Chapter Seven

 

Her words impacted him with a powerful rush of emotion and a niggling sense he’d heard them before somewhere else. Slattery lay still in the darkness, his nose filled with Sabetha’s scent, and remembered an old television show. There had been a family, he remembered, a mother and her passel of kids who sang together as a family—The Partridge Family—and they toured in a big bus. One of their songs he remembered, a teenybopper kind of love tune ‘I Think I Love You”, something about being in love but also afraid yet still wanting it so much. Cheesy and corny, yes, but it resonated for him in those moments. Slattery wanted Sabetha to love him, craved such strong emotion and the heady idea he might matter to someone after all. But the possibility scared the shit out of him, terrified him in a way he couldn’t even find words to describe. Because he might—and he wasn’t at all ready to admit he did—love her too, and if he did, it gave Sabetha a great power. She could wound him or hurt him or crush his spirits. If he loved and lost, Slattery knew he and his pride would not bear it. As much as he wanted to love and be loved, he feared it.

I can’t say the words back, not now, maybe never. My heart wants me to speak those three words to her but I can’t, damn it, I can’t. Besides, I have to decide about the job, plus how and what to tell her.

Afraid, disturbed, and brimming full with too much emotion to bear, Slattery rolled over onto his back. He untangled from Sabetha in slow stages, cautious not to jolt her awake. Then he lay on his back and mopped away the tears that trickled down his cheeks. No way would he sleep, not with so much to ponder and not after his three-hour nap.

****

But he did sleep and never woke until sunlight danced around the edges of the curtains. For a brief few seconds, Slattery had no idea where he’d fetched up, and that bothered him. He cracked open his eyes and squinted. When he listened, he heard the sound of the shower running and above the water, Sabetha singing. If he’d guessed, he might have thought she would sing a love ballad, but her voice belted out, tuneful and true in Roger Miller’s classic, “King of The Road”.

Slattery grinned. She might love him, but it didn’t sound like she planned to wear her heart on her sleeve either. She’s practical, he thought, and his good mood resurged. He was happy, and damned if he hadn’t almost forgotten what that felt like. He liked it and wanted to hang onto it for as long as possible. It probably wouldn’t last, nothing good in his life ever seemed to, but Slattery hoped it might.

Since he’d slept wearing his prosthesis, his stump ached and he sat up, rubbing it. Nothing that a little medication and some stretching out wouldn’t ease. Slattery wanted coffee, though, so he reached for his discarded shirt and pants. At home, he would have paraded naked to the kitchen but despite their intimacy, he doubted Sabetha wanted that level of familiarity.

He found the coffeepot, an old-fashioned percolator which caused him to grin. A quick rummage through the cupboards turned up coffee so Slattery made a pot. By the time Sabetha arrived, dressed for the day, with her damp hair pulled tight into a braid, he sat at the table with his first cup.

“Good morning, Slattery,” she said. “Thanks for making coffee. I need some before I head off to work. Do you have a gig today?”

“Hell, I don’t remember,” he said. “What is it, Wednesday? Yeah, I do this evening. I’ll have to head home and change after a while.”

“It’s nearly ten,” Sabetha said as she stirred sugar into her mug of coffee. “I slept through the alarm.”

Slattery couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept through the morning. “I must have too.”

She nodded. “You were deep under when I got up. I hate to eat and rush off, but I need to be at the studio by eleven.”

“No problem,” he said. That left no time for “morning after” sentimental bullshit—just as well for now. He required time to process, to ponder, and to solve his job dilemma. “I need to take off myself soon.”

Although Sabetha removed the wrapper from a chocolate chip muffin, she hadn’t taken a bite. “I’m glad you came over for dinner,” she said. “And I’m really glad you stayed.”

“Me too.”

“I’m looking forward to Friday.”

So was Slattery. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

She shrugged. “Anytime’s fine. Nine thirty?”

“That works for me.”

With that settled, Sabetha took a bite from her muffin. “Would you like one?”

After their intense lovemaking, he would prefer a big breakfast, something with bacon and eggs or pancakes with sausage, or biscuits with gravy. “No, honey, I’d better get a move on.”

He finished his cup and stood. His knee twinged and he shifted position.

“Is your leg bothering you?”

Slattery appreciated the fact she called it a leg, as if it still was one. “A little,” he said. “It’s not a big deal. I usually take the prosthesis off at night and when I don’t, it gets sore sometimes.”

“You could have,” Sabetha said. “I wouldn’t have minded. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head, moved past words for a few moments. He hadn’t removed the artificial limb because he’d thought it might seem gross to her, to make love with a less-than-whole man. But he heard honesty in her tone and knew it wouldn’t have mattered.

“No, but thanks,” he replied. “I’ve got ibuprofen and my pain pills. Once I get home, shower and rest it awhile, it’ll be okay.”

Sabetha rose and crossed to where he stood. “Good. I guess I won’t see you until Friday since we’re both working.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

Slattery wanted to kiss her, to reassure his tender emotions that what had passed between them was real, not an illusion. As if she read his mind, Sabetha said, “I’d like a kiss to tide me over till then.”

He chuckled. “I was thinking the same thing, you greedy woman. C’mere.”

She put her arms around him and he bent his mouth to hers. The same joyful pleasure kindled between them. Her light floral scent filled his nose and he hoped it would linger for a while. Her lips tasted of coffee and muffin, sweet and so pliable beneath his. Slattery held her close and kissed her with deliberate slowness, savoring it with avid appreciation. His dick roused, but he resisted the urge to take her there on the kitchen tile or the table. As much as Slattery wanted her, the powerful surge of emotion trumped physical desire. The kiss lasted an eternity and yet was much too brief. I could kiss her all day, he thought, and never stop except to breathe. When he stopped, Slattery experienced a sense of disconnection. His heart brimmed full with feelings he wasn’t ready to examine.

Sabetha leaned against him, her head resting against his shoulder. “Oh, Pride,” she sighed.

He cradled her close. “Sabetha, honey, I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything. I need to go.”

“Yeah, we both do.”

Slattery considered another kiss, then rejected the notion outright. If he kissed her again, neither one of them would ever make it to work on time.

****

Gorgeous women in glittering gowns filled the seats at the premier. Their perfect hairdos, flawless makeup, and plunging necklines failed to impress Slattery. Neither their faces nor ideal figures compared to Sabetha’s natural beauty. If he had the chance, he knew he’d pick Sabetha above and over all the famous, the rich, the stars, and the wannabees. Movie stars, models, and mistresses came in second, third, and fourth against his Texas lady.

Afterward, Slattery couldn’t have told anyone what the movie had been about or even who starred in the film. He stood in his security mode and watched people, his uniform mundane compared to the tuxedos and formal wear. A few of the women he found pretty but none glowed with the natural spark or personality Sabetha demonstrated. Maybe he was biased, but his lady ranked on top.

His shift dragged long and by the time Slattery made it home, all he wanted to do was take off his prosthesis, have a few drinks, and sleep. Although he’d slept longer than he had in years in Sabetha’s bed, he had trouble unwinding and falling asleep. He didn’t drift off until near dawn on Thursday. Slattery endured dark, haunting dreams of the past and thrashed around, restless, waking often. He woke near noon, leg screaming with pain, and he didn’t want to do anything more than stay in bed, drink to oblivion, and throw one hell of a pity party. And he probably would have if Sabetha hadn’t called.

Although she didn’t have anything important to say, just “hi, how are you,” and “I’m thinking about you,” the call raised Slattery’s spirits. He talked for a few minutes and when he finished, he got up, made coffee, and took a shower. When he had to search for a clean pair of briefs, he decided laundry day had arrived so he crammed all his dirty clothing into a duffel bag. He decided he could kill two birds with one stone by visiting The Swan Laundromat. While his clothes washed and dried, he could poke around for clues to the money-laundering operation he suspected. If he discovered anything, he might buy time with Beckett and Homeland Security. Then he wouldn’t be pressured into a decision, and he could figure out a way to tell Sabetha he wasn’t just a security guard after all.

The pain tamed down to a bearable level but Slattery decided he’d drive, not walk to the Laundromat. Once there, he tossed his clothes into a single washer, added a couple of detergent pods, and put in the appropriate number of quarters. He sat on one of the faded plastic chairs and pulled out a Tom Clancy paperback, but Slattery didn’t read. Instead, his gaze searched the room, noting details. The familiar scent of freshly washed clothing and the stronger pungent odor of bleach combined in his nose and mingled with the aroma of Chinese takeout from the small restaurant next door. Few other customers were on-site—just a few moms, two with toddlers in tow, an old man wearing heavy work trousers held up with suspenders and a T-shirt, a pair of elderly ladies who knitted as they chatted. None appeared to be doing anything more than laundry, and Slattery had almost lost interest when two young Hispanic males strolled into the place.

They moved with the lithe grace and sense of suppressed power found in jungle cats on the prowl. Slattery noted the pair with interest, although he pretended to be engrossed in the novel. He watched as they walked past the long lines of worn washers and dented dryers, then knocked to gain entrance to the office. The door opened wide enough to admit them and then closed.

Intrigued, Slattery changed his laundry over into a dryer and changed his seat. He parked his ass right beside the door and cocked his head to listen. A few scraps of conversation filtered through the cheap ply board, and although the conversation was in Spanish, he understood enough to confirm they spoke about money. His fingers itched to jot down notes but he figured the action would be far too obvious. He tried to commit it all to memory and kept focus.

Slattery tilted the chair back on two legs. Maybe with his head closer to the wall, he’d hear more. It worked for a few moments and he caught the words, “run the funds through the laundromat account, then transfer to your other holdings, then to the offshore account.” Damn, he had something! It wasn’t concrete and would never stand up in court, but it gave him more than he’d had.

In his excitement, he shifted position and the chair slid out from under his ass. He tried to stop his fall with his artificial leg and failed. The resulting crash boomed through the place and everyone present turned to stare. Before Slattery could get up from the floor, the office door burst open and one of the Hispanic men emerged.

“What the hell?” he cried. “What the fuck were you trying to do?”

One of the old ladies, knitting still clutched tight in both hands, approached. “It looked like he was trying to eavesdrop,” she shouted. “He shoulda minded his own business.”

Slattery groaned. He didn’t need the attention or the accusation. The elderly man with suspenders approached. “Didn’t look like that at all to me,” he offered in a deep, gravelly voice. “I’ve reared my chair back the same way a bunch of times just to be comfortable.”

“Are you all right?” the other knitter asked.

“I’m fine,” Slattery said. He pulled himself back into the chair, knee throbbing and pride damaged.

“So why were you listening?”

He lied and hoped it sounded like the truth. “I wasn’t. I’m just waiting for my clothes to dry.”

Jet black eyes glared at him. “Bullshit! What are you, some kind of cop or what?”

His mind raced and his tongue wanted to tangle. If he said he wasn’t, Slattery doubted they would believe him. And the hombre would ask what he did do for a living. Maybe if he owned up to being a security guard, the issue would drop.

“No, I’m not. I’m a fucking security guard, working trade shows and conventions and the occasional bit of Hollywood bullshit. Why?”

“Because I think you’re a cop with a nose problem, trying to stir up trouble.”

The second man emerged from the office along with a potbellied older man. “Pedro, let it go, man. It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.”

“You’re making a scene, dude. It’s nothing, just some asshole washing his clothes.”

The older man added his two cents worth. “I’ve seen him here before, he’s a regular. You live around here, don’t you?”

Slattery did his best to play it cool and shrugged. “Yeah, few blocks off Sunset, and yeah, I come here all the time.”

“Pedro, he’s clean,” the man said. Slattery thought he owned the place or managed it.

“I don’t know. I still think he’s police.”

The second Hispanic man spoke up. “He said he’s just a security guard so he’s nothing, nada, a wannabee maybe, but he’s no cop. Look at him, he looks like he barely gets by, and he’s crippled.”

During his tumble, his pant leg had slid up and when Slattery glanced down, he saw what the others had already noticed. The metal prosthesis was in plain sight.

“I don’t know, Diego.” Pedro reached into his jacket pocket and took out a snub-nosed Sig Sauer. “Maybe I should shut him up for good. Then there’d be no question.”

“Oh, my God,” the manager said. “Put it away. And go away. This has gotten out of hand.”

Pedro’s hand shook a little. Beads of sweat gathered across his forehead, and for the first time Slattery realized the man was jonesing for a drug fix.

“Shit, man, let’s get out of here.”

Slattery shared the sentiment but he sat still. Pedro and Diego exchanged a few more words and departed. The manager retreated into his office, and the other laundry patrons returned to their seats. Slattery exhaled a long sigh of relief. He gathered his now dry garments, loaded them into the bag, and left. His calm façade lasted until he reached the car, barely.

Once he slid behind the wheel, his body trembled with the aftereffects of the confrontation. His “good” knee, the one he’d had since birth, bounced up and down in a wild rhythm equal to his level of agitation. For the first time in his years with Homeland Security, his cover had almost been blown. He’d almost been outed as a law enforcement officer. Slattery’s breath came hard and fast as he drummed against the dash with three fingers. The near miss made him more likely to resign, and in those first moments he thought he probably would. If he pursued his suspicions now, Pedro and his pal would be on alert, and if they realized his true occupation, he’d be a dead man.

That wouldn’t have mattered as much a few weeks ago, he mused. He wouldn’t have cared over much if he lived or died. But things were different now because of Sabetha, and God damn it to hell, he wanted to live.

Slattery had to tell her the truth and soon. Before he did, though, he had to chill out and calm the fuck down. He wanted their day out tomorrow before he risked telling her, and so, for the first time since he’d worked for the security company, he called in sick. He mumbled some story about food poisoning, a bad taco or something, and since he’d never asked off, his supervisor agreed. His assignment had been just a hardware trade show for dealers in the greater Los Angeles area.

At home, Slattery resisted the urge to get as shit-faced drunk as possible. He put away his laundry, did a little basic cleaning around the place, took another long shower, and settled down in his recliner with a book. After an hour or so, he removed his prosthesis and worked his way through a bag of taco chips.

By the time Sabetha called, minutes before beginning her evening set, his mood had mellowed, and when he told her how much he looked forward to tomorrow’s outing, he meant it.

Although he slept little, he rose early and headed out to pick up Sabetha, determined to enjoy every minute.