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It was true. Dean’s face had remained remarkably unscathed. His shoulder, however, was another story.
“Then there’s your hair. Thick, shiny, blond. How many products did you use on it this morning? Never mind. It’ll just make me feel inferior.”
The only thing he’d used on his hair that morning was shampoo. Good shampoo, it was true, but, still, shampoo. “It’s all in the cut,” he said, his cut having been administered by Oprah’s hairstylist.
“Those jeans didn’t come from the Gap.”
Correct.
“And you’re wearing gay boots.”
“These are not gay boots! I paid twelve hundred dollars for them.”
“Exactly,” she said triumphantly. “What straight man would pay twelve hundred dollars for boots?”
Not even her asinine assessment of his footwear could cool him off because he’d reached her waist, and, as he’d imagined, she wasn’t wearing a bra. The frail bumps of her spine disappeared into the furry V of her costume like a delicate pearl necklace being swallowed by Bigfoot. It took all his considerable willpower not to slip his hands inside, slide them around, and explore exactly what the Beav had going on for herself.
“What’s taking you so long?” she asked.
“The zipper keeps getting stuck, that’s what.” He sounded grouchy, but his jeans hadn’t been designed to accommodate what they now needed to accommodate. “If you think you can do this faster, you’re welcome to try.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“Tell me about it.” With one last tug, he reached the end of the zipper, which was a good six inches below her waist. He took in the curve of her hip along with a narrow band of bright red elastic.
She pulled away, and as she turned to him, she crossed her paws over her chest to hold the suit in place. “I can take it from here.”
“Oh, please. Like you have anything I’d be interested in seeing.”
The corner of her mouth ticked, but whether from amusement or annoyance, he couldn’t tell. “Out.”
Oh, well…He’d tried.
Before he left, she passed over her keys and asked him, none too politely, to g
et her stuff from her car. Inside the dented trunk he found a couple of plastic milk crates stuffed with art supplies, some paint-splattered toolboxes, and a big canvas tote. He’d just loaded them in his car when the guy who’d been working inside came out to inspect his Vanquish. He had oily hair and a beer gut. Something told Dean this was the alleged sex deviant who’d earned the wrath of the Beav.
“Man, that is a sweet machine. I saw one of them in that James Bond movie.” And then, as he got a good look at Dean, “Holy shit! You’re Dean Robillard. What’re you doin’ around here?”
“Just passing through.”
The guy started sputtering. “Gawdamn. Ben should have made Sheryl drive her own big ass to the hospital. Wait’ll I tell him The Boo was here.”
Dean’s college teammates had stuck him with the moniker because of the amount of time he’d spent at Malibu Beach, which was nicknamed “The Boo” by the locals.
“I saw that sack you took in the Steelers game. How’s your shoulder doing?”
“Coming along,” Dean replied. It’d be coming along a lot better if he stopped driving around the country feeling sorry for himself and started doing his physical therapy.
The guy introduced himself as Glenn, then launched into a review of the Stars’ entire season. Dean nodded automatically, all the while wishing the Beav would hurry up. But a good ten minutes passed before she emerged. He took in her wardrobe.
This was just wrong.
Bo Peep had been kidnapped by a Hells Angels gang. Instead of a ruffly gown, pink bonnet, and shepherd’s crook, she’d decked herself out in a faded black muscle shirt, baggy jeans, and the big old work boots he’d seen in the bathroom but mercifully forgotten. Defurred and delicate, she was maybe five four, and as thin as he’d imagined, right down to her chest, which was definitely female, but hardly memorable. Apparently, she’d spent most of her bathroom time washing up, because as she came closer, he smelled soap instead of musty fur. Her wet, dark hair lay flat against her head like spilled ink. She wasn’t wearing makeup, not that she needed much with that creamy skin. Still, a little lipstick and a dab of mascara wouldn’t have hurt her.
She practically threw her beaver suit at Glenn. “The head and the sign are out at the intersection. I stuck them behind the power box.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Glenn retorted.
