Mad About You

cluttered with beer cans and Lisa's overflowing ashtray. He frowned, then put the phone on the bed next to him, in case Ginny called during the night. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor, then expelled a long breath as he settled back against a lumpy pillow and waited for the waves around him to subside.
    Pounding on the door of the living room brought him to his feet again. He took his time getting there, looked through the peephole, and groaned at the distorted image of Lisa waving.
    He swung the door open, his mouth already forming words to send her away. She fell upon him, a mass of giggles and exposed flesh, her breath stinking of bourbon.
    "Where ya been, Bailey Boy?" she slurred, running her hands through the hair on his bare chest. "Someone said they just saw you downstairs."
    Patiently, he removed her hands and held her by the wrists, cursing himself. He'd been sleeping with this woman? "Lisa," he said firmly, "you can't come up here anymore."
    Her lipstick-smeared mouth formed a slow pout. "Why not?"
    "Because I found out this weekend I have an eight-year-old son."
    She angled her head at him and smiled dreamily. "Don't you think I'd make a good mommy?"
    He didn't voice his thoughts. How could he criticize the girl, when he'd been content with her company only a few days before? "Like I said, you can't come up here anymore. It's over between us."
    She straightened her shoulders and jerked her wrists away, stumbling back out into the hall. "Are you sleeping with that dressed-up little miss who came in and dragged you away the other night?" she yelled, her eyes glassy with drunken tears.
    "No," he said through gritted teeth.
    "Bet you she's an uptight little thing between the sheets."
    He closed his eyes and counted to five. "I'm going to call you a cab."
    "No! Just leave me alone!"
    He took a step toward her, then sighed. "Go home, Lisa, and don't come back. Do you understand?"
    "Yeah," she spat out. "Loud and clear." She lurched away, and he watched her half walk, half fall down the stairs. "Screw you, Bailey!" she yelled just as she opened the hallway door to admit the sounds of a thumping bass guitar.
    Distaste for his bad habits and bad judgment erupted in his stomach, roiling as he made his way back to the unmade water bed. He cursed—he could definitely hear the band. His nostrils flared at the lingering scent of stale sex on the tangled sheets. God, when had he last changed them? He searched for the remote control among the musky bedclothes, but frowned when he came up with the device, sticky with food and lint.
    Disgusted, he pulled himself up and went to the kitchen in search of a lightbulb, then realized the chance for success among the chaos there was slim to none. He turned on every working light in the apartment and cringed at the sight that lay before him. Newspapers, magazines, pizza boxes, beer bottles, and clothing were strewn among and over the dilapidated, dusty furniture. An unidentifiable but foul odor permeated the rooms, probably some spoiled carton of takeout food.
    He wrinkled his nose, then scavenged in the utility room for a bucket and a handful of rags. Further searching uncovered an unopened bottle of household cleaner left by the former resident. He ran water in the rusty utility sink until it steamed, then filled the bucket with suds and set to work.
    At two in the morning he fell into bed, exhausted, but between clean sheets, and with the feeling that literally and figuratively, he was finally getting his house in order.
    The early appointment with Jackson caused him to be a little late reporting to work, but he knew his boss, Lenny Banks, wouldn't mind. Besides, Bailey was so pleased with the deal he'd struck for the two restored cars, he didn't care if Lenny did yell a little.
    " 'Bout time you showed up, Bailey," Lenny barked when he walked in the office. "I was ready to send a couple of guys over to your place to see if some jealous boyfriend had strung you up."
    "Sorry, Lenny, I need to talk to you for a few minutes, then I'll get right out to the McClain job."
    Once they'd entered Lenny's office, his boss spoke up anxiously, "You can't quit, Bailey, we got to finish—"
    "Relax, Lenny, I'm not quitting." He told his friend of six years the events that had occurred since Friday evening, trying to weed out the melodrama.
    "Man." Lenny shook his head in disbelief. "And I thought I had a big weekend."
    "So," Bailey continued, "you can see that my