that sex between us was a lot of fun. There were never any strings attached to that part of our friendship on the occasions it happened. Sometimes the sex was rebound-oriented. Sometimes it was comfort sex.
Sometimes it wasn’t about anything except sex.
Tonight, I knew, it was about reconnecting. “Not much persuasion at all because that sounds really good. You want me to bring anything?”
“Hell, no,” she said, laughing at my inner hostess.
“Just your libido.”
“Not a problem,” I answered, feeling a comfortable pleasure in my gut as I met her eyes. We finished dinner and I picked up the check. A few minutes after that, I followed her home.
Chapter Four
I ARRIVED AT Megan’s place around eight the next morning, needing a shower and breakfast before dealing with the “situation,” as I dubbed it.
Fortunately, her house seemed to stay fairly cool inside, a much-appreciated quality, as the Albuquerque heat would be at full strength in a couple of hours. I stripped my clothes off on the way to the shower and stood under the water, feeling relaxed.
Chris had cut loose on me the night before and we had been up late. A delicious chill lingered between my thighs thinking about it. She was as free and easygoing in bed as out. She knew what she wanted and she gave me what I needed. Last night was no exception and as I was leaving that morning, she hugged me for a long time and told me again she had really missed me and please, would I at least think about moving back. Then she sent me to Megan’s with a large mug of coffee.
The water coursed over my shoulders and down my back. Maybe I should really think about returning to Albuquerque. I turned off the water and opened the shower stall door so I could grab the towel off the sink. I smiled to myself. Commitment-phobic Chris.
We’d never be girlfriends, but that was okay. More than okay. I liked the friendship we had and the occasional forays we took into more intimate physical territory when neither of us was seeing anyone.
Instead of making things weird between us, it served somehow to strengthen the other aspects of our bond.
I finished drying off and hung my towel on the hook on the back of the door before padding into the bedroom to rummage in one of my duffle bags for clean clothes. Another pair of cargo shorts, faded tee, and Birkenstocks. I’d grab something to eat at the Flying Star and then I’d be ready, at least physically, to see what Megan might be into.
An hour later I was sitting at Megan’s desk looking through the stack of flyers and pamphlets Melissa had found. Sinking into research mode, I set my legal pad next to the monitor, prepared to take my plethora of notes and to log times and dates in addition to complete citations of things I examined, whether online or in real life.
What Melissa had found was pretty standard racist stuff. I read a flyer apparently downloaded from the National Alliance Web site and started writing notes, mostly in case Melissa wanted to read through them, but also to help me remember things.
Writing something down cemented details in my head. “National Alliance, based in West Virginia, chapters all over country.” I tapped the butt of my pen against my teeth and wrote some more.
“Organized 1970, slick and professional.” Another flyer honored the group’s founder, a former Oregon physics professor. “Founder William Pierce, died 2002, wrote The Turner Diaries, under name Andrew MacDonald.”
Did Megan have a copy of it on her shelves? After fifteen minutes, I hadn’t found one and for that, I was grateful. Underneath my “Pierce” entry, I added a few sentences about how Turner allegedly served as a blueprint for Timothy McVeigh, the man who blew up the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. I sat back, pondering. There were rumors that McVeigh used to carry multiple copies of the book and sell them for five bucks each at gun shows. I imagined him, pockets of his camouflage pants
Sometimes it wasn’t about anything except sex.
Tonight, I knew, it was about reconnecting. “Not much persuasion at all because that sounds really good. You want me to bring anything?”
“Hell, no,” she said, laughing at my inner hostess.
“Just your libido.”
“Not a problem,” I answered, feeling a comfortable pleasure in my gut as I met her eyes. We finished dinner and I picked up the check. A few minutes after that, I followed her home.
Chapter Four
I ARRIVED AT Megan’s place around eight the next morning, needing a shower and breakfast before dealing with the “situation,” as I dubbed it.
Fortunately, her house seemed to stay fairly cool inside, a much-appreciated quality, as the Albuquerque heat would be at full strength in a couple of hours. I stripped my clothes off on the way to the shower and stood under the water, feeling relaxed.
Chris had cut loose on me the night before and we had been up late. A delicious chill lingered between my thighs thinking about it. She was as free and easygoing in bed as out. She knew what she wanted and she gave me what I needed. Last night was no exception and as I was leaving that morning, she hugged me for a long time and told me again she had really missed me and please, would I at least think about moving back. Then she sent me to Megan’s with a large mug of coffee.
The water coursed over my shoulders and down my back. Maybe I should really think about returning to Albuquerque. I turned off the water and opened the shower stall door so I could grab the towel off the sink. I smiled to myself. Commitment-phobic Chris.
We’d never be girlfriends, but that was okay. More than okay. I liked the friendship we had and the occasional forays we took into more intimate physical territory when neither of us was seeing anyone.
Instead of making things weird between us, it served somehow to strengthen the other aspects of our bond.
I finished drying off and hung my towel on the hook on the back of the door before padding into the bedroom to rummage in one of my duffle bags for clean clothes. Another pair of cargo shorts, faded tee, and Birkenstocks. I’d grab something to eat at the Flying Star and then I’d be ready, at least physically, to see what Megan might be into.
An hour later I was sitting at Megan’s desk looking through the stack of flyers and pamphlets Melissa had found. Sinking into research mode, I set my legal pad next to the monitor, prepared to take my plethora of notes and to log times and dates in addition to complete citations of things I examined, whether online or in real life.
What Melissa had found was pretty standard racist stuff. I read a flyer apparently downloaded from the National Alliance Web site and started writing notes, mostly in case Melissa wanted to read through them, but also to help me remember things.
Writing something down cemented details in my head. “National Alliance, based in West Virginia, chapters all over country.” I tapped the butt of my pen against my teeth and wrote some more.
“Organized 1970, slick and professional.” Another flyer honored the group’s founder, a former Oregon physics professor. “Founder William Pierce, died 2002, wrote The Turner Diaries, under name Andrew MacDonald.”
Did Megan have a copy of it on her shelves? After fifteen minutes, I hadn’t found one and for that, I was grateful. Underneath my “Pierce” entry, I added a few sentences about how Turner allegedly served as a blueprint for Timothy McVeigh, the man who blew up the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. I sat back, pondering. There were rumors that McVeigh used to carry multiple copies of the book and sell them for five bucks each at gun shows. I imagined him, pockets of his camouflage pants
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