The Great Escape

Chapter Sixteen

THE FIRST OF THE FIREWORKS exploded above them, an umbrella of red and violet. Lucy rested her head against the back of the bench seat that ran across the stern of the boat. Panda did the same, and they watched in surprisingly comfortable silence. “What you did today with little Sophie was pretty great,” Lucy eventually said as a shell of stars withered above them.

She felt him shrug. “You’re a good swimmer. If I hadn’t been there, you’d have gone in.”

She liked how certain he sounded. She glanced over at him and watched a trio of silver comets shimmer in his eyes. “The surf was rough. I don’t think I could have pulled her out.”

“You’d have done what you had to,” he said curtly, and then, “People need to watch their kids better.”

The sharp edge to his voice seemed unwarranted. “Children move fast,” she said. “Hard for any parent to watch them every second.” Sailboat spars jingled in the silence between booms, and water slapped the boat’s hull. “You understand kids. I guess that surprised me.”

He crossed his ankles. Purple palms dropped a trail of stars, and orange peonies unfolded. “You can’t be a cop and not deal with kids.”

“A lot of gang stuff?”

“Gangs. Neglect. Abuse. You name it.”

She’d seen a lot of troubled kids through her work, although she suspected not as many as he had. It was odd. She was so accustomed to regarding Panda as an alien being that she’d never thought about what they might have in common. “Sophie didn’t want to let you go.”

A silver weeping willow glittered against the dark night. “Cute kid.”

Blame it on the night, the fireworks, the emotional aftermath from what could have been a terrible tragedy, because her next words came out unplanned. “You’ll make a great dad someday.”

A short harsh laugh. “Never going to happen.”

“You’ll change your mind when you find the right woman.” She was sounding too sentimental, and Viper came to her rescue. “You’ll know her when you see her. Opposable thumbs. Not too choosy.”

“Nope.” He smiled. “One of many good things about modern science.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vasectomy. The medical profession’s gift to guys like me.”

A fusillade of explosions split the air. This was so wrong. She’d seen him today with the kids, witnessed what a natural he was. He should never have done something so permanent. “Don’t you think you’re too young to make that kind of decision?”

“When it comes to kids, I’m a hundred years old.”

She’d been involved with child advocacy too long not to know what cops faced, and in the dim light she thought he looked haunted. “I saw too many dead bodies,” he said. “Not just teens but infants-five-year-old kids who hadn’t lost their baby teeth. Kids blown up, missing limbs.” She cocked her head. “I saw parents on the worst day of their lives,” he went on, “and I’ve promised myself I’ll never have to go through that. Best decision I ever made. It’s hard to do your job when you wake up every night in a cold sweat.”

“You saw worst-case scenarios. What about the millions of kids who grow up just fine?”

“What about the ones who don’t?”

“Nothing in life comes with a guarantee.”

“Wrong. A snip here, a snip there. It’s a damn good guarantee.”

The sky lit up with the grand finale, the bangs, crackles, and whistles ending their conversation. She respected people who understood themselves well enough to know they wouldn’t make good parents, but instinct told her that wasn’t the case with Panda.

Her Lucy-ness was getting in her way again. This had nothing to do with her, other than serving as an omen, a harsh reminder that a lot of men felt the way Panda did about fatherhood, and despite what she’d done to Ted, she still wanted to get married and have children. What if she fell in love with a man like Panda who didn’t want to be a father? One of so many variables she wouldn’t be facing if she hadn’t bolted from that Texas church.

Temple scrambled back from the bow to join them, and they headed home. Panda stayed behind on the boat, so Lucy and Temple walked up to the house together. “There’s something about fireworks,” Temple said as they reached the top of the stairs. “They make me sad. That’s weird, right?”

“Everybody’s different.” Lucy didn’t feel all that cheery herself, but the fireworks weren’t to blame.

“Fireworks make most people happy, but there’s something depressing about watching all that color and beauty die out so fast. Like if we’re not careful, that’s what will happen to us. One minute you’re blazing hot-on top of your game. The next minute you’re gone, and nobody remembers your name. Sometimes you have to think, what’s the point?”

The porch screen door dragged as Lucy opened it. Light from the fake Tiffany lamp hanging in the kitchen spilled out through the windows. “You’re depressed because you’re starving. And by the way… I think you look terrific.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Temple threw herself down on one of the chaises Lucy had covered with a crimson beach towel. “I’m a pig.”

“Stop talking about yourself that way.”

“I call it like I see it.”

The wind had overturned one of the herb pots, and Lucy went to the baker’s rack to right it. The scents of rosemary and lavender always reminded her of the White House East Garden, but tonight she had something else on her mind. “Being vulnerable isn’t a sin. You told me you’d met someone, and it didn’t work out. That puts a lot of woman in a tailspin.”

“You think I found solace for my broken heart at the bottom of a Häagen-Dazs carton?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Except I’m the one who broke it off,” she said bitterly.

Lucy picked up the watering can. “That doesn’t necessarily make it any less painful. I speak from experience.”

Temple was too wrapped up in her own tribulations to acknowledge Lucy’s troubles. “Max called me gutless. Can you believe that? Me? Gutless? Max was all-” She made quick air quotes. “‘Now, Temple, we can work this out.’” Her hands dropped. “Wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

“More than sure. Some problems can’t ever be worked out. But Max…” She hesitated. “Max is one of those people who not only see the glass as half full, but half full of a mocha caramel Frappuccino. That kind of rosy outlook isn’t realistic.”

Lucy wondered if it was geography that stood in their way-Max on the East Coast, Temple on the west. Or maybe Max was married. Lucy wouldn’t ask. Although she was dying to know.

But the old Lucy’s tactfulness only extended so far. She set aside the watering can and crossed to the chaise. “I haven’t watched much of Fat Island…” She’d hardly watched any of it. “But I seem to remember that psychological counseling is a component of the program.” She remembered, all right. The show had a female psychologist who wore a red bikini and counseled the contestants from a tiki hut-all caught on camera, of course.

“Dr. Kristi. She’s a fruitcake. Major esophageal damage from too many years of sticking her finger down her throat. All shrinks are nuts.”

“Life experience is sometimes what makes them good at their job.”

“I don’t need a shrink, Lucy. Although I do appreciate the way you keep pointing out how nuts I am. What I need is willpower and discipline.”

Lucy wasn’t playing the good girl on this one. “You also need counseling. Panda can’t stand over you forever. If you don’t figure out-”

“If I don’t figure out what’s eating me-blah, blah, blah. God, you sound just like Dr. Kristi.”

“Is she still sticking her finger down her throat?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you should listen to her.”

“Fine.” Temple crossed her arms over her chest so aggressively it was a wonder her ribs didn’t crack. “You think I need counseling? You’re some kind of social worker, aren’t you?”

“Not for years. I work as a lobbyist now.”

Temple waved away the distinction. “Go ahead and counsel me. Let’s hear it. Tell me how I can stop wanting to shove every piece of high-fat, high-sugar, carb-loaded crap down my throat.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

Temple leaped off the chaise and stormed into the house, banging the door behind her like an angry teenager. Lucy sighed. She didn’t need this tonight.

A few moments later, Panda came up the steps from the dock. She’d had enough conversation, and she slipped inside.

SHE WAS ASLEEP WHEN HER cell rang. She fumbled for the bedside light, then reached for her phone.

“Hey, Luce. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” Meg’s cheery chirp didn’t quite ring true. “So how’s it going?”

Lucy shoved the hair out of her eyes and peered at the bedside clock. “It’s one in the morning. How do you think it’s going?”

“Really? It’s only midnight here, but since I have no idea where you are, it’s a little tough to allow for time differences.”

Lucy caught the barb, but Meg didn’t have room to criticize. It was true that Lucy hadn’t told her best friend where she was-hadn’t told her much at all-but Meg was being just as evasive. Still, Lucy knew Meg was worried about her. “It won’t be much longer. I’ll tell you as soon as I can. Right now everything’s a little… too confusing to talk about.” She rolled to her side. “Is something wrong? You sound worried.”

“Something’s wrong, all right.” Another long pause. “What would you think about-” Meg’s pitch rose half an octave as she rushed through her words. “What would you think about me hooking up with Ted?”

Lucy shot up in bed, wide awake now, but not certain she’d heard right. “Hooking up? As in-?”

“Yes.”

“With Ted?”

“Your former fiancé.”

“I know who he is.” Lucy shoved back the sheet and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “You and Ted are a… couple?”

“No! No, not a couple. Never. This is just about sex.” Meg was talking too fast. “And forget it. I’m not exactly thinking clearly right now. I should never have called. God, what was I thinking? This is a total betrayal of our friendship. I shouldn’t have-”

“No! No, I’m glad you called!” Lucy jumped up from the bed. Her heart was racing, her spirits soaring. “Oh, Meg, this is perfect. Every woman should have Ted Beaudine make love to her.”

“I don’t know about that, but- Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Are you kidding?” Lucy was dizzy, light-headed, giddy at this astonishing gift from the gods. “Do you know how guilty I still feel? If he sleeps with you… You’re my best friend. He’d be sleeping with my best friend! It’ll be like getting absolution from the pope!”

“You don’t have to sound so broken up about it,” Meg said dryly.

Lucy did a little hop skip over the shorts she’d abandoned on the floor.

And then in the background, she heard it. Ted’s voice, deep and steady. “Tell Lucy hello from me.”

“I’m not your messenger boy,” Meg snapped back.

Lucy swallowed hard. “Is he there right now?”

“That would be a yes,” Meg replied.

The old guilt washed over her. “Tell him hello from me then.” She sank back on the edge of the bed. “And that I’m sorry.”

Meg stopped talking directly into the phone, but Lucy had no trouble hearing her. “She said she’s having the time of her life, screwing every man she meets, and dumping you was the best move she ever made.”

Lucy jumped up. “I heard that. And he’ll know you’re lying. He knows things like that.”

Ted’s response to Meg’s fabrication was as clear as a bell. “Liar.”

“Go away,” Meg snarled at him. “You are totally creeping me out.”

Lucy clutched the phone. “Did you just tell Ted Beaudine that he was creeping you out?”

“I might have,” Meg said.

Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Lucy tried to pull herself together. “Wow… I sure didn’t see this coming.”

“See what coming?” Meg sounded annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” Lucy gulped. “Love you. And enjoy!” She hung up, jumped up, pressed the phone to her chest. And danced around the room.

Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted. Meg and Ted.

Of course.

Of course, of course, of course! Ted wasn’t a player. He didn’t sleep with women he wasn’t seriously attracted to. And he was attracted to Meg, Lucy’s screwball, screw-up best friend, who wandered the world without a plan and cared nothing about earning anyone’s good opinion.

Meg Koranda and Mr. Perfect. Her rough edges and his smooth surfaces. Her impulsiveness and his forethought. Both of them blessed with brains, loyalty, and gigantic hearts. It was a crazy, unpredictable match made in heaven, although from the sound of their conversation, neither of them seemed to realize it. Or at least Meg didn’t. With Ted, it was hard to tell.

Lucy had no trouble imagining the battles they were having. Meg blunt-spoken and confrontational; Ted laid-back on the surface, steely underneath. And as she thought about them, the missing pieces of her own relationship with Ted finally fell into place. The only rough edge between them had been Lucy’s inability to relax with him, her feeling that she had to be on her best behavior to justify being Ted’s partner. Meg wouldn’t give a damn about anything like that.

They just might be perfect for each other. If they didn’t screw things up. Which, since Meg was involved, seemed highly probable. But whether they worked out or not, one thing was certain. If Meg and Ted were in bed together, Lucy was finally off the hook.

AFTER THAT, SHE WAS TOO worked up to get back to sleep. The house’s spotty air-conditioning had left her bedroom uncomfortably warm. She opened the sliders, fetched her flip-flops to protect her bare feet from the splintery deck, and stepped outside.

Threatening clouds tumbled in the sky. She pulled her damp cami away from her breasts. With the wind, the distant flash of lightning, and the dark mystery of the lake for company, she finally felt liberated from her guilt.

A movement caught her eye, a figure-broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, with a distinct long-legged stride-coming around the side of the house. As he passed the picnic table, he paused to look back, but she was standing too deeply in the shadows for him to see her. He crossed the yard, moving more quickly. When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, looked back again, then headed down to the water.

Maybe he had insomnia, too, but why was he being so furtive? She decided to find out. She stepped off the deck. On her way across the yard, she tripped over the horseshoe stake. It hurt like crazy, but no way was Viper letting a little thing like a stubbed toe hold her back.

Limping slightly, she made it to the steps. She didn’t see him below, only the single post light glowing at the end of the dock. It reminded her of The Great Gatsby and the fascination English teachers had with that book instead of something most teenagers might actually want to read.

As she descended to the dock, she was careful not to let the slap of her flip-flops betray her, although that seemed unlikely with so much wind. When she reached the bottom, she carefully made her way across the creaky boards toward the dim glow of mustard light oozing from the open end of the weathered boathouse.

The fishy smell of storm-whipped waters joined the odors of old rope, mildew, and gasoline that had seeped into the wood. An opera she didn’t recognize was playing softly. As she slipped inside the boathouse, she saw Panda sitting on the bench seat in the stern of the powerboat, his back to her, his bare feet propped on a cooler. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, and his hand was buried inside a giant bag of potato chips. “I’ll only share,” he said without turning, “if you promise not to talk.”

“Like my only pleasure in life is talking to you,” she retorted. And then, because she liked the idea of being rude, “Frankly, Panda, you’re not intelligent enough to be all that interesting.”

He recrossed his ankles on the cooler. “Tell it to my Ph.D. adviser.”

“You don’t have a Ph.D. adviser,” she said as she climbed into the boat.

“That’s true. Getting my master’s was all my brain could handle.”

“Your master’s? You are so lying.” She plopped onto the cushion next to him.

He smiled.

She stared at him. Long and hard. “Tell me you don’t really have a master’s degree.”

His smile turned into fake apology. “Only from Wayne State, not an Ivy.” He snapped a potato chip between his teeth, then bent down to flick off the music. “It’s one of those night and weekend degrees favored by us working slobs, so it doesn’t count in your world.”

That bastard. She glared at him. “Damn it, Panda. I liked you so much better when you were stupid.”

“Look on the bright side,” he said as he held out the chip bag. “I’m still no Ted Beaudine.”

“None of us are.” She reached inside and grabbed a handful. “He and my best friend are hooking up.”

“Meg?”

“How do you know M-?” She moaned as the salt from the chip hit her tongue. “Oh my god, these taste so good.”

“Meg and I had an entertaining chat at your farce of a rehearsal dinner.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re totally her type.” She stuffed more chips in her mouth.

“Meg’s my type, too,” he said as a clap of thunder shook the boathouse. “Can’t see her with Ted, though.”

But Lucy could, and right now that was all that counted. Rain began pummeling the roof. She grabbed more chips and curled her toes around the edge of the cooler next to his feet. “Do you have any other goodies stashed away down here?”

“I might.” His eyes were on her bare legs, and he didn’t seem all that happy with what he saw. They were tanner than usual, but there was nothing wrong with them, other than a bruise on her shin starting to turn yellow. She also had a small chip in the blue polish on her big toe from tripping over the horseshoe stake. She hadn’t worn blue polish since she was a teen. She remembered painting Tracy’s baby toes that same color when it was just the two of them.

His gaze moved up her legs to her striped sleep boxers. His frown reminded her of the bra and panties she wasn’t wearing underneath. “What are you offering?” he said, his eyes lingering on her thighs with that same expression of displeasure.

“Offering?” She tugged on the boxer’s soft cotton leg openings, unwisely as it turned out, because pulling them down showcased a fair amount of stomach. Or maybe she’d done it on purpose to retaliate for his attitude. She no longer knew what she was thinking when it came to Patrick Shade. She dropped her feet to the deck. “How many loaves of bread have I baked for you?”

“The bread covers your rent, not my junk food.”

“Says you.”

“I guess I could share.” His gaze was on the move again, skimming her body until he reached her collarbone, dropping back to her breasts, where the thin fabric barely hid anything. He no longer seemed quite so critical, and as another clap of thunder shook the boathouse, she felt something shift inside her, a treacherous vibration, a risky thrum that had nothing to do with the stormy weather.

His eyes met hers. He nudged off the cooler lid with his bare foot, a gesture that shouldn’t have been nearly so enticing. She broke his gaze and looked inside, but instead of seeing an icy nest filled with beer and soda, she saw a treasure chest of chips, pretzels, Doritos, licorice whips, malted milk balls, cheese curls, and a jar of peanut butter. “El Dorado,” she whispered.

“Forbidden fruit,” he replied, but when she looked up, he was staring at her, not at his stash.

The rickety old boathouse became a secret cave-dimly lit and seductive. A trickle of rain coming through the leaky roof splashed her shoulder. He reached out, dabbed a drop with the tip of his finger, and dragged the moisture into the hollow of her collarbone. Her skin pebbled. “Stop it,” she said without any conviction.

He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. A raindrop hit her thigh. He saw it but looked away and reached into the cooler. “You’re probably not interested in this.” He pulled out the peanut butter.

“So wrong.” Even she wasn’t sure whether she was talking about the peanut butter or something more dangerous.

The boat swayed at its mooring, and a shift in the wind sent a wet blast through the open end of the boathouse. Drips from the leaky roof had begun hitting the deck and, more damaging, the food stash. “Come on.” Panda picked up the cooler and carried it to the boat’s cabin, ducking as he entered.

Their relationship had changed today, and following him was fraught with peril. She liked thinking of him as the bad guy, but today had altered that. On the other hand, his vasectomy, not to mention that incredible body, made him irresistible.

Viper followed him.

The cabin was small, with only a tiny galley and a V-shaped berth in the bow. Panda set down the cooler and sank into the navy-blue vinyl cushions. He gave her a lazy smile, then opened the peanut butter jar, scooped up a glob with a pretzel rod, and held it out to her.

Two consenting adults… One vasectomy… An ex-fiancé who, on this very night, was making love to her best friend… The stars were in perfect alignment.

Lucy accepted the pretzel and sat on the cushion across from Panda. “I don’t even like peanut butter very much.”

“It’s the deprivation,” he said. “It makes you want what’s forbidden all that much more.” The way he gazed at her across the narrow space-straight into her eyes-made his meaning clear.

She had the perfect smutty prop in her hand, a pretzel stick with a dollop of peanut butter clinging to the tip. Another woman might have made the most of it, but Viper didn’t feel like it. She snapped off the end between her teeth. “I’m the only one eating.”

“I got a head start.” He opened a bag of licorice whips but didn’t take any out. He simply gazed at her. Not at her legs or her breasts. Just at her, which felt even more intimate. His voice came to her in a husky vapor. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“I know.”

“I keep trying not to think about how much I want you.”

Her skin prickled. “How’s that going?”

“Not well.”

The cabin was too warm, too close, but she wasn’t leaving. Darts of heat zipped through her. She wanted this man with his tarnished eyes, inky hair, and powerful body. But she wouldn’t make the first move.

That wasn’t a problem for him. Ducking his head, he closed the short distance between them, took what was left of the pretzel from her hand, and put it aside. “You make me crazy,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” she replied, “but I really don’t want to talk now.”

He smiled his outlaw’s smile, settled into the cushions, and pulled her up with him into the point of the bow. Only the faintest light penetrated their cave, enough for her to see the brief flash of his teeth before he turned her beneath him and lowered his head to kiss her.

She hadn’t wanted his kiss in that ratty Memphis hotel room, and his guilt-filled kiss at the airport had brought only confusion, but this was perfect.

Her lips parted. Their tongues met in a dirty dance of thrust and parry-a delicious overture to sin. His hands were under her cami, hers under his T-shirt. She felt muscle and tendon, bone and sinew. He abandoned her mouth and used his teeth to torture her nipple through the thin cotton. He wedged his bare thigh between hers. She rubbed against it, locked her arms around him.

A crack of lightning hit too close, bringing with it a brief return to sanity. She moved her lips against his shoulder. “We can’t do this without a condom.”

His breath fell warm across her nipple. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

“Vasectomy or not, you need-”

“All taken care of,” he said in a husky rasp.

Did he carry them with him? The implication temporarily distracted her, but then he was kissing her again, and the question slipped away.

The thunder rumbled overhead. The boat rocked at its mooring. They pulled at their clothes, and when they were naked, explored. That night in Memphis had been as much about cutting her ties with Ted as it had been about sex, but this was different. Not an anonymous coupling with a virtual stranger. She knew her lover now, and tonight was inevitable.

Her breasts nested in his hands… His hips gripped under her palms… Their kiss deepened. He nudged her thighs open, and she didn’t consider resisting.

He parted her with his fingers. Unfolded. Searched. Invaded textures moist and soft.

She moaned. Let him play. And when she could stand it no longer, she became the aggressor, rolling to her side, using cheek, hands, and lips to savor the feel and strength of him.

When he could tolerate no more, he twisted her beneath him again. Fumbled with something. Mounted. He hooked his hands behind her knees, separating them, raising them. His body pressed to hers. The hard core of him, full and thick.

Smutty little words hoarsely uttered.

Soft, rough commands.

And he was inside her.

Outside, the storm howled. Inside, it raged just as fiercely. Finally it erupted.

HER SWEETNESS WAS TOO MUCH for him. As she dozed in the dim light, he studied the fall of her dark lashes on her pale skin, made even paler by that black hair. He traced the curve of her cheek with his knuckle. Beneath all that tough talk, she was confused and vulnerable.

A warning siren fired in his brain. An explosion. The grit of sand, taste of whiskey, bite of memory. He shoved the darkness away.

She opened her eyes and gazed into his. “That was nice.”

Too sweet. Too good.

“Nice?” He dropped his arm over the side of the cushions and touched the bag of candy. One of the licorice sticks had fallen out. He picked it up and nudged her ear with his lips. “Get ready to retract that.”

“Why?”

He dangled the licorice in front of her. “You keep forgetting that I have a mean streak.”

She stirred beneath him, those green-flecked eyes alive with interest. “I guess I’m in trouble now.”

“Big-time.”

He nipped her bottom lip with his own, and then he whipped her with the licorice stick. Flicks at her nipples. The soft skin of her stomach. Her open thighs. Between.

“Evil,” she moaned when he stopped. “Do it some more.”

And so he did until she snatched the licorice away and returned the pleasure. Except he’d unleashed her secret dominatrix, and she wasn’t nearly as careful as he’d been. When he told her he’d had enough, she told him to beg, and what could he do after that but punish her?

He bent her over the cushions, gave her rear a soft smack, and exacted retribution. Or tried to. Because the whole episode was getting foggy in terms of who was doing the punishing and who was being punished.

Outside the boathouse, the storm began to calm, but inside, it had just begun.