Seriously, vagina? Sarah glanced down at the V of her red slacks as she sat at a stoplight after work, around six p.m., finally knowing what it was like to be a man. All day long, Little Sarah had been whining and tugging on the hem of her coat. “Pleeease, Sarah,” it whined, “pleeeease? I want to play with Little Colton again.” To which Big Sarah had responded, “No! We are not letting him into our sandbox. He’s trouble.” And if anyone in this world was qualified to recognize trouble, it was her.
Fact: Colton Young was a world-famous rock star and sex symbol. Yes, action figures, posters, mugs, and tees—you name it. He was almost as popular as Benjamin Franklin (aka, the C-note).
Fact: Colton Young had millions of women chasing after him and his sexy leather pants. (Okay, really they were after what was inside his pants after he’d been ranked #1 in Hung Like a Donkey Magazine by a famous porn actress.) God, did he really date porn stars? Somehow, she couldn’t see it. Colton came across much more down to earth and serious than she’d imagined. Except for that little “putting the tip in” crack.
She laughed to herself. Okay, he was kind of funny. And okay, she did like him. Just a little. But she couldn’t ignore another fact: She didn’t do casual, and she could never see herself seriously dating a man like that, even if he was capable of monogamy, because she had her eye on the state supreme court. With his arrest record and notoriety, she would be seen as unfit for the position if she dated him. There was an expectation that a supreme court justice lead a very squeaky-clean life, not shack up with a reckless musician who’d been arrested multiple times, one of which was on drug charges. Innocent or not, it was irrelevant. He was not squeaky clean; therefore, she would be seen as “not squeaky clean.” Birds of a feather, fuck together—as she and her GFFs (girlfriends forever) liked to say.
Speaking of fucking, that look in Colton’s hazel eyes, a flirty intense cockiness, as he’d asked to sleep with her this morning had been playing in her head on a loop all day.
Pleeeease, Sarah, said her vage with a shrill English accent, may I have another?
“Seriously, Little Sarah? Now you’re Oliver Twist?”
The car behind her gave a honk to get her moving with the green light.
“Oh, sorry! I’m chatting with my immature and needy hoohaw.” She gave a wave in the mirror to the driver behind her and hit the gas, but the car kept on honking and flashing its brights.
“Jesus. Drink too much coffee today, buddy?” The car continued honking aggressively, following with its nose up her tailpipe. The drivers of the cars around her kept looking over, curious as to what the hell was going on. This idiot is going to cause an accident. Likely, one that would involve rear-ending her. That’s what.
It went on for two more busy city blocks before Sarah began to suspect that this was not random. She tightened her hands around the steering wheel. Judges were targets all the time—violent people came into her court every day, and some were the kind to seek revenge on anyone who had a hand in their incarceration. Frankly, as a single woman, it was one of the reasons she felt safer living upstairs from Maria. And her gun.
Honk! Hoooonk! Honk!
“All right!” Sarah barked. “Fine!” She would head straight to the police station—there was one ten blocks away—and call 9-1-1. The moment she drove by, there’d be a squad car waiting, and they’d take it from there.
Sarah slowed, made a right-hand turn at the light, and hit the Bluetooth on her steering wheel, but as she turned, the crazy bastard kept on going straight. In her mirror, Sarah caught a quick glance of the rear of the car as it passed through the intersection behind her.
A silver sedan. Same as last night.
Sarah shook her head and quickly dismissed it as a coincidence. Half the cars in the city were silver. Still, to be on the safe side, she’d wait a few minutes before heading home in the direction the rage-roader went.
Fifteen minutes later, Sarah arrived to her apartment. The street, lined with colorful Victorians—purples, pinks, blues and greens—always made her feel like she was entering dollhouse world and cheered her up. Except the parking. That doesn’t cheer me up. Because there was none.
She circled the block two more times before deciding to park behind Maria’s car in the driveway. It would only take a moment to run upstairs, grab the notebook, and head for Mrs. Luci’s ranch. With the rush-hour traffic, she’d be lucky to get there by eight o’clock.
With an anxious flutter in her stomach that was absolutely, in no way shape or form related to her excitement over seeing Colton again, Sarah unlocked the front door that led to the stairs and up to her top-floor apartment. The moment she rattled the old lock, Maria’s front door, which was right beside hers, popped open.
Marie’s head popped out. “Hey, Sarah. We made extra spaghetti if you want to come in and grab a bite.”
“You want me to watch the boys, don’t you?”
Maria smiled. “Can’t fool you. It’s so annoying. But yeah, there’s a movie Franco and I want to catch.”
“I’m so sorry—I have a thing tonight. But maybe this weekend?”
Maria lifted a brow. “‘Thing’? Like a date thing?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Liar.” Maria smiled.
She didn’t have time to get into details, so she’d have to explain later. “I can’t fool you either. Guess that makes you annoying, too.”
Maria chuckled. “Have fun. I want details in the morning. Especially if he’s hung like a donkey,” she whispered.
Sarah gulped. Maria’s comment had been oddly accurate.
“Maria!” yelled her hubby, Franco, from inside. “Something’s burning!”
“Then go take care of it!” Maria yelled back and shrugged. “Men. So helpless.”
“That’s why they have us!” Sarah laughed, pushed open her door, and started running up the stairs. “I’ll see you at work in the morn…” Sarah’s voice faded.
Whatthefuck? Her eyes took one look at her apartment, and her heart stilled. Someone trashed her place.