“If I had that rule, I’d have to accept holidays from every country on earth. I’d even make up my own. Blowjobs make guys happy.”
“Diamonds make me happy.” She raised her hand and stretched her fingers wide. “See any?”
I chuckled at her logic. “Do you ever wish you had a dick?”
“Like, one of my own? Yeah. Sometimes. Like now. This show’s dumb, and I’d probably be playing with it just because I could.” She said. “Just eating peanut butter, watching Netflix, and stroking my dick.”
“I wish I had one sometimes, too. But not to play with. I’d like to feel what it feels like to have sex with one. I think it’d be cool.”
“If I had a dick, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off it. I swear. I’d be playing with it all the time. It’s just crazy how they go from all wrinkled and stupid looking to being all stiff and fun. I’d always be messing with it just to watch it do that.”
I leaned away from the door and checked the clock. “You’re weird.”
“I’m not the one in a thirty day no-sex relationship.”
I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I was growing quite fond of Marc, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to imagine losing him. I hoped if nothing else, we could continue our abstinence for another thirty days if need be. I’d be willing to go thirty more, and thirty after that if need be.
“Well, I’m happy to be where I am with who I am.”
“I hope it works out.” She glanced in my direction, and then looked at the television. “Really, I do.”
“I do, too.”
She paused the show. “This show is stupid.”
“It’s time to go to work, anyway. We need to leave in ten.”
She turned off the television and stood. “I need to get something to drink. It doesn’t have to be coffee, though.”
“How’s a chocolate malt sound?”
“A malt from that Ocean whatever place sounds awesome.” She put the peanut butter in the pantry and then looked at me. “What made you think of that?”
An awesome guy who doesn’t drink, has a thirty-day no-sex rule, and possibly a two-inch uncircumcised dick.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I had one the other night and really liked it.”
She reached for the front door. “Come on,” she said excitedly. “Let’s go.”
As we hustled down the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. “This is a great idea. Maybe you’ll be okay not drinking after all.”
Yeah, maybe I will.
Chapter 18
Marc – Day twenty-two
It had been a week, and I had no leads on where the missing girls were, or where MS-13’s members were hiding. It wasn’t uncommon for the gang to use teenage girls in trade on drug deals, or as an enticement to encourage a major cocaine or heroin purchase when a potential buyer was indecisive.
If all else failed, they used them as prostitutes. Regardless of what they were choosing to do, my hope was that I could somehow find them before it was too late. Knowing time was of the essence, and that my options for gathering information were few and far between, I became desperate to gather it.
It’s common knowledge that desperate men take desperate measures, me included.
I parked my car alongside the road behind the old warehouse that I intended to deface. The facility was a 100’x100’ metal building that was commonly built for storage in the city’s industrial district in the 1970’s.
Purchased by FF, LLC in 2002, the building was used as a clubhouse for a local motorcycle club. According to an informant in another MC, the club in question was going to be gone for the night.
Saturday night activities for the members of Filthy Fuckers MC were anyone’s guess. All-night parties at their clubhouse weren’t uncommon, neither was spending the entire night at the bar they claimed as their turf. Oftentimes, they also had parties at the homes of their patched members.
On this particular night, all that mattered was that they were gone. My plan was to try out my ability to paint with a ten-foot extension pole I’d purchased online. Within a day or so, I hoped my luck in obtaining useful information about the girls would change.
I got dressed in the same gear I used when raiding the homes of gang members. After getting my spray paint, Reach N’ Spray, and gloves, I ducked into the darkness and crept to the side of the MC’s clubhouse.
Under the cover of darkness, and doing my best to duplicate the MS-13’s typical Old English font used to tag their turf, I sprayed a six-foot M, an S, and the number 13. Then, I went to the front of the building.
I painted the same sized symbols on the garage door, and then on the building’s exterior beside the door. After admiring my artwork, I removed my gloves and placed them in my rear pocket.
Ten minutes later, I was halfway home.
I opened the door as soon as the doorbell rang.
She was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a designer tee shirt. I had yet to see her dressed in such casual clothes, and it was a nice change. She looked great regardless of what she chose to wear, and in the twenty-two days we’d been seeing each other, I had yet to see her wear the same thing twice.
I stepped aside and motioned toward the living room. “Come in.”
She walked past me. “How was your day?”
“Uneventful.” I looked her up one side and down the other. “You look cute.”
“Thanks.” She giggled and lifted her right foot high in the air. “I wore this to work.”
I was surprised at her flexibility, and gawked at the display. “You always dress up for work.”
“I felt like wearing shorts. So, ponytail, tee shirt, cut-offs, and Chucks.”
I looked her over one more time and then grinned. “I like it.”
“Thank you.”
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Not bad. Good tips today, so that was good.”
I laughed at the thought of painting the MC’s building with gang graffiti. “I got a good tip, too.”
“Your tips and my tips are different.” She sat on the end of the loveseat. “Do you just have to work Saturdays when you’ve got some case that requires it?”
“I’ve got to be available seven days a week.” I took the spot across from her on the sectional. “I only work nights and weekends as I’m required to. Now that you’ve asked, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“You’re off tomorrow, right?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve got to run to interview a potential witness tomorrow, and I’m expecting a delivery that’ll need to be signed for. Are you interested in house sitting for me and accepting it? It’s an important package.”
“Sure.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.”
“No. I can do it. Anything I can do to help. It’s not going to explode or anything, is it?”
“It shouldn’t. As long as you don’t shake it or drop it.”
Her eyes thinned. “Seriously?”
“I’m kidding. It’s safe. And, it shouldn’t be too heavy. Just be sure to wipe it off before you set it down anywhere,” I deadpanned.
“I will.” She adjusted her ponytail and then met my gaze. “I still can’t get over how clean everything is. There’s never any dust or anything. Do you clean it yourself?”
I preferred when her hair was pulled away from her face. When she wore it in an updo or a bun, it revealed all the features of her beautiful face. Seeing it in a ponytail was a nice change. After a few seconds of admiration, I decided her choice of attire was adorable. So much so that denying my attraction to her was difficult.
I’d spent the last twenty-two days doing my best to hide my sexual attraction to her, but continuing to do so was becoming more difficult. I found her attractive on the day I met her. Now seeing her as sexually attractive simply complicated matters when it came to concealing them completely.
I was a master at interrogation, most
of which required me to remain stoic. I clenched my jaw and pursed my lips as I admired her, all the while hoping she didn’t notice the excitement brewing between my legs.
“I do,” I said dryly.
“The lawn?”
I crossed my legs. “Same.”
“Shrubs? Landscaping?”
My gaze fell to her bare legs. Her ponytail enticed me. Her legs all but pushed me over the brink. I uncrossed my legs, and then immediately crossed them again. “All me.”
“The pool?”
My eyes shot to her full lips. “Clean it, too.”
“Wow.” She reached for her ponytail again. “When do you do it?”
I had to look away. “Mornings. It’s too tough to get it done in the evenings. I like using them to relax when I can.”
“When I wasn’t around, what did you do to relax?”
I stared at the wall. “I’ve got a few things to do that I find relaxing.”
“Like what?”
I looked for imperfections in the paint as I waited for the swelling between my legs to subside. “Different things.”
“You don’t want to tell me?”
After finding three places that could use touched up, my level of arousal was manageable. I turned toward her, smiled, and stood. “Follow me?”
She stood and then tugged against the hem of her shorts. “Sure.”
I led her to the garage. Standing together in the doorway, I flipped on the light. Inside, my ten-year-old car, my fifteen-year-old truck, and my Harley sat.
She peered over my shoulder. “Oh wow. You ride a motorcycle?”
“Every chance I get.”
“My dad always wanted to have one. Every year, he’d say this is the year, Theresa. But, he never got one.” She stared at it with wide eyes. “What is it?”
“Harley Heritage Softail.”
“He wanted a Harley, too. So, that’s what you do for fun?”
“That and the car. Depends on my mood.”
She lifted her chin. “What’s the car?”
“BMW M5. The last real one. I only drive it about 500 miles a year. It’s naturally aspirated.”
She looked at me. “I don’t know what that means.”
“The new ones are turbocharged. Naturally aspirated means that it has no external engine enhancements feeding it air. No turbocharger or supercharger. Just a V-10 engine.”
She shot me a confused look. “Is that good?”
“Five hundred horsepower. It’ll go 200 miles an hour.”
“Holy crap. Yeah, I’d say that’s good enough.”
“It relieves tension.” I motioned toward the Harley. “So does the Harley. The truck is just a truck.”
“One of these days, can we go out on the bike?”
I had an unwritten rule that I never allowed women on my motorcycle unless they were my significant other. A quick glance revealed her eyes were filled with hope and the corners of her mouth were fighting not to curl into a grin.
“Let’s go now,” I said. “I could use a little stress relief.”
Her eyes shot wide. “Really?”
I looked her over, then reached for the button to open the garage door. She may not have officially been my significant other, but describing her as insignificant would be a complete lie.
The thirty days weren’t up, but I knew that much for sure.
I pressed the button to open the garage door. “Yeah,” I said with a smile. “Really.”
Chapter 19
Taryn – Day twenty-three
After figuring out that I could hear the doorbell from the back deck, I decided to relax beside the pool. Dressed in my favorite bikini, I enjoyed the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun on my bare skin. Initially, I struggled with the decision to lay in a lounge chair half-naked, but after an hour of seeing no one pass by on the beach below, decided to give it a try.
My mind drifted to thoughts of Marc, and how my perception of him changed in the three and a half weeks that we’d been seeing each other. My first impression of him was one that simply made mental note of the obvious: his masculinity, handsome looks, and athletic build.
I found it reassuring that those things seemed to become secondary in the passing weeks. When I looked at him now, I couldn’t help but notice that he was attractive, but it seemed I was somehow able to see right through it. I certainly didn’t become as fixed on it as I did when we first met.
I no longer just looked at him with sensual eyes, mentally undressing him each time we met. My new perception of him was that he strived to help others, protect people from harm, and was willing to forfeit his life while performing his selfless acts. He was humble and kind, but it wasn’t easy to see. It required being exposed to him on a daily basis, and I felt fortunate that I was able to see those traits in him.
As the sun baked my skin, I dreamt of being in an unrestricted relationship with Marc. Of spending Sundays at the pool, riding on his motorcycle, and driving his car down the winding roads alongside the vineyards in the northern part of the state.
Walks along the beach. Staying up late listening to how he solved a crime, saved someone who’d been taken hostage, or found a way to use his knowledge of human nature to put away his gun and negotiate with a manically depressed person who planned on dying at the hands of another death by cop suicide.
I had eight days to go, and I couldn’t imagine he’d reach the end and decide we weren’t a fit for each other. As my impressions of him had changed, I hoped his perception of me broadened as well.
My views on him – and on relationships – certainly had, and I hoped he could see it. If he could, I further hoped that he liked what he saw. If for some reason he didn’t, I was convinced I wanted to live the rest of my life with my newfound views nonetheless. In my future, if Marc decided we were not a good fit for one another, I would view our time together and valuable, and proceed with caution when it came to meeting a new mate.
That person not being Marc made me feel uneasy, though. I’d become rather fond of the memories we were making, and how I felt when we were able to spend time alone together. My days before Marc were rushed and unpredictable in many respects.
It seemed I went wherever the action was, following the girls from work, hitting the happy hour specials, and rushing from home to work with little – if any – plan on what my future life would be if the pattern continued.
Now, my alone time was spent dreaming. Not only of a potential life with Marc, but of living a life of enjoying instead of simply existing.
Driving along the coast instead of sitting in the bar. Going to the flea market instead of hitting happy hour. Learning to surf instead of hooking up with yet another man who wanted nothing more than to add another notch on his bedpost.
Of finding a way to accept everything in my past as being exactly what it was.
One of life’s lessons.
While I faded in and out of a light sleep, the sound of the door’s buzzer caused me to spring from the lounge.
Shit!
I wrapped myself in a towel and rushed to the front door, repeatedly screaming I’m coming the entire way.
I yanked the door open.
A short muscular man dressed in shorts and a brown shirt wiped the sweat from his brow. “Delivery for March Watson. I need a signature.”
“Marc?”
He looked at his hand-held scanner. “March.”
“Like February, March, April?”
He looked at the pad and then nodded. “March Watson.” He leaned back and looked at the number on the side of the house. “901 N. Pacific. March Watson.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I thought you said Marsh,” I lied. “March. March Watson. Where do I sign?”
He leaned to the side and scanned a large box, and then handed me the scanner. “Sign anywhere on the screen.”
I signed my name and smiled. “Thank you.”
He motioned toward the box. “It’s big, but it doesn’t weigh much.”
I loo
ked at the it, and then at him. “Have a nice day.”
He ran to his truck, backed out of the drive, and shot down the street.
I reached for the 2’x2’ box. Surprisingly, it weighed no more than I expected the cardboard would. I looked at the shipping label.
March Watson, 901 N. Pacific, Oceanside, CA 92054
I wondered if it was a misspelling, or if his name was truly March. I carried the box into the kitchen, wiped it down with a rag, and placed it on top of the island. After a moment, I decided having it on the island would probably bother him, so I moved it to the floor.
I considered putting it in the garage, and then recalled how he told me to wipe it off before setting it down anywhere, which led me to believe it should be inside. I decided the kitchen probably wasn’t where he wanted me to keep it, and began to look around for a new spot.
I carried it to the front room, placed it beside the door, and then looked at it.
Curiosity soon got the best of me. I lifted the box and shook it.
There was no rattle, no odd noise, and no indication that anything was inside. I couldn’t help but wonder why it was so big, especially if there was nothing in it.
I studied the label. The return address was nothing but an address in San Diego.
I wondered if it was crucial evidence on an important case. If I was unknowingly playing a part in the critical path of the chain of evidence, and my signature would be time stamped into the court documents.
A bullet that tore through the flesh of a victim, traced by ballistics to a rifle purchased by a war-torn Marine who decided to go on a killing spree to relieve his mind of the ghosts that haunted him.
Packed in bubble wrap to protect it from damage, it would be used to tie him to the killing and lock him away in a psychological evaluation center for the rest of his life.
Or.
A pocket knife with a single bloody thumbprint on the handle. The FBI database promptly linked it to Nate John Patrick Wadsworth, a child pornography kingpin who, as with all child molesters, had two middle names and a penchant for kidnapping unwary children and making films of them dancing in their underwear.