Free Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) by F. Paul Wilson Page B

Not once had he slept over. He was looking for a new apartment—he’d never asked her to his current place because it was such a dump—but he was sure if she came on a Sunday, she’d leave before morning.
    “No. Just me looking for a little flexibility.”
    “I could work seven days a week at this job, but Sundays tend to be slow, so that’s my day off. The rest of the week—I’m booked.”
    “I get it.”
    She popped a sauce-laden broccoli floret into her mouth. “We set ground rules when we started, right?”
    Well, she had. But yeah, he’d gone along.
    “Right.”
    “Aren’t things good between us, you know, as friends with benefits?”
    “Better than good. Great.”
    “Then can we agree not to ruin it with strings?”
    “You got it. The Doors next Sunday?”
    She smiled. “It’s a date.”

 
    10
    Maybe the MSG in their food had some sort of aphrodisiacal effect on Cristin. Or maybe she was simply Cristin being Cristin. Whatever the cause, as soon as the apartment door closed behind her she practically attacked Jack, yanking at his belt buckle. Before he realized what was happening, his jeans dropped to the floor along with the Ruger in its SOB holster. It landed with a loud thunk.
    “What the—?” she said.
    “Just my wallet.”
    He kissed her, hoping to distract her. But her curiosity wasn’t about to be turned.
    “Then your wallet must be filled with gold coins, because—holy crap!” She’d twisted and craned her neck to see around him. “Is that a gun ?”
    “Um, yeah.”
    Well, standing there with his jeans around his ankles, and the Ruger’s grip and hammer protruding from the nylon holster, what else could he say? He waited for some horrified response, but instead she dropped to her knees for a closer look.
    “Oh, coooool!”
    Cool?
    She looked up at him. “When did you start carrying this?”
    “Um, today.”
    Sort of true. After their first few Sundays together, when he’d had a couple of close calls trying to hide it from her, he’d stopped carrying when they were together. But after yesterday’s narrow escape, he’d decided he needed to be armed at all times.
    “Why?”
    He decided he may as well tell her the truth, but he made it sound like a question: “Would you believe I’ve got a bunch of Dominicans mad at me?”
    “Monks?”
    Was she kidding? Then she winked and he knew.
    “What did you do to make this necessary?” She patted the holster. “Steal their Frangelico recipe?”
    “Long story. A bunch of them almost caught me yesterday, so I decided I needed to keep an equalizer handy.”
    “Can I see it?”
    “It’s right there.”
    “Will you take it out for me?”
    “The pistol?”
    She slapped him on the leg. “We’ll get to that later. First…”
    “Okay.” He winced as he squatted next to her and reached for it. “You can—”
    “Oh, my God!” She was staring at the large bruise on his thigh. “Did those monks do that?”
    “No. That’s from my Harley yesterday.”
    “No wonder you’ve been limping.”
    He pulled the Ruger free of the holster. Its nickel finish gleamed.
    “Take it. Just keep your finger away from the trigger.”
    “Heavy!” she said, then handed it back to him. “Okay. Time for you to shoot me.”
    “What?”
    She laughed and slid her hand up his thigh. “With your other gun, silly.”
    They resumed undressing each other but that came to another halt when Cristin spotted the bandage on his arm.
    “What?” she said, running her fingers over it.
    “Those monks.”
    “The Dominicans?”
    “Well, they did run the Inquisition. Accused me of heresy.”
    “No, really.”
    He didn’t want to get into it.
    “Just a disagreement. It’ll all work out.”
    “You’re sure?”
    Not in the least, he thought. But he said, “Absolutely.” He put his arms around her. “Now where were we?”

 
    11
    They’d caught their breath now and lay entangled under the sheets—Jack on his back and Cristin snuggled next to him.