Apparently, none of the goddamn squeaky toys did a thing for Hairy. None of the fuzzy little beanbag things, either. None of the chewy rings or the bumpy rubber balls seemed to float his boat.
So what did Hairy want? He wanted Thomas's boxer shorts—the white pair stamped with purple and black Ravens football team logos. He carried them in his mouth all over the house. He buried them under the couch. He slept on top of them. He wadded them up and pounced on them.
Thomas eventually tricked Hairy into giving up the damn things. He threw them in the bathroom laundry hamper and shut the closet door, thinking that would be the end of that. But Hairy sat down in front of the door and pined for them, whining and pacing and making pitiful noises that Thomas just couldn't take.
Thomas lay on his back now, staring at the dark ceiling, groaning. All right, so be caved—he gave the dog the shorts. But damn! At least he'd washed them first. There were some things that were just too strange to allow to happen in this world.
Thomas felt himself grin in the dark, remembering how the little mutant sat patiently in front of the washer, then the dryer, his tail wagging. He'd given the boxers back to the dog only after he'd tied them in knots. He figured that if anyone happened to see them hanging from Hairy's mouth, they wouldn't immediately see that the dog had an abnormal attachment to a pair of underwear.
Jesus God, the dog was weird.
Thomas rubbed his face with his hands and tried to go back to sleep. But not two blissful minutes had passed before he felt the dainty impact of dog paws on the mattress, then the pinch of little feet going up his shin, to his thigh, to his bare stomach, then to his chest. Thomas kept his fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to fling the six-pound pain in the ass across the room.
At that point, the circling began—tight and fast little spins that went on and on until Hairy apparently thought he'd rearranged Thomas's chest hair to perfection.
Hairy plopped down with a sigh, dropping the pair of boxers next to Thomas's head. The dog curled up and managed to bury his pointy snout in the cozy hollow beneath Thomas's chin.
Thomas lay perfectly still. He tried to relax his fists and breathe normally. He felt the dog's warm skin against his own and looked down his nose to watch the dog's shock of white Billy Idol hair rise and fall with each of his own breaths.
This was plenty weird, Thomas realized, but not in a completely bad way. Just odd. Unusual. But not utterly awful. He tried to ignore the fact that he had an ugly dog sleeping on top of him and closed his eyes.
And before he knew it, he was having The Dream again. But this time it was more than a simple rehashing of the most miserable day of his life. This time, it was worse.
As usual, Rollo sat across the desk from them in his white coat with the black embroidery on the pocket—Rollo Phelps, M.D., Chesapeake Urology Center. He was using the same words he always did: injury; motility; rupture; antibodies; infertility.
Rollo spewed out the usual numbers. A normal man has twenty-five to fifty million sperm per milliliter—and Thomas had one million. About half of a normal man's sperm are damaged or deformed in some way—for Thomas, it was ninety percent. And about fifty percent of a normal man's sperm have the horsepower to make the long journey toward an egg—but it was only one percent for Thomas.
And then Rollo reviewed all the options available to them—steroid treatments, in-vitro fertilization, some kind of new sperm injection technology.
But at this point in the dream, things veered off into a completely new direction. Thomas turned to watch Nina rise from her chair and give the speech she always gave at this juncture—"You've never been overly interested in getting married and having a family, and now it appears you couldn't have children if you wanted to. I'm taking this as a sign. It's over."
But this time it wasn't Nina giving the speech.
It was Emma.
This time, a dark, curly head didn't turn to give him that look of pity and reproach—it came with a flip of a mahogany braid.
The eyes weren't dark brown—they were powder blue. It wasn't Nina's voice he heard say "I'm not wasting one more minute of my life with you." It was Emma's voice.
The door shut behind her with finality. Then Rollo said, as he always did at this point, "God, Thomas. I'm so sorry."
Thomas turned to face his friend. But Rollo wasn't Rollo anymore, and the black embroidered pocket of the doctor's coat now read Punk-Ass Stock Boy, CVS, and the kid smirked at him, then busted a gut laughing and said, "Girlfriend? In your dreams, sucker!"
At this point, Thomas began to surface from the bizarre dream world to a waking state, pulled along by the most outrageously delicious physical sensation he'd ever experienced. Emma—sweet, soft, sexy, unbearably female Emma—was nibbling on his unshaven face, giving little fleabites to the tiny hairs growing along his jaw, moving to the stubble on his upper lip, heading toward his mouth for what promised to be a hot, passionate kiss…
Thomas woke with a shout, staring into the bug-eyes of the mutant.
Whoa, relax, Big Alpha! We need to get you together with Soft Hands—and soon.
Hairy yawned.
I slept great. How about you?
* * *
Aaron hated to admit it, but he had the hands of a killer. In the light from the motel reading lamp, he could see scratches from where Slick had fought him like a wildcat-using his nails and teeth and kicking and spitting, the little son of a bitch!
The wounds were mostly healed, but Aaron could see faint lines of new pink skin, and it spooked him.
The whole business of killing had made him sick. And now he was going to have to do it again.
Aaron sighed and let his gaze travel around Room 4 of the King of Hearts Motor Court. He'd relocated here and closed the clinic indefinitely to avoid another unpleasant encounter with the Ugly One. He'd had to fire the office girl because he had no money to keep her—he certainly couldn't pay her with the credit card of dubious origin he'd used at check-in, could he?
He took a swig of whiskey and shuddered. Aaron had only started drinking this week and thought the stuff tasted like piss. But he sure loved the effect. There was a time when he'd been proud that he'd managed to dodge the alcohol bullet, but it just didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.
Well, hell. He might be backed up against a wall, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew the secret was to keep the blood off his hands, so this time he planned to be far away—Atlantic City maybe—making sure lots of people saw him.
With one last swallow for the road, Aaron left his motel room. He drove a half-hour to some rotten neighborhood, stopped at the first pay phone he saw, and called the number the prostitute had given him. Some guy named Tom.
He got his voice mail. Even hit men had voice mail.
* * *
Chapter 7
If I Can't Have You
« ^ »
Emma stared into the full-length mirror on the back of her office door and sighed. She looked fine. Just fine. It would all be fine.
Velvet had tried to convince her to wear the infamous blue dress for this little get-together with Mr. Traffic Court
. Emma told her she was out of her mind—on many levels. First, it wasn't even a date—it was one after-work drink. Second, she'd never, ever meet a stranger wearing that dress. It was just too come-hither.
Emma purchased the thing only because Velvet had browbeaten her, insisting that she looked fabulous in it. Emma wasn't so sure. The sleeveless smoky blue dress had a little ruffle that fell a good two inches above the knee and a deep, wide plunge of a neckline that, in Emma's opinion, showed way too much of everything she had way too much of.
She'd probably never have the courage to wear the dress anywhere. It was the kind of dress worn by a woman with a surplus of self-confidence, the kind of woman who wasn't afraid to demand the attention of a crowd—or one man in particular.
Emma gave herself another appraisal. No way was tonight the night to break out the blue dress. Maybe th
ere would never be a night. Maybe it would forever stay where it had been for three months now—hanging limp in the back of her closet in a dry cleaner's bag, asking for no one's attention, putting nothing on the line.
She'd chosen wisely tonight, opting for a pair of black crop pants, black sandals, and little black print tee with cap sleeves and a scoop neck. She'd let her hair fall straight down her back. The total effect didn't scream anything, but it was stylish and casual and she felt comfortable.
She was as ready as she was ever going to be.
Mr. Traffic Court
had a name, as it turned out—Jason DuPont. In the last few days, she'd learned enough about him to decide that his issues index was low enough to warrant a drink. It turned out he was Marcus's boss. He'd lost his license not because of DUIs, but after causing one too many fender benders while dividing his attention between a digital phone and the brakes. So she agreed to meet him on one condition—she could use the worst-case scenario transportation plan. Mr. Digital agreed.
The plan called for her to pick him up at his downtown office and drive them to the bar. They'd have one drink and chat. Then she'd take him back to his office, where he would get a cab home. This would allow for a clean getaway for Emma, with nobody going to anyone's private residence where there would be any awkward moments in front of anyone's door.
It would all be fine.
After one last glance in the mirror, Emma locked up the office, climbed into her battered Montero, and began the drive into the city. She wished she could muster up some enthusiasm about tonight, but all she felt was jittery and uncomfortable.
And all she thought about was Thomas Tobin, dammit!
Go away, she told him, but in her imagination he gave her that smile from the VetMed waiting room and she had to sigh like a teenager. Go away and leave me alone!
Emma drove, glad to be going against traffic during the evening rush hour, trying to concentrate on the road and failing, probably as big a safety hazard as Mr. Digital ever was. Emma's thoughts kept circling along the same maddening path: Thomas to Leelee, Leelee to Becca, Becca to herself, herself to Aaron, and back to Thomas again. The crazy cycle was surely due to guilt—several days had passed and she hadn't yet acknowledged Thomas's gifts. For good reason, however—she still didn't know what she should say, or even what she wanted to say. She still didn't know what to do about Thomas Tobin.
The talk she'd had with Leelee last night hadn't helped matters.
It was past midnight when Leelee tiptoed into Emma's bedroom, crawled under the covers, and pressed her little body against Emma's back. In the darkness, Emma listened to Leelee's whispered words, knowing she felt more comfortable in the dark, where Emma couldn't see her cry.
"Tell me something more about her." Leelee wrapped a skinny arm around Emma's waist. "Tell me about the time that thing fell out of her dress at the dance."
Emma smiled to herself in the dark, a rush of love and grief accompanying the image of Becca at fifteen—so much like the little girl now cuddled to her back—wickedly smart, shockingly blunt, the jaw-dropping beauty just beginning to emerge.
Rebecca Weaverton had been Emma's best friend since kindergarten, and stayed her best friend no matter how many years went by, how the miles or the dreams separated them, and no matter how each of them stumbled.
Emma had loved Becca with a force that was part hero worship, part jealousy, and all magic. They were two halves of one whole, Becca with her pale blond curls and eyes the color of butterscotch, Emma with her straight dark hair, freckles, and baby blues. From age five to age eighteen, every weekend, every summer, every day had its beginning and ending with Emma and Becca together. They shared every secret.
Except one: Emma secretly wished that some of her best friend's sparkle would rub off on her, some of her shine and glamour. Emma always felt just a little bit like a dirty penny when standing right next to the too-bright gold of Rebecca Weaverton.
Getting the news that Becca was dead and Leelee was hers had felt to Emma like a punch to the gut followed by a slap across the face. A year had passed since that day, and she'd yet to recover from the blow that had changed her life.
"Mom was just a few years older than me then, right?"
"Yes, she was. It was the Sweetheart Dance and our band was the featured act. Becca was convinced she looked too flat-chested in her dress because one girl in our class—Frankie Seibert—had really come into her own, if you get my drift. I mean big time. She left the rest of us in the dust."
"I can relate," Leelee said with a sigh. "It's Melinda Stockslager in my class."
"Already? Sorry to hear that." Emma gave Leelee's hand a comforting pat and the girl hugged her tighter. "Anyway, we didn't have the high-tech water-filled bras they have now, so we stuffed two of Beck's handkerchiefs with quilt batting and sewed them up on my mom's machine." Emma chuckled. "They weren't pretty but they did the job. Your mom got up there on the stage and looked just like Madonna—from the early days, not the cone-shaped things she had in the nineties."
"Got it. But didn't anybody notice she'd sprouted hooters overnight?"
"Nice language, Leelee," Emma said, still laughing. "Yes, they most definitely did. It was the hot topic at the dance. But she got up there with the microphone and started prancing around and no one dared say anything to her face. She would have denied it, anyway."
"She always did have a special gift for denial," Leelee said dryly. "So tell me the part where one fell out."
Emma started to shake with giggles. "I was back on drums as usual, and she was skipping across the stage, her hair flying—I think we were doing 'Love Is a Battlefield'—and I look up and see that your mother is definitely off kilter. She had a cantaloupe on one side and a Ping-Pong ball on the other."
Leelee laughed. "What did you do?"
"Well, I started winking and yelling at her and waving my drumsticks and she looked at me like I'd lost my mind. I had lost the beat, let me tell you."
Leelee was roaring with laughter now. "I can just see it," she said. "You guys must have sucked."
Emma laughed, too. "Oh, honey, we sucked big time."
Leelee kissed the back of Emma's head. "So what happened next, Em?"
She sighed, catching her breath from the tenderness of Leelee's kiss more than the laughter. "Well, she looked down at her feet and there was the falsie—right in the middle of the stage. So with a big dramatic windup, she throws that sucker right out onto the gym floor. Some guy catches it and throws it into the air. Then the next thing I know, she reaches down her dress and whips the other one out into the audience.
"Then. Oh, God, Leelee—after the show she autographed them for a couple guys on the junior varsity football team!"
"Mom was like that, wasn't she? She had balls."
"Nice language, again, but yes. She did."
"Did everyone really think she was going to be famous one day?"
"Oh, sure, sweetheart. She was the local celebrity. And it wasn't just how pretty and talented she was—it was how alive she was, how her mind was on fire all the time. She was something else." Emma paused for a moment. "You are so much like her, Lee."
"But I don't want to be like her."
"She loved you more than anything."
"So she said." Leelee's voice came out a whisper. "She screwed up so bad—wasting that scholarship, falling in love every three days. She never even tried to find out who my father was. Why did she have to be like that, Em?"
Good questions, all of them, Emma knew. Becca was chaos theory in a short skirt, barely making a living as a screenwriter/waitress/actress/singer and anything else she could find. And never making apologies for any of it.
"We all make poor choices sometimes, Lee. We're human. It's the way we learn. And I think maybe for a woman as smart as your mom was, she was a real slow learner in some areas." Emma felt a little sob shudder through Leelee's thin body. "Becca didn't do such a great job at being your mom, but I know she never meant to hurt
you. She did the best she could and now I'm lucky enough to get to do the best I can. And I'm bound to make mistakes. I hope you'll forgive me when I do."
Leelee was so quiet for so long that Emma thought she'd fallen asleep. It was a surprise to hear the next question. "Are you ever going to get married again?"
Emma flipped over and rose up on an elbow to see Leelee's face in the moonlight. The young girl's eyes were wide and sad and Emma nearly cried herself.
"Oh, sweetie! I just got rid of the old model. I think I'll take a breather if you don't mind."
Leelee laughed at that and sat up tailor-style, staring at her hands. "It's just that, well, the man who sent you all the flowers—" Leelee raised her eyes to Emma's. "I heard his voice on the phone. He sounded excited when he thought it was you. He really likes you."
Emma sat up quickly. She cupped Leelee's fragile-looking face in her hands and tried to smile. "That man means nothing to me, Leelee. He's the owner of a patient and he's … well … I thought at first there might be something special about him, but I think I was wrong."
She stroked Leelee's cheek. "Just between you and me, I'm not all that optimistic about men right now, and I sure don't see myself starting a serious relationship anytime soon, especially with Mr. Gift Basket."
Leelee nodded, her eyes beginning to sparkle with laughter.
"But sweetie, even if I do fall in love somewhere way down the road, I'd still love you. You'd still be my girl. I wouldn't go anywhere or leave you behind. Do you understand that?"
Leelee nodded. "Okay."
"I won't do anything without consulting you. We're a team, and we're going to make the big decisions together."
"Thank you for saying that. Nobody's ever said that to me before."
The relief in Leelee's eyes broke Emma's heart, and she hugged her tight and rocked her in her arms, cursing Becca for being such a screwup, cursing herself for being clueless about parenting, cursing the day Thomas Tobin walked into her exam room and invaded her life like a horde of Vikings.