The Big Bang! Theory - A fourth--and final--short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind (3 page)

"Let me get the door," he
said, reaching around the woman dressed in form-fitting black yoga
pants and a bright orange tank top with the gym's logo emblazoned
across the back.

She wasn't a skinny mini
like the woman--her friend--who disappeared the moment she spotted
Wiley. Judy Banger had flesh on her bones, unapologetically so.
And, yes, her breasts really were as large as he remembered. At
least, he guessed they were. The restrictive sports bra she wore
under the tank left confirmation to his imagination. Something he'd
been doing quite often lately.

She stepped to the counter
and ordered without hesitation. "Grande. Plain. One ice cube,
please."

At his curious look, she
added, "Burns the roof of my mouth every time, but this place
freezes leftover coffee in trays so it doesn't dilute the flavor.
Smart, huh?"

Very. And smart of her to
know this.

"I'll have the same," he
told the barista, holding out a twenty so Judy didn't try to pay
for her own. "And please give the lady a yogurt with fruit and a
piece of zucchini bread."

"You don't need to buy my
breakfast."

He chose to ignore the
protest. "Outside okay?"

She hesitated a moment then
sighed. "Perfect. I'm a little sweaty from my workout."

They grabbed a table in the
tiny patio area. He pulled out her chair. She looked over the rim
of her sunglasses as if expecting him to yank it away once she
started to sit. He'd been that kind of bully once. A long time ago.
Teetering on the pinnacle of extreme ego. Before Eva rescued him
from the hubris of his own press and shaped him into a man with a
far more refined awareness of his own flaws.
How did Judy Banger guess? Were his failings that
obvious?

Given the fact she knew
Fletcher, perhaps they were.

"Thank you," she said,
wiggling slightly to get comfy.

Damned if watching her
squirm didn't make him a little hard. He sat quickly and crossed
his legs.

"What kind of job are you
looking for?"

Not what he'd intended to
ask. Why make small talk when all he needed to know was his son's
whereabouts? But, strangely, he held his breath awaiting her
answer.

She took a long draw from
the built-in straw of her over-size plastic water bottle. After
daintily wiping her lips on a paper napkin, she said, "Anything
that pays more than minimum wage and, ideally, would be open to
letting me work at the gym, too." She lifted her right arm like a
body builder and tentatively poked her bicep. "I've never been
stronger." A pink blush colored her cheeks. "I still have a long
way to go, but...it's a process."

"What kind of work do you
do?"
Stop it, Wiley. You're not
cross-examining a witness.

She fiddled with the napkin
a moment then said, "Until Buddy Fusco dropped dead in my bed, I
was the Activities Director for Heritage House--an independent
living center for seniors. Now, I lead a workout class at the gym
five mornings a week for many of those same seniors. We call it
Golden Sneakers. Not my idea. Sounds a little bit too much like
golden showers for my taste."

He laughed. His second of
the morning.

"You're funny."

Oops.
Her frown said
funny
was not a compliment in her book.

Before he could explain
what he meant--that she wasn't as serious as the people he saw in
court every day, the barista arrived with their order.

"Thank you, Beth," Judy
said. "Tell your mom I hope her ankle gets better soon."

Beth smiled. "Thanks, Judy.
She's more upset about missing your class than breaking a bone in
her foot. That box of books you gave her should keep her mind off
the pain for a week or two. Appreciate it."

She nodded at Wiley as a
formality then left.

"You come here often." He'd
meant the statement to sound more like a question than a fact
entered into the public record. Damn. He truly had become the
person Fletcher predicted he'd be--a judgmental hypocrite with an
atrophied sense of humor.

She carefully aligned her
paper cup, plastic parfait dish and the napkin with a slice of
moist, dense bread before answering. "Beth's mom is a retired
nurse. She used to give me my mammograms." She gave her bosom a
little jiggle, which, naturally, drew his gaze straight to her
chest. "With udders this size, it's hard not to develop an intimate
relationship with the person squishing them." He wanted to squish
them. Just once. He'd never dated a well-endowed woman. Both his
wives had been petite.
Have I ever stared
at a woman's breasts this much? What the hell is wrong with
me?

She reached for her coffee,
politely ignoring his impoliteness. "She broke her foot in a
parking lot a couple of weeks ago. Beth said she's bored and still
in a lot of pain. So, when I cleaned out my office at Heritage
House, I took her the box of books I'd been saving to give to the
Herry ladies."

Herry as in Heritage
house.
Again, he smiled, impressed by her
wit.

"I know a bit about pain,"
he admitted. "Fletcher's step-mother lived with chronic pain for a
number of years following a car accident that she and Fletcher both
survived. He was in a coma for three days but came out of it
without a scratch. She endured five major surgeries in six years,
but nothing the doctors did truly helped. Basically, pain was the
fourth member of our family." Another admission he hadn't planned
on sharing.

"Fletcher said she passed
away a few years ago."

"A week after he graduated
from college she bought a gun and killed herself. In our car. At
the same intersection where the accident happened. Symbolism was
important to her. She wrote a great deal of poetry in her final
years. Fletcher's read it." Wiley couldn't. The last thing he
wanted to be reminded of was how badly he'd failed as a
husband.

Her lips parted in
surprise, her lovely compassionate eyes welled up. "How tragic for
you all. I'm sorry."

Wiley slugged down a drink
from his paper cup, as if it was a beer. He would have burned the
roof of his mouth if not for the ice cube Judy Banger had suggested
adding. "It happened a long time ago. Thank you."

Neither spoke for a few
seconds. Judy plucked a couple of morsels from her bread but didn't
devour it as someone who claimed to be starving might.

"I'm looking for a
housekeeper," he said impulsively. "Mine has been threatening to
retire for twelve years, and last week she fell and broke her
hip--at Disneyland with her grandchildren, not at my house. Her
daughter wants her to stay with them from now on."

She gave him a wry look.
"I'm not a neat freak and I definitely can't cook fancy. But I
appreciate the offer, if that's what you were suggesting." She took
a bite of yogurt and swallowed. "Just out of curiosity, how big is
your home?"

"Four bedrooms, three
baths. The master suite is on one side of the living area. Fletcher
had the other side. It seems ridiculously huge when I'm there
alone."

"Alone," she repeated.
"Popular word these days."

He didn't know exactly what
she meant by her comment, but for the first time in twenty-six
years Wiley felt rudderless. His job had become repetitive and
boring. Lately, he'd started to see a third generation of the same
family pass through his courtroom. His idealism had disappeared
years ago. Even the ambition both his wives had seen in him--and
supported--seemed overshadowed by the effort it would take to
campaign for a public office.

"Will you tell me about
Fletcher?"

She finished off her fruit
before answering. "I don't know much, but I can give you his
email."

I'd rather have
yours.
The verity of the sentiment hit him
at gut level. He liked her. Her candor cut through the bullshit.
Her laugh came from somewhere real and heartfelt. But she was so
not his type.

"If Fletcher says it's
okay," she added after swallowing the last bite of her zucchini
bread. "I'll text him."

She pulled her phone from
her purse, typed for so long a court reporter could have completed
four pages of testimony.

"Did you say he lived with
you?"

Wiley tried to analyze her
tone. Judgmental? He parsed his answer as carefully as he would
have to a reporter following a critical verdict. "He moved back
home after Julie--his step-mother--died. Partly a grand gesture of
support and, in part, because instead of going to graduate school
as planned he decided to join the police force."

She nodded in
understanding. "Student loans. Been there, done that. My ex never
quite got the concept of graduation."

"Fletcher's college was
paid for by a trust set up after his mother passed away. She died
as a result of medical negligence. As executor of the trust, I had
a say in whether or not it would cover any post-graduate
degrees."

Her eyes opened as she
connected the dots. "Forty-K for law school would have been okay,
but the police academy was on his dime?"

Her insight impressed him.
"His mother never would have approved." A ridiculous assertion
Wiley clung to mostly out of habit. Who could say what the
beautiful soul who had given birth to their son then left them so
suddenly might truly have wanted for her child? She'd barely gotten
to know him before the second pregnancy, the late-term miscarriage
and medical negligence that led to her death.

Before she could respond,
her phone started to play a song. He'd heard it on the radio in his
car but couldn't identify the title or artist. His deep-seated
mistrust of computers had turned him into a dinosaur in the
information age. He couldn't help but admire her
hipness.

She read the tiny screen
then said, "Do you want to hear it?"

"Please."

"LOL." She looked up. "That
means laugh out loud."

"I'm aware of
that."

"Okay. Didn't mean to hurt
your feelings, but you said you weren't computer savvy." She
touched the screen again. "LOL. Sure. Give Dad my email addy. He
won't use it." His son's certitude hurt. "Tell Wiley--" She looked
up, one brow arching with an unasked question before finishing up
his son's message to him. "--I'm learning to surf, growing my hair
out, got a tattoo--3 actually--and making new friends. Oh, and you
can tell him about Bottoms Up if you want."

She put the phone away and
looked at him. "There you go, Wiley." Her lips curled slightly when
she repeated his name. "I didn't make you out as a nickname kind of
guy."

"No one calls me that, now.
My dad coined it after Wiley E. Coyote. According to family lore,
when I was five I spent an entire summer making every sort of trap
imaginable to catch a roadrunner, but I was never successful. I
left the name at home when I went to college. On scholarship," he
added, not certain why that nugget of information seemed so
important to share. "What's Bottoms Up?"

She studied her hands.
Quite lovely. Small and ladylike. Did they touch his son in a
sexual way? The two had been naked in the same place at the same
time. It seemed likely. Why did the thought make him want to punch
someone?

"Well...um...it's one of
the names your son suggested for the sex club he intends to open in
Venice Beach--or somewhere around L.A. I'm not really familiar with
the area, so I can't say for sure where."

A sex club. Good
lord.

"I told him the name
sounded too much like a bar." She looked at him seriously. "My
contribution to the name game is Sexcapades. That doesn't sound
like a bar at all, does it?"

He shook his head, grateful
for a simple yes or no question. At least, she didn't ask whether
or not he approved of his son's new venture. That answer was
complicated. But he knew one thing for sure, Sexcapades was a
better name than Bottoms Up.

Chapter Two

Why me? Why did I have to
be the one to break the scandalous news to Fletcher's dad? Your son
is opening a sex club for people who like a little pain with their
pleasure.

Judy decided
Wiley
looked like the
type who preferred to pull off the bandage in one quick snap rather
than inching it off, so she added the rest. "He emailed me his
business plan last week. Probably because I told him I used to work
in a law office. He said he's got a realtor looking for an old
house in an area already zoned for business. Some communities are
more open to this type of business than others. You probably know
that."

She didn't mention
Fletcher's offer to have her move south and be his office manager.
An offer she hadn't completely crossed off her list of
possibilities. The only thing holding her here was her house, which
she figured was "underwater." She'd need to wait out the market or
lose what she had into it.

"What kind of sex
club?"

"I assume it'll cater to
people who like BDSM. Bondage, sadomasochism--"