himself. He once again launched toward the wal . He jumped from nightstand to dresser to shelf, scaling pil ows and even a lamp to get closer to his
beloved. When he realized he would never be able to burrow under the plaster, he serenaded her with some weird kind of kitty Barry White, his
yowls matching hers in intensity.
When the wal s began to shake, and Simon was bringing it on home, I was amazed they could maintain their control and focus with the racket
going on. Clearly, if I could hear them, they must have been able to hear Clive and al his carrying on. Although if I were impaled on the Wal banger
Wondercock, I imagine I could compartmentalize as wel …
For now, though, I was impaled on nothing and getting angry. I was tired, I was horny with no release in sight, and my cat had a Q-Tip sticking
out of his mouth that looked frighteningly like a tiny cigarette.
After an abbreviated night’s sleep, the next morning I dragged myself to the peephole for another round of HaremWatch. I was rewarded with a
brief side profile of Simon as he leaned in to kiss Purina goodbye. It was quick, but it was enough to see the jaw: strong, defined, good. He gave
great jaw. The best thing about that day was the jaw sighting. The rest of the day was shit.
First, there was a problem with the general contractor over at the Nicholson house. It seems he was not only taking extremely long lunch
breaks, he was actual y blazing it up in their attic every day. The whole third floor smel ed like a Dead concert.
Then, an entire pal et of tiles for the bathroom floor arrived cracked and chipped. The amount of time needed to reorder and reship would set
the entire project back at least two weeks, leaving no possibility of finishing on time. Any time major construction takes place, the project end date
is an estimated time of completion. However, I had never missed a deadline, and this being such a high-profile job, it made me very warm (not in a
good way) to realize there was nothing I could do to speed things up short of flying to Italy and bringing back those tiles my damn self.
After a quick lunch, during which I spil ed an entire soda al over the floor and thoroughly embarrassed myself, I headed back toward work and
stopped in a store to look at some new hiking boots. I had plans to go hiking over in the Marin headlands this weekend.
As I examined the selection, I felt warm breath in my ear that I instinctively flinched against.
“Hey you,” I heard, and I froze in terror. Flashbacks poured over me, and I saw spots. I felt cold and hot at the same time, and the single most
horrifying experience of my life passed through my mind. I turned and saw…
Cory Weinstein. The machine-gun fucker who’d hijacked the O.
“Caroline, lookin’ good in the neighborhood,” he crooned, channeling his inner Tom Jones.
I swal owed back bile and struggled to keep my composure. “Cory, good to see you. How are you?” I managed.
“Can’t complain. Just touring restaurants for the old man. How are you? How’s the decorating business treating you?”
“Design business, and it’s good. In fact, I was just on my way back to work, so if you’l excuse me,” I sputtered, beginning to push past him.
“Hey, no rush, pretty thing. Have you had lunch? I can get you a discount on some pizza just a few blocks away. How does five percent off
sound to you?” he said. If it was possible for a voice to swagger, his did.
“Wow, five percent. As much as that does sweeten the pot, I’m gonna pass.” I chuckled.
“So, Caroline, when can I see you again? That night…damn. It was pretty great, huh?” He winked, and my skin begged me to tear it from my
body and throw it at him.
“No. No, Cory. And hel no,” I blurted, the bile rising again. Flashes of in and out and in and out and in and out. My hoohah shrieked in its own
defense. Granted, the two of us were not on great terms, but nevertheless I knew how afraid she was of the machine gun. Not on my watch.
“Oh, come on, baby. Let’s make some magic,” he cooed.
He leaned in, and I could tel he’d had sausage recently. “Cory, you should know I’m about to vomit on your shoes, so I’d back up if I were you.”
He blanched and stepped away.
“And for the record, I’d rather staple my head to the wal than make magic with you again. You and me and your five-percent discount? Not
going to happen. Bye-bye now,” I said through clenched teeth and stalked out of the store.
I stomped back to work, angry and alone. No Italian tiles, no hiking boots, no man, and no O.
I spent the night on the couch in a funk. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t make dinner. I ate leftover Thai from the takeout container and