Southern Justice, Part 33

I’m Fixin’ To present part 33 of Southern Justice:

When Chris Adams mentioned her office being near by to the restaurant they had just left, Patty Osborn looked at him through narrowed eyes and said, “Are you thinking about what I think you’re thinking?”

“Well,” Chris replied candidly, “I did show you my office, and yours is about the closest private place I can think of.”

Patty grinned as she said, “My desk isn’t as large as yours.”

“We’ll manage,” Chris assured her.

When they got to B. Wendell Hormel’s office door Chris averted his eyes as Patty pushed the keys to deactivate the alarm system. He didn’t want to be tempted to use the front entrance when he returned. There was just too much light there.

They walked through the reception area straight to Patty’s office where she pushed out her chair from her desk, pushed Chris into it, and placed herself into his lap.

In between kisses Chris observed her desk and remarked, “It is rather small.” Then he pointed to a door which he was reasonably sure led to the room he had looked into from the outside the night before just before the rent-a-cops showed up and asked, “What’s in that room over there”?

“That’s the law library,” Patty told him. “It has a small conference table in it.”

Twenty minutes later as they lay exhausted and surrounded by large and red leather-bound law books, Chris groaned and said, “I know where there’s a great bed. It’s at my house—let’s go there right now.”

“Okay. Just give me a minute. I have to go to the bathroom,” Patty said as she gathered up her things.

As soon as she was out of the room and he heard the bathroom door close, Chris leapt into action, dressing rapidly. There was no time for socks—he stuffed them into his trouser’s pocket, slipped on his shoes and went directly to the window. The twist lock was old, covered with paint and looked corroded. Using his shirttail as a pad he twisted with all his might.

Finally, it gave and turned. Next, he gripped the metal handles at the bottom of the window and pulled up. Nothing happened. Damn, he thought, it’s stuck!

He heard the sound of the toilet flushing. Using that sound to cover the noise, he used the heel of his palms to strike a quick upward blow to the top edge of the bottom part of the window. There was an audible and sharp cracking sound, not too loud he hoped, and the window slid up a couple of inches. He lowered it, leaving just enough space so he could get his fingers under the bottom of it from the outside. Then just as he turned away from it he heard Patty say, “You’re not dressed yet.”

“I was just savoring the moment,” he told her, instantly feeling the guilt of lying again.

The gray tentacles of dawn were slipping through the blinds in Chris’ bedroom before they surrendered to sleep with limbs entwined amid the disheveled sheets.

It was almost noon on Sunday when Chris was softly awakened by a whisper in his ear saying, “I have to go home.”

“No, don’t go. Please stay,” he pleaded as he held her tightly.

“I have to go turn myself into Cinderella again. I’ll let myself out. Just go back to sleep,” Patty told him as she slipped into her clothes.

“Okay,” Chris said groggily. “I’ll call you later and see you tonight.”

A quick kiss and she was gone.

At mid-afternoon Chris was in his kitchen scrambling eggs and frying bacon. He had the music up loud, singing along. He was feeling good, real good.

There was no doubt about it, he knew he was very much taken with this woman, the one he was using to accomplish what he proposed. A wave of guilt swept over him, but he pushed it back, and had to push it back again before he resolved to forge on with the task he had chosen.

(tmdunagan@aol.com)