Something is bothering him, and nothing ever bothers him. Not that he can remember. Last night was a little stupid. As delicious as it had felt to crack that Chink hooker—the bitch hadn’t even been a real blonde—it might not have been smart to go into that place and to do what he’d done. And smart is a thing he’s always been. But so far, so good. He’s seen no news coverage. There’s no indication that the police have been called and are looking for anyone. His picture isn’t on any news websites, so they must not have had cameras. How could they call the cops for help anyway, he wondered, a filthy joint like that? He should be feeling better now, but he isn’t.
It’s because the sensation of the punch has worn off too quickly, he realizes. His knuckles aren’t even sore. Maybe it’s an age thing, a midlife crisis. He’s heard about how people lose their taste for their pleasures in life. But that doesn’t seem right either. He still has plenty of appetite. Too much. It’s that merely hitting some girl isn’t enough. He is jumping out of his skin.
The sounds of the break room invade his thoughts. Someone is causing everybody to laugh. He looks up from his coffee and sees it is Kenny. Three women are Kenny’s audience, Claudia, Beth, and Stacie, and Kenny is really busting them up. Claudia is an old battle-ax of a secretary who’s been with the company for twenty-five years. Beth is a married woman about his age, but Stacie, in her early thirties, is a different story. She’s worked here for a bit over a year. He’s seen her around, but he hasn’t really noticed her. Maybe it’s because of his strict policy not to act on ones he knows or works with.
But looking at her now, as she tosses her butter-colored hair back while flirting with Kenny, the swell of her breasts against her blouse, her sheer white pantyhose stretched over her ample thighs and rustling against her dress skirt, he thinks he must’ve truly blinded himself, because she is incredible. He feels the thrill of need and desire. He suddenly knows it plain and simple: here’s a project sitting right in front of him.
Why the hell not? Back to the beginning with one I know.
He’ll take her right away. Tonight.
Three ways to go about it pop into his head. He can disable her car so it breaks down on the way home and he happens by to help her. But he discounts that one right away. It is too inexact. He can’t be sure exactly where she’ll stop. It will likely be too public. Option two: he can just wait outside in the parking lot and follow her home. Of course he’ll have to find a minute to dart home to get his kit and get back before she leaves. But why work that hard? He has access to the company’s personnel records. He’ll pull her address and show up at his leisure.
She stands with her coffee, her back to him, rearranging her skirt over her buxom hindquarters. She has what regular guys call a “heart-shaped ass.” He already has ideas forming as to what she’ll look like legless, when she turns to go and sees him sitting there.
“Hi, Hardy,” she says. “How are you doing today?”
“Top of my game, Stacie, thanks for asking. How are you?” He wonders if she can read the thoughts behind his eyes. Of course she can’t, no one can, because she’d run screaming in horror if she could.
“Oh, I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do,” she says. He smells her vanilla chewing gum in the air.
“I hear you, Stace,” he says, and gives her a smile.