Free Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? by Mark Richard Zubro Page A

again. “I’d like to find out who it is, though. Let’s pull into Gas City on One Hundred Ninety-first Street. They’ll have to make a choice by then. They can’t hide with all that light.”
    They made their decision before then, however. As we neared Interstate 80, the other car sped up. They pulled even with us as we crossed over the expressway. I saw dim figures in a dark car but nothing else. They swerved toward us. Scott only tapped the brakes; still we hit an icy patch. Our car swung toward the bridge railing. Scott twisted the wheel. I grabbed on to the dashboard. The other car was now ahead of us. Its own acceleration and swerve toward us caused its driver to fight for control. I watched it swing over both lanes. Scott had the Porsche righted, continuing to tap the brakes. For a few seconds, we did a three-hundred-horsepower ballet. The brakes responded for a moment, then we began another skid. We traveled sideways for fifty feet toward the other car. I watched as its driver righted his car and sped off. Scott pulled the Porsche under control three feet from the brink of hurtling over the bridge onto the highway below.
    We sat in silence a moment. “Thank Christ the idiot in the semi isn’t around,” Scott said. He U-turned at 191st Street and drove back toward my place. When I looked, no one followed us. I hadn’t recognized anyone in the other car, nor was I able to make out the license-plate number.
    I leaned my head back against the top of the seat. I let the
furry cushion comfort me. “Let’s go home,” I said. “I need a long workout and a hot shower.”
    Working out is one of the sexiest turn-ons for both of us. I still fit into the gym shorts I wore when I played sports in high school. Scott’s in great shape by profession.
    When we started, the irons felt cold to the touch. In ten minutes, the chill wore off. In twenty minutes, the sweat flowed pleasingly. In half an hour, Scott’s sweat pants clung to his crotch in warm, sensuous folds. The basement was too cool to linger in, however. After showers, we reclined on the couch in the living room in T-shirts, jockey shorts, and white gym socks. He’s one of the few men I’ve seen whose briefs fit snugly around his ass.
    I turned one lamp on low, inserted a Judy Collins CD, and lay down with my head in his lap. He smelled damp and clean and sexy. I caressed the hairs on the arm he draped over my chest. I left the curtains on the picture window open so we could watch the storm howl to its heart’s content. Judy sang sweet and soft. I still go to her concerts every time she comes to Chicago.
    Scott said, “I was afraid we’d lose it for a minute there.”
    â€œI had absolute faith in you and the car.”
    â€œI’m also glad we’ve got the security system here. I’d be even more glad if we were staying at my place.”
    â€œI guess we should have. I didn’t think there’d be danger. Besides, we don’t know if it’s connected to the murder. It could have been some idiot teenager getting a few kicks.
    â€œI hope that’s all it was,” he said.
    He ran his fingers under the waistband of my shorts. I rubbed my face against the blond down on his stomach.

5
    Scott promised to call the public defender to see whether his status or prestige or name recognition might get them to act more quickly in getting bail for Jeff.
    The bitter cold ripped through my clothes as I ran from my car to the school. Another day when the high temperature might not get above zero.
    Carolyn Blackburn met me at the school door.
    â€œWe’ve got a problem,” she said. She walked me to my classroom. The door lay splintered in the hallway. A blizzard of chaos covered every inch of the room.
    â€œThe janitors discovered the break-in first thing this morning. They called the police and me. Someone vandalized your room and my office. The custodians started