Twelve days later:
Bullshit. I’ll wait ’til you’re ready totell me. As for your group gig, unless you want to dick around foranother week, all of you chip in, rent a Suburban, do the airportp/u together, and head to the beach.
Ross
We’d come to a similar solution three daysbefore his letter arrived. As for him calling bullshit, I’m havinga hard time thinking of how to answer him or if I should answer himever again. I’ve never met a man so incisive, and I haven’t evenreally met this guy. If he can see through me after a few meagerpieces of correspondence, I shudder to think of what being with himin person would be like. Raw. Unyielding. A relationship with himwould require me to lay myself bare, and I sure as shit wasn’tready for that. But he’d given me an out. Maybe I’ll take it. Butfirst I was going to hang with my girls. Four days with them willgive me perspective. I had no intention of telling them about him.Hell, there was nothing to tell, not really. Okay. I’m lying. Fuckit. I’m going to engage in avoidance behavior for a few blissfuldays. Then I’ll see how I feel.
Seventeen days later:
Didn’t take you for a chicken, babe.
R
Obviously, I didn’t write back and he calledme on it. The long weekend with my girls had been fantastic. Theywere my security blanket. When all the bad stuff went down, theydidn’t coddle me, and they made sure I knew they loved me, wartsand all. Seeing them and having that warmth, love, and acceptanceface-to-face made me love them even more.
After I got home, I decided I didn’t needmore stress in my life. I’d been through the kind of ordeal thatwould never go away no matter how healthy my mind and bodybecame.
The letters were supposed to be fun. Easy.Light flirting. Entertaining. A happy distraction. Plenty moreresponses had come in after I’d sent out my first letter. Surelysomeone in that unopened pile would fit my requirements.
But damn. That taunt. Andbabe? WhileI might be fluent in Neanderthal, it didn’t mean I toleratedit.
My darling sweetie pie,
Stop throwing your bearskins on the cavefloor when you get home from work.
Boston, Massachusetts
Ethan
Babe by any other name
The move across the country screwed up themail. Her response, which usually takes about ten days, didn’tarrive for nearly four weeks. Worth the wait, though it would’vebeen better to’ve heard from her right way. Her answer fuckin’cracked me up. I knew she was a kick in the ass from that firstletter. She’d started out playing at flighty, and I get that.Initially, most people try not to come on too strong. But I’ve beentrained to read between the lines, and what I saw in her first twoletters was one determined woman. I knew if we met, I’d be intoher, and in a remarkable change of character, I wussed for a weekwhen I felt myself wanting to know her in a way that wasn’ttypical. Then I thought of dropping the whole Letter Clubthing.
But I didn’t want her to stop writing.
The way she “spoke” in her letters was like avoice in my head, and that voice was smoky and sultry. And she knewhow to lure me back, which meant she had skills. I’m not an easyman to deal with, and my job is unforgiving. Anyone clever enoughto get my attention is worth the trouble. So, when she’d backed offafter I’d pressed her to tell me what she’d survived, I knew thebest way to get her attention was to tweak her. “Babe” would surelypiss her off more than calling her “chicken,” and damn if it didn’twork. The woman is funny, and she doesn’t back down.
I’ve always loved women. Females intrigue me.As the younger of two boys, my mother – who doesn’t know thedefinition of shy or retiring – amazed me with her energy,efficiency, her ability to care, and, most of all, the way sheloved my dad. The feeling was mutual, and as I grew up and learnedhow fucked-up other kids’ lives were, I felt lucky for what I hadat home. I know what devotion looks like, and had decided at ayoung age never to settle for anything less.
As a kid, my brother was wild and got into ashit-ton of trouble. I learned from his mistakes how to work aroundrules without blowing shit up in everyone’s face. The stealthapproach to life included watching and observing people beforewading into any situation. Which is how I came to be fascinatedwith females.
Regardless of shape, size, ethnicity, color,age, or personality type, females have an innate sense of how toget their way. Some are bulldozers, and some are wily, but unlessthey’ve been traumatized or had their spirit beaten out of them,they could work a guy over and ninety percent of the time, he neverknew what hit him, but he loved what she was giving him.
By the time I was interested in gettingacquainted with female body parts, I’d caught on to most of thesignals and signs when a girl was weaving her magic. Sometimes Iplayed along, sometimes I walked away, but most of the time Iengaged, using their sensibilities to my best advantage.
Which was how, by the time I got to highschool, I’d earned a reputation as a player. Girls talk. Theyshare, warn, and advise their sisters, cousins, and friends. I grewup in a small community where little stayed secret, but nothingcompared to the communication web high school girls constructed,nurtured, and maintained. Yet in spite of, or because of, thewarnings and advice, there was never a time I didn’t have a willingfemale companion, unless I didn’t want one.
Little changed in college, except the pool ofpossibles was wider and deeper, and the repercussions didn’t cropup as often. My sophomore year my brother entered the policeacademy, and shortly before he graduated, he was offered a job withthe Portland PD.
I’d gone to the graduation, and a few weekslater – I was attending U of O, less than two hours to Portland –he gave me a tour of the PD. I was hooked.
I’d been a languages major in the REEESprogram – Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies – incollege. My family was originally from a small town east of St.Petersburg, and from a future employment standpoint, I’d thoughtbeing fluent in Russian and knowing the culture would give me a legup. I wasn’t wrong. My language skills and knowledge base got meinto the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force way earlier than a lot ofcops vying for the posting who’d had more years under theirbelts.
Keeping myself entertained with women –Portland was a bigger pool to draw from than college and hey, theuniform didn’t hurt – after becoming a cop wasn’t a problem, butonce I joined the task force, my life changed.
I’m no literature major, and Shakespeareisn’t my thing, but the line “There are more things in heaven andEarth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy” couldn’t bemore true. Every day, shit is happening in the world that thepublic doesn’t know about, and should never know about. Thelandscape of extremists, threats, and terror-based organizationsshifts faster than dunes in a sandstorm, and new players enter thefield, which makes keeping the civilian population safe a challengenot unlike wrangling venomous snakes.
With my language and cultural skills, as wellas family ties – albeit remote – in a hot region, I became enmeshedin the task force. Work became my life. Sex was easy enough to comeby, and I found myself wanting more but didn’t have the time toinvest in a relationship. Four years after joining the task force,the city of Portland pulled out of the JTFF, and I went back tobeing a detective. When the FBI offered me a position in theirBoston office, I jumped at the opportunity.
