Tara Quinn - At Close Range

“Possibly,” he said, his gaze direct as he met first Lou’s and then Mary’s worried scrutiny. “But maybe not,” he added, speaking with a calm that hid the churning in his stomach. “We caught it early. If we can get her into remission, she has a good chance. So, next week I’m sending you to the best pediatric oncologist in the state, Jim Freeman. He’ll take excellent care of Felicia. She’s going to love him. And so will you….”

Contrary to his usual practice, Brian didn’t return any calls on the drive home. The world could wait until morning. So could the thoughts trying to worm their way into his consciousness. Losing himself in the noise blaring from his car stereo, the old Eagles hit “Take It Easy,” Brian sped along the freeway. The music reminded him of earlier days, easier times. He made it through the first song on the greatest hits CD without allowing his thoughts to take over. Soared through the next one, swerving his sleek, high-performance car in and out of traffic as though he was eighteen instead of thirty-eight. And then the speakers screamed, He was a hardheaded man…

Brian slowed down. He’d been there. Done that.

She was terminally pretty.

Terminal. There was that word again.

Back in college, he’d figured life in the fast lane meant having the money to travel to exotic places, to eat out several times a week, frequenting all the finest restaurants. Having season tickets to Broadway Across America at Gammage Auditorium and the Phoenix Symphony and being recognized in all of Phoenix’s and some of Vegas’s and L.A.’s most elite clubs.

He’d figured the fast lane was about money. And, like his father before him, he’d intended to have a lot of it.

Tonight, the fast lane meant a way to get home more quickly. It meant knowing that a little girl might have to cram a whole life into five or six years.

It meant living every moment because it might be your last.

It meant drinking to escape the sounds of shrieking metal, of Cara’s voice crying out. Of sirens. And his own wail of pain.

When “Lyin’ Eyes” came on he thought of all the women he’d known in the ten years since Cara’s death—experienced women like the one in the song escaping her rich old husband with hands as cold as ice to visit the cheatin’ side of town and the lover with fiery eyes. He hadn’t sought out married women, though he hadn’t paid that much attention to marital status, either. He’d gone strictly for mutual pleasure, mutual escape. No strings attached.

He used to imagine it was Cara’s body he was sinking into. Never once, since his beautiful wife had died in his arms at the side of the road, due to the recklessness of a teenage illegal immigrant, had he made love to a woman with only that woman on his mind. The woman, as soon as he undressed her, became nameless. A fact that didn’t endear him to anyone—particularly himself.

And as his surround-sound system crooned about coming to his senses, Brian grabbed his cell phone and dialed. There might not be a lifetime to get on with it.

“Cynthia?” he asked as his call was answered on the first ring.

“Hey! What’s up?” Cynthia’s enthusiasm took away some of the chill he felt even in the hundred-degree September heat.

“Not much,” he said, then added, “How about bringing the little guy over for a dip in the pool?”

“Sure! I’d love to. Joseph? It’s Brian! You want to go swimming?”

The polite “yes, please” he heard in the background brought a smile to his face. There’d been a tinge of excitement in the four-year-old’s tone. What a difference from the solemn, completely silent child Brian had first met at the free clinic almost a year before.

That first day, when he’d seen Cynthia there at the free clinic, chewing the nails on one hand while she rubbed her sick son’s back with the other, Brian had just wanted to help ease the burden of worry. But it wasn’t long before he’d had to pass Joseph’s professional care on to one of his trusted associates because he was seeing Cynthia as much more than his patient’s mother.

She’d been struggling financially since losing her uninsured ex-husband in a car accident the previous year and even before he’d started dating her Brian had hired her to replace the bookkeeper who’d just quit. He suggested that she go into his office in the evenings so he could watch Joseph for her and save her the cost of a sitter.

She’d readily agreed and had been keeping his books balanced to the penny ever since. Cynthia was smart. Caring. And vulnerable. She was the first woman he’d dated more than twice since Cara’s death.

“Cyn? Bring nightclothes, too.” Brian’s voice softened on that last request.

“You got it.” The response was more eager than he deserved, and just what he needed.

It was time to move on.

Hannah was not having a good day. Though she’d parked in her reserved, covered spot, right next to another judges-only covered spot, her two-year-old gold Lexus GS—originally bought for child safety but now appreciated for the luxury it afforded after a stressful day on the bench—had a key scratch marring its perfect paint job. Running from the driver’s-side mirror to the back bumper, it wasn’t a little scratch. And it wasn’t superficial. She could see down to the metal.

It happened. Everyone knew where the judges parked. And in spite of security, every once in a while one of their cars was egged. Or had its tires deflated. Two of her peers had found threatening notes during Hannah’s years on the bench. A half-dozen or so times there’d been reports of cards left on windshields by zealous reporters. Once she’d heard about a letter taped to a door; it was from a relative of a young woman about to be sentenced. She should have expected her turn to come.

Just not today.

Not when she’d had Kenny Hill and Bobby Donahue in her courtroom. Of course, she’d also spent the morning with more than fifty family members and friends of other alleged lawbreakers as well, on pretrial motions, pleas and arraignments. Any number of them could have been pissed at her.

Or maybe some local high school gang had made keying a judge’s car a requirement of new-member initiation. Hannah didn’t automatically assume that Kenny Hill or any of his “church” brethren was behind the vandalism. But she couldn’t assure herself that they weren’t.

After fifteen minutes with security, waiting while pictures were taken and listening to the older sheriff’s deputy drone on, Hannah felt a little better. She still had the ugly scratch that meant a day in the shop, a loaner that would probably smell and the loss of her insurance deductible, but apparently there’d been several other keyings in the area that were thought to be gang related. It was going to cost her. But she hadn’t been specifically targeted.

A fitting ending to the day.

Too bad she’d already agreed to meet William for dinner. As fond as she was of her former law-school classmate and fellow judge, she’d rather go straight home, turn up the air-conditioning, run a hot bath in her Whirlpool tub, then have a good soak and a cry.

He knew her name. As he felt the pressure building, felt his climax coming, Brian kept his eyes open, focusing on the woman lying next to him, moving her hips in tandem with his. Eyes closed, her mouth slightly open as she moaned, Cynthia Applegate was a beautiful woman.

“Ah, Cynthia,” he said, emptying himself into her. “Yes.” He felt her answering tremors as she came, pulses of release that contracted around him, completing an intense moment.

She sighed. And smiled. Opening her eyes.

“I love you,” she said. It wasn’t the first time.

Pressure built again—less pleasurable this time.