This was plenty weird, Thomas realized, but not in a completely bad way. Just odd. Unusual. But not utterly awful. He tried to ignore the fact that he had an ugly dog sleeping on top of him and closed his eyes.
And before he knew it, he was having The Dream again. But this time it was more than a simple rehashing of the most miserable day of his life. This time, it was worse.
As usual, Rollo sat across the desk from them in his white coat with the black embroidery on the pocket-RolloPhelps, M.D., ChesapeakeUrologyCenter. He was using the same words he always did: injury; motility; rupture; antibodies; infertility.
Rollo spewed out the usual numbers. A normal man has twenty-five to fifty million sperm per milliliter-and Thomas had one million. About half of a normal man's sperm are damaged or deformed in some way-for Thomas, it was ninety percent. And about fifty percent of a normal man's sperm have the horsepower to make the long journey toward an egg-but it was only one percent for Thomas.
And then Rollo reviewed all the options available to them-steroid treatments, in-vitro fertilization, some kind of new sperm injection technology.
But at this point in the dream, things veered off into a completely new direction. Thomas turned to watch Nina rise from her chair and give the speech she always gave at this juncture-"You've never been overly interested in getting married and having a family, and now it appears you couldn't have children if you wanted to. I'm taking this as a sign. It's over."
But this time it wasn't Nina giving the speech.
It was Emma.
This time, a dark, curly head didn't turn to give him that look of pity and reproach-it came with a flip of a mahogany braid.
The eyes weren't dark brown-they were powder blue. It wasn't Nina's voice he heard say "I'm not wasting one more minute of my life with you." It was Emma's voice.
The door shut behind her with finality. Then Rollo said, as he always did at this point, "God, Thomas. I'm so sorry."
Thomas turned to face his friend. But Rollo wasn't Rollo anymore, and the black embroidered pocket of the doctor's coat now read Punk-Ass Stock Boy, CVS, and the kid smirked at him, then busted a gut laughing and said, "Girlfriend? In your dreams, sucker!"
At this point, Thomas began to surface from the bizarre dream world to a waking state, pulled along by the most outrageously delicious physical sensation he'd ever experienced. Emma-sweet, soft, sexy, unbearably female Emma-was nibbling on his unshaven face, giving little fleabites to the tiny hairs growing along his jaw, moving to the stubble on his upper lip, heading toward his mouth for what promised to be a hot, passionate kiss…
Thomas woke with a shout, staring into the bug-eyes of the mutant.
Whoa, relax, Big Alpha! We need to get you together with Soft Hands-and soon.
Hairy yawned.
I slept great. How about you?
Aaron hated to admit it, but he had the hands of a killer. In the light from the motel reading lamp, he could see scratches from where Slick had fought him like a wildcat-using his nails and teeth and kicking and spitting, the little son of a bitch!
The wounds were mostly healed, but Aaron could see faint lines of new pink skin, and it spooked him.
The whole business of killing had made him sick. And now he was going to have to do it again.
Aaron sighed and let his gaze travel around Room 4 of the King of Hearts Motor Court. He'd relocated here and closed the clinic indefinitely to avoid another unpleasant encounter with the Ugly One. He'd had to fire the office girl because he had no money to keep her-he certainly couldn't pay her with the credit card of dubious origin he'd used at check-in, could he?
He took a swig of whiskey and shuddered. Aaron had only started drinking this week and thought the stuff tasted like piss. But he sure loved the effect. There was a time when he'd been proud that he'd managed to dodge the alcohol bullet, but it just didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.
Well, hell. He might be backed up against a wall, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew the secret was to keep the blood off his hands, so this time he planned to be far away- Atlantic City maybe-making sure lots of people saw him.
With one last swallow for the road, Aaron left his motel room. He drove a half-hour to some rotten neighborhood, stopped at the first pay phone he saw, and called the number the prostitute had given him. Some guy named Tom.
He got his voice mail. Even hit men had voice mail.
Chapter 7 If I Can't Have You
Emma stared into the full-length mirror on the back of her office door and sighed. She looked fine. Just fine. It would all be fine.
Velvet had tried to convince her to wear the infamous blue dress for this little get-together with Mr. Traffic Court. Emma told her she was out of her mind-on many levels. First, it wasn't even a date-it was one after-work drink. Second, she'd never, ever meet a stranger wearing that dress. It was just too come-hither.
Emma purchased the thing only because Velvet had browbeaten her, insisting that she looked fabulous in it. Emma wasn't so sure. The sleeveless smoky blue dress had a little ruffle that fell a good two inches above the knee and a deep, wide plunge of a neckline that, in Emma's opinion, showed way too much of everything she had way too much of.
She'd probably never have the courage to wear the dress anywhere. It was the kind of dress worn by a woman with a surplus of self-confidence, the kind of woman who wasn't afraid to demand the attention of a crowd-or one man in particular.
Emma gave herself another appraisal. No way was tonight the night to break out the blue dress. Maybe there would never be a night. Maybe it would forever stay where it had been for three months now-hanging limp in the back of her closet in a dry cleaner's bag, asking for no one's attention, putting nothing on the line.
She'd chosen wisely tonight, opting for a pair of black crop pants, black sandals, and little black print tee with cap sleeves and a scoop neck. She'd let her hair fall straight down her back. The total effect didn't scream anything, but it was stylish and casual and she felt comfortable.
She was as ready as she was ever going to be.
Mr. Traffic Court had a name, as it turned out-Jason DuPont. In the last few days, she'd learned enough about him to decide that his issues index was low enough to warrant a drink. It turned out he was Marcus's boss. He'd lost his license not because of DUIs, but after causing one too many fender benders while dividing his attention between a digital phone and the brakes. So she agreed to meet him on one condition-she could use the worst-case scenario transportation plan. Mr. Digital agreed.
The plan called for her to pick him up at his downtown office and drive them to the bar. They'd have one drink and chat. Then she'd take him back to his office, where he would get a cab home. This would allow for a clean getaway for Emma, with nobody going to anyone's private residence where there would be any awkward moments in front of anyone's door.
It would all be fine.
After one last glance in the mirror, Emma locked up the office, climbed into her battered Montero, and began the drive into the city. She wished she could muster up some enthusiasm about tonight, but all she felt was jittery and uncomfortable.
And all she thought about was Thomas Tobin, dammit!
Go away, she told him, but in her imagination he gave her that smile from the VetMed waiting room and she had to sigh like a teenager. Go away and leave me alone!