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“No shit.”
He eyed the bike. “I see you’re determined to fix that hunk of junk.”
“It will fetch me a tidy bundle once I’m done with it.”
“Speaking of bundle.” He held out a pair of tickets. “Someone at work was giving these away. Some kind of dinner theatre combo. Interested in going?”
I could have pointed out the impropriety of a detective on my case asking me out. Then I looked at his hopeful dimple, the width of his shoulders in his suit jacket, and the fact that he looked really good with that day-old scruff shading his jawline.
“Can I grab a quick shower first?”
In the end, I got two hours to get ready as he left and returned later to pick me up. A good thing I had plenty of time because the shower and cleaning out the grease from under my nails wasn’t the longest part. Choosing an outfit proved most difficult. I’d not dated since my divorce. Add in the twenty-some years of marriage to The Jerk, and I was woefully unprepared.
Dress? Pants? Casual? Fancy? Would he expect me to put out? Did I want to have sex? Because a yes meant matching bra and underwear, also some trimming of my private bits so he didn’t scream at the massive Venus bush growing down there. A dress, and a possibility of sex, meant shaving the pits and legs, too. So much work.
It should be noted, the few times I’d randomly hooked up with guys, I didn’t give a shit. One-night stands didn’t merit much preparation as it was about sexual release and nothing else. In the case of the detective, he gave me tingles, the kind that wanted maybe more than just one date.
Did women my age have boyfriends? Wait, the correct term now was partner. Whatever. I needed to stop freaking. He’d asked me out. No big deal. I should go. Enjoy myself and see what happened.
Could be nothing. Maybe the chemistry was one-sided.
Then why ask me to go?
Funny how the prospect of a guy liking me took away from my confidence and put me back in the anxious body of a teenager with her does-he-like-me-or-not mentality.
The bruising had diminished enough that it could be hidden by makeup. For once, my long hair cooperated with my blow-dryer to take on a silken sheen. I settled on my little black dress, which wrapped around me and had been used for everything in the last five years from funerals to a friend’s daughter getting married. I’d livened it up with a blue scarf and shoes. Don’t judge. The choices in my closet proved limited.
There was the floral summer dress that fit me shapelessly and The Jerk used to callthe muumuu. Well, sorry, but I wasn’t into the tiny, strapless, mid-thigh numbers his young chippie liked to sport. I wasn’t about to slip on my ice princess dress which I’d bought for Halloween years ago and never dared to wear.
Going through my closet also showed a lack of almost anything without a grease stain. I really needed to start separating my work stuff from my going-out stuff. Once I got going-out stuff.
I did a little better with shoes. I found those easy to buy and, with mixing and matching, could turn my little black dress into something trendy and…
Nope. I needed to stop making excuses for my lazy wardrobe. Tomorrow, I’d online shop, because fuck wasting time heading into the city and going store to store.
For makeup, I had mascara and eyeliner. Did Chapstick count as lipstick?
The final product wasn’t half-bad. Although, my hair could apparently use a cut. It had been a while since it’d seen scissors, but at least I could claim the color as mine. I might have hit my late forties, but like my mother and her mother before her, I’d so far missed the grays. Except for the one in my pubes, which died a plucked death. Gray hair down there? Just wrong.
I opted for matching undergarments; the red lace underwear stiff from never having been worn. The lace bra, with its very full cups, made my tits into a shelf of art. Since I wanted to be sexy, I skipped the lacy camisole and let my cleavage hang out of the dress—the swell of them revealed by the slit in the wrap-around fabric framed by a hint of the crimson brassiere.
Too much? Guess I’d soon find out. I just hoped it didn’t come across as desperate. Walking meant being very aware of the thin wedge of lace between my thighs. Would anyone know I’d worn my get-lucky underpants? Bad enough that I knew. It caused my cheeks to heat, but also my pussy because I felt sexy andhawt.
Ready, I headed back to the living room and my moping dog. He lay on the couch, head on his paws, watching me with the biggest eyes. My fault. I’d given him his rawhide before going for my shower, worried I’d forget.
From experience, Blade understood that him getting a rawhide meant I would be leaving. Blade hated being alone. He would go after my boots if I didn’t give him something to chew. I’d broken those suckers in with blisters and hisses of pain. No way did I want to work in a new pair.
“You be a good boy while I’m gone,” I reminded as I debated on a coat. Nothing I owned worked with the dress. A going-out coat—another thing for the list of things I should buy. Going through more money. At this rate, I might actually have to actively work to ensure a steady income.
“Have you gone pee?” I’d been leaving his doggy door locked since the attack, too nervous at the thought of one of those bastards squeezing through and maybe surprising me while I slept.
Blade uttered a long-suffering sigh at my question, but he knew the drill. He lumbered from the couch, and I followed him to the doggy door, which I unsealed. I watched from the window as he slowly found a spot to do his business.
Poor Blade. Hopefully, I’d either get over my fear soon, or they’d catch those assholes.
With him good for the night, we headed back into the living room to wait. I’d see the detective’s lights before he arrived, which had me thinking. What should I call him? Detective? Mister Walker? Did I ever get his first name?”
The question got answered when he knocked on the door, having pulled in behind my car, a very boring Ford sedan that I could count on in any kind of weather.
