Garrett turned the shower on full blast, letting the water warm up, and the steam gather until a cloud hung near the ceiling of the large bathroom. They each undressed themselves—slowly, sensually, suggestively—watching every move the other made.
It was powerfully erotic, amazingly seductive and very satisfying as each piece of her dusty clothing fell to the bathroom floor. He kicked off his shoes and removed his socks. Down to his boxers only, Garrett stopped to watch as Jessica reached behind her back to unfasten her bra. Before she completed her task, music started playing from the bathroom counter.
Jessica’s cell phone vibrated and played an upbeat tune. Her expression darkened at first. She glanced at her phone on the counter, then at him with regret in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I should take this. It’s probably my friend Isabelle. I called her earlier and made arrangements for her to check my storage place to assess and take pictures of the damage.” She grabbed her phone, pushing the button in mid-ring, answering quickly with, “Yes, hello?”
It wasn’t her friend Isabelle on the phone. Garrett could tell when her eyes widened in shock and horror. She pulled the phone away from her ear as her mouth dropped open in what looked like a wordless scream.
Garrett grabbed the phone from her and in his most powerful and authoritative former prosecutor’s voice, he asked, “Who are you, and what the fuck do you want?”
There was silence over the line for a solid count of five before a man’s angry voice replied, “This is Charles Wetherill the Second. I want to know who the fuck you are?”
* * * *
Jessica took several deep breaths to calm her raging nerves. She held out her hand to get her phone back. Garrett shook his head, then responded, “I’m Jessica’s husband. She doesn’t want to talk to you now or ever.”
Eyes widening at his bold lie about their marital status, Jessica’s mouth fell open again. She was shocked to her core that he’d even pretend to be her husband.
Jessica put a hand on his chest, leaned up on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek, whispering in his other ear, “Please, Garrett. I can handle him. I was only surprised.”
Garrett rolled his eyes, but then dropped the phone from his ear, kissed her soundly, and reluctantly returned her cell phone. “Fine. But I’m staying,” he whispered.
She nodded. “No problem,” she said, grateful not to be left alone. Garrett slipped behind her, hugging up close so he could listen into the further conversation. Jessica felt more emboldened with Garrett—her husband—attached to her back.
Chucky was sputtering into the phone in utter indignation when she listened in again. She took a deep breath, and asked, “What do you want?”
“You’re married? Already? You’ve only been gone a couple of weeks.” He sounded outraged that she’d moved on with her life. He had absolutely no right to any opinions regarding her romantic actions.
“Oh that’s rich, in a kettle and pot meet again sort of way.” Her whole bearing shifted. Garrett was hugged up to her, his steady arms wound around her body completely, kissing her neck, and making her stronger. In a firm, “don’t fuck with me” tone, she added, “Tell me why you called, or I’m hanging up.”
“Fine. I want my stamp collection. I know you have it, and I want it back.”
Jessica inhaled deeply prepared to disseminate the lie she’d practiced at the bank over her safety deposit box before shoving the hated stamp collection all the way inside completely out of her sight. Instead, she changed the course of the discussion, answering his accusation with her own barrage of questions.
“Did you hire a band of thugs to break-in to my storage facility back in Chicago?” Without giving him time to answer, she added, “Did you then have those thugs follow me here, toss my motel room, and then steal my car in order to find your stupid stamp collection?” By the end of her final question her voice had elevated considerably.
Chucky started sputtering again. “What…why, I never…how do you…no…that’s ridiculous…you can’t—”
Jessica broke in to his rambling before he popped the prominent vein on his forehead, adding another question to the mix. “What makes you think I’d want your pitiful, idiotic stamp collection, nimrod? Don’t ever call me again.” She wished she had an old-fashioned desk phone to slam the receiver down in the cradle to end this conversation in a more satisfying way.