My belly fluttered.
A belly flutter? What was that all about?
“What?” I snapped and ignored my belly.
“You’re lyin’.”
“I am not lying,” I lied again.
He shook his head.
Then, to my surprise, he let me go and stepped back.
I stood there, feeling weirdly bereft.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I waited then waited more.
“Well, finish it,” I demanded when he didn’t say anything.
“I get the feelin’ I’ll see you again,” he told me.
Oh crap.
I didn’t figure that was good at all.
He pulled my gun out of his jeans, released the clip and with a casual, over arm throw, he tossed it well away. Then he leaned in, shoved the gun in the waistband of my cords, right in front, by my hipbone.
Then he turned, walked away, threw a muscled thigh over his Harley and roared off.
I stared until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Then I pulled my gun out, lifted up my sweater and checked to see if there was a mark where his hand slid against me.
I did this because it still burned.
* * * * *
I parked Hazel (my vintage, red Camaro) in the garage behind my house, scanning my mirrors while the door came down just to be certain I was safe. These days there was no telling.
I got out of Hazel and did the routine of walking the fifteen feet from the garage to the backdoor. Eyes open, gun at the ready (I had an extra clip in my glove compartment), listening and praying no one was out to get me.
I unlocked the door and walked through the shared back room of my duplex where Nick and I kept our washer and dryer, an extra freezer, tools, old paint cans and the kitty litter which Boo, my cat, could access through the cat flap in my backdoor.
I unlocked that door, unarmed the alarm and flipped the light switch to my retro kitchen. Pink metal cabinets, pink fridge, pink oven door, huge black and white diamond tiles patterning the floor. One wall was brick, the rest painted steel gray. It was cool as shit but not on purpose, only that it had been there so long, it had come back into fashion. I’d bought a high, fifties-style black Formica-topped table with gleaming stainless steel sides and kickass retro stools with black leather swivel seats because the kitchen demanded it.
Boo approached from the other door and began immediately to tell me about his day.
My cat was black with dense, soft fur and yellow eyes. He was too fat, unbelievably proud and he was the only clumsy cat I’d ever known. Boo pretended he meant to fall over and miss his leaps from furniture to table or whatever, but he was just not coordinated. At all.
“Meow, meow, meow. Meow meow. Meoow,” Boo told me, obviously having a full day and feeling I needed to be kept apprised of every second of it.
I threw my gun and bag on the table and swiped him off the floor.
“Meow!” Boo protested.