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The state trooper is not here to arrest me. Far from it. She is a cop I have become very familiar with, having made her acquaintance in a Millbrook roadhouse more than a year ago. Her name is Mary Clifton. No that’s not entirely right. Her name is Lieutenant Mary Clifton, and she’s a decorated veteran law enforcement officer who has, over the four years I’m known her, read my manuscripts to point out inaccuracies and mistakes that I occasionally make when writing about crimes and crime scenes. That’s a good thing, especially when I’m not blocked and writing up a storm.
The even better thing is that she’s a five-feet four-inch, beauty with a body to kill for, including a tight round ass, perfect size C breasts, a thin waist thanks to daily runs and strength training, a cute little laugh, a penchant for good beer and food, and boy oh boy, can she fuck like nobody’s business. We’re also pals if not best friends. In lots of ways, we’re the perfect match.
Before I go any further, I know what you’re thinking. There’s got to be a “But” here, and there is. Mary might be my ideal mate, but (and this is a big but), there just happens to be one tiny complication. She’s married with a child. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a home wrecker here. The child is an adult and engaged to be married.
And as for the husband? He’s twenty years her senior, in ill health, and an alcoholic. He also spends almost all his time down in Florida where it’s hot and comfortable for him. So, optimistically speaking, you could say Mary is unofficially separated from the guy. But then, technically speaking, she’s still married, and according to her, if she were to tell him she wants a divorce, it would outright kill him. Apparently, he is that delicate.
So where does that leave us? Although we’re quite open about the relationship, no one is supposed to know about it. That’s right, you try and figure out the logic because I sure as shit haven’t figured it out yet. And I don’t wish the worst for Mr. Clifton either. I hope he enjoys a nice long life in his golden years. It would be bad karma to wish anything else for him. But I do wish she’d do the right thing and ask him for a legal separation. But Lt. Mary being Lt. Mary, her stubborn streak is harder and more resilient than granite.
I approach the cop in my worn black leather coat, pajama bottoms, and brown UGG boots. My head is covered with a black Navy watch cap while my near-sighted eyes are aided by thick trifocal reading eyeglasses. On the other hand, Mary looks all spit and polished in her gray state trooper’s uniform. The only thing missing is her Stetson.
She kills the engine on the blue and yellow cruiser and gets out. Going around to the passenger side, I can’t help but focus on her tight-fitting trousers and the way they show off her heart-shaped ass. Opening the passenger-side door, she comes back out with a cardboard tray that contains two large coffees and two egg and bacon sandwiches. Or I assume they are egg and bacon.
She goes around the front of the cruiser and gives me a long look with her blue/green eyes. Stunning eyes.
“Nice outfit,” she says not without a grin.
I cross my arms over my chest.
“And you should know better than to interrupt the writer during his morning writing routine,” I say. Then noticing she's not wearing her state trooper cool weather jacket and how her nipples are pleasantly responding to the temperature by standing at attention. “Little cold to be going without a jacket...But then, I’m not complaining.”
I too am grinning.
“Bet you like what you see, bestseller,” she says approaching me and leaning in for a wet kiss. “And to answer your question, you texted me last night to bring you breakfast this morning. Let me guess, you got into the Jameson and had a little pity party over your writer’s block.”
I try to recall the night before. Me, standing in the game room, shooting pool by myself, The Beatles White Album blasting over the stereo system. “Happiness is a warm gun. Bang, bang, shoot, shoot.” I was indeed drowning my sorrows in Irish whiskey. Just the mere mention of a gun made me picture the Kimber .45 Caliber Model 1911 I store beside my bed in the main house. I saw myself placing the barrel in my mouth and happily pulling the trigger. But I quickly discarded the idea, knowing that given time, the writer’s block would wear off, and I’d be back in the writing saddle, once again making money, and even working on paying my past due bills. More importantly, I’d be happy again.
I recalled all this, but I did not recall texting Mary to bring me breakfast. I am, however, glad she’s here. She will take my mind off things for a while.
My cell phone rings.
“I should see who that is,” I say. “Come with me.”
“Good,” she says, “I want to get out of this cold. And this uniform too.”
I like the sound of that. Mary undressing. Heading into the studio, I go to my desk and stare at the digital readout. Again, it’s a number I don’t recognize but that has a New York City area code. As Mary enters the space and places the coffee and sandwiches on the wooden coffee table set before the couch, I answer the phone.
“Jordan,” I say.
Like the first time, all I get is the sound of breathing. Heavy breathing.
“Hey, who the hell is this, and why are you calling?” I say.
The connection ends.
“Who was that?” Mary says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “The strangest thing. It’s the second call I got today from a New York City number where the caller just breathes and then hangs up.”
Mary goes to the wood stove, opens it, and tosses in another couple of logs from the pile I keep in a small wood box on the floor near the stove. Closing the stove door, the dry apple wood immediately takes. You can feel the heat coming from the stove immediately inside the small studio.
Unbuttoning her blouse, Mary removes her shirt, exposing a black push-up bra that makes her breasts go from looking perfect to heavenly. When she removes her police shoes and trousers, she reveals matching black satin bikini panties. She no longer resembles a cop, but instead, a ravishing woman who is bent on getting in my pants. Lucky me.
Note to self: remember to store some Cialis in your studio for just such an occasion. But it’s early morning, and even in my advanced middle age, I don’t normally require the chemical services of Cialis at this hour. I wake up horny. Just to prove it, Mary can clearly see the hard-on I’m sporting.
“You want me to run the numbers?” she says.
“Not right now,” I say, hanging my coat up and removing my pajamas. “Don’t we have more important matters to tend to, sexy?”
I go to her as she lays herself out on the leather couch.
“I never thought you’d ask,” she says holding her arms out for me.