Indulge Me. Joanne Rock

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      Molly made a choking sound. “I need antacids just listening to this.”

      “Aw, c’mon. Haven’t you always wanted to be a hot confident babe-ola just for a little while?”

      “No, for God’s sake, and you know why? Because I have a brain, that’s why. Fantasies are called fantasies for a reason, and that reason is this. Because. They’re. Not. Real.”

      Darcy frowned. Not that she expected sensible, practical, anti-glamour Molly, who met Bruce in high school and never looked back, to jump up and down at her idea, but she sounded stretched extra thin and had the day before, too. “Hey, girl. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

      “No. Nothing is bothering me.”

      Darcy let the silence hang. “Moll…”

      Molly sighed. “Bruce.”

      “Bruce…what?”

      “He’s…started going to some personal trainer.” Her sentence accelerated like a sports car. “So what, suddenly he hates the fact that he’s getting old and fat when he’s been a work in progress for years and years?”

      “Bruce is working out?” She tried to picture beefy jolly Bruce breaking a sweat over anything but a Packers game on TV. “Bruce?”

      “He met this woman through his work, selling her the usual physical therapy equipment. She offers to train him, which she does on the side. He accepts. She’s young, stunning, looks like Angelina Jolie. I haven’t seen her, this is his description. He talks about her all the time, how great she is, how strong she is, how smart she is…”

      “Molly, you’ve been married eight happy years. Bruce is not going to cheat on you. He adores you. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

      “It’s a fantasy, Darcy. Fantasies are powerful and they’re dangerous. I’m telling you this now, before you get hurt or hurt someone else.”

      “This is an entirely different situation.”

      “Right.”

      Darcy drew down her brows and punched the couch again, torn between annoyance and sympathy. “I’m not out trying to tempt husbands. I just want to have some irresponsible self-indulgent fun for a change.”

      “Okay, okay. Maybe I’m a little touchy on the subject.”

      “I understand, I really do. And I would so not worry. Bruce looks at you like you could walk on Lake Michigan.”

      “Thanks, Darce. I’ll try not to.” Molly took a deep breath.

      “So…when are you going to do this hot-babe routine? What bar?”

      Again the odd tone. Darcy frowned, not sure whether to call her on it or not, and decided not. “I hadn’t really thought that far in advance. But…let’s say Saturday. Starlight City. Ten o’clock.”

      The second she set the date, place and time, everything felt right. She knew she was going to go through with it. She would put the post-fantasy awkwardness with Tyler behind her and march forward, guns blazing, use her newfound powers to reduce Milwaukee’s men to quivering mounds of needy testosterone.

      “Blech. Starlight City? Total meat market.”

      “Ya think?”

      Molly groaned. “Just be careful. Use condoms. Take Mace and pepper spray and a whistle. Don’t take him to your house or go to his, find a motel, one of the cheap ones with thin walls so people can hear if you scream. And if you haven’t called by midnight Saturday, I’m calling 9-1-1.”

      “Yes, Mommy.”

      “Promise?”

      She made sure Molly could hear her sigh of exasperation.

      “Cross my heart and hope to get massively laid.”

      “Ack! Dear God, I won’t live through this.”

      Darcy giggled. “And, honey, really don’t worry about Bruce. He probably just got a wake-up call about his weight and possible health problems and is excited about taking care of himself.”

      “I hope so, Darce.”

      “I know so.”

      She hung up the phone, allowed herself to be one hundred percent sure that Bruce would never cheat on Molly no matter how hot this personal trainer chick was, then grabbed her purse and headed for the garage. The painters would arrive soon, including tempting Tyler, and she was going to visit poor Marjory at Royal Oaks and then…

      She had some über-hot black leather to buy.

      4

      TYLER RODE HIS BICYCLE to a stop outside his garage, swung off and punched in the code to open the door, which squeaked in protest, reminding him that he needed to get out here with some lubricant. He could use some for his legs, too, which were aching; ditto his back and arms. He’d painted windows all day in a state of apprehension, not sure whether he wanted to see Darcy or if he didn’t. She never showed, either through the window or outside, which effectively took care of that apprehension but not until the end of the day. By that time he was physically tired but emotionally wired. To exhaust himself further, he’d taken a punishing bike trip up the Little Menomonee River Parkway and back through the city. Barely able to walk now, he still wasn’t sure he’d be able to relax.

      He didn’t like this. His relationship with Annie had been uncomplicated from beginning to end. He’d met her their junior year at Bowdoin College in Maine. They spent time together as friends and then become more. They’d shared a sense of humor, taste in movies, books, food, political views and basic values. In short, they fit together perfectly. Effortlessly.

      While Darcy…

      Why was he even comparing them? Annie had been his world for years—he’d been sure they’d last a lifetime. This woman he barely knew. And yet, when she’d shown up at his door this morning holding one of Derek Houston’s paintings, ludicrously overwrapped, he’d naively assumed she’d been craving him to the same degree he’d been craving her, that she’d gone to endless lengths to find out who he was, where he lived, and that she was about to say, “Darling, even one night without you was too long. Please hold me and never let go.”

      Right.

      Sadder, even after she’d made it clear she had no idea she’d find him at his own address, the hopeful idiocy hung on to him long enough to ask her in for coffee and cake. Hadn’t she made it obvious enough the night before that she’d had what she needed from him and thanks, buh-bye?

      No, he had to slobber after a few more precious minutes of her time, to hear her voice, see her smile, stare into her eyes and realize what a complete sap he was.

      If he needed further proof of her lack of interest than her rejection of his coffee, her notable absence at the house today was it. By being gone all day she’d avoided even having to walk past him among the other workers. So. Enough. Time to put Darcy to bed, figuratively speaking.

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