Mr Perfect (7 page)

"Someone go get Sam," she heard an old man mutter. "I will." Mrs. Kulavich headed back down the street, shuffling as fast as she could in her terry-cloth bedroom slippers.

Yeah, where was he? Jaine wondered. Everyone else who lived on the street was out here.

The young woman whose car had been smashed was crying, her hands over her mouth as she stared at the wreckage. Behind her, two young children, about five and seven, stood uncertainly on the sidewalk.

"Goddamned bitch," the drunk snarled, starting toward the young woman.

"Hey," one of the older men piped up. "Watch your language."

"Fuck you, pops." He reached the crying woman and clamped a heavy hand on her shoulder, spinning her around.

Jaine started forward, pure anger flaring in her chest. "Hey, buddy," she said sharply. "Leave her alone."

"Yeah," a quavering elderly voice said from behind her. "Fuck you, too, bitch," he said. "This stupid bitch wrecked my car."

"You wrecked your own car. You're drunk and ran into a parked car."

She knew it was a losing effort; you couldn't reason with a drunk. The problem was, the guy was just drunk enough to be aggressive and not drunk enough to be staggering. He shoved the young woman, and she stumbled backward, caught her heel on a protruding root of one of the big trees that lined the street, and sprawled on the sidewalk. She cried out, and her children screamed and began crying. Jaine charged him, bulldozing into him from the side. The impact sent him staggering. He tried to regain his balance but instead fell on his butt, his feet in the air. He struggled up and with another lurid curse lunged for Jaine. She dodged to the side and stuck out her foot. He stumbled, but this time managed to stay on his feet. This time when he turned, his chin was lowered, tucked close to his chest, and there was blood in his eyes. Oh, shit, she'd done it now.

She automatically fell into a boxing stance, learned from many fights with her brother. Those fights were years in the past, and she figured she was about to get stomped, but maybe she'd get in a few good punches.

She heard excited, alarmed voices around her, but they were oddly distant as she focused on staying alive. "Somebody call nine-one-one."

"Sadie's getting Sam. He'll handle it."

"I've already called nine-one-one." That was a little girl's voice.

The drunk charged, and this time there was no evading him. She went down under his onslaught, kicking and punching and trying to block his punches all at the same time. One of his fists hit her in the rib cage, and the power behind it stunned her. Immediately they were surrounded by her neighbors, the few younger men trying to wrestle the drunk off her, the older guys helping by kicking him with their slippered feet. Jaine and the drunk rolled, and a few of the older guys were mowed down, collapsing on top of the heap.

Her head thudded against the ground, and a glancing blow stung her cheekbone. One arm was pinned by a fallen neighbor, but with her free hand she managed to grab a chunk of flesh at the guy's waist and twist it, pinching as hard as she could. He bellowed like a wounded water buffalo.

Then abruptly he was gone, lifted from her as if he weighed no more than a pillow. Dazed, she saw him slam to the ground beside her, his face mashed into the dirt as his arms were wrenched behind him and handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

She struggled to a sitting position and found herself practically nose to nose with her neighbor the jerk. "Damn it, I might have known it was you," he snarled. "I should arrest both of you on drunk and disorderly charges."

"I'm not drunk!" she said indignantly.

"No, he's drunk, and you're disorderly!"

The unfairness of his charge made her choke with rage, which was a good thing, because the words that hung in her throat probably would have gotten her arrested for real.

Around her, anxious wives were helping doddering husbands to their feet, fussing over them and checking for scrapes or broken bones. No one seemed much the worse for the fracas, and she figured the excitement would keep their hearts beating for several more years, at least. Several women were clustered around the young woman who had been shoved down, clucking and fussing. The back of the woman's head was bleeding, and her kids were still crying. In sympathy, or maybe because they were feeling left out, a couple more kids began wailing. Sirens screeched in the distance, coming closer with every second.

Crouched beside the captive drunk, holding him down with one hand, Sam looked around in disbelief. "Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head.

The old lady from across the street, her gray hair in pin curls, leaned over Jaine. "Are you all right, dear? That was the bravest thing I ever saw! You should have been here, Sam. When that… that hoodlum shoved Amy down, this young lady knocked him flat on his butt. What's your name, dear?" she asked, turning back to Jaine. "I'm Eleanor Holland; I live across the street from you."

"Jaine," she supplied, and glared at her next-door neighbor. "Yeah, Sam, you should have been here."

"I was in the shower," he growled. He paused. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." She scrambled to her feet. She didn't know if she was fine or not, but she didn't seem to have any broken bones and she wasn't dizzy, so there couldn't be any major damage.

He was looking at her bare legs. "Your knee is bleeding." She looked down and noticed that the left pocket of her denim shorts was almost torn off. Blood trickled down her shin from a scrape on her right knee. She jerked the torn pocket the rest of the way off and pressed the cloth to her knee. "It's just a scrape."

The cavalry in the form of two patrol cars and a fire medic truck, arrived with flashing lights. Uniformed officers began wading through the crowd, while neighbors directed the medics to the injured.

Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Wreckers had hauled the two damaged cars away, and the uniforms had hauled the drunk away. The injured young woman, lads in tow, had been taken to an emergency room to have the cut on the back of her head stitched. Minor scrapes had been cleaned and bandaged, and the elderly warriors shepherded home.

Jaine waited until the medics were gone, then peeled the huge wad of gauze and tape off her knee. Now that the excitement was over, she was exhausted; all she wanted was a hot shower, a chocolate chip cookie, and bed. She yawned as she began trudging down the street to her house.

Sam the jerk fell into step beside her. She glanced up at him, then focused straight ahead. She didn't like the look on his face or the way he loomed over her like a dark cloud. Damn, the man was big, a couple of inches, maybe three, over six feet, and with shoulders that looked a yard wide.

"Do you always jump feet first into dangerous situations?" he asked in a conversational tone.

She thought about it. "Yeah," she finally said. "Figures."

She stopped in the middle of the street and turned to face him, her hands planted on her hips. "Look, what was I supposed to do, just stand there while he beat her to a pulp?"

"You might have let a couple of the men grab him."

"Yeah, well, no one was grabbing him, so I didn't wait around."

A car turned the corner, coming toward them. He took her arm and moved her out of the street. "You're, what, five- three?" he asked, assessing her.

She scowled at him. "Five-five."

He rolled his eyes, and his expression said, Yeah, right. She ground her teeth. She was five-five – almost. What did a tiny fraction of an inch matter?

"Amy, the woman he hurt, is a good three inches taller than you and probably outweighs you by almost thirty pounds. What made you think you could handle him?"

"I didn't," she admitted.

"Didn't what? Think? That was obvious."

I can't slug a cop, she thought. I can't slug a cop. She repeated that to herself several times. Finally she managed to say, in an admirably even tone, "I didn't think I could handle him."

"But you jumped him anyway."

She shrugged. "It was a moment of insanity."

"No argument there."

That did it. She stopped again. "Look, I've had it with your snide remarks. I stopped him from beating that woman to a pulp in front of her lads. Jumping him like that wasn't a smart thing to do, and I fully realize I could have been hurt. I'd do it again. Now carry your ass on down the street, because I don't want to walk with you."

"Tough," he said, and latched on to her arm again. She had to walk, or be dragged. Since he wouldn't let her walk home by herself, she picked up her pace. The sooner they parted company, the better.

"You in a hurry?" he asked, his grip on her arm reeling her back in and forcing her to match his more leisurely stride. "Yeah. I'm missing – " She tried to think what was on television, but drew a blank. "BooBoo's due to cough up a hair ball, and I want to be there."

"You like hair balls, huh?"

"They're more interesting than my present company," she said sweetly.

He grimaced. "Ouch."

They drew even with her house, and he had to release her. "Put ice on the knee so it won't bruise," he said. She nodded, took a few steps, then turned back to find him still standing at the end of her walk, watching her. "Thanks for getting a new muffler."

He started to say something sarcastic, she could see it in his expression, but then he shrugged and merely said, "You're welcome." He paused. "Thank you for my new trash can."

"You're welcome." They stared at each other for a moment longer, as if waiting to see which one would start the battle anew, but Jaine put an end to the standoff by turning around and going inside. She locked the door behind her and stood for a moment, looking at the cozy, already familiar, feels-like-home living room. BooBoo had been at the cushion again; more stuffing was strewn on the carpet. She sighed. "Forget the chocolate chip cookie," she said aloud. "This calls for ice cream."

Jaine woke up early the next morning, without benefit of clock or sun. The simple act of rolling over woke her, because every muscle in her body screamed in protest. Her ribs ached, her knee stung, her arms ached every time she moved them; even her butt was sore. She hadn't had this many aches and pains since the first time she went roller-skating.

Groaning, she eased into a sitting position and inched her legs over the side of the bed. If she felt this bad, she wondered how the old guys felt. They hadn't been punched, but the fall would have been rougher on them. Cold was better for sore muscles than heat was, but she didn't think she was brave enough to face a cold shower. She'd rather tackle a belligerent drunk any time than stand naked under a freezing blast of water. She compromised by showering in tepid water, then gradually turned the hot water completely off. Gradually working up to the cold water didn't help; she stood it for about two seconds, then climbed out of the shower much faster than she had climbed in.

Shivering, she quickly dried off and stepped into her long, blue, front-zip robe. She seldom bothered with it during the summer, but today it felt good.

Getting up early had one advantage: she got to wake up BooBoo, rather than the other way around.

He didn't take kindly to having his beauty rest disturbed. The disgruntled cat hissed at her, then stalked off to find a more private place to sleep. Jaine smiled.

She didn't have to hurry that morning, since she had gotten up too early, which was good, because her sore muscles made it plain hurrying wasn't on the agenda today. She lingered over her coffee, a rare weekday treat, and instead of making do with cold cereal the way she usually did, she popped a frozen waffle into the toaster and sliced up some strawberries to go on top. After all, a woman who had been in a brawl deserved a little extra treat.

After finishing the waffle, she drank another cup of coffee and pulled up the robe to examine her scraped knee. She had put ice on it as directed, but there was still a nice large bruise, and her entire knee was stiff and sore. She couldn't loll around all day on a pile of ice packs, so she popped a couple of aspirin and resigned herself to discomfort for a couple of days.

Her first real surprise of the day came when she began dressing and put on a bra. As soon as she fastened the front hook, tightening the band around her sore rib cage, she knew the bra had to go. Standing in front of her closet, naked except for her panties, she faced another dilemma: what did a braless woman wear if she didn't want anyone to know she was braless?

Even in an air-conditioned office, the weather was too hot for her to keep a jacket on all day. She had some pretty dresses, but her nipples would be plainly outlined beneath the thin fabrics. Hadn't she read something once about Band-Aids over the nipples? Anything was worth a try. She got two Band-Aids, plastered them over her nipples, then pulled on one of the dresses and examined herself in the mirror. The Band-Aids were clearly outlined. Okay, that didn't work. Plain surgical tape might do the trick, but she didn't have any. Besides, the dress revealed her scraped knee, and it looked gross. She peeled off the Band-Aids and went back to examining the contents of her closet.

In the end she settled on a long hunter green skirt and a white knit top that she covered with a cadet blue silk shirt. She knotted the shirttails at her waist, put on blue and green stretchy bead bracelets, and was rather impressed when she consulted her mirror.