. Or maybe if I had been his wife. As things stood, I wasn’t sure what to think.

  Mr. Lepinski was a little man with a twitch, a mustache, and eyeglasses thick enough to render them bulletproof. I’d been counseling him for almost a year.

  “Are you certain that’s what you want to do?” I asked.

  Lepinski shrugged and blinked twice. He was extremely fond of blinking…and shrugging. Sometimes it was a little disturbing, like watching a palsied zebra finch. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Lepinski had, some months earlier, decided to do the Mattress Marengo with the guy who sold her pork ribs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But there may have been other reasons.

  “She’s not seeing him anymore.”

  I assumed when he said “seeing,” he actually meant screwing, but neither Chrissy was too excited about asking. I nodded and refocused. Lepinski had problems, but compared to some men, most of whom I’ve dated, he’s got his pencils all in one box. “Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes.” He glanced up, twitched. “She says it’s over.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if the missus had called it quits with the pork-rib guy because she desperately longed to return to the connubial bliss she’d once shared with her beloved spouse, or because Porker had belatedly come to his senses. I’d met Mrs. Lepinski. She was marginally better-looking than a rump roast, but not quite as charming.

  “So you miss her,” I said. It was not quite a question, but left the door open for a response. Sometimes I surprised even myself with my spectacular cunning. Go, new Chrissy!

  Lepinski’s myopic gaze flitted toward the door and back. “She’s my wife.”

  I sat in intelligent silence. Sometimes I sat in idiotic silence, but I tried to avoid it at the office.

  “I mean, of course I miss her.” He was looking defensive and fidgety, darting his attention from my framed Ansel Adams to my nearly empty desktop. It boasted one photograph, a magnet thingie with geometric metal pieces stuck to it, and two files aligned just so.

  “You’re living alone since the separation, aren’t you, Mr. Lepinski?”

  “Yes.”

  “In an apartment?”

  He twitched. Maybe he saw where I was heading and didn’t like the direction. “So?”

  “I was just wondering how you like your new space.”

  “Space?” He snorted. “It’s the size of a thumbtack. Don’t even have a toaster.”

  “I couldn’t live without English muffins,” I said.

  He shot his gaze back to mine. “What?”

  I smiled and leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees. They were stylishly garbed in dove gray Chanel trousers. Secondhand, but still classy as hell. “Tell me what you miss most about Sheila.”

  “Well…” He scowled, looking angry—or constipated. “She, uh…I don’t understand the question.”

  I shrugged. “Does she make you laugh? Do you like the way she smells? Is she a master chef?”

  Definitely angry, but maybe constipated, too, and more than a tad defensive. “She doesn’t like the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” I leaned back and uh-huhed. “How does she feel about the bedroom?”

  He froze. His mustache twitched and he darted his gaze away as if he hoped to do the same. “What?”

  “We haven’t spoken much about your relationship with your wife, Mr. Lepinski. I’m wondering what makes it special. Is it…say…sparkling dialogue, a mutual love for buffalo nickels, or something more intimate?”

  “Intimate?” He said the word as though it were being dragged out of his throat with a garden trowel.

  “You were intimate, weren’t you?” I asked, and smiled to break the tension. No go.

  “Of course. Of course we were…intimate.”

  The room went silent. I waited. Nodded. Waited some more. He didn’t expound, leaving me to wonder, what kind of person doesn’t like to talk about sex?

  History and personal experience immediately suggested that it’s the kind that’s not getting any. Just about then, I could think of forty-seven subjects I’d rather discuss. Forty-eight if you count asphalt. I do.

  “How often?” I asked finally.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s between Sheila and me.”

  “Is it?”

  “What?”

  “Listen, Mr. Lepinski, I’m not a voyeur.” And if I were, I sincerely hoped I could find a better subject than a little man who favored rainbow-colored socks and considered collecting coins as exhilarating as skydiving. “I’m just wondering if, perhaps, you’ve misplaced your affections.”

  “Huh?”

  “Might it be possible that you don’t miss your wife so much as you miss…warm toast?”

  “I don’t eat white flour anymore.”

  I refrained from grinding my teeth. “Then perhaps it’s something else associated with Sheila that you long for. That is to say, your own home…comfort.” I paused, daring myself to terrify him again. “Sex.”

  For a moment I thought he might actually launch himself out my window and thwap into the coffeehouse next door. But he remained where he was, clawed hands holding his knees in place lest they skitter across the room like south-of-the-border fleas.

  “Have you been seeing anyone?” I ventured, cautious now, for fear he’d do himself bodily harm in his haste to escape.

  “Seeing…?”

  “Dating,” I explained.

  His eyes went round with panic. I’d like to say I found his reaction ridiculous and melodramatic. But the new Chrissy’s no idiot.

  “No!” he said. “No. I mean…I’m married. I can’t. I wouldn’t know…how….” His voice trailed off.

  “It’s just a thought, Mr. Lepinski,” I said. “You don’t have to run right out to a singles bar or anything.”

  “Singles bar?” For a moment I thought he might burst into tears, which, from my perspective, was the most normal reaction I’d ever seen him exhibit.
Anyone who doesn’t want to cry at the thought of a singles bar is either a hopeless masochist or just…hopeless.

  “That is to say, I think it’s important that you examine your true feelings for your wife before you make any firm decisions.”

  He twitched and glared. The clock ticked. He twitched again.

  “Perhaps returning to her will make your life a living Utopia—or perhaps it will only further degrade your self-esteem.”

  He said nothing. I carefully abstained from jumping to my feet and roaring at him. The woman had cheated on him…while wearing his pajamas…with the meat guy.

  “Hence, you must determine what you truly miss, then decide if the pleasure of her company, or the return to your former life, is worth your efforts.”

  He bounced his knees up half an inch and shot his gaze toward the window. I waited to the count of five.

  “Tell me, Mr. Lepinski, how does your wife make you feel when you—”

  “What about sex?” he croaked.

  I paused. “Pardon me?”

  “Is it worth degrading my self-esteem for sex?”

  “Uhhh—”

  “I mean…” His face was as pale as a full moon. People get damn freaky during full moons. “It’s not like we did it all the time or anything.”

  “You and Sheila.”

  “Not much more than four times a week.”

  I felt my proverbial jaw hit my proverbial knees. “Four—”

  “But it was better than nothing.” He was whispering now, a secret. “Don’t you think?”

  “Four times—”

  “She wasn’t very nice sometimes.” He paused, agonized. “Called me a weenie little sliver of a man and…”

  Four times a week? I hadn’t had sex four times in the past…Holy shit, I wasn’t sure I’d had sex four times.

  “…a waste of oxygen,” he said.

  I clicked my mind into gear. “Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, people sometimes say things they don’t mean when—”

  “A germ turd.”

  All right. All evidence suggested that the woman was a first-rate bitch, but I had to give her top scores for imaginative insults. “When people fight they often—”