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Which one is the real Deklan Kearney?
Chapter 15
Deklan recovers quickly, and within a couple of weeks, everything is back to status quo. The only evidence of his ordeal is another thin scar on his body, this one on the left side of his abdomen. I have no idea what happened
with the police or the man Deklan apparently shot, and he won’t tell me any details. He just says it’s all been dealt with and not to worry.
I hear that a lot.
I walk slowly to the coffee shop down the street. It’s my morning ritual, sanctified by my paranoid husband, and one of the highlights of my day. I can keep my phone on, chat with Kathy on her work break, and get outside for a few minutes.
“How’s the housewife life?” Kathy asks.
“About the same.” I take my coffee from Terry the barista and ignore his wink as he mentions extra whipped cream—again. He always gives me extra whipped cream although I have never asked for it. His smile is friendly though, so I don’t mind the mild flirtation.
“So, the sex is still hot?”
“Oh yes, most certainly. I must be developing some kind of resistance because I’m not nearly as sore as I was in the beginning.”
“Your va-jay-jay is getting callouses.” Kathy laughs loudly.
“I sure hope not!” I chuckle. “I don’t think Deklan would like that much. He does like to leave the house with me horny as hell. I’m going to have to get a vibrator or something.”
“Oh, I have just the one for you! It’s called Shalimar. I’ll send you the link.”
“Shalimar?”
“It’s purple and sparkles.”
“A glittery vibrator? You are not right in the head.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
I shake my head and take a big swig from the coffee cup. It’s finally cooled down to the perfect temperature. I lean back in my seat and scan the coffee shop. There are a handful of guys with beards and plaid shirts, a collection of female college students discussing the environment, and one older couple ordering cranberry scones. Near the counter, there’s a “Help Wanted” sign written in black Sharpie.
I wonder what sort of experience someone has to have in order to be a barista. I take a closer look at Terry. He smiles broadly at every customer, and his eyes sparkle with genuine affection.
I wonder if I could fake that?
Kathy prattles on about baby goat heads and office gossip, but my focus is drawn to the man in the back of the coffee shop. He’s tall and thin, in his mid-thirties with plain brown hair, dull-colored clothing, and an overall nondescript look about him. I hadn’t noticed him when I walked in, but he keeps glancing at me, and it’s making me nervous.
I’ve seen him here before. In fact, when I think about it, I realize he’s here at the same time I am nearly every day. He holds a newspaper that partially covers his face.
Who actually reads newspapers anymore?
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry, Kathy. I got distracted. I’m listening.”
“Some hot guy walk in?”
“No.” I laugh. “There is a guy here though. I’ve seen him before.”
“Is he cute?”
“No, not really. He just keeps looking at me.”
“I bet that husband of yours has him watching out for you.”
