Easy Prey
little impatience. “I like people who can do things. Craftsmen. Good carpenters. Good bricklayers. Good reporters. Good cops. It’s all sort of the same.”
They walked out to Cretin, turned south, back toward Lucas’s house. “Weird name for a street,” she said.
“Named after a bishop,” he said. “I’ve got a friend who went to school in Normal, Illinois, and another guy who went to Cretin, the high school in St. Paul. They’ve always had this idea that they ought to get ‘Cretin’ and ‘Normal’ T-shirts, and hang out.”
“That would be funny for about one second,” she said. “After that it would get annoying.”
Back at the house, Lucas shut the door behind them and Jael said, “Now I feel hot, after all that cold air.”
“Want a beer? I got a movie the other day, Streets of Fire, looks neat in a cheesy way.”
“All right.”
Lucas went and got two beers, and when he came out she had the DVD case and was dropping the disk in the DVD player. Lucas punched up the TV with the remote, handed her one of the beer bottles, and dropped onto the couch. The movie came up and Jael took a hit on the beer, then set it on the coffee table and peeled off her sweatshirt. She was wearing a plaid shirt under that, and under that, a bra. She dropped them all on the floor, then peeled off her jeans and underpants, and picked up the beer.
“Maybe we could have some sex while we’re watching the movie,” she said.
“If you play your cards right,” Lucas said, manipulating the remote. “Move over to the left, you’re blocking the screen.”
“I’ll block the screen,” she said. She straddled one of his legs and started tugging at his belt buckle. “I’ll block the damn screen.”
26
SATURDAY. DAY EIGHT.
He took Jael back home at two o’clock. Then, restless and awake, a little moody from the sex, he took I-394 west to the 494-694 beltline, decided at the last minute to go north, and drove the 694 north, then east across the north side of the metro area, then south again, and back into St. Paul on I-94. The trip took most of an hour, and he used the time to think about Jael, and Weather, and Catrin.
He felt a strong tie to Weather; he couldn’t help it. If she called in the morning and said, “To hell with it, let’s get married next week,” he’d probably say yes. On the other hand, she was making some preliminary moves toward what might be a reconciliation, and he was sleeping—well, not sleeping—with Jael. He was risking the Weather tie with a woman who wouldn’t be around long. He knew Jael would be moving on, and Jael knew he knew it; and when he wasn’t looking at her, he hardly thought about her, at least on a conscious level.
But his car kept steering itself to her doorstep, and he kept winding up in a bed or on a couch or on the floor with her. And he liked it. Most of that was Jael herself: She was not self-conscious about sex, and not particularly concerned that Lucas enjoy himself. She was getting her own, and letting Lucas take care of himself, which he did. And he liked that. This was serious casual sex.
So now he was going to lunch with Weather; the lunch had the feel of a crisis meeting. If nothing happened tomorrow, it was likely nothing would happen at all. A moment was occurring. He could pick it up or let it go, and he really wanted to pick it up, but maybe if he could just get another week of rolling around with Jael . . . Maybe two weeks?>
He thought of the legendary quote from St. Augustine that so beguiled his high school classmates who were headed for a seminary: “Please, Lord, make me pure . . . but not yet.”
Then there was Catrin, a problem that might be more serious than Jael. She pulled on him. And he couldn’t help thinking that if it didn’t work with Weather, it might yet work with Catrin. He was curious about her; liked her a lot twenty years before, might have gotten serious about her twenty years ago. And, as he thought about it, he wondered if one reason that he’d never married was the relationship he’d had with her so long ago: She had somehow immunized him against marriage. That that had been a moment, and on that moment, he’d passed.
He pushed the Porsche down the ramp onto I-94, let it wind, kicked it out of the chute and past a Firebird like the Pontiac was parked , and decided that his brain was getting tired of italics. Had to make a decision.
But if he could just get another week . . . or two . . . out of Jael,
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