Think Before You Speak (2 page)

I quickly quashed the mental picture
that
thinking wrought – like I’d been doing for the past
five weeks.

“I just need to return to my own place,” I
declared. “What is Reggie still waiting for? Kitchen cabinets?
Countertops? A new commode?”

“Actually, Reginald is only waiting on
delivery of the bedroom furniture,” she offered. “Some sort of
strike at the manufacturing facility delayed everything we’d
ordered from that company.”

“Do I have a couch?” I asked, grabbing hold
of that informational nugget.

“Yes, but…”

“I’ll take it.”

“You can’t sleep on the floor, Victoria.”

“But you said I have a new couch, right?”

“A couch isn’t for sleeping.”

“Hello? I’ve slept on a couch for the last
five weeks. The only difference this time would be that I’d be on
my
own
furniture. In my
own
apartment. Breathing my
own
air.” For emphasis, I took a deep breath and let it out
with an exaggerated sigh that again garnered the attention of
nearby diners.

Mom took the hint – or took pity on me.
Didn’t matter. I’d take whatever leverage that little bit of drama
provided. She slid the phone from her purse and placed the
call.

“Reginald dear?” Mom said to the interior
designer. “Do we have any updates on the timeframe for Victoria’s
bedroom furniture?” A pause. “Mm-hmm.” Another pause. “I see.” A
final pause, then Mom glanced at me with a smile. “Can we get that
over there today? Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re always so
thoughtful, Reginald. We’ll finish up luncheon and meet you over
there in a couple of hours.
Ciao
.”

My heartbeat ticked up a notch. “It’s
in?”

“Not the furniture, unfortunately, but the
mattress and box springs will be delivered to your apartment this
afternoon. Do you think you could live with that in the
interim?”

“Does a cat hack up hairballs?” I asked.

Mom grimaced and wrinkled her nose. “Really,
Victoria.”

Is it cowardly to pack up and leave a Good
Samaritan’s place without telling him?

Don’t answer that.

I don’t handle emotional exchanges very well.
Not that Zeke’s emotional, mind you. It’s just that over the last
month and a half, he’s vacillated between showing interest in
getting back together and keeping his distance. He had to be about
as tired of my presence as my spine was sleeping on the sofa.

Plus, it was hard thinking about him in the
other room. Wondering what he was doing. Remembering our past
involvement. Imagining his mouth on mine.

Whew, it’s getting a little warm in here.

Ranger Zeke cured me of such levels of
intimacy – with him at least – more than two years ago when I
caught him with arms wrapped around my long-time mortal enemy, Miss
Lorraine Padget. My last boyfriend quickly became an ex-boyfriend,
and we hadn’t spoken to each other until June when I needed his
help to clear our mutual friend’s name of murder. During that time,
I realized something about myself.

I can sure hold a grudge.

When that comprehension wormed its way into
my consciousness, I knew it was time to forgive Zeke for the past
and move on. Somewhere in the years of Sunday School lessons, I
recalled God said to forgive and forget. The forgiveness part was
somewhat easy, but the forgetting took on a degree of difficulty
that would make an Olympic diver think twice before executing. The
point was I was making progress. Sort of. Maybe.

Perhaps it was better to grab the cat and go.
No preambles. No awkward moments. Just leave a check on the way out
the door so he couldn’t balk again at trying to pay my share during
the overlong stay. I’d figure out how to return the key to him
later.

The only things to pack up from Zeke’s
Country Hoedown were Slinky’s food and toy assortment and the
wardrobe Mom had graciously purchased for me with her black AmEx.
Until I finished gathering my things from the closet, I’d had no
clue the quantity of what she’d bought. The empty gap from where my
clothes had hung was noticeably larger than what remained of Zeke’s
– and it was
his
closet.

That boy needed a girlfriend to update his
wardrobe. Sorry, I wasn’t volunteering this time. No can do from my
end.

The trunk of my Vette and passenger’s seat
were full to bursting by the time I tucked Slinky into his crate,
took one final turn about the apartment, then locked up and left. A
little ache pulsed between my ribs when I pulled out of the parking
lot.

Heartburn from all that lobster bisque and
crab manicotti at lunch. Yeah, let’s go with that.

The heartburn turned into nervous excitement
as I neared my building near Dallas’ Historic West End. Excited to
be going home. Nervous to see what Reggie and Mom had concocted in
my absence.

Since Mom was footing the bill for the forced
remodel, I’d realized early on I’d have absolutely no say in the
final outcome – and that made me more than a little anxious. She
has very traditional tastes. I like eclectic and a bit industrial.
Mom is a silk, lace, and florals kind of woman. I was all about
solids, darker motifs and leather. You know, something with
attitude. Goes great with metal – as in handcuffs.

With Reggie at the helm, I was somewhat
confident he’d find ways to keep the decor true to the Vicki
standards. After all, between Easter and Christmas decorations –
not to mention the home overhaul every few years – he’d been a
fixture around the Bohanan mansion since I last toddled out of a
diaper. If anyone knew what I’d like better than I did myself, it’d
be Reggie.

With everything else going on, I almost
expected the apartment redo might have drifted out to the garage
unit. Thankfully it appeared untouched as I pulled inside. At least
something remained familiar, and there was comfort in that.

“Well, Slinky,” I said to my kitty after
turning off the engine. “We’re home again.”

My tabby just looked at me with those bright
green eyes and offered a
merow
in response, then returned to
licking his butt. Ugh. I grabbed the crate and lugged it into the
building, leaving mounds of clothes behind for later.

I stood at the bottom of the stairwell and
took a deep breath of the familiar smells of musty old warehouse
scented with a hint of greasy fried food. As I trudged upstairs to
the fourth floor, the welcoming scents were joined by a sawdust and
paint chaser.

The brand new front door greeted us with a
fresh stain of walnut. From the high gloss lacquer appearance I
almost hesitated to knock, afraid it had yet to dry.

The thick and heavy wood sent my bare
knuckles barking with a single rap. What was this thing made of?
Hedge? Reinforced steel? Both? For a second I wondered if anyone on
the other side could even hear the deep-throated
whack
until
the slide, thunk, and click sounded and the door creaked open like
a bad horror movie to reveal Reggie’s dark chocolate gaze.

“
Mein liebchen
!” the interior designer
cried, throwing his arms around me before shoving the door aside
for me to enter. “Come. Come. See vat Reginald accomplished in your
absence, yes?”

First I had to tear my eyes away from the
glaring suit jacket. Bright purple, green, red, and black swirled
in a dizzying array across the designer fabric, topped by an
old-fashioned cravat resting under his chin and jutting out like a
pincushion on steroids. The black cigarette pants were – not made
for middle-aged men.

One thing you could always say about Reggie
Brown, I mean Reginald von Braun? You’d never forget him once you
met him. Maybe that was all part of his marketing genius. Just
don’t judge him by the fake accent and the loud clothes. The guy
was a lot of things – or
wore
a lot of things – but
brilliant interior designer topped the list, as evidenced by the
fact that every notable family home in the Dallas metro area
sported a one-of-a-kind Reginald von Braun design.

Mom came strolling from the bedroom with a
worried smile on her face, tucking a stray hair strand into her
coif. “Well? What do you think, dear?”

What did I think? The only thing I recognized
was the bank of tall windows off the dining area. Reginald had
listened and kept the window seat area just for Slinky, where my
critter liked to bask in the sunlight. What caught my eye next was
the industrial brick wall separating the living area from the
bedroom.

“This is beautiful,” I said in awe, touching
the red stones and fresh mortar. “How did you get it to match the
brick between the windows so perfectly?”

Reggie pursed his lips. “Ah, but Reginald can
work miracles, no?”

“It must’ve taken an act of God to get
removing this wall past the landlord,” I said.

“No, no,” Reggie said, waving his arms. “Zee
brick was already zere. It only took removing zat disgusting
plaster to uncover her radiance.”

“Well, I love it,” I said, planting a kiss on
Reggie’s stubbly cheek before checking out the kitchen. “And this
kitchen.”

Cabinet style had a more traditional feel –
definitely Mom’s doing. Stainless steel counters topped gunmetal
gray lower cabinets while a polished cement counter covered the
island with swirls of rich color like a kaleidoscope beneath the
pendant lights. Industrial motif heaven – score one for Reggie’s
keen eye.

The new furniture was pretty traditional also
but in a color palette of charcoal leather, muted tangerine, and
aqua tones. No florals, so Reggie had won the print battle and kept
it leaning toward stripes and solids. With my mom footing the bill,
I’d been leery of what I’d end up with in the furniture department.
This? I could definitely live with it all – and love it. Once
again, Reggie had saved my carcass.

My usually unperturbed and composed mother
stood near the hallway, wringing her hands. “What do you think,
Victoria?”

In an unusual move on my part, I embraced my
mother and pecked her on the cheek. “It’s perfect. Thank you,
Mom.”

Irish eyes widened then crinkled in a smile
as she held me at arm’s length. “Oh, I’m so relieved. I wasn’t sure
about some of the fabric choices, but Reginald assured me this was
what you’d like.”

I looked at Reggie. “Even after all these
years?”

The hip jutted out while his hand waved
around as if holding a cigarillo out of boredom. “Reginald von
Braun never forgets. He always knows vat the ladies vant,” he said
with a brow wiggle.

I laughed and pecked him again on the cheek.
The nice thing with having a gay friend is that they love hugs and
kisses from just about everyone – and you didn’t have to worry
about them feeling you up like a testosterone-fueled teenager. The
only thing butch about Reggie was the familiar TAG Heuer blue-faced
watch – more a pronouncement of status than fashion.

A quick peek into the virtually empty bedroom
revealed pearl gray paint saturating the walls and a king-sized
mattress and box springs dressed with assorted pillows, sheets and
a blanket neatly folded at the foot. Once in the bedframe, I’d be
climbing Mount Everest every night just to go to bed. But at that
moment, I couldn’t have cared less about the lacking bed and
dresser. All the commercials stated that a solid mattress was the
key to a good night’s sleep anyway. I looked forward to testing
that theory tonight. Alone.

I promise.

***

The sunlight slanted across the window seat
where my contented kitty lounged. The hours waned in quick
succession after Mom and Reggie left. I’d changed into something
more comfortable, put up my hair, and after bringing in all my crap
from the car, puttered around my brand new, old space,
familiarizing myself with the new surroundings and making little
adjustments to furniture placement. I’d just finished moving the
desk when a dull knock sank into the door.

Opening the heavy wooden door was like
swinging open a vault at Fort Knox. I really needed to ask Reggie
what it was made from. But that idea left as quickly as it arrived
when Zeke glared down his six-foot-five frame at me from beneath
his black Stetson.

“Wanna tell me what this is?” he asked,
holding up the check I’d left on his kitchen counter.

“Um,” I started, “payment for services
rendered?”

An eyebrow arched before he ripped the check
in two. “I never asked you for anything, Vic. Thought I was helping
out a friend.”

“And I appreciate that, but I figured it was
best to keep things on an equitable basis. You know, no
expectations?”

The twinge of his cheek muscles reflected the
weighing of words before he spoke. “When were you going to tell me
you were moving out?”

“Today?” I squeaked.

Tired eyes darkened before Zeke’s gaze left
mine. It took all of two footfalls for him to walk through the
doorway and take in every inch of the remodel. “I like what you’ve
done with the place. Most of it fits you.”

“Since Mom paid for it, I just gritted my
teeth and let her have at it. Reggie looked out for me though, so
can’t complain. I’m just glad to be home.”

“Looks like someone else is too.”

Slinky had left his sunbeam filled nest to
curl around Zeke’s ankles with a purr as loud as a motorboat. I
looked down at him with a scowl.

“Traitor.”

Zeke bent down with a chuckle and scratched
my tabby behind the ears. “Oh, you forgot this at my place.” He
flung a fluffy gray mouse toy across the room that sent Slinky
skittering after it. It looked like one he’d bought during our
refugee status days. That was when Zeke had shown his thoughtful
side – until I realized he was buttering up my critter in an effort
to try and get into my pants. Or up my skirt. Didn’t work then and
it sure wasn’t gonna work this time.