Page 6 of Goose

With my mind in the gutter and a mouth filled with pancakes, I watched as he got out of the car and stepped toward the curb. The contrast of his deeply tanned skin against the sleeves of his stark white shirt did for me what washboard abs did for most women.

There was nothing sexier than a lean, muscular man with tan skin wearing a proper-fitting white tee shirt.

Not. One. Thing.

Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a white tee shirt, and a pair of slip-on biker boots, he resembled a short-haired version of James Dean.

I found him attractive at the funeral. Irresistible was more like it.

His lips were full and pouty, like Marlon Brando’s in A Streetcar Names Desire. With his eyes fixed in a permanent squint, he stepped onto the curb and lit a cigarette. He looked the car over from one end to the other, taking two long puffs off the cigarette in the process.

A long white plume dissipated into the air above him. He snuffed the cigarette on the heel of his boot and slipped the butt into his back pocket.

I watched with hungry eyes as he sauntered to the door and pushed it open.

“Sit wherever you like,” Lawson shouted.

Fork in hand, I slid to the corner of my booth and tried to become invisible.

“Is George in?” James Dean asked.

“Sorry, he’s out until five.”

Fearing he’d recognize me, I remained slumped in my seat. After an incredibly long period of silence, the heels of his boots squeaked their way across the polished tile floor.

Squeak. Squeak.

Squeak. Squeak.

Squeak.

I glanced at my watch.

4:40

Hiding for twenty minutes wasn’t going to be an easy task. Especially when Lawson came to check on me in five.

Squeak. Squeak.

With each of James Dean’s steps the squeaking became more pronounced. Then, the unthinkable happened. It stopped.

I looked up.

He was peering down at me through thinning eyes.

I was wadded in a ball at the back of the booth. Acting like it was my first choice of seating positions, I raised my fork and smiled. “Hi.”

A look of confusion washed over him. “Were you…were you at Porter Reeves’ funeral day before yesterday?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and rested my head against my hand. “Maybe.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘maybe’? You either were or you weren’t.”

He was intimidatingly tall, especially from my vantage point. Shifting my attention to my pancakes, I broke his stone-faced stare.

He loomed over me, waiting for my response. I cut off a section of my maple syrup slathered lunch and raised it to my mouth. “If you’re pissed off, the answer’s ‘no’. If you’re not, the answer’s yes.”

“Why would I be pissed off?”