Hotter Blood by Jeff Gelb

Author:Jeff Gelb [Gelb, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Something Extra

J. N. Williamson and James Kisner

My wife said she didn’t really mind if I thought about someone else when we made love,” I told her on impulse. “So I thought of you.”

Monica’s response was instant. She slapped me across the face, stingingly, and then walked off in a huff. Her hips were fighting her natural impulse to wiggle and I was glad I’d said it on the premises of Rollins Advertising Agency. If it had been a less public place, she might have torn my head off. If Monica’s husband had been around, he would have. Larry still has a tattoo of an eagle on the back of his right hand, and I’ve heard that bird takes wing when he gets good and pissed.

Sighing, I poured myself a cup of coffee and took it back to my desk.

I hadn’t meant to blurt that out to Monica Patterson, but what I’d said was true. When I’d seen her standing next to me in the kitchenette, where the agency always has two pots of coffee brewing, the words had just tumbled out of my mouth. Maybe it was her perfume or merely the fact that Monica looks like such a naturally sexual woman—not sexy, sexual. She has long black hair that tucks in at the ends and a figure that’s more like seventeen than early thirties, so I had to say something.

No, it was none of that. It was her dark brown eyes that seem to be far away and fixed on something far more interesting than writing ad copy, and how she said “Hi” as she accidentally brushed against me. She’d reached for a Styrofoam cup and her left breast had touched my shoulder as it rose, she had let it stay there for a second, and ...

No, I admitted as I returned to my little cubicle, it wasn’t those things either. I’d wanted her to know. Out of perversity, maybe—just to see what she would do, perhaps.

I worried that one of our co-workers might notice how my face was red from Monica’s slap, but nobody paid much attention to me. Everyone was busy at their word processors, banging out copy. Which was my job, too. Banging out copy. I sat down and stared at the word processor screen. I was banging away about sleeve bearings for one of Rollins’s biggest clients. It wasn’t exactly like writing the Great American Novel, which I didn’t especially want to do anyway, but it paid the bills. The majority of them, anyway.

I sipped some coffee, set it down, rested my fingertips on the keyboard. My mind searched for some brilliant phrase to describe the client’s new sleeve bearings, but it proved elusive. Instead, my thoughts drifted to the night before. When I was making love to Sheila and Monica Patterson popped into my mind, saying “Hi” in the breathy way she did it at the office.

I felt guilty at first. There I was, dutifully pounding away on my wife Sheila (who isn’t bad-looking,

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