The Judge gives me a peaceful, relieved smile. “I’m sure I would be proud. He was always a good boy.”
The two of us fall quiet again, watching the game. Until there’s a knock on the open bedroom door. And Marietta—one of the volunteers here—walks in with a smile and a tray of dinner for the Judge.
“Good evening, Mr. Atticus and Jake. How you are you two doin’ tonight?”
Marietta is originally from Jamaica, with large midnight eyes, dark skin, and long black hair that falls in a cascade of braids down her back. Her father was once a resident here, and after he died a few years ago, she started volunteering.
“Hey, Marietta.”
She sets the tray of food down on a corner table with wheels and brings it between us.
“How was his week?” I ask her quietly, the judge’s attention still on the television.
“Not too bad,” she tells me. “He was agitated Wednesday and Thursday night—couldn’t settle down enough to sleep. So the doctor changed his bedtime medication. He’s been good since then.”
I nod and grasp his shoulder. “Judge.” He turns my way and I gesture to the food. “It’s dinnertime.”
He looks over the meal and makes a face. “I’m not hungry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t bust my balls, old man. You need to eat.” I stir the beef stew in the bowl. “I know it’s not Smith and Wollensky, but it smells good.” I push it closer to him. “Dig in.”
His hand trembles as he slowly picks up the spoon and shovels in a mouthful of beef and carrot. While he chews, he glances at the tray, eyeing a dish of chocolate pudding covered with thick whipped cream under clear plastic wrapping.
“I want that.” He points.
“You can have the pudding after you finish your dinner,” I say automatically.
When he brings another shaky spoonful to his mouth, a bit of stew clings to his lower lip and chin. I pick up his napkin and gently wipe his face before it drips on his clothes.
“It’s really good for him that you’re here, that you spend time with him,” Marietta tells me, smiling. “It means a lot.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just . . . working through a lifetime of favors I’ll never be able to return.”
The Judge grins at me and I smile back. “Besides,” I tell Marietta, “he doesn’t have anyone.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Of course he does. He has you.”
? ? ?
Wednesday is a slow day. I lean back in my desk chair and peer out the window at the sun-filled street below. A frustrated dog walker struggles with three four-legged clients as they tangle their leashes, fighting for the lead. A double-decker tourist bus rumbles past, leaving a cloud of black exhaust in its wake. A jogging father pushes an orange running stroller; he nearly takes out one of the yapping dogs but turns onto the grass at the last second.
Maybe it’s the baby in the stroller, maybe it’s the long-haired, ruglike dogs—maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t gotten any in almost three weeks—but the enticing image of Chelsea McQuaid slides into my mind.
Again.
It’s the sole image I’ve conjured every single time I’ve jerked off—which has been pathetically often.
Those striking blue eyes; the quick-to-smile pink lips; her long, pale neck, which begged to be licked; her lithe limbs, which I just bet are oh so flexible; and most important, her firm, perfectly sized tits. I mentally kick myself for not getting her number.
She’s too old—too hot—to be a virgin at twenty-six, but there was something about her that seemed . . . pure. Untouched. Undiscovered. And that’s a course I would love to chart.
I rub my eyes. I need to get laid. This getting-to-know-a-woman-first shit is turning out to be a bigger hassle than I ever anticipated. Is risking contraction of an STD really such a big deal?
And then I remember how it felt waiting for those test results. The sharp, cold terror of being saddled with a disease—possibly for life. Or, even scarier, with one that could cut my valuable life short. Hell yes—it’s a big deal.
No fuck—no matter how spectacular—is worth dying for.
That should be the tagline in every high school safe-sex campaign.
My secretary opens my office door, and I’m grateful for the distraction . . . until she informs me an unscheduled client is here asking to see me. Remembering how this went down the last time, I’m about to tell Mrs. Higgens to tell them to fuck off.
Until she adds, “Miss Chelsea McQuaid is her name, Jake. And she’s got a whole brood of little ones with her.”
My smile is wide and slow and completely gratified. If I believed in signs, this would be a big, flashing neon one.
I straighten my tie. “Show them in, Mrs. Higgens.”
7