Chapter 4

I heard something and my eyes opened as my ears perked up. It didn't feel like I'd been asleep very long, but there was no way to tell. The window lite in the front door was only nine by nine inches, but the street light in front of my house was on and some of that light filtered through into the living room. With my eyes adjusted to the dark the living room was faintly lit. I saw movement coming from the hallway to the bedrooms.

"Bob?" came a whisper that was a whisper in name only. If someone could shout while whispering, that's what Valerie was doing.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Bob?" She moved toward me, and in the faint light she seemed to float.

"I'm here," I said, remembering that she was tipsy.

She stopped. I lifted my head. She was wearing something that was hard to make out the details of. It was made of something that was darker than her skin, but seemed to glow in the dim light.

"Bob?" She came closer and the glow coalesced into a satin camisole that came to just above a pair of matching panties. She hadn't bought that at WalMart while we were replacing some of their lost clothing. She must have gotten it while I was on my trip.

I was pretty sure she was doing something along the lines of sleep walking, or at least wandering around in a tipsy haze. She'd had enough wits about her to change into that outfit, though. I decided to speak to her in terms that would keep her calm.

"What's wrong, baby?" I asked, gently.

"Oh, there you are," she said, stopping. She weaved a little bit. "You don't have to sleep out here anymore, Bob."

"Yes I do," I said, softly.

"No you don't. I got the kids a bed, Bob. You don't have to sleep on the couch. This isn't good for your back."

Her speech was slurred, but she was making sense. I tried to reason with her.

"I can't sleep in the same bed with you," I said, softly.

"Why not? It's a big bed."

I wasn't sure what was going on. I was pretty sure, however, that what was not going on, was Valerie Martin throwing herself at me. Another guy might have thought so, but even though I didn't know her all that well, I knew her well enough to know she didn't act like this on a regular basis. This was the booze talking. And in the morning, the booze would be gone and I didn't want Valerie to wake up and decide it was definitely time to move out of my house. Don't get me wrong. It was tempting as hell, but I like it when a woman actually wants me, rather than not knowing who she's in bed with. And I knew she was eventually going to move out anyway, but I wanted that occasion to be a happy one, and not her running from me in fear and/or anger.

"Go back to bed, Val," I said, standing up.

"Oooo, you're naked!" she giggled.

I'd forgotten about that.

"Go back to bed," I said again. "You've had too much to drink."

"I had the perfect amount to drink," she argued. "I like screwdrivers. They're my new favorite drink."

"Then go get in bed and dream of drinking screwdrivers," I urged, picking up the blanket and wrapping it around me. I felt like I was at a toga party.

"You can't sleep here," she said. "It will ruin your back."

"My back is fine," I said. "You'll wake up the kids. You need to go back to bed."

"What I need is another screwdriver!" she said, looking toward the kitchen. "That's what I need."

"You do not need another screwdriver," I groaned.

Her shoulders slumped and her chin fell.

"Yeah," she sighed. "You're prob'ly right. I don't need a screwdriver. I just need to get screwed."

"Valerie," I sighed. "You have no idea what you're saying. Please ... go back to bed."

"Come to bed with me," she said, her voice pouty.

It occurred to me that, if I escorted her to my bedroom, and tucked her in bed, I could sit with her for a few minutes and she would probably drift off to sleep. I decided that was the best course of action. She probably would not remember any of this in the morning, or at least she'd think it was a dream. I could act like nothing had happened, and things would be fine.

"If I come with you, do you promise to go to sleep?"

"I promise," she said, softly. "It's lonely in that big old bed."

"Okay," I said. "Let's get you in bed and you can have a nice nap."

"Get me in bed," she mumbled. "I like it that you want to get me in bed."

I couldn't drag the blanket with me and steer her too, so I dropped it. It was dark and she was three sheets to the wind. She'd never know I was naked when I took her back to bed. I put my arm around her to keep her from stumbling. The satin of her camisole was smooth under my fingers. My fingertips grazed the side of one full breast. I waited to see which foot she moved, and then matched my stride to hers so we weren't pulling and pushing at each other.

I got her into the bedroom, where there was even less light than in the living room. Still, I could see light and dark, and I knew where the bed was. I got her there and found that she'd thrown the covers aside as she got out of bed. I pushed her gently down, intending to cover her back up, but as she sat her arms went around my neck. I couldn't get her to lie down without bending over.

"Let go," I whispered.

"No," she said. Her lips found my cheek and kissed it.

"Valerie, let go," I ordered.

"Don't be mean to me," she whined. "Come to bed."

Now I was in hot water. We were in my bedroom, half into the bed. I was naked. If she woke fully up now, things would not go well. I was still sure that it was the liquor doing all the talking here, in terms of wanting me to come to bed. Her behavior was suggestive, but not sexual, if you know what I mean. It was like she was saying a fantasy, but not something she was serious about doing.

I knew that if anything happened, we would both regret it in the morning.

I had to get her to sleep. Only then could I escape and go back to the couch, so that when she woke up, there would be nothing to regret. Unless she remembered any of this. She'd regret that. But that could be laughed off. It could be blamed on the vodka. Vows could be made not to drink like that again. Things would calm down.

So I let her pull me into the bed and lay beside her. I positioned myself on the edge of the bed, and urged her deeper toward the middle. My hands were on her in the dark, and I felt both smooth satin and soft, warm skin, but couldn't tell what I was touching. Her hand gripped my wrist, tugging, always tugging, making sure I did not escape and abandon her to the big, old, lonely bed her inebriated brain was so unhappy about.

I thought to lie on my back, so I could just roll out of bed after she was asleep. She reached to pull the covers over us both, and snuggled up against me.

"You're warm," she cooed.

She smelled good.

She lifted her body and pulled my arm under her. I felt thick, heavy hair caress every inch of that arm and then her weight settled on my biceps as her cheek came to rest on my shoulder. Her breasts were hot beneath the satin that was the only thing that separated our skin. Her left hand draped over my chest, and her left leg came to lie on top of mine.

"Mmmmm," was the satisfied sound that purred in her throat. Her lips pursed in the dark and kissed the skin of my shoulder.

I was pinned by her body weight. She smelled wonderful. She was obviously happy, at the moment.

My groin tingled as my own brain fought off the happy glow of the Scotch I'd drunk.

I was in trouble.

I was in deep, deep trouble. The last thing that needed to happen was for Valerie Martin to wake up in bed with me ... and my hardon.

I waited until her breathing slowed. It seemed to take forever.

Finally I thought she was asleep.

I moved, preparing to drag my arm out from under her and escape.

Her left hand slid over my shoulder and pulled. Her left leg moved farther on top of my legs, and her knee slid right up against my erection.

I froze.

And, as I waited for her to fall more deeply asleep, so I could try again...

I drifted off to sleep myself.

Waking up was complicated.

It was one part warm, fuzzy happiness, at finding a warm body embracing mine. We had turned in sleep and were facing each other. It was another part something verging on terror as our eyes opened and the realization of our situation sent adrenaline surging into our bloodstreams. She tensed, and her fingers explored what they were touching. Morning breath wafted between us, the sour residue of the alcohol that created something neither of us enjoyed. I realized that I'd fallen asleep, as her dim memory recalled some of what had happened.

It was stupid, but I decided to try to bluff my way out of things.

"Hi," I said, averting my mouth so I wasn't breathing in her face.

"Oh, God," she moaned.

"It's not as bad as you think," I said.

She rolled away from me, and her hands came to cover her face.

"I'll just get up," I said.

I got out of bed vigorously, not thinking about the morning wood that caused my penis to strain away from my body and bob up and down as I moved. Like an idiot I stood there, trying to find something to cover myself with, and by the time my brain realized that was futile, her hands had left her face and she was staring at me. Like a school boy I covered my groin with my hands and backed away from her. Finally I turned and fled.

I went to the bathroom in the hall, which I had been using because I had ceded the master bathroom to my visitors. I had to pee, and that somehow took first priority once I was out of her sight. After that I hurried on bare feet back to the living room, where I climbed back into the clothes I'd worn the day before.

I was trying to think of something to say to her, and couldn't, so I went to the kitchen. At least I could get a cup of coffee.

I was sitting there, still trying to think of what to say, when she appeared in the doorway, fully dressed. She looked completely normal. I felt like a bum in my wrinkled, smelly clothes.

"I can explain," I said.

She held up a hand to stop me from talking.

"Nothing happened," I said, anyway.

"I know," she said.

"You do?" I must have sounded happy about it.

"I remember what sex feels like," she said.

"You got a little tipsy," I tried to explain.

"Please stop talking," she said.

"Okay. Yes."

She went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. Neither of us said anything for the next ten minutes, as she stood and nursed her cup of coffee, leaning against the counter. Finally she got out a box of cereal and poured herself a bowl. She sat down across the table from me and began to eat, staring into the flakes, floating in a tiny sea of milk.

I wanted to say something, but I knew not to. There wasn't much to say anyway. I wasn't hungry, so finally I got up and went to my new office. I had an old fashioned Rolodex I used for the contacts I'd made. I had fifty or sixty business cards in a bowl, which she hadn't bothered when she cleaned up the desk, but all the information on them was in the Rolodex, where it was much easier to find.

I called Dean Pruitt, who had done some of the renovation work on my house. It wasn't until he answered that I looked at my watch and realized it was only seven in the morning. He sounded awake and chipper. I told him who I was and that I needed a favor.

"I have a friend who lost her house to a fire during the riot," I said.

"I'm in the repair and renovation business, Bob," he said. "And I've got a pretty full plate."

"You used to build houses," I said.

"Yeah, and it got to be more than I wanted to do," he said. "That's why I went into the repair and renovation business. We've had this conversation before, Bob."

"Yes, but that was before this happened. She's having trouble finding someone to rebuild her house."

"I'm not surprised. There were seventeen houses completely destroyed in that little fiasco, and probably two dozen that suffered significant damage."

"I can make it worth your time," I said.

"Doesn't she have insurance?"

"Yes, but I don't want her to have to get at the end of the line."

"I don't know, Bob," he said. "If I do this for you I'll have to put some of my regular customers on the back burner. It could cause hard feelings in the future."

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Bewitched

Lubrican

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