Chapter 7

This chapter is dedicated to Gracie, with thanks and love.

"Hammer of Death!"

"Purveyor of Filth!"

"Oh!" Andy clutched at his chest. "You wound me to the quick, good sire."

"Yeah, right," I said. "Who rents Lara Croft, Womb Trader out of his store? Lara investigates the world of sexual slavery. I'm fairly sure that's not a regular Eidos issue. They usually have her clothed in most of their games, don't they?"

"And besides," I muttered underneath my voice, "she doesn't look anything like that."

"All right, you got me," Andy said with a smile. "Just keep it down, huh?"

"Mall security?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? Those horndogs have rented it more than anybody else. No, I just like to make sure of my clients before I rent out those ones."

"Ones?" I asked. "Plural?"

I never showed you Lara Croft, Womb Traitor? About Lara's quest to find the perfect contraceptive? By trial and error?"

"Christ," I said. "I brought back Duellum."

"And only a week late. But for you I'll waive half the late fees."

"You're a prince. Anything new?"

"Nah. Same old, same old. Me and Sara saw a kick-ass movie last night, though. Troy. Brad Pitt for her. Sword fights and battles for me. You seen it?"

"About the Trojan War? No, thank you. I had enough of that in college. A whole fucking semester on it. The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Aeneid — the works."

"I've got it for another week, dude. You're welcome to borrow it."

"Movies like that give me nightmares," I said.

"Nightmares." Andy dismissed my concerns with a scoff.

"Well, bad dreams, anyway."

"Suit yourself, dude. The place is deserted so help yourself back there."

I passed an enjoyable afternoon at Andy's. It wasn't until I got home that I noticed that he had slipped the movie into the pocket on the side of my chair. I put it on the table next to the TV so I could remember to drop it off at the video store on my way in to work on Monday.

It was almost five-thirty, so I wheeled myself into the kitchen to begin dinner. Saturday was my day to really cook, even if, as was the case on every Saturday other than that disaster with "Parkay," I was the only one who got to enjoy the results.

The knock on the door at six-thirty really pissed me off. I never liked eating in my wheelchair on Saturdays. So once I had put all the ingredients and the dishes on the kitchen counter, I usually hauled myself into one of the stationary chairs within easy reach of the stove.

I always kept the door to my apartment bolted, so answering the door meant getting back in my wheelchair. And I knew what a waste of time it was going to be. In fact, I rehearsed my answers on the way over. No, Mrs. Golding, I haven't heard the man upstairs. No, Mrs. Golding, he isn't bothering me. Maybe, Mrs. Golding, you should complain to the building manager all by yourself.

Outside my door was not Mrs. Golding, but a vision of incredible loveliness. Long, flowing hair of the finest gold, blue eyes that danced beneath impossibly long lashes, a pair of jeans that appeared to have been painted on, and a knit sweater that stretched in all the right directions.

"Are you ready?"

After another moment's gaping, I decided on honesty.

"I would have to spend three hours preparing before I could even think of getting ready for anything that involved you."

Her smile, two rows of perfect teeth that would have made the Crest people salivate, lit up the dark hallway.

"You're cute," she said.

"No, you're cute." Once again I went for the truth. "Seriously, which apartment are you looking for?"

"Seriously?" she said, a laugh in her voice as she looked at the door I was holding open. "Two-D. Rick Handley?"

I stared long enough that I was afraid I was making both of us uncomfortable.

Her face turned into a frown. I knew it was too good to last.

"She never called you, did she?" she asked. Then she started sniffing the air. "And you're already cooking dinner, aren't you? It smells heavenly."

"Heavenly," I agreed, although the scent that filled my nostrils was hers. She was a feast for the senses.

"What are you making?" She giggled again.

"Oh, the dinner. Um, spaghetti Bolognese. Uh, salad. Garlic bread."

Her eyes were dancing again as she looked down at me. With a delightful little wiggle of her eyebrows, she turned and headed down the hallway toward the window that looked out over the street. There was also a delightful little wiggle in that perfectly shaped rear end.

"You didn't even tell him," she yelled out. "Honestly!"

I couldn't hear the response, but the goddess was quick to answer.

"No, I think I'll stay here."

Mumble, mumble.

"No. You two just go on. I'm staying here."

Another pause to listen.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

She shut the window and came back down the hall. She stopped in front of me and poked me in the arm.

"What was that for?" I asked.

"You're not like one of those hemophiliacs or something, are you?"

"Uh, no."

She shook her head.

"She said to be careful. You bruise easily."

She suddenly put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God," she said. "You're probably expecting someone, aren't you?"

"No, actually," I answered. "And to be completely honest" — because that whole honesty thing had worked so well up to his point — "if Jennifer Garner herself knocked on the door, I'd turn her away."

She looked around and leaned toward me to whisper.

"If Jennifer Garner shows up, I'll be happy to share my dinner. That is one hot-looking babe. Can't you see me and Jennifer sucking on the same strand of spaghetti?"

I stared again. I was still staring when she stepped around me into the room and looked around at what passed for décor. Apparently satisfied that I had made no major errors, she proceeded to the stove, where she gave the sauce a stir.

"We will have so much more fun here," she said. "Between the two of us, I can't stand him."

"No," I agreed.

"I mean don't you think he's just so shallow?"

"Shallow," I said with a nod.

It was her turn to stare at me for a minute — not that I ever gave my turn up — and then she burst into laughter.

"You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?" she asked.

"I absolutely do not." Confession was supposed to be good for the soul.

"I'm —"

"No, no, don't tell me," I said. "I'm keen to guess."

"All right. Twenty questions."

"Let's see. My only clue is that there was a guy on the street that you don't like and that you thought I wouldn't like. So it must be someone I know. Or someone you think I know. Is it Dan? It's not Dan Edwards, is it? Because if Dan Edwards put you up to this —"

"No and no," she said. "Eighteen."

"That was only one question!"

"Eighteen."

"I don't know that many guys well enough to dislike them," I said. "Well, Eric..."

Her eyes danced again.

"Eric Sudduth?"

"Yes. Seventeen."

"So you came with Alison and Eric?"

"Yes. Sixteen."

"So you're a friend of Alison's?"

"No. Fifteen."

I gave her a puzzled look and she decided to throw me a bone.

"If I was a friend, don't you think she would have tried to set us up before now?"

That was true.

"All right. You're not a friend of Allison's. You're Alison's movie-star, swimsuit-model sister from California."

"Wow. You're good at this."

"Seriously, how many questions do I have left?"

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