Free Hot Contact by Susan Crosby

forward, her eyes on the image of her mother at age thirty-three, the same age as Arianna now. Dressed in black, Paloma looked haggard from exhaustion and grief. Arianna realized she hadn’t seen her mother wear black since that day. Instead she chose vibrant colors, not owning even one basic black dress, unusual in her social circle.
    Joe shifted beside her as the film switched to the grave-side service. She couldn’t hear the words spoken by thechaplain but heard a gun salute, which made her jump. Then the coffin was lowered into the ground and she saw herself scream and call for him again and again as her mother tried to hold her back and soothe her while others looked on helplessly. The tape turned even grainier, then she realized it wasn’t the tape but that she was crying. She hadn’t remembered the scene at the gravesite. She wished she hadn’t seen it, been reminded of it. She had called “Daddy” until her voice went hoarse from the salty tears coating her throat.
    She felt Joe’s hand come to rest on her shoulder, and she sloughed it off. He held a box of tissues toward her. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t speak. She grabbed several tissues, swiped them under her eyes, and tried not to let the tears turn to sobs, even as they welled up in her chest, pressing painfully, seeking release.
    The tape ended. She didn’t move.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.
    â€œIt was a long time ago.”
    â€œArianna—”
    â€œDon’t, okay? Just don’t.” She stood. Looked around. Now what? She needed to go home. She couldn’t drive herself yet, that much she knew. “I need to find out who killed him,” she said.
    â€œI know.”
    She nodded. “I have to go.”
    â€œNot yet. Take a few more minutes.” He stood. “Let me show you my house.”
    â€œI—” She didn’t really have an argument. “Okay. Yes, okay.”
    â€œI’ll show you the backyard first.” He took the lead. She followed, but her mind wasn’t on the house or its furnishings except in vague awareness. Clean, uncluttered and homey, she thought.
    He was talking to her but she wasn’t paying attention, something about the house and the work he’d done on it, probably just words to distract her. An image flashed of him with his father. His tenderness. The pain in his eyes at being mistaken for his father’s long-dead brother instead of his son.
    Arianna put a hand on Joe’s shoulder. He stopped, turned around, a question in his eyes.
    â€œYou take care of the world, don’t you?” she asked.
    He looked away.
    She moved closer. She could see inside an open door to a bedroom, obviously his. A huge four-poster bed with maroon and blue bedding jumbled at the foot. The only bit of disorganization in his house.
    â€œWho takes care of you, Joe?” she asked.
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œYou’re no more ‘fine’ than I am.” She leaned toward him, her eyes open, and kissed him. “Who takes care of you?”

Eight
    J oe let her kiss him. Just for a minute, he thought. He would stop her in a minute.
    But he didn’t stop her. Couldn’t— No. Didn’t want to stop her.
    He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her closer, tipping her head back, parting her lips with his, catching her sighs and moans in his mouth, a pleasure beyond his dreams. And he had been dreaming of her. Night and day. Hot, uninhibited dreams of what he would do if he had the chance.
    He had the chance. Now what would he do?
    It was too soon. They barely knew each other. They were both hurting. They weren’t being rational. Stupid behavior led to stupid consequences.
    She locked her arms around his neck and pulled herself against him. Her breasts cushioned his chest. Their abdomens melded. Her thighs pressed his, moved electrifyingly.
    He slipped one thigh between hers and dragged it higher