Within minutes, the lumbering man-bear arrived, gasping, at the edge of the woods, demanding that Spooner and Madame Asia halt.
"FBI Special Agent Cornwell," he said in a globby fat-man voice, whipping out a wallet complete with badge, just like on Dragnet. Talk about cliche. "I'm looking for Terrence Meyers."
Cornwell looked up close a bit like a walrus, what with his bushy moustache and long teeth. I suspected old Asia would be pleased to be spared consorting with the likes of this man tonight.
Spooner, who'd just ditched the roach he'd been toking moments before the agent's arrival, pursed his lips and rolled his eyes upward toward the edge of the trees. I honestly expected him to start drumming his fingers and whistling one of those "What? Me?" tunes that belies ones innocence. Madame Asia kicked Spooner in the shin with a pink feathered mule, hard enough to shed some downy shell-pink feathers.
"Ouch!" Spooner yelled, grabbing his leg and hopping up and down. Madame Asia then slapped him across the face.
"You fixed Terrence up with this fine young man when Terrence and I had a date tonight?" Asia's voice elevated several octaves as her ire became more demonstrative. "You knew that I have a standing Saturday night tête-à-tête with Terrence. Where you get off going around my back like that. Why I—"
Agent Cornwell squinted his eyes and fixed his gaze on Madame Asia. He reached out to flick her curls away from her face, dragging a finger along her beard. Then he ringed his fingers along her biceps.
"And who do we have here, Spooner?" he asked, his mouth quirking up at the corners.
"Dude, you don't know Madame Asia?"
"Madame Asia?" he asked. "Last time I saw a broad with guns like that I was dreaming I was kidnapped by Amazons. You care to tell me who you really are?"
All we could hear were birds singing their happy tunes. I felt like I ought to join in, because surely Agent Cornwell was going to save the day for us. I looked over at Jack, whose face was frozen into intense concentration, my eyebrows jerking back toward the walrus and then back to him, asking silently if I was right.
As if he wasn't practically glued to me already—thank God for small miracles—he leaned forward so that his lips buzzed my ears.
"That's not Cornwell," he said.
My eyes grew five times their size, begging the question "Who the hell is he then?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "But I ran the Boston Marathon with Corrnwell last year and unless he's miraculously become pregnant with triplets and is in his third trimester, I can promise you that's not Cornwell."
So if this is not the good Cornwell, this must be the bad one. Which means I need to put myself in my happy place and pretend that rather than possibly being moments away from being found out and—god forbid—picked off by some corpulent mob informant, I am about to be ravished by one hot and horny Michael Jackson (not the one with the glove, thank goodness).
I lean into Jack's neck and imbibe his scent—the faintest trail of something manly and sexy. Reminds me of Ralph Lauren Polo, but who wears that anymore? It makes me want to lick the smell right off of him. So much so that I reach over and take a quick swipe of his throat with my tongue. Omigod, omigod, omigod. I can't start scratching that itch now. But it's so tempting. So much so that I lean forward and trail my tongue all the way up the side of his neck, right to that happy spot just behind his ear. I don't know what came over me. I read one time in some magazine at the doctor's office that primal fear can evoke sexual yearnings and surely this is proof positive.
That proximity to Jack is close enough to know that he's found his happy place too, only he's too composed to act on it, unlike me, shameless hussy I've become. His eyes look at fat guy, look at me. Look at fat guy, look at me.
And Agent Whoever-the-hell-he-is throws us all off. "Terrence, Terrence, Terrence. Do you know how upset Ma is about you? You showed such promise, with the piano career. Why you chose this path I'll never understand. But it's up to me to fix things."
He tries to slap cuffs on Madame Asia but Asia bites him on the cheek and he rears back in pain.
And then Asia begs, "Jack! Help! I need you!"
And Jack looks at me, caught between wanting to flee for our lives, and knowing that if Asia called for him, it would be for one simple reason: because he/she needed him.
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