Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (3 page)

I just couldn't have that.

I peeked out the window at the two, all the while struggling with the damn knob. Locked. I'd forgotten the blinds, but remembered to lock everyone out. Sweet. Now, Gina had her arm across Hannah's slender shoulder. I rattled the knob, peering sideways through the window. There went Gina guiding my newly discovered reason for living around a counter. There went Hannah smiling her great gap-toothed grin. Ah God. I had to get out.

The door swung open. And sweet mother of God, they saw me.

"Gina." I fought to make my voice calm. "May I see you?"

Gina tossed her red hair and crinkled her nose and I thought she could crinkle and toss all she wanted. I didn't care about Gina. It was Hannah's smile that made my stomach squirm. No use trying to smile back. My mouth had frozen into what felt like a Bela Lugosi smile.

I turned the constricted grin on Gina. "Can I see you?"

"Sure, Daniel," she said and turned to Hannah. "Could you wait in my office?"

Hannah's shrug moved her hair ever so slightly. Yup. Like unplaited ropes. Kinky as the thoughts pounding in my head. They made me queasy.

When we were just out of Hannah's earshot, I hissed at Gina. "I thought you were going straight."

I closed my door and faced her with what I hoped looked like displeasure. I had the feeling it looked more like what it was -- desperation.

"What does my straightness or lack thereof have to do with a loan application?"

I gulped. She watched my throat with keen interest. "Loan?"

She nodded.

"You mean you don't know her?"

She perked her brow. "How would I know her?"

I turned to my desk. Just a few more seconds. I'd have my composure soon enough. Stalling, I sat on the corner.

"Daniel, quit stalling. How the hell would I know her--and what business is it of yours if I do?"

"I thought you might be mixing pleasure with work again."

Her pretty complexion darkened.

"That only happened once." She slammed her fist on the desk right next to my leg.

My head floated free of my body and into a pool of murk. I stammered out some sort of excuse.

"Yes, yes." She kept on, but she paced the floor, her heels tapping against the tiles. "Don't bother with the excuses. I think you're afraid she might like me."

I ignored her comment. "You're straight now, right?"

She grinned the hellcat grin I knew so well. "If
she's
straight, why would it matter?"

I shrugged. Maybe for once I was afraid I'd be passed over, when everything always came to me. Even Gina, evidently gay since puberty, had tried me on. Maybe some horrible part of me still cared.

"I guess it wouldn't," I said.

She softened and patted my cheek. "She just asked about a loan, darlin'. I'm only getting her particulars."

I settled my feet onto the floor and stared at my wing tips. "She's not from here. I better take those particulars."

Certainly subtlety was never lost on Gina. Nothing ever surprised her. "Sure," she answered and made for the door.

At least I could breathe.

"Oh, and," Gina touched the knob but turned so her pert nose gained an impertinent air. "By the way. You were just an experiment."

Hannah's presence in my office drove me near mad. Her scent found each and every crevice of the all-business room. It didn't fit in there, not when you considered that the wood was press board, the walls a glaring white and the metal shelving supported stacks of file folders swelling with paper. Her fragrance was refreshingly alien. Everywhere I turned, cloves and soap met my senses. She lounged, in an unloungeable chair, one leg flung over the other, cleavage straining against the V in her white tee shirt. Bad enough she sat there watching me while I played dirty with her in my mind---she wore no bra.

And in that cotton-white, her pink nipples were as visible as the curve of her breast. Obviously her loan appointment outfit. I couldn't bear it.

"Could you use coffee?" I offered.

She grinned. I had to peel the tongue from the roof of my mouth.

"Nah, Makes me pee." She gave me a conspiratorial look. Then she smiled.

"Right," I answered. "I was wondering if you remembered me."

"You clean up nice."

I felt like a young boy toeing the dirt. "Shucks. Thanks."

"I've already had my daily caffeine quota. I'll take some water, though."

Oh. So she was one of
those
.

"And a loan," she continued.

Right. The reason she was here. Now how did I go about that again? I'd passed it off to Gina so often I doubted I knew where to begin. I turned my head this way and that, ruffled a few papers to make it look good.

"Umm... I can try someplace else..." Hannah uncrossed her legs and adjusted her grin with her tongue.

Now that I'd found an excuse for living through the entire day, I wasn't about to let it saunter straight back out my office.

"No, no." I fumbled toward her. "I can give you the money."

I raked a nervous hand through my hair. "Let's open you an account first. Okay?" I swiped my fingers against my creased trousers and tried to remember what the first step to that was. I could hear my own breathing.

"Forms?" she said, helpfully.

Right. That was it. "I'll get the water, too."

I fled from my office and down the short tiled hallway to the water cooler. As I scratched through my mind trying to think of a way to ask Hannah out, I walked straight into a herd of water buffalo, better known as the elite old ladies of yesteryear.

They crowded around the water cooler in the account holder's section. I recognized the blue-haired coif as belonging to Buffalo Belle, leader of the herd. She'd come to us because she didn't trust the banks with her pension cheque, dragging along all the old biddies from the senior's complex that she seemed to independent to live in.

I wanted to see her as badly as I wanted jock itch.

"Good morning, Mr. Manager," she said, sounding as if the word, manager, was a chunk of dog turd cutting off her air.

"Same to you, Mrs. Hastings." I reached for a cone of paper. I wasn't a manager, and she knew it. I owned the place, thanks to that revolting fit of philanthropic energy that squeaked to me in the dark hours of night that I could make a difference with my money. That making a difference would make me feel better. Three years in and I felt worse instead.

She raised her hand indicating that the sea of ladies could part and allow me access to the water.

"Have you checked my account for those service charges, yet?"

The water came in slow dribbles. "We've been through this before, Mrs. Hastings." I couldn't spare the eye to look at her. "If you withdraw more than ten times a month, the computer automatically charges twenty dollars." Finally the cone was filled.

"You shouldn't be charging
anything
." Her pitch rose to a distinguished snort. Belle had a habit of putting her entire cheque in savings and coming in to the co-op every time she needed a few dollars or had to pay a bill.

I faced her.

"It's policy. If you think you're going to withdraw so many times, why not just put less in your savings and keep the rest as cash. Or open a chequing account."

"But then you charge me five dollars to write cheques."

"It's a hell of a lot better than twenty."

She gaped. The four ladies with her gasped. Apparently hell was not in their vocabulary.

"I would think you'd understand the value of my account." She pickled her lips. Bright red wax lipstick bled into the wrinkles.

"I demand you have a clerk check my account for extra charges. I believe she will come to the same total as I told you. Two hundred dollars. And I'd like to have it returned to me in cash."

"We can discuss this later; I have a client in my office." I tried to push past her.

"We
shall
discuss this, Mr. Jones." She flicked her wrist and the sea of women closed back in. Without further comment, they eddied toward the front entrance and out into the street.

I shuddered good and hard in a conscious effort to rid my mind of her face. Then I remembered another face. A beautiful face that belonged to a beautiful body sitting right in my office with rosetta nipples straining against a white tee.

I hurried back with the cone of water.

"God," I said as I closed my office door. "That woman could use a lobotomy. Calm her down a little."

Hannah's dove wing brows scuttled down like they wanted to take flight but couldn't.

"What woman?"

I peered at her, trying to decide if I should say any more. There had to be some sort of discretion at a banking/lending facility and yet...telling her just might create a feeling of intimacy with her that I desperately wanted to cultivate. I decided to go halfway and not mention she was a client. I mean, I'd be dead soon enough; what did it matter?

"A lady I know. I like to call her Buffalo Belle Hastings." I gave Hannah my most disarming grin.

She said nothing, just shifted in her chair and reached for the cone of water I held out to her.

I settled down to work. Shuffled the papers. What was that first step again? Oh, yes, name. I had to ask her name.

"What's your last name, Hannah?"

She poked her tongue through the gap between her teeth. Then she retrieved it. "Hastings," she said. "Hannah Hastings."

Exactly what were the chances? Just about right if you add in the great Almighty and his wonderfully perverted sense of humour.

"Any relation?" I squeaked out.

"Great aunt?"

I could feel the blood leaving my face.

One dove wing lifted over her gorgeous eyes and she grinned.

I swallowed. My left shoe started a frantic dance with the right.

"She doesn't know I'm here, though. She married my father's uncle. We don't speak. Some sort of family feud. So it's okay, Daniel. Really."

My shoes stopped tapping.

She drained the water from the cone and threw the paper into the trash. "Would you like to meet after work?"

I blinked stupidly, hardly believing my good fortune. I was more than ready to alter my celibate status. For the sake of work and salvaging my sense of philanthropy, you understand.

I had every reason upon returning home to light up. I was nervous, plain and simple. So as I pulled my BMW up tight to the side of the porch, I hurried to slam the door and run to my den. Delilah waited patiently under her banker's light. Ambrosia.

I stripped down to my boxer briefs and old man's undershirt. Smoking was always more relaxing when I felt unencumbered. So, there I sat, flaked out on an old plaid couch in a room covered with '70's paneling, inhaling and inhaling until my lungs burned. It was the one room I'd left undone after the move. All the others were showpieces of sorts. The living room, dining area, even the kitchen might at some point have to entertain. The bedroom, certainly. It had its own theatre quality. But this den was my sanctuary. It didn't have to look like some horrible Martha Stewart magazine page. I kept it dark, feeling like I could lose myself in it when I needed to.

I stared at the brown shag rug until I was mellow enough to shower without caring if I stung my eyes with shampoo. Then I agonized over which drawers to wear. If Hannah was going to reward my charm, I'd have to at least show her a nice package.

No underwear seemed about the most appropriate.

Next came the nostril hair. I hadn't noticed how unruly it had gotten. It simply had to be trimmed. If she should happen to look up from any activity she chose to perform upon me, I couldn't have her distracted by wiry, black hairs curling out and tangling in my mustache.

Abstinence begone; the pipes were calling again for old Danny boy.

We had decided to meet at The Micro Brew Pub. I suggested it, because it had a certain ambiance. The music always played at just the right level and the stockiness of the wooden floor and heavy tables made you feel as if the 21
st
century had never come. I loved it there.

So that's where I sat. My relaxing high danced quite well with the red ale I sipped as I watched the door, trying not to look as if I was watching the door.

Then the belligerent ale started an argument with the more passive and happy-go-lucky high. My fingers began the dance of death on the table, and my Doc boots started their own jig---an endearing and traditionally noisy Irish clomp. A waitress spied my agitation and mistook it for a need of more ale.

"Can I get you a refill?" She threw her hip to one side and fluffed her ginger coloured hair.

"No. I think I'm okay."

Ginger looked askance at the bar where the bartender busied himself filling out a crossword puzzle. "He goes on break in about ten minutes. I could sneak you a half pint."