Chloe and Cy

Cy

I pulled the Hemi into the garage. During a song Chloe had informed me was called "Supermassive Black Hole" by a band called Muse, she had drifted off to sleep.

I unhooked my phone, noting that the battery was nearly drained. I reached over and gently touched her forearm to rouse her.

"Home again," I said.

"Jiggity-jig," she stretched, yawning fully awake. "I feel dirty."

"Literally or figuratively?" I asked.

"Literally," she smiled, rolling her eyes. "I've got grime under my fingernails and about a half-pint of your cum in my--"

"I get the idea," I said.

She kissed my earlobe. A soft little peck. "You want to wallow in self-loathing; I'm going to mess with you, you know?"

I climbed out of the Plymouth's driver's side door and let it swing shut. I considered its British racing green finish and chromed side window mounts.

"You done good," she said, patting my shoulder as she slid over and propped up on her knees in the driver's seat. "Now, you reheat some pizza while I take a quick shower?"

"Actually," I said. "It's better to take a hot bath."

"Oh?"

"With Epsom salt," I added, tugging gently at the collar of her overalls. "You go up and have a long soak, huh? I'll whip up something special for dinner."

"You really think I'm worth more than just reheated pizza?"

I put my arms around her waist and lifted her out of the car. We walked into the house, shutting the garage door and turning out the light behind us.

"Well, I'm short-stocked on champagne and caviar," I sighed. "But there is chicken. I might even set out the cloth napkins and light a candle or two."

Chloe

"You sentimental fool," I said. Flicking his ear as I scampered through the kitchen and up the stairs toward the master bath.

I ditched my coveralls and underwear in the hamper and turned on the water, going to the little cupboard under the sink. I dug out a little carton of lavender bath salts and a selection of scented bath bombs.

I smelled one or two before deciding on something floral that went with the lavender. I tossed the bomb into the flooding bathtub with a liberal handful of Epsom salt.

I went and sat for a minute or two on the commode, lighting a few of the scented candles as the bath filled up and the room swirled with decadently florid-smelling steam.

When the tub was nearly 3/4 full, I stood and shut off the water, arranging the candles and plugging my phone into the Bluetooth speaker before sliding into the hot bath.

My body definitely felt like it had been through a marathon of sex in the past 24 hours.

I considered that time-lapse as I stuck my big toe in the faucet, looking up at the showerhead.

Less than a day ago, he had been standing in this very shower, minding his own business, when I had barged in and flung myself against him.

What was that old song? "What a difference a day makes?"

I sank into the hot water, letting it flow over my head, holding my breath for several seconds with my eyes closed, listening to the muffled sound of Ariana Grande singing Side to Side.

He was right. Of course, this wouldn't last.

I surfaced, wiping my eyes and reaching forward for the loofah. The thin dark brown bar of soap he'd been using the night before was in a dish. I took it up, inhaling the rich smell of pine and campfire smoke. My eyes drifted across the room to beside the sink, where his shaving kit sat on a shelf on the right.

The little black-and-white man in the top hat watched from his green and gold bottle as I began using Cy's soap bar to work up a lather of my own.

Who says girls can't smell like lavender and campfires?

Cy

I took the chicken out of the fridge where it had been defrosting and set it out on the counter with garlic cloves, olive oil, and some Cremini mushrooms.

Upon setting down the mushrooms, I realized I was still a little grotty under the fingernails and looked down at my filthy overalls.

Shower first, gourmet second.

I made for the stairs and reached the landing when I heard music and the sounds of water dripping in the master bath.

I listened a moment to her humming along to the music and smiled to realize she had somehow ended up crooning an old Tony Bennett standard.

I turned and flipped on the light switch in the hall bathroom. Kicking off my workbooks, I peeled off the coveralls along with my jeans, and I turned on the shower at full heat and pressure.

I took a quick look at myself in the mirror. I rubbed the stubble on my neck, wondering if it was rude to go down the hall and request my razor and shaving foam.

I shook my head. No. She needed a long uninterrupted soak in the tub.

I turned to the shower and looked at the punk bottle of floral-scented body wash.

I pursed my lips and looked at the pink towel on the rack.

(Sigh.)

Chloe

I hummed along with Nancy Sinatra when I heard a gentle tap at the door.

"Can I come in?" He asked from the other side of the door.

"I don't know," I called. "Can you?"

The door cracked. "I meant, 'May I?'"

I smiled and rolled to the edge of the tub, bringing my forearms under my chin and smiling at him smugly. "I'm naked," I said.

He smelled his soap. "I came to borrow..."

I passed it to him. "Hope you don't mind. Now I smell like a pine tree."

He accepted it, keeping his hand on the towel around his waist. I eyed his hairy chest, the old army tattoo on his shoulder, the v shape of his obliques.

He moved to pick up his shaving foam and aftershave from beside the sink.

"You don't have to use the hall bathroom," I said, leaning back and drizzling water from the loofah.

"Hardly room for two," he said. "And you need to soak. I can simply shower."

"Can you stay just a bit? I like looking at your butt in a towel."

He gave me a quizzical look but started the hot water in the sink. He spurted some of the foam into his palm and began applying it to his stubble. "Do you force all your boyfriends to play eye candy?"

"You're the first," I said. "If I'd have known you were coming from my bathroom, I'd have asked you to bring my Comfort Glide," I felt along the light stubble on my legs.

He reached under the sink and tossed me a Ladies Gillette still in its packaging. "Your mom always keeps a spare," he said.

And there it was...

I exhaled, removing the razor from the packaging and grabbing the ladies' shaving cream from the shower basket.

"Think she'll call?" I asked.

"I don't know," he sighed, dragging his razor down his cheek.

"Gonna talk to her if she does?"

"Sure," he smiled. "Tell her about what a dull day I had."

"Me too," I smiled. "In an attempt to develop a vaccine for pneumonia, Fred Griffith performed a series of experiments in 1928 using mice and two strains of the pneumococcus bacteria...."

He finished his cheeks and under his nose before taking the long strokes down his neck. It made a faint sound as he dragged the blades through his stubble.

Jesus... this was getting stupid. The sound of him shaving? Really? Is it really that sexy, Chloe?

He finished and shook some of the aftershave into his palm, applying it to his face.

"How bad does that sting?" I asked. "Always wondered that about guys' aftershave."

He turned and dipped some on his fingertip. He touched it to the patch of skin I had cleared on my ankle.

"Ow! Oh, God, that burns."

He smiled, sitting on the edge of the tub, still in the peach bath towel."You get used to it after using the same stuff for 30 years."

I leaned forward and touched his smooth chin. "Not even a nick," I smiled, presenting the ladies' razor. "You hire out?"

He accepted the pink razor and considered it. "Just the legs?"

"Why? I got a bikini wax a week ago. You saying they missed a spot?"

He flicked water at my face and brought my foamy leg up onto his lap. He began gently working the razor down from my knee to my ankle, smoothly and gently, focused on keeping steady.

Eventually, he finished my shin and around my ankle, and I had to scoot forward and lift my leg so he could shave my calve. One leg finished, I twirled around in the bath, and he repositioned, doing the other leg just as smoothly and carefully.

"There you go," he said, presenting the razor. "Now, I want to go get the grime out from under my fingernails before I fix us dinner."

"I could give you a manicure," I said, examining his big dirty fingers. They were rough with callouses, but I felt I could trace the lines on the backs of his knuckles for eons. "Mom has the stuff, doesn't she?"

"Chlo, I--"

The phone rang downstairs--that old-fashioned trilling of the corded landline.

"Yeah," I said, sinking into the tub. "I understand."

Cy

Her head disappeared beneath the steaming surface of the tub. I hurried down the stairs with a firm grip on my towel, headed for the kitchen phone.

What if it was Christine? Would she know it all from my voice? Would she hear my guilt? My shame? My lust?

"What have you been up to, Cy?"

I would crack like a nut the moment she asked the vaguest question. I knew.

"I fucked her! I fucked Chloe, and it was nirvana! I fucked your daughter and felt hell breathing down my neck as I did it, but I kept going!"

I grabbed the receiver out of the cradle. "Brown," I said.

There was a brief static pause on the other end of the call before a male voice spoke.

"Is this 978-555-2067?"

"Yes," I said. "Who's this?"

"Is Chloe there?"

I scowled at the phone. Nobody called this line asking for anybody but me. "Who is calling, please?"

"It's about her mother. Could you get her, please? It's import--."

And then the line popped, a simple sound of the line going dead.

"Hello?" I pressed the switch waiting for the sound of the open line, but nothing happened. I scowled and cradled the receiver. I checked the cable leading from the phone, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed a slight shadow of movement.

Pow!

Lights out. Thanks for playing, Mr. Brown.

Lyndee

He collapsed on the kitchen floor, just a pile of muscles with a towel wrapped around him.

I considered the bit of him the towel had revealed as he fell. "Well," I thought. "What's the harm in a little fun?"

I had found the house just as the hunky Chief and his redheaded daughter pulled up in their vintage convertible.

Along with the nice wheels, I watched the two of them paling around as the garage door closed.

Everything about the picturesque house in the country with the manicured lawn and the neatly trimmed hedges was right out of some back-issue of Better Homes and Gardens.

I found a small access road and parked with a view of the house through some woods.

Once they'd parked and shut the garage doors, I checked my watch in the fading twilight.

It was just past 7.

Let's give it half an hour.

I watched through binoculars until I saw first the light go on in the master bath and then one go on in what I had determined was the girl's bathroom.

Sitting conspicuously in a parked car, I felt exposed. I did not know this area well, and while no cars passed me the first ten minutes on this access road, it was only a matter of time.

My cell buzzed.

Message from Van Meer:

"Is it done?"

I scowled. I weighed the costs and benefits of going in blind.

He was most likely just a small-town cop. Some of my research into his background had tripped a few wires that gave me a reason to be cautious, but I had the element of surprise.

They wouldn't be suspecting me.

I took my gun out of its place under my arm and took the silencer out of its case on the passenger seat. I screwed the silencer in place and holstered the weapon. As a backup, I took a 21-inch expandable police baton.

Getting in was easy. Nobody locks their garage doors in the suburbs. I heard a shower briefly above and from further away in the house old-timy music.

I considered the tunes and took in the laundry room to my right. I checked the door to my left, finding stairs down into a cellar. A few short steps and I was in an elegant kitchen complete with breakfast nook, all of it done in white wood with black granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.

Chicken was out on a plate defrosting with some garlic, olive oil, ingredients for some sort of mushroom sauce.

I smiled, reading the backs of the cans. A dad who cooks some girls have all the luck.

Upstairs, I heard the music go on for a few minutes. Tony Bennett gave way to Nancy Sinatra and then Billie Holiday.

I sat up on the counter and dug out the little vaporizer I used when regular cigarettes were unwieldy.

I nodded at the tunes exhaling vapor that smelled vaguely of devil's food cake.

Then it happened.

Ring! Ring!

An old-style kitchen telephone I had failed to notice rang loudly on the wall. I jumped down, suddenly realizing there was a landline that needed to be cut.

"Shit."

I did a quick calculation and headed through the door to the basement. It closed just as a kitchen light went on, and the phone came out of the receiver mid-ring.

I quietly went down and smiled, finding the phone cable trailing down from above. I brought out my little pocket knife and flicked it open.

The plastic coating squeaked as I cut the chord, and above I heard a masculine voice and the sound of a giggled toggle.

Knife away. Baton out. He was against the kitchen counter with the towel thrown away thirty seconds later.

I found the handcuffs and his gun in the laundry room. I put his magnificently dirty hands behind his back and felt the cuffs click tightly in place.

I kissed his cheek, looking down. "Familiar with Carrivagio by any chance?"

Chloe

I sat in the tub until the water grew tepid and my fingers were pruny.

My ass felt fine, but my conscience was all twisted and gnarled.

He was on the phone with her and... and? AND!?

How did I feel about having an affair with a married man?

Oh, wait. How did I feel about having an affair with a man who was married to my mother!?

Jesus... what kind of inbred toothless backwater hick nightmare of twisted perversion had I gotten myself into!?

I pulled the stopper from the old cast-iron bath and sat up, hugging my knees as the water spiraled down the drain.

"End in tears..." I buried my mouth in the corner of my elbow and chewed the inside of my cheek thoughtfully.

The tub ran dry. I shivered and found one of his big fluffy robes to wrap up in. I smelled the collar. It was freshly cleaned, but I went to the bathroom counter and found his aftershave.

I dabbed a few drops on my fingers and rubbed them into the collar. I smelled again, my eyes closed, and there was an image of him holding me, wearing that battered old leather jacket, holding me tight and kissing me.

I shook my head and turned off the music. I pulled my phone off the charger and put it in the robe's pocket.

I went along the upper landing, doing my best not to listen if he was still on the phone.

I heard nothing but the sound of movement below and called down. "I'm going to read in my room. Call me when it's soup, huh?"

I didn't wait for him to respond and instead went directly to my room and shut the door.

Cy

Ammonia. It rushed up my nose, causing me to cough around a mouth full of dish towel affixed with duct tape.

The tall, auburn-haired woman in tactical pants and swat boots batted my head a few times to make sure I was fully awake before going to the stovetop and lighting one of the burners. She set the saute pan over the flame and drizzled some olive oil.

"You don't see a lot of classic wall phones with the long chord anymore," she said.

I was cuffed, hands behind my back. The phone cable had been used to bind my ankles, knees, and neck in an elaborate sort of harness.

I struggled to straighten out and felt the chord bite into my neck.

"You struggle too much you cut off your air," the woman said, mincing the garlic and tossing it in the pan. She smelled her fingers. "I love that smell. Where I live, I never get to cook for myself, and I used to love to, you know?"

She moved close and leaned down, presenting her fingers. "Here, it helps with the Ammonia smell," she said.

Her eyes held mine in an almost friendly way. I stopped struggling and inhaled, humoring her.

"Now, don't cry out," she said quietly. "You cry out, little Miss sunshine comes down the stairs and...." A Glock 26 pistol fitted with a silencer came out of a holster under her arm. "Pop clink. Pop clink. And then I pick up my brass, blow out the pilot light on the stove, and leave you to die with the gas on high. Horrible way to go, Chief."

She removed the dishrag. And went to the stove, adding the chicken and some rosemary sprigs, again smelling the spices.

"Do I have to be naked?" I asked.

She smiled. "Why be bashful? You're very handsome. Do you box?"

"No," I said. "I fight."

"The difference being rules?"

I nodded. "Who are you?"

"Oh, you've got angry eyes," she smiled, shaking her head. "Maybe I could turn on the gas and leave a candle burning? That's less fun for me but just as effective. How would you do it if you were me?"

"I wouldn't kill innocent people in the first place," I said.

"Well, you're not being ordered to, are you?"

"Ordered? Who have I pissed off in Belarus?"

"Oh, excellent ear. Most people think I am simply Russian.

"Your English is excellent," I said.

"Thank you, Leroy. And despite having your birth name and very impressive background with the Boston Police and as a small-town police chief, there is a sweet five-year hole in your life that can only be American Intelligence. CIA or just Army Special Forces?"

"Cy," I said. "And I was an MP."

She nodded. "Suit yourself." She selected a knife from the kitchen block and tested its sharpness before slicing the mushrooms and dropping them in the bowl with the cream sauce.

I nodded. "Do I get your name, kachanaja?"

She smiled. "Definitely CIA," she said. "Here I am called 'Lyndee.' Definitely a good-time-girl name. Far better than Ludmilla, don't you think?"

She let the bowl drizzle the sauce over the carefully browned chicken and reduced the flame.

"Okay, whatever I've done, Lyndee. My daughter has nothing to do with my former life. Please, you can take me in your car. I will go quietly."

She took a fork and speared some of the chicken from the pan, bringing it with the pan and blowing on it before holding it out for me. "Taste. Tell me if it needs something?"

It was disarming. I accepted the bite and chewed.

She smirked, and then looking down, she let some of the hot oil and sauce drip out of the pan onto my bare thigh.

It sizzled on my skin, and I bit back the yelp of surprised pain.

"Sorry," she said. "Missed what I was aiming for."

Another drizzle of hot oil, this time I clamped my eyes shut and held my breath until it came out in short rapid pants.

"Impressive," she said, stepping back and putting the pan on the counter. She took the knife she'd used to chop the mushrooms and held it in the low flame of the stove. "How long do you think you can go, maja darahaja? Without crying out?"

"What is it you want?"

She took the heated knife from the stove and angled her head to look up the stairs. "To meet the family," she said.

I looked at the blade held in the flame. "Is it a sociopath or a psychopath who makes a game out of murder?"

"Name-calling? Really?" She brought the heated blade over and held it close to my cheek, just below my eye. I could feel the heat near my skin. "You know," She blew on the blade, making it glow. "A lot of guys cry out in fear before you even touch them with this..."

She looked down again. "Maybe I give you a break and start a little higher up, eh?" She pressed the hot knife just beneath my left nipple.

The burning smell of my own flesh, along with the pain, caused me to bite back a yelp.