The Big Bang! Theory - A fourth--and final--short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind Read online

  "Shit," she muttered, forgetting she had an audience.

  The walk wouldn't kill her, but her feet might. Her toes had barely recovered from the excruciating ordeal she’d put them through in a pair of borrowed, designer f-me shoes.

  "I'd be happy to give you a lift since...it appears your ride has abandoned you."

  Because of you. She bit the inside of her lip to contain her frustration. Pru had fretted and paced for days following what she called their "semi-orgy," certain they'd both be served with papers for breaking some kind of law.

  "Four consenting adults are allowed to have sex--in any combination," Judy had insisted. "Now, if you could go to jail for degrees of embarrassment, then I'd be in for life. Relax, Pru. You're a healthy, beautiful, dynamic woman of a certain age. You're entitled to have sex."

  "Screw this," Judy muttered plopping her purse on the counter. She smashed the water bottle into the open compartment then gestured with her hands. "Can we get to the elephant, please?"

  "The elephant?"

  "You know...the elephant in the room. The real reason you're here. You want me to rat out Fletcher."

  "Rat out?"

  She crossed her arms. "Are you making fun of me by pretending to be confused?"

  "No. I'm genuinely confused. What did Fletcher do that requires ratting out?"

  "I meant that figuratively. Listen. I'm sweaty and hungry and I might have a job interview this afternoon." One can hope. "So, just tell me why you're here. And don't say you want to apologize because we both know I'm a gnat on the elephant's butt."

  He looked surprised--and a little put off by her directness. Tough. Her stomach was about to start rumbling like a beast in some horror movie.

  "Could I buy you a cup of coffee?"

  Her stomach answered. Ferociously.

  He looked at her gut. "And a muffin?"

  She wasn't sure why his offer offended her--did he assume because she was chubby she scarfed down any ol' food tossed her way? She grabbed her purse and stalked to the door. "No. I'm on a diet." A lie. She'd been on a million of them and not a single one worked. "And like I said, I might have to go to a job interview this afternoon. I'll walk."

  He followed her outside. "Home? That's two miles. Or more."

  She stopped so abruptly he plowed into her, nearly knocking her off her feet. He grabbed one elbow to keep her from stumbling. She shook off his hand, ignoring the instant tingle of awareness that shot through her body like an adrenalin rush. "You know where I live? You checked me out? Is that even legal?"

  He blinked twice then let out a rusty sounding laugh. "I looked up your name in the phone book. I know that sounds old-fashioned, but I'm not big on computers. And, believe it or not, the police force is not at my investigative disposal."

  His smile lingered. A really nice smile. It reminded her of the quality she'd instantly liked about his son--his genuine heart. But she didn't want to like this man. To really like him would require her to get to know him. Reality would obliterate her fantasy. Upper crust never mixed well with trailer trash. Ask anybody. Hearts had been broken for less.

  But she could use a little nourishment before her long walk.

  "Plain coffee. Yogurt with fruit."

  "Excellent." Could that possibly be a hint of hunger in his eyes? For her? No. Impossible. Maybe he loved fruit.

  Her stomach growled again. "And a slice of zucchini bread," she added, giving in to her desires--like always. So much for good intentions. She marched toward the coffee shop next door to the gym without looking back to see if he followed.

  Wiley employed his best judge skills to keep from showing his elation--just in case Judy Banger looked over her shoulder. He'd planned this meeting for days. And despite what he told her, he had called a friend on the force--Fletcher's ex-commander, in fact--to pick his brain about Judy Banger. The man's response had been...political. A few facts mixed with hedged speculation. Obviously, he didn't want to be anyone's named source--or get in the middle of father-son issues.

  "Ms. Banger doesn't have a record, if that's what you're asking. She's no pro--despite what your son's ex-partner wants people to believe. Clarice has a real hard-on for this woman--and I don't mean that in a sexual way. She blames Judy Banger for fucking up Fletcher's life. I assume that's why you're calling?"

  "No. In fact, I'm prepared to take full credit for that myself. I have reason to believe this woman might be the only person in town still in contact with Fletcher. I need to make sure he's okay."

  A lie. Wiley had no doubt Fletcher was doing exactly what Fletcher wanted--and was doing it with panache. His son had been a strong, wholly formed personality practically since the day he popped out of Eva's womb. After Eva passed away, their four-year old son's independence--or lack of dependence on his father or anyone else--had contributed to Wiley's decision to remarry. Was anyone less cut out to be a parent--let alone a single parent? Apparently, not. So, he snapped up the first young intern who showed an interest: Julie. Late wife number two. Game over.

  "Let me get the door," he said, reaching around the woman dressed in form-fitting black yoga pants and a bright orange tank top with the gym's logo emblazoned across the back.

  She wasn't a skinny mini like the woman--her friend--who disappeared the moment she spotted Wiley. Judy Banger had flesh on her bones, unapologetically so. And, yes, her breasts really were as large as he remembered. At least, he guessed they were. The restrictive sports bra she wore under the tank left confirmation to his imagination. Something he'd been doing quite often lately.

  She stepped to the counter and ordered without hesitation. "Grande. Plain. One ice cube, please."

  At his curious look, she added, "Burns the roof of my mouth every time, but this place freezes leftover coffee in trays so it doesn't dilute the flavor. Smart, huh?"

  Very. And smart of her to know this.

  "I'll have the same," he told the barista, holding out a twenty so Judy didn't try to pay for her own. "And please give the lady a yogurt with fruit and a piece of zucchini bread."

  "You don't need to buy my breakfast."

  He chose to ignore the protest. "Outside okay?"

  She hesitated a moment then sighed. "Perfect. I'm a little sweaty from my workout."

  They grabbed a table in the tiny patio area. He pulled out her chair. She looked over the rim of her sunglasses as if expecting him to yank it away once she started to sit. He'd been that kind of bully once. A long time ago. Teetering on the pinnacle of extreme ego. Before Eva rescued him from the hubris of his own press and shaped him into a man with a far more refined awareness of his own flaws. How did Judy Banger guess? Were his failings that obvious?

  Given the fact she knew Fletcher, perhaps they were.

  "Thank you," she said, wiggling slightly to get comfy.

  Damned if watching her squirm didn't make him a little hard. He sat quickly and crossed his legs.

  "What kind of job are you looking for?"

  Not what he'd intended to ask. Why make small talk when all he needed to know was his son's whereabouts? But, strangely, he held his breath awaiting her answer.

  She took a long draw from the built-in straw of her over-size plastic water bottle. After daintily wiping her lips on a paper napkin, she said, "Anything that pays more than minimum wage and, ideally, would be open to letting me work at the gym, too." She lifted her right arm like a body builder and tentatively poked her bicep. "I've never been stronger." A pink blush colored her cheeks. "I still have a long way to go, but...it's a process."

  "What kind of work do you do?" Stop it, Wiley. You're not cross-examining a witness.

  She fiddled with the napkin a moment then said, "Until Buddy Fusco dropped dead in my bed, I was the Activities Director for Heritage House--an independent living center for seniors. Now, I lead a workout class at the gym five mornings a week for many of those same seniors. We call it Golden Sneakers. Not my idea. Sounds a little bit too much like golden showers for my taste."

&nbs
p; He laughed. His second of the morning.

  "You're funny."

  Oops. Her frown said funny was not a compliment in her book.

  Before he could explain what he meant--that she wasn't as serious as the people he saw in court every day, the barista arrived with their order.

  "Thank you, Beth," Judy said. "Tell your mom I hope her ankle gets better soon."

  Beth smiled. "Thanks, Judy. She's more upset about missing your class than breaking a bone in her foot. That box of books you gave her should keep her mind off the pain for a week or two. Appreciate it."

  She nodded at Wiley as a formality then left.

  "You come here often." He'd meant the statement to sound more like a question than a fact entered into the public record. Damn. He truly had become the person Fletcher predicted he'd be--a judgmental hypocrite with an atrophied sense of humor.

  She carefully aligned her paper cup, plastic parfait dish and the napkin with a slice of moist, dense bread before answering. "Beth's mom is a retired nurse. She used to give me my mammograms." She gave her bosom a little jiggle, which, naturally, drew his gaze straight to her chest. "With udders this size, it's hard not to develop an intimate relationship with the person squishing them." He wanted to squish them. Just once. He'd never dated a well-endowed woman. Both his wives had been petite. Have I ever stared at a woman's breasts this much? What the hell is wrong with me?

  She reached for her coffee, politely ignoring his impoliteness. "She broke her foot in a parking lot a couple of weeks ago. Beth said she's bored and still in a lot of pain. So, when I cleaned out my office at Heritage House, I took her the box of books I'd been saving to give to the Herry ladies."

  Herry as in Heritage house. Again, he smiled, impressed by her wit.

  "I know a bit about pain," he admitted. "Fletcher's step-mother lived with chronic pain for a number of years following a car accident that she and Fletcher both survived. He was in a coma for three days but came out of it without a scratch. She endured five major surgeries in six years, but nothing the doctors did truly helped. Basically, pain was the fourth member of our family." Another admission he hadn't planned on sharing.

  "Fletcher said she passed away a few years ago."

  "A week after he graduated from college she bought a gun and killed herself. In our car. At the same intersection where the accident happened. Symbolism was important to her. She wrote a great deal of poetry in her final years. Fletcher's read it." Wiley couldn't. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of was how badly he'd failed as a husband.

  Her lips parted in surprise, her lovely compassionate eyes welled up. "How tragic for you all. I'm sorry."

  Wiley slugged down a drink from his paper cup, as if it was a beer. He would have burned the roof of his mouth if not for the ice cube Judy Banger had suggested adding. "It happened a long time ago. Thank you."

  Neither spoke for a few seconds. Judy plucked a couple of morsels from her bread but didn't devour it as someone who claimed to be starving might.

  "I'm looking for a housekeeper," he said impulsively. "Mine has been threatening to retire for twelve years, and last week she fell and broke her hip--at Disneyland with her grandchildren, not at my house. Her daughter wants her to stay with them from now on."

  She gave him a wry look. "I'm not a neat freak and I definitely can't cook fancy. But I appreciate the offer, if that's what you were suggesting." She took a bite of yogurt and swallowed. "Just out of curiosity, how big is your home?"

  "Four bedrooms, three baths. The master suite is on one side of the living area. Fletcher had the other side. It seems ridiculously huge when I'm there alone."

  "Alone," she repeated. "Popular word these days."

  He didn't know exactly what she meant by her comment, but for the first time in twenty-six years Wiley felt rudderless. His job had become repetitive and boring. Lately, he'd started to see a third generation of the same family pass through his courtroom. His idealism had disappeared years ago. Even the ambition both his wives had seen in him--and supported--seemed overshadowed by the effort it would take to campaign for a public office.

  "Will you tell me about Fletcher?"

  She finished off her fruit before answering. "I don't know much, but I can give you his email."

  I'd rather have yours. The verity of the sentiment hit him at gut level. He liked her. Her candor cut through the bullshit. Her laugh came from somewhere real and heartfelt. But she was so not his type.

  "If Fletcher says it's okay," she added after swallowing the last bite of her zucchini bread. "I'll text him."

  She pulled her phone from her purse, typed for so long a court reporter could have completed four pages of testimony.

  "Did you say he lived with you?"

  Wiley tried to analyze her tone. Judgmental? He parsed his answer as carefully as he would have to a reporter following a critical verdict. "He moved back home after Julie--his step-mother--died. Partly a grand gesture of support and, in part, because instead of going to graduate school as planned he decided to join the police force."

  She nodded in understanding. "Student loans. Been there, done that. My ex never quite got the concept of graduation."

  "Fletcher's college was paid for by a trust set up after his mother passed away. She died as a result of medical negligence. As executor of the trust, I had a say in whether or not it would cover any post-graduate degrees."

  Her eyes opened as she connected the dots. "Forty-K for law school would have been okay, but the police academy was on his dime?"

  Her insight impressed him. "His mother never would have approved." A ridiculous assertion Wiley clung to mostly out of habit. Who could say what the beautiful soul who had given birth to their son then left them so suddenly might truly have wanted for her child? She'd barely gotten to know him before the second pregnancy, the late-term miscarriage and medical negligence that led to her death.

  Before she could respond, her phone started to play a song. He'd heard it on the radio in his car but couldn't identify the title or artist. His deep-seated mistrust of computers had turned him into a dinosaur in the information age. He couldn't help but admire her hipness.

  She read the tiny screen then said, "Do you want to hear it?"

  "Please."

  "LOL." She looked up. "That means laugh out loud."

  "I'm aware of that."

  "Okay. Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but you said you weren't computer savvy." She touched the screen again. "LOL. Sure. Give Dad my email addy. He won't use it." His son's certitude hurt. "Tell Wiley--" She looked up, one brow arching with an unasked question before finishing up his son's message to him. "--I'm learning to surf, growing my hair out, got a tattoo--3 actually--and making new friends. Oh, and you can tell him about Bottoms Up if you want."

  She put the phone away and looked at him. "There you go, Wiley." Her lips curled slightly when she repeated his name. "I didn't make you out as a nickname kind of guy."

  "No one calls me that, now. My dad coined it after Wiley E. Coyote. According to family lore, when I was five I spent an entire summer making every sort of trap imaginable to catch a roadrunner, but I was never successful. I left the name at home when I went to college. On scholarship," he added, not certain why that nugget of information seemed so important to share. "What's Bottoms Up?"

  She studied her hands. Quite lovely. Small and ladylike. Did they touch his son in a sexual way? The two had been naked in the same place at the same time. It seemed likely. Why did the thought make him want to punch someone?

  "Well...um...it's one of the names your son suggested for the sex club he intends to open in Venice Beach--or somewhere around L.A. I'm not really familiar with the area, so I can't say for sure where."

  A sex club. Good lord.

  "I told him the name sounded too much like a bar." She looked at him seriously. "My contribution to the name game is Sexcapades. That doesn't sound like a bar at all, does it?"

  He shook his head, grateful for a simp
le yes or no question. At least, she didn't ask whether or not he approved of his son's new venture. That answer was complicated. But he knew one thing for sure, Sexcapades was a better name than Bottoms Up.

  Chapter Two

  Why me? Why did I have to be the one to break the scandalous news to Fletcher's dad? Your son is opening a sex club for people who like a little pain with their pleasure.

  Judy decided Wiley looked like the type who preferred to pull off the bandage in one quick snap rather than inching it off, so she added the rest. "He emailed me his business plan last week. Probably because I told him I used to work in a law office. He said he's got a realtor looking for an old house in an area already zoned for business. Some communities are more open to this type of business than others. You probably know that."

  She didn't mention Fletcher's offer to have her move south and be his office manager. An offer she hadn't completely crossed off her list of possibilities. The only thing holding her here was her house, which she figured was "underwater." She'd need to wait out the market or lose what she had into it.

  "What kind of sex club?"

  "I assume it'll cater to people who like BDSM. Bondage, sadomasochism--"

  "Got it." The intensity of his stare made her gulp. Was that the look he gave condemned prisoners headed to prison for life? "Is it legal?"

  "If you're zoned properly and you maintain a strict no-minors policy, I believe so. You're a judge. Why ask me?"

  "Is my son gay?"

  Judy gulped too big a swallow of coffee. She didn't have the simple yes or no answer he wanted. She could have repeated what Fletcher told her before he left town. "Dad's always known I was different, but he spent my entire life trying to make me conform. All that did was drive us further apart. Oddly enough, Judy, meeting you is what convinced me I needed a start fresh."

  "Me?" she'd shrieked. "Why me?"

  "Because you're authentic. You don't pretend to be anyone other than who you are, and I like who you are. I'm ready to start liking myself again."

  Judy didn't believe that for a minute. She'd never been anybody's role model and didn't want to become one.