Your Bed or Mine? (6 page)

“You need our help for what?” Jen wanted to know.

“I have a lot to do before Rick shows up on my doorstep in the morning,” Zada said. “You and Tish need to help me give Rick
a homecoming surprise he won’t soon forget.”

Rick swiped his ID card across the pad of the security lock. When the security bar lifted, he drove his spruce-green Hummer
into the training center’s parking lot. The two-story red brick building had once been the old fire hall in the West Chicago
suburb of New Hope—back before New Hope had grown substantially in size and was able to afford a new facility.

He’d opened the training center shortly after the devastating terrorist attack on September 11, when all available resources
for dogs trained in explosive detection had basically been depleted overnight. Private bomb dog companies had instantly sprouted
up all over the country—many of them more interested in the money than they were in the quality training of their canines.

Rick vowed his company—Security Detection Services —wouldn’t be one of them.

He’d jumped at the chance to purchase the old fire hall, knowing the building couldn’t be any more perfect for the type of
bomb dog training center he had in mind. The kitchen and upstairs sleeping quarters, once used by the firemen, provided adequate
accommodations for dog handlers while they were undergoing extensive training courses at the center. At the back of the building,
there was plenty of space for the dog kennels and for a first-class obstacle course and training area for the dogs.

His experience with a canine unit during his military service had given him the background he needed in the bomb detection
field. But Rick had been the first one to admit he lacked the experience needed to train the dogs himself.

For that reason, he’d hired a team unmatched anywhere when it came to training and expertise. Like the experts he’d hired,
Rick firmly believed explosive detection dogs were a special category of detection canines—dogs who should only be trained
for one specific task.

At SDS dogs weren’t cross-trained in reckless combinations, mixing explosive training with training in firearm and drug detection.
A bomb-sniffing dog needed to be calm, patient, and completely focused. Being trained in only one area lessened the chance
of a dog becoming confused in dangerous situations and putting lives at risk.

The mission statement at SDS was simple: “Dedicated to delivering properly trained explosive detection canines fully capable
of going forth into life threatening situations.”

Rick’s belief in that statement had saved his life.

Had Simon not been properly trained, there was no doubt in Rick’s mind that he and Simon would have been killed in the explosion
at O’Hare.

It had been four years since he first opened the center. Now he was thirty-six years old. He had sufficient training experience
under his belt. And SDS had become one of the top explosive detection operations in the nation.

The accredited certification plaques hanging on the wall in his office backed up the claim. The Department of Defense, Homeland
Security’s Transportation Security Administration, and the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms commissioned his dogs
on a regular basis.

At least my business is successful.

Too bad my marriage wasn’t.

Rick thought this as he drove the Hummer into the bay of the building that had once housed much larger vehicles than the one
he was riding in now. The second he turned off the engine, one of the main reasons his business had been so successful started
walking in his direction.

Rick waved to the man.

Stewart “Scrappy” Adams waved back.

Scrappy was a top-rate kennel master who had earned his nickname during his tour of duty in Vietnam—the nickname was self-explanatory.
Though in his late fifties now, Scrappy was still in better physical shape than most men twenty years his junior.

One look at his close-cut gray hair and his camouflage fatigues told you he was military to the bone, and apt to stay that
way. One look at his résumé proved why his consultation services were frequently sought by the US Customs Service, the US
Secret Service, and even the FBI.

Or as Scrappy often liked to brag—he’d already forgotten more about explosives than Rick would ever know.

Rick had been able to recruit a man of such caliber, mainly because Scrappy lived rent free at the center on a full-time basis.
This was Rick’s reason for renting the apartment rather than staying at the center himself and risk invading his kennel master’s
space.

Scrappy claimed he preferred living at the center because he didn’t like nosy neighbors, didn’t have time to take care of
a place of his own, and he didn’t want any damn lawn to mow. But Rick suspected the barracks-like feel of the training center
was what appealed most to an old vet like Scrappy who had no close family, no children, and had been married and divorced
three times—what Scrappy referred to as “three tours of duty in the middle of hell.”

A big fan of marriage, Scrappy wasn’t.

Which is why it didn’t surprise Rick when the first words out of Scrappy’s mouth when he walked up to the Hummer were, “Next
time, Rick, just pick out a pretty girl walking down the street and offer to buy her a house. It’ll save you a whole lot of
bullshit all the way around.”

Rick laughed, but he didn’t have the energy to explain.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Scrappy,” Rick said.

“Then we won’t talk about it,” Scrappy agreed.

And that,
Rick thought
is the beauty of being a guy!

But not women. Hell, no!

All
women want to do is talk about it.

Twisting words around so you forget what you’ve said, like the big fight he’d had with Zada the day he left. Her, accusing
him of using sex to end any argument. Him, just trying to put an end to the yelling.

Jesus!

Scrappy backed away from the Hummer.

Rick opened the car door and said, “But I do need to bunk with you tonight Scrappy, if that’s okay.”

“Glad to have the company,” Scrappy said. “I just made a pot of chili so spicy I’ll never know if the tears running down your
face are over losing your ass in the divorce, or from the
bad
ass jalapeños I tossed into the mix.”

Scrappy headed for the upstairs kitchen.

As an afterthought, Rick yelled out, “Hey, Scrappy. Tell me the truth about something. Do you consider me obnoxious?”

Scrappy turned back around to face him.

He thought the question over carefully for a second.

“Intense,” Scrappy finally said. “Guys like us are intense, Rick.” He shook his gray head. “Hell, in our line of business,
how can anyone expect us to be anything else?”

“Intense,” Rick mumbled as Scrappy disappeared up the staircase.

Hell, yeah!

Scrappy was right.

I’m not obnoxious.

I’m intense.

Like Scrappy said, how could anyone in their line of business be anything else?

For the first time since Zada uttered those fatal words “game on” Rick actually felt a little more confident. Why should he
even be worried at all? He faced danger every day, worked with explosives far more dangerous than Zada.

He’d outlast her if it killed him.

As for that smart remark she’d made about hanging out at some guy’s place, he’d deal with that, too, when the time came.

Or not.

A guy even talking to Zada made Rick want to puke. He couldn’t let himself think about
more
than talking. Not unless he wanted to spend his life behind bars.

Damn you, Zada!

You knew that remark would make me crazy!

Rick let out a long, tortured sigh.

He’d had enough angst for one day compliments of Zada. Tonight, he wasn’t going to think about Zada at all. Definitely not
that tongue thing she did, which also drove him crazy.

In places he
didn’t
want to think about.

Or the silky feel of her long, tanned legs.

Or the taste of her full, sweet lips.

Or the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest.

Or the funny little noise she made that told him she was getting close, and he could stop holding back and take them both
straight to nirvana.

Or . . .

Dammit!

When I’m six feet under.

Rick knew then—and only then—would he ever stop thinking about Zada.

“What on earth were you thinking, Zada?” Jen wailed. “You’ve been avoiding Rick the entire six months you’ve been separated
because of your so-called fatal attraction to him. And now you’ve agreed to let him move back in! Rick’s right. You’ll end
up in bed in five minutes flat.”

“Not this time,” Zada vowed. “I realized after I got so flustered when I saw Rick again that we’d never have any closure unless
I faced him head-on. And believe me, trying to live together again will bring both of us plenty of closure.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jen said, looking over at Tish for support. “Almost as ridiculous as you expecting us to help you trash
your own house.”

Exactly the response I expected from you, Jen.

Zada had known her winner-takes-all battle plan wouldn’t appeal to logical-to-a-fault Jen.

Jen was petite, short black hair, big doe-brown eyes. She was dressed in the standard summer ’burb uniform like Zada was wearing
now—shorts, flip-flops, a simple cotton T-shirt. A stay-at-home mom, Jen was the perfect mother to her seven-year-old daughter,
Sonya, and the perfect wife to her corporate executive husband, Charlie.

In Zada’s opinion, Jen needed to lighten up a little.

Just as Jen thought Zada was way too blasé.

The only thing they did agree on was that their friendship brought out the best in both of them.

“What you’re suggesting really is pretty extreme, Zada,” previous beauty queen Tish chimed in.

Tish had made it all the way to the Miss America Pageant her junior year in college, and never had a hair out of place on
her auburn head. Even the shorts she was wearing, like her blouse, were pressed with a razor-sharp crease. The majority of
her time was spent trying to keep her eight-year-old twins, Mike and Mark, just as freshly pressed—a task she never quite
achieved.

Still, Tish was the marvel of Woodberry Park.

How Tish managed to keep herself looking like a runway model 24/7; supervise twin boys by herself during the week while her
salesman husband, Joe, traveled; and still stay involved in every school function and civic organization available, would
always be one of those unsolved mysteries.

And the thing Zada liked best about Tish?

Tish could always be lured to the “dark side”—as Jen called it—without too much persuasion.

“I don’t call what I’m suggesting extreme at all,” Zada said. “By Rick’s standards, the house is already trashed.”

Tish laughed. “By Rick’s standards, even Jen’s house is trashed.”

Which was absurd.

Jen’s house was always spotless.

“My point exactly,” Zada said before Jen could intervene. “And pushing Mr. Neat-and-Tidy’s buttons as hard as I can push them
is my only hope if I want to keep Simon and the house.”

Zada looked around her living room, hands on her hips.

“I want this room so messy,” Zada said, “that Rick won’t even put his bags down when he walks through the front door in the
morning.”

Jen said, “And you wonder why the judge called you self-absorbed and childish. The judge was right. You and Rick are being
ridiculous. You know you still love each other. If you’d stop trying to match each other tit for tat, you might be able to
save your marriage.”

Zada groaned. “I’m too stressed out for another lecture about saving my marriage, Jen. And,” Zada added, “it was being called
immature that made me angry, not self-absorbed. This
is
all about me, Jen! My house. My dog. My life!”

Jen rolled her eyes.

“And don’t roll your eyes at me,” Zada said. “It’s a funny thing to me that in the nineties if you stood up for yourself and
went after what you wanted, people called you assertive. Today, you’re considered self-absorbed and shallow.”

“Maybe you should start your own support group,” Jen quipped. “You could call it Self-absorbed Unanimous.”

“Maybe I should,” Zada said, not the least bit offended by Jen’s comment. “It’s time self-absorbed people got the recognition
they deserve.”

Tish said, “And that kind of recognition would be?”

“You just had to ask,” Jen mumbled.

Zada said, “Who do you think buys everything from luxury automobiles to Botox injections? Self-absorbed people keep up the
demand, so workers supplying the goods can earn a paycheck every week.”

“That’s pretty deep thinking for someone claiming to be shallow,” Jen said.

“Well, contrary to popular belief,” Zada said, “shallow people are extremely bright. That’s why we don’t waste time contemplating
the true meaning of life. We’re smart enough to know life is exactly what you make of it. And I intend to make my life right
here in Woodberry Park. Not in some condo Rick picks out for me!”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Jen said.

“But,” Zada said, “do you know the absolute best thing about us hopelessly self-absorbed people?”

“I’ll pass,” Jen said.

Zada told her anyway. “You’ll never catch us talking about anyone other than ourselves.”

Tish laughed.

Zada grinned at her own joke.

Jen rolled her eyes again.

“Well?” Zada asked. “Now that I’ve explained the virtues of the self-absorbed, are you going to help shallow me trash this
room?”

Jen said, “How likely is it that just for once, you would look at this situation from a logical point of view and forget the
whole trash-the-room idea?”

Zada thought for a second. “I’d say about as likely as you successfully nailing Jell-O to a tree in my backyard.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jen said. “And no! I will not participate in some juvenile delinquent prank to help you trash your
house.”