For a gal who spent the better part of her career eating food that would give an elephant diabetes and tax all four stomachs of a cow, Cami had an incredible body. I mean, modeling fit. Bikinis and lingerie. Or nude. Like right now. Savor that image as I back up for a moment.
It didn’t take much for me to go inside. I love pushing the envelope just to see how far things will go, even if sometimes it’s to push somebody else into taking the lead because I’m too chickenshit to do it. And Cami could barely keep herself up, asking me to tuck her in to bed, or at the very least wait comfortably until a cab came – though I could tell that was said more for my benefit to entice me inside rather than actually be honored. She took my phone from me and slid it down past her waistband. “You can’t have that back yet,” she purred.
I half expected to see some weird shit once we got inside Cami’s petite house – a flock of penguin dolls and chotchkies of the like, or a page out of Country Living magazine with hearth needlepoint and whitewashed furniture, but I was greeted with a fairly normal, comfortable place. It was a mix of modern décor with a hint of color and vibrancy from the walls, which looked as though they were different colors in each room, and the abstract impressionism artwork she had hung. There were pictures of Cami all over with an array of famed chefs – Wylie Dufresne, Hubert Keller, Mario Batali, as well as guys who looked like they could be carnies or greasy spoon line cooks. It was her pedigree from traveling and tasting nearly every edible substance for her program.
Once inside, Cami didn’t require me to prop her up. She had a renewed sense of energy, though fueled by alcohol. “You need to have another drink, Shelly,” she blurted, and skipped over to the kitchen after pushing me onto her sofa.
“I’m good, and I think you are too.”
“Nonsense,” she slurred, “let me show you something that found in New Orleans.”
I heard a little rustling as she turned on the range and put a large pan over the flames, followed by the muted pop of a champagne bottle under a dish towel. There was more noise between the refrigerator opening and more plates and ingredients being pulled out. I just sat back on the couch, pondering what I’d gotten myself into as the drunken dervish worked behind me in the kitchen.
“Here,” she offered as she set the tray down on the coffee table before me,” try this. I just whipped them up the other day and ate almost half by myself.”
I took a bite of a biscuit after cutting a sliver of brie that was almost a soft as butter. Black pepper and ham jumped out, their smoky, hot flavor slowly blending back in to the crisp, browned batter that was still warm from the flash reheating Cami executed. Always better to use an oven or stove top to keep breads from becoming too soft and lose the contrast between their crust and doughy innards – cooking 101 that was not lost even in her inebriated state.
She pushed the flute at me. “They didn’t pair these, but I just had a hankerin’ for some bubbly, and the sweetness is a good contrast.”
I took a gulp to wash the biscuit bits down, and them another sip to check the flavors.
“Chambord...Triple Sec…lime juice…and a splash of cranberry,” I announced.
“Good tongue!”
You have no idea, I thought. “It was a party trick that I just kept developing. I can pretty much taste the components of most mixed drinks. Soon I’ll be able to even guess brands.”
“It’s supposed to have Grand Marnier, but I think it’s delish.” She clanged her glass against mine and emptied the glass in a single swig. I took another bite of the biscuits, and then another.
Cami got up, which I assumed was to pour herself another glass, but when she didn’t return I turned back to the kitchen to see she wasn’t there either. From that vantage I saw one of her shoes in the adjacent hallway. A sock lay next to it. About a yard away was the other, and the shoe pair. Further down was the grey tee, balled up. In the doorframe to her bedroom were those skinny jeans, legs flopped over one another.
At the foot of the bed were her pink lace trimmed black high cut briefs along with a matching bra. I don’t mind a little Hansel-and Gretel when there’s a naked woman at the end of the trail instead of a witch’s cauldron, but Cami was stone cold out. Thoughts of fantasy turned to images of mug shots, because consent had to be explicit, not implied. The bottle of champagne was tucked between her bent legs, blocking her from being exposed, and her hands barely cupped her breasts. It was an amazing scene, except for the part her where her auburn hair cascaded over her face, arched downward as she slept. Next to her was my phone, which I grabbed as gently, even though an air raid siren would need to be sounded to wake Cami. Maybe that was out of concern I would actually wake her and then get to grudge fuck CNC and Burnett Media and Ephimria. But if I was going to do something, it wasn’t going to be through Cami, and sleeping with her would have to be under better, different circumstances, which realistically, were not going to happen. I was overthinking it, and the fact I got caught back up into that ugly situation in my mind made the whole opportunity tainted.
I took one last look at Cami and headed for the front door, but before I left, I turned around and went back. I could at least take a camera phone shot just to remind myself, right?
It didn’t take much for me to go inside. I love pushing the envelope just to see how far things will go, even if sometimes it’s to push somebody else into taking the lead because I’m too chickenshit to do it. And Cami could barely keep herself up, asking me to tuck her in to bed, or at the very least wait comfortably until a cab came – though I could tell that was said more for my benefit to entice me inside rather than actually be honored. She took my phone from me and slid it down past her waistband. “You can’t have that back yet,” she purred.
I half expected to see some weird shit once we got inside Cami’s petite house – a flock of penguin dolls and chotchkies of the like, or a page out of Country Living magazine with hearth needlepoint and whitewashed furniture, but I was greeted with a fairly normal, comfortable place. It was a mix of modern décor with a hint of color and vibrancy from the walls, which looked as though they were different colors in each room, and the abstract impressionism artwork she had hung. There were pictures of Cami all over with an array of famed chefs – Wylie Dufresne, Hubert Keller, Mario Batali, as well as guys who looked like they could be carnies or greasy spoon line cooks. It was her pedigree from traveling and tasting nearly every edible substance for her program.
Once inside, Cami didn’t require me to prop her up. She had a renewed sense of energy, though fueled by alcohol. “You need to have another drink, Shelly,” she blurted, and skipped over to the kitchen after pushing me onto her sofa.
“I’m good, and I think you are too.”
“Nonsense,” she slurred, “let me show you something that found in New Orleans.”
I heard a little rustling as she turned on the range and put a large pan over the flames, followed by the muted pop of a champagne bottle under a dish towel. There was more noise between the refrigerator opening and more plates and ingredients being pulled out. I just sat back on the couch, pondering what I’d gotten myself into as the drunken dervish worked behind me in the kitchen.
“Here,” she offered as she set the tray down on the coffee table before me,” try this. I just whipped them up the other day and ate almost half by myself.”
I took a bite of a biscuit after cutting a sliver of brie that was almost a soft as butter. Black pepper and ham jumped out, their smoky, hot flavor slowly blending back in to the crisp, browned batter that was still warm from the flash reheating Cami executed. Always better to use an oven or stove top to keep breads from becoming too soft and lose the contrast between their crust and doughy innards – cooking 101 that was not lost even in her inebriated state.
She pushed the flute at me. “They didn’t pair these, but I just had a hankerin’ for some bubbly, and the sweetness is a good contrast.”
I took a gulp to wash the biscuit bits down, and them another sip to check the flavors.
“Chambord...Triple Sec…lime juice…and a splash of cranberry,” I announced.
“Good tongue!”
You have no idea, I thought. “It was a party trick that I just kept developing. I can pretty much taste the components of most mixed drinks. Soon I’ll be able to even guess brands.”
“It’s supposed to have Grand Marnier, but I think it’s delish.” She clanged her glass against mine and emptied the glass in a single swig. I took another bite of the biscuits, and then another.
Cami got up, which I assumed was to pour herself another glass, but when she didn’t return I turned back to the kitchen to see she wasn’t there either. From that vantage I saw one of her shoes in the adjacent hallway. A sock lay next to it. About a yard away was the other, and the shoe pair. Further down was the grey tee, balled up. In the doorframe to her bedroom were those skinny jeans, legs flopped over one another.
At the foot of the bed were her pink lace trimmed black high cut briefs along with a matching bra. I don’t mind a little Hansel-and Gretel when there’s a naked woman at the end of the trail instead of a witch’s cauldron, but Cami was stone cold out. Thoughts of fantasy turned to images of mug shots, because consent had to be explicit, not implied. The bottle of champagne was tucked between her bent legs, blocking her from being exposed, and her hands barely cupped her breasts. It was an amazing scene, except for the part her where her auburn hair cascaded over her face, arched downward as she slept. Next to her was my phone, which I grabbed as gently, even though an air raid siren would need to be sounded to wake Cami. Maybe that was out of concern I would actually wake her and then get to grudge fuck CNC and Burnett Media and Ephimria. But if I was going to do something, it wasn’t going to be through Cami, and sleeping with her would have to be under better, different circumstances, which realistically, were not going to happen. I was overthinking it, and the fact I got caught back up into that ugly situation in my mind made the whole opportunity tainted.
I took one last look at Cami and headed for the front door, but before I left, I turned around and went back. I could at least take a camera phone shot just to remind myself, right?
---
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“No, Fran, I’ve got the shot right here. Looking right at it.” I said. When something crazy happens, you have to have somebody to share it with, if only just to validate it actually occurred.
“Shel, I think you’re a changed man.”
“Really, how so?”
“I knew a you who would have done things to her that would have made a pornographer blush. And taken the pictures to prove it.”
“Well, I knew a you who would have stood in the corner quietly and watched,” I retorted.
Fran found this amusing because it was true. “Don’t tell me you were saving yourself for tonight and your Federales?”
“Your lips to God’s ears. But while I think there’s a little chemistry going on there I don’t know that we’re coming from the same place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” I started,“ aside from any cultural issues that could arise, I’m thinking that white collar and blue collar don’t always go together well…”
“Whoa whoa whoa, back up amigo – cultural issues?”
“Yeah, like, ‘Who’s the narc at the family barbeque at the park’ or ‘Girlfriend, I thought that was the housekeeper’ comments.”
“Sheldon, are fucking serious?”
“What? I’m not kidding…I think that some people would take a look at me or us and think that’s not a couple that looks right together.”
“You’ve really lost your balls since you got out from in front of a camera.”
“What?”
“Besides sounding a little racist, that’s just a spineless answer.”
“I didn’t even get to the ‘don’t shit where you eat’ part of it either,” said.
“Whatever. If you’re looking for excuses or reasons for it not to work, then don’t pursue it. But really, man, that is some hokey, lame ass shit to be using.
I thought about it and Fran was right. “I guess I have changed,” I admitted not entirely know all the ways that I had. “Forget I said that. I think I’m still off after what happened last night with Cami.”
“What didn’t happen, you mean.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Whatever you do,” he warned, “don’t pull that same act, okay dummy?”
“Sure. If Carla ends up naked in her bedroom and I happen to be there, it will be a different story all together.”
I finished getting ready for my date, if that was indeed what it was, and waited for Carla to buzz me, which didn’t take too long. I was eager like a kid on prom night. Mind you, I didn’t think I was getting laid, I just wanted the evening to go well so that I could. Even if it never would.
I answered the door and was not prepared to see Carla looking so beautiful.
“You ready to get some culture, gringo?”
Her red dress was trimmed with bits of silver at the neckline, and fit her like it was stitched onto her. Without the uniform, bulletproof vest, holster, utility belt, and department issue boots, Carla was an entirely changed person. Correction, woman.
“What’s the sentence for sexual assault,” I asked. I grinned foolishly, because punching myself in the face until I was missing teeth and swollen like a tick, was not an option, though entirely the appropriate reaction. That was only slightly better than telling her I’m an idiot, but please fuck me.
“It depends,” she said. “Somebody has to press charges for that to happen.” Clearly, she wasn’t going to let my adolescent behavior ruin a good evening. “You’re looking sharp, mister.”
Brown suit with a lighter thin brown pinstripe, a roasted pumpkin toned shirt and a striped tie with all those colors and then some – yeah, I did look sharp. “Thanks, even without my mother I’m able to dress myself. Forgive my tripping over my tongue – I didn’t know what to say, you look fantastic. Really.”
“Thanks. They’re having a little thing before the show, a reception since this is the anniversary of the company founding, so I hope you can stand some tapas and agave.”
“Lead on, chica, lead on.”
---
Carla parked below the downtown music center, and we looked a touch odd getting out of her 1965 Mustang all dressed up while the rest of the patrons were leaving their German sedans and SUVs. Not that I minded, because that ’65 was a bad motherfucker, and Carla had restored it with her cousins so that it ran perfectly. I always thought of that car as the official ride of abusive boyfriends, but I’ll amend that to make room for Latina cops who amazing off duty. The Mazda Miata is still exclusively for divorcees and gay men.
“There are more people here than I expected,” Carla admitted to me.
“You made it sound like it was a big deal, so why shouldn’t people come out and see the show? Maybe they also have a sister performing,” I said, gesturing to a couple ahead of us.
Carla laughed. “Those two? I doubt it!”
“It’s not so impossible. They can’t be anymore than 70, 75 tops.”
“No way,” she kept laughing.
“Yeah, it’s her younger sister. And she just had a hip replaced, so if she falls again it won’t be a problem.”
Carla eased up on her laughter and groaned, which made me turn to her and to what she was looking at.
“That stuff is a total load of crap,” she said, referring to the giant, familiar E logo on the back window of a minivan.
“Not a fan of suppliments?”
“Tramposo! Those cheats make people think they’re helping them, and get them sucked in to their system. It’s not about what the products do; it’s about selling more of them, and getting people to get into the program. Especially in the lower income areas they push real hard. Avon, Mona Vie, Herbalife, Amway, Ephimria – they all make you think it’s okay to scam your friends and family to make a buck. I wish I had a rock so I could throw it through that window!”
“Normally, I’d go and pick the best one out for you, but maybe that incredible dress has made you forget that you’re still a cop, Carla.”
The compliment and candor made her snap back to reality. “You’re right, Sheldon.”
“Believe me, I’ve got beef with them too.”
By the time I had told the tale of how I used to work for CNC and why I didn’t currently, we were several plates deep into the assortment of tapas, and nearly twice as far with the shots of tequila.
“I’m sorry, Sheldon, but that’s amazing. You’re my hero.”
“City Hall is around the corner. We can just get married right now.”
“I’m tempted. Another shot or two and we just may be.”
“Sadly, that’s going to have to wait.” The lights flickered in the courtyard, calling us in for the performance. I put my arm out like a proper escort, and Carla wrapped her hand around it.
As the theater went dim, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Thanks for coming with me,” and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.
There were three types of ballet to the show – Danza, Mestizo, and Bailes Rejionales, and each time Carla would tell me which was which, as well as point out when her sister was on. I’m sure a deep seeded love of ballet or connection to Mexican culture would have made the experience more intense, but I still enjoyed the dancing.
“I’m so proud of her,” Carla beamed at the end, as the troupe came out for their ovations.
“She was great. How long has she been in the ensemble?”
“Catalina has been with them or about six years. They’re based in Mexico City, and though they tour sometimes, it’s rare to have her in town. She doesn’t leave until Tuesday, so it will be nice to have Tia Cata over.”
“Tia, as in aunt?”
“Yes. Like as in she has a niece.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“What else are you keeping from me,” I asked without showing too much surprise.
“Separated from my husband for over a year, on the way to a divorce and a highly contagious set of venereal diseases.”
I tried to maintain a cool look, but I was cracking.
“Relax Sheldon, I was kidding.”
“You’re not getting divorced?”
“No you lunk, about having a rotten chocha. Nice how you came to the other one first.”
“There’s medicine for that. Exes take lawyers and piles of documents.”
“Have experience with both of those, eh?”
We were staying on topic of Carla. “I guess I just had an idea of you in uniform and didn’t really think about you out of it until tonight.”
“Really,” she teased. “You never thought of me taking off those dress blues and leaving them tossed in a messy pile on the floor?”
“Well, I mean, yeah, but no, um…you said,” I stumbled trying to respond the question she asked, though her meaning was I was answering.
“Don’t tell me you’re finally tripping over your tongue.”
I took a deep breath and clarified. “I didn’t think of what you were like outside of the uniform. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to go tonight, to see what you were like; the person and not the policeman.”
She put her hand on my shoulder and rubbed it gently. “So did I, and I’m glad.”
The ride back to my place was filled with talk of Nell Tanner and the convention I was representing at in a few months.
“Talking Heads sounds like a good time,” Carla shared. “I was going to go to the last one but there’s not that much extra time I get off from work to also be able to do that. Do you know who else is going?”
“No, not really. I want to say that it should be no problem, I mean, I’ve been to countless up fronts and dealt with affiliates and network flunkies, but it’s always a surprise with these speaking gigs. The last one I was more terrified of what the staff was going to do to me than the kids. Though I did at one time have some relations with them.”
“I hope you’re talking about the staff, because if it was a minor, you better remember what I’m like when this dress comes off.”
“Naked?”
“Cute, Sheldon.”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” she said in support. “You’ll have a few more gigs before then anyway, and you’ll feel a lot more comfortable in those settings. Okay, here you are.”
We stopped in front of my building, and she got out.
“You’re going to walk me to my door?”
“You just look so pretty tonight, I wanted to make sure you get inside safely,” she mocked.
“Would you like to come in for a moment?”
The question floated there for what felt like forever, waiting for her response.
“I’m sure you’ve got a bottle of champagne and some snacks ready to go in there just in case, right? It’s tempting, but how do I know you’re not going to end up naked and passed out on the bed once I get inside?”
“You’re fucking uncanny,” I replied.
“I’ve got to tuck Rochelle in before she gets worried where her mother is, but you’re a sweetheart, Sheldon.”
Carla gave me a hug that was just the right length to make me wonder if she was satisfied with the level of flirting or possibly interested in something more. Her kiss on the cheek was leaning towards the platonic side, but like so much else in my head, there was bound to be exceptional thought and analysis to make that minor event the farthest from trivial by the time I was done with it.
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