your bumper. It was humidity that never broke no matter how much rain came. It was the strange sour smell that the ground itself exhaled in the summer. It was driving down to the Gulf of Mexico to get away, ha-ha, and realizing the Gulf was just liquid Houston, a dull chemical soup that stretched on forever.
Maybe if he’d made some friends. But why bother? In a couple of years Rebecca would put her hand up for another office and away they’d go. When they weren’t talking about Kira and Tony, their main topic was her career, so he knew enough to see she was turning into a star. Despite everything, he found himself proud of her. She’d sold him out, but at least she was getting full value. He figured they’d end up in Washington or New York, one of the real prestige jobs.
Then she started messing around at the border, chasing some serial killer who gave dirt naps to migrants. A crime that was in no way her job to solve. A crime that was not her problem. A crime that, as far as Brian could tell, no one at the FBI gave even a single crap about.
Before he even figured out what was happening, she’d turned it into a holy quest. Feminist nonsense. Brian was sorry about the migrants, but most murder victims were men. He didn’t see Rebecca pitching in with the Houston cops to solve the cases piling up in the Third Ward, the gangbangers dropping each other. No, she preferred to chase a ghost.
Which was not just unfair to him and the kids, but stupid. For her to come home late because she was busting her butt on cases that might help her career, okay. He didn’t love playing housewife, but he could deal. But he hated to see her wasting her time.
Even worse, she blew him off when he tried to talk to her about it. More proof she didn’t respect him. Like he needed any.
Then he realized she had another reason for running down to the border. She had a hard-on for the guy at the border who was in charge of this totally useless investigation. Ranger Ten-Gallon Hat. Brian didn’t know if she was actually having sex with this lawman, but she certainly liked his company. She’d slipped up a couple of times, talked about him in a way she never talked about any of her FBI buddies. How he “got it,” he knew these weren’t just a bunch of dead Mexicans. Not just what she said but the way she said it. Yeah, Brian knew.
And he was pissed. Because he had kept his side of the bargain, he hadn’t banged any of those waitresses or the Conoco admins who looked his way. He could have. Some would have turned him down. But some would have said yes.
What gave her the right to cheat on him, or even think about it?
Only thing he knew was that he couldn’t say a word to her. No way, no how. He would just embarrass himself. Boo-fucking-hoo. Whatever she wound up saying, he’d know what she thought, which was that he hadn’t earned the right to question her. Earned being the key word.
So he let her take her shiny red rocket down to the border whenever she liked. But on the weekends she went down there, he put the kids to bed and went out. Not to Hooters anymore, either. Houston had its share of first-rate “gentlemen’s” clubs—with oil at more than a hundred bucks a barrel in the last year of the Bush administration, the town was flush.
He never had sex, but he let them grind him until he came in his jeans. Never took more than two dances. He didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed at the speed. Well hello there, the girls would say, leaning close, rolling on his crotch in their G-strings while he was still spurting. And Good to the last drop. And Guess we don’t need to go to the back room. And, his favorite, from a blonde who reminded him of Birmingham Kaylee, Ain’t getting much at home, sweetie?
Is it that obvious?
Mmm-hmm.
Maybe he was fooling himself but he thought the girls liked it, proof of their skill. He handed over an extra twenty when they were done. Money well spent.
* * *
Then Rebecca’s conscience hit her. Or the charms of Ranger Redneck wore off. Or, most likely, she realized she wasn’t doing her career any favors,