Author's Note:
I wasn't sure where to put this, so I picked the Romance category, although it might fit better in Erotic Couplings. Okay, right off the bat, if you have a problem with firearms, go read something else. You'll be a lot happier and so will I. An appreciation for the tool and its collectability is part of the protagonists' shared common interests. Next, this isn't a fap-story, per se. I take time to develop the relationship of the characters, which means it's a long one. If you're looking to stroke, there are many other authors who do that well. I don't. Um... I think that's all the warnings for now. Oh, wait... I should warn you... it's a long one. Or did I say that already? As always, please vote. Unless of course you don't like the genre, in which case you should probably bail on this one and go read something in a category you like. Comments, especially non-vulgar constructive criticism, are appreciated. Oh, and you should probably read 'A Short Disclaimer' by CyranoJ here on Lit, in Humor & Satire...
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Murphy's Law is one of the immutable operating principles of the Universe. It is in operation everywhere, at all times, in the most inconvenient manner possible. And Murphy? Well, he's alive and well, and surgically attached to my hip.
Case in point... I'm a consultant. I travel. Right there is a target too big for him to pass up. I know, going in, that no matter how carefully I plan, something is going to go wrong. Or several somethings. I'm getting pretty good at rolling with the punches.
Every once in awhile, though, some bored Fairy Godmother, or Lamp Djinn, or something, goes
Bling!
and I get lemonade instead of lemons. This story is about one of those.
I had to make a client call in Seattle. I was in Chicago. I also had a trailer's worth of furniture to deliver to my daughter and her family in Tacoma, inheritance from her mother's passing. Her mother, as in, my ex-wife. That was another Murphy adventure and not part of this story. In this case, we'd been divorced for almost ten years before the virulent pancreatic cancer took her. I didn't hate her. I just couldn't live with her. And I don't think anybody ought to go that way.
In any case, I had this furniture to deliver, and I figured I'd combine the two. Instead of charging for the airfare and rental car, I could bill the gas, mileage and lodging and still cost them less. I let my boss know what I was going to do and he said to clear it with the client, but he didn't have any problem with it. I already knew the cheapskates at the client would love anything that cost them less money.
So far, so good, right? So, a week before I'm going to leave, Angelica van Hesson from Accounting approaches me in the staff lounge and asks if she can sit with me. I don't particularly care, other than she's really easy on the eyes and hasn't had anything to do with me before.
"Sure," I told her, gesturing at one of the chairs. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" It's kind of a joke, because the company provides free coffee. I think that's where I developed my addiction to Stewart's Private Blend.
"No thanks," she smiled and showed me her oversized mug as she sat down and opened the last couple of buttons on her sweater. Now she had my undivided attention. Or rather, both of them did. She is, to put it mildly, amply endowed. Cute face, reddish-blonde hair worn down her back, dark frame eyeglasses that give her a schoolmarm-ish appearance and do a good job of hiding her emerald green eyes. And a worried look, just under the surface.
"Can I help you with something, Ms. van Hesson?" I asked. People around the office were always asking me for help with their computers and stuff.
"Well, possibly yes, Mr. Andrews," she told me, looking me straight in the eye. "I heard you are driving out to Seattle to meet with Venture Horizons."
"It's Steve," I told her. "Steven Andrews. Steve to my friends."
"Then it's Angie, Steve," she smiled again and I was definitely getting distracted. My plan to keep sexual enticements out of my work and out of my life was beginning to fray around the edges, fantasy-wise anyway. "Not Angel. So is it true? You're driving out?" she asked.
"Yeah," I acknowledged. "I have personal reasons for driving, but it's still on Venture's dime. Why do you ask?" I'm naturally suspicious of Accounting. She sighed slightly and leaned back in her chair. I, on the other hand, damn near sat bolt upright. Her twin blessings were trying to escape from her blouse and I wanted to be the one to catch them if they did.
"I have something personal to share with you, if it's okay, Steve," she told me. "And a favor to ask."
"Okay," I sipped my coffee. "What's up?" She let out another deep sigh before she started.
"My asshole soon-to-be-ex is playing games with the property settlement," she told me, and surprised the hell out of me. I had no idea she was in the middle of a divorce. Either she was being very careful, or I wasn't paying good enough attention to the office gossip.
"He and his lawyer are doing a pretty good job of it," she admitted. "He's fucking me over better than he ever did in bed. He's going after inherited property that he has no right to, but it costs me a shitload of money to defend it. He's essentially chewing up all the marital assets."
"Pardon my French," she added after a moment.
"
If I can't have it, nobody can
," I told her. "I've run into that attitude. He sounds like a real POS prick. So what is it you need my help with? And don't sweat the language. You can swear all you want to... you probably need to."
"Thanks," she gave me a half-smile, other emotions appearing to get in the way. "My immediate problem is firearms." She waited to see my reaction, but I didn't. I was waiting for more data.
"Before I moved here, my father gave me three heirloom guns. Well, two heirloom and one practical. It was a gift between relatives. I want to gift them back before Asshole ties them up in court as well. But I don't want to ship them interstate because they'd have to go through an FFL dealer. In fact, they'd normally have to, anyway, because I don't live in Washington anymore. What I want to do is turn the gift into a loan by returning them to him at his home. That doesn't require any paperwork and since there was no record of the gift to me, he's the owner of record. Do you have a problem with this?"
"No," I shrugged. "Returning the guns to your father seems reasonable. But I don't own them, nor do I know him, so the only problem I have is if you're asking me to take them out there to him."
"I figured that," she nodded. "The big favor I'm asking is, I want you to take me with you. And I'll bring the guns."
