Cat and mouse. Interesting game. Most of the time, I'm definitely the mouse, but sometimes I feel the inner cat in me come out. This was one of those times. I'd managed to round up my latest skip without winding up in the dumpster, either literally or figuratively. That meant I actually had money ahead for a change, instead of having to fish between the sofa cushions for spare change to buy a jar of olives. With a little luck, I might even manage some Ben and Jerry's, or a real meal in a restaurant where they served water instead of fast food or takeout. The possibilities unrolled before me, and I felt myself relax for the first time all day.

The eye candy sitting next to me didn't hurt my mood any either, of course. Taut skin just the color of a perfect Mocha Latte from Dunkin' Donuts, and hair that was finally grown out enough to club back in his trademark ponytail. Sculpted features, well, sculpted everything and that certain aura of sexuality ensured that Ranger turned heads wherever he went. Today, of course, his head was turned towards me, and I reveled in the attention.

I sent him a sultry look from underneath sooty eyelashes. I'd made sure they were sooty by springing for an extra coat or two of mascara this morning, and my tee shirt had a low scooped neck that showed my somewhat modest assets to their full advantage. Ranger chuckled low in his throat at some double-edged comment I had made, and I slid my finger around the rim of my water glass in a practiced seductive maneuver. I'd managed to get an audible chuckle out of him instead of the usual fleeting smile, so chalk one up for me. I mentally preened as his finger wound slowly around a lock of my hair, pulling me closer, the other hand playing idly around the top edge of my shirt, knuckles sliding along the exposed edge of my cleavage.

It's funny how the details of some situations stick in your mind forever. My parents talked about what they were doing when Kennedy was shot. For my generation, it was where we were when the towers fell. But sometimes, it's something a lot more mundane, a lot more personal. I'd always thought that was an overdone cliché until just this minute in the middle of the sub shop. I had just devoured a Classic Italian, and Ranger had opted for some vegetarian thing that didn't seem worth the bother to me, when suddenly it was like all the air got sucked out of the room, leaving behind a silence so profound it was as loud as a shout, and I literally flinched from it.

When I turned my head, I found myself looking at the front door. Or who had walked in the front door, at any rate. Joe stood silhouetted in the sunlight, with his brother Tony behind him on one side, and his cousin Mooch on the other. I knew they'd planned to refinish the hardwood floors downstairs at Joe's house this morning, but I hadn't thought they'd finish so soon. Or that they would come into the sub shop where I was having lunch with Ranger after dropping off my latest skip downtown. All three were still wearing work clothes, and it was like the dust motes stood still, framing them forever in that moment.

I went to pull away, but Ranger's fingers were wound through my curls. Before I could disentangle myself, Joe had disappeared, leaving Tony and Mooch unmoved. I wriggled out of the booth and walked warily over to Tony and Mooch, my face burning. "This isn't what it looks like," I explained, all the while knowing full well it was exactly what it had looked like. I hadn't let myself think too deeply about the game I'd been playing, and now it looked like it was coming up to bite me in the ass. Flirting with Ranger, sneaking kisses and intimate moments hadn't seemed like such a big deal while I'd been doing it, but the reality of it suddenly smacked me in the head hard. Joe's face had gone bone white right before he'd bolted, and the look in his eyes made me sick to my stomach. I recognized that look. It was the one I'd worn on my own face when I'd caught Dickie with Joyce Barnhardt.

I pushed through the door just as Joe's SUV pulled away from the curb. I motioned to him, but he kept his face averted from me. I frantically started running possible scenarios through my head. What had he seen? How much explaining would I have to do? Would I be able to salvage this? I thought hard, and I thought fast, then realized that Mooch and Tony had walked up behind me.

I looked over at them, and tried on my best, brightest smile. "Well, that didn't go well," I cheerfully explained, like I hadn't a care in the world. "I'm going to have to catch up with Joe and explain what was going on." My heart beat frantically inside my ribs, and I hoped my nervousness wasn't showing on the outside, but I could hear it in every breathless phrase, in every squeak of my voice. "I know that looked bad, but it wasn't what it seemed." There. Say something with enough conviction, and people will believe you. And if I could convince Mooch and Tony, odds were that they would help me convince Joe. Everything would be okay, really.

"Bullshit."

I did a double take. Mooch was usually so laid back as to be practically catatonic. Strong opinions weren't something he usually went in for. Before I could draw in a breath to argue with Mooch, Tony turned on me.

"So you think stringing my brother along, making him look like a fool is fun, huh? That's how you get your kicks?"

"No!" I argued. "It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that," Tony told me, his disgust obvious in the way he leaned away from me, as if I were somehow unclean and he didn't want to risk accidentally coming in contact with me. Tony and I had never been close, but he'd teased me casually at the Morelli family get-togethers I'd attended with Joe, and I thought he liked me well enough. This Tony I didn't even recognize. "Stay the hell away from my brother," he warned.

"Tony, I have to talk to him. I have to explain," I said frantically.

"You've done enough, Stephanie," Tony said quietly, the bluster suddenly gone, leaving him just sad and distant. "Just leave him alone."

I'd left Ranger sitting in the booth, an enigmatic look on his face. I had no idea what he was thinking, but that really wasn't anything new. I rarely knew what he was thinking. In the meantime, I knew my priority had to be finding Joe and smoothing things over. I was sure I'd be able to explain things. I'd had lots of practice. Wait. I shook my head. That's not what I meant. I hate when that happens. I meant that I'd be able to explain things because after all, nothing had really happened. "This time," that small voice inside my head chimed again, more insistently. I could usually shut that voice up if I downed enough sugar, but right now my stomach was still turning somersaults and my trusty donut stash was depleted. I purposefully shook off that nagging voice and made my way over to my car; granted my legs were a little shaky. Probably just leftover adrenaline from the takedown earlier today, I tried to convince myself. I knew I was lying to myself, but it had become such a habit I couldn't seem to stop. In any event, Joe would understand. That was what Joe did—he understood. I'd explain that … okay, just how would I explain Ranger's hand tangled in my hair while the other hand was halfway down my shirt? Think Stephanie. I knew it would have to be good because while Joe trusted me, and wanted to believe me, I'd been stretching things pretty thin about my increasingly intimate moments with Ranger, and Joe wasn't stupid.

Okay, I'd say that Ranger and I were working a case. Yeah, that was it. I'd tell him that I was helping Ranger try to catch somebody, kind of like the decoy work I used to do for him, only this time I was pretending to be Ranger's girlfriend. Yeah. And if Joe got loud about it, I'd get a little defensive myself, about how it was only work, and he was wrong to get upset about it, and that he should trust me.

"But he can't." Jeez, I wish that voice would shut the hell up, already. Okay, maybe I had pushed the envelope a little bit with Ranger, but nothing happened. Belatedly remembering the feel of Ranger's mouth on my doo-dah after he'd climbed into my bed while we were supposed to be looking for his missing daughter last year, I amended that. Almost nothing happened. Okay, we hadn't had sex. Granted, we hadn't had sex because Joe had chosen that moment to show up at my front door, but the point is, I hadn't had actual sex with Ranger since the one time when Joe and I were broken up. So really, I didn't have anything to feel guilty about, because there hadn't been any sex. Therefore, I hadn't cheated, and Joe had no right to be upset with me. I nodded to myself, desperately needing my own affirmation. And I would go explain that to Joe, and Mooch and Tony could kiss my ass. What business was it of theirs what I did anyway? This was between me and Joe, thank you very much, and they could just stay out of it.

"Except you were there in the middle of the Burg, in the middle of the day, right in front of God and everybody. You had to know you were going to get caught eventually."

I frantically dug through my glove compartment at the next traffic light. I remembered throwing in a package of Kit-Kats last week while I was staking out one of my wilier skips. I was in desperate need of chocolate. Nothing but orange wrappers mocked me, every smidgeon of chocolate long gone. I had sat out in front of Sonny Pilasky's house for four solid hours before he'd showed up, drunk and staggering wildly from his car to the front door where I'd handily maneuvered him into a pair of cuffs before he even realized I was there. During those four hours, of course, I had managed to munch my way through an economy pack of Kit Kats, leaving not even a chocolate sliver behind. I sighed in frustration, and put the car back in gear as the light changed. I made a quick right on Slater and slowed in front of Joe's house. His SUV wasn't in front, and I when I circled the block, I didn't see it on the alley side either.

Okay, regroup here. Obviously, he'd gone for a drive to cool off. I tried his cell, but it went straight to voicemail. I hung up. Called the house phone, and left a message there, using my best apologetic voice. Not too apologetic, of course, because I really hadn't done anything wrong, and I let just a little bit of impatience creep in since Joe's reaction had just been so unreasonable. Yeah, that would work. That was the tactic. What is it they say? A good defense starts with a good offense? If I could turn it around and put Joe on the defensive, I might be able to salvage this yet.

"And do what with it?"

"Shut UP!" I yelled, drawing the attention of old Mr. Galesky, out watering his flower beds wearing those ugly plaid Bermuda shorts that gave Joe such fits. We'd laid in bed one night last summer, too hot to sleep after sex so hot we'd both almost spontaneously combusted, and started laughing over Mr. Galesky's shorts. We speculated about whether they dated from the Eisenhower administration, or the Kennedy Camelot days, and then dissolved in laughter making up stories about all the sights those shorts had probably seen. It had tickled Joe's funny bone, and I knew he'd had to really fight to keep a straight face ever since then whenever he walked Bob and Mr. Galesky was outside parading around in those ridiculous shorts, knobby knees poking out the bottom like a couple of cue-balls on sticks, white socks bunched around his skinny ankles. Mr. Galesky gave me a fishy look, and I managed a sickly smile and a little finger wave in return.

I decided to head over to my parents' house. I could have gone on into the office, but I really wasn't up to making explanations to Connie or Lula. To be honest, I wasn't really up to making explanations to myself right now. I felt kind of let down since I'd lost my head of steam. I'd been all set to finesse Joe, but he wasn't answering. I'd have to wait, and that had never been easy for me. In the heat of the moment, I always felt like I could take on the devil himself, but given time and space I invariably started thinking too much. Maybe a little thinking wouldn't be such a bad thing. I rolled my eyes at myself, and deliberately tuned out that damnable voice. I put my brain on autopilot and made the last turn onto my parents' street. I wanted to sit in my mother's kitchen, surrounded by the faded formica and outdated wallpaper that had been there as long as I could remember with the comforting smell of supper cooking on the stove. I needed to cocoon myself in that safe place where my mother could fix all my childhood ills with a bandaid and a slice of cake.

I let myself in the front door, and wandered through the dining room and back into the kitchen. I knew exactly where my mother would be in the middle of the afternoon. Most of the time, that kind of predictability left me feeling stifled, but there were times when I certainly needed it. Today was one of those times. My mother was dutifully standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, an apron tied around her waist, and the steam from the pot turning her hair into a riot of corkscrew curls. Funny, I'd never noticed that before. She usually went in before serving supper to make sure her hair was all smoothed back into place, and I hadn't seen her with her hair curling over her forehead in years. I ran a tentative hand through my own wayward curls, recognizing the similarity on some level while the adolescent in me still rebelled at being anything like my mother.

My mother gave me a tight smile, then turned back to the stove, carefully fitting the lid on top of the roiling pot. I drew in a deep breath. The phone had already been ringing, then. "What are you making?" I asked, anxious to keep the conversation from veering off into places I didn't want to go.

"Pot roast and new potatoes," she answered, then sent me a sideways glance. "Are you and Joseph staying for dinner?" she asked pointedly, and I knew my transparent attempt to put her off hadn't worked at all. This was nothing new, she had been that way ever since I was a kid. Grandma Mazur always seemed to enjoy my little forays into distraction and fantasy, and my father had generally been oblivious, but somehow my mother's eyes could always see through whatever machinations I tried. Whether it was trying to fly off the roof or playing choo-choo with Joe Morelli when I was a kid to skipping school or losing my virginity when I was a teenager, somehow my mother knew everything. Still, my pride determined that I had to try.

"I'm not sure," I hedged. No way was I going to admit that I didn't know where Joe was or what his plans were, because then I'd have to admit what had happened at the sub shop, and I wasn't entirely sure my mother would be on my side. And to be honest, that pesky voice in my head wasn't exactly on my side either.

I watched my mother's lips tighten, and mentally braced myself for the onslaught of well-meaning advice. "I just hope you know what you're doing, Stephanie. I would hate to see you get hurt."

I must have sat at the table for a solid minute, waiting for her to catch her breath and really lay into me. I had expected a long litany of negative comparisons to the usual suspects, comprised primarily of the perfect progeny of my mother's coffee cronies. I was prepared to listen to the wonders of Mrs. Fishbein's daughter Joann the doctor all the way down to my cousin Christine who worked at the button factory, and every similarly-aged female within my mother's acquaintance. She was going to let me off with a paltry hope I knew what I was doing and didn't want to see me get hurt. Funny, it sounded remarkably like her "birds and the bees" talk that uncomfortable year I'd been fourteen. I hadn't told her that Crazy Carl Costanza and I had been practicing french kissing each other for the past year and a half back behind Giovicchini's Meat Market. For sure, she would have told me again that she hoped I knew what I was doing and that I wouldn't get hurt. That was, of course, the whole point. Neither Carl nor I had known what we were doing, but we could trust each other for practice without anything getting squishy on us later. Probably that's why I could never see Carl as a potential date once we got into high school, either. In my mind, he was either perpetually nine years old stepping on the backs of my white patent leather shoes and making me trip in the aisle at church on the way to make my first communion or else I could only see oversized adam's apple bobbing like mad above my eyebrow before we closed in and squished noses for what seemed like the seventy-third time. Eventually we got the hang of the whole head-tilting thing, but I think it's safe to say that neither Carl nor I was a natural when it came to kissing.

When the silence continued to stretch interminably, and it was obvious she wasn't going to say anything else, I finally gave in, probably just like she figured. Damn. "I'll be fine, Mom," I answered almost by rote, just exactly the way I had when I was fourteen and getting the birds and the bees lecture. And again when I was sixteen and she'd caught me crying my eyes out in the upstairs bathroom after Joe had left for the Navy without saying a word to me after I'd given up my virginity to him on the floor of the Tasty Pastry. I quickly grabbed a stack of plates out of the cupboard and headed into the dining room to set the table before she could look at me too closely. She still had that all-knowing thing going on from my childhood, and if I didn't want to find my guts spilled all over her kitchen, I'd better make sure I avoided direct eye contact. And just to be safe, I wasn't going to let the back of her head anywhere near me either. Just in case I saw a stray eyeball back there or something. I quickly made the sign against the evil eye, something I hadn't done since last Christmas Eve when Joe's Grandma Bella had come and sat next to me at the Morelli Christmas party.

I slammed the plates down on the table in my usual slapdash way, making sure the trivet covered up the spot where Grandma Mazur shot the chicken in the gumpy. Best not give my mother any excuses. After her extraordinary restraint in the kitchen just now, I knew it wouldn't take much to set her off ranting, and I was honestly just a little too frazzled to deal with my mother right then. I punched in the speed dial for Joe's cell phone, then snapped the thing shut in frustration when it went straight to voice mail again.

Okay, fine. He was pissed. I'd stay here and eat some dinner, maybe let my Dad beat me at pinochle, then head on over to Joe's after he'd had a chance to calm down and cool off. Yeah, that would work. And besides, I'm a firm believer in putting off the uncomfortable. Preferably forever, if you can, but definitely until after dinner.

I plopped myself down on the sofa next to my father. He was muttering unintelligible arguments to Bill O'Reilly on the Factor. I couldn't figure that one out. I don't think my father had any particular political leanings one way or the other as long as his dinner was on time and nobody messed with his sports teams, but he'd taken up talking to Bill O'Reilly before supper. I guess as long as O'Reilly didn't answer back there wasn't too much to worry about, and at least it was easier to explain to the neighbors than Grandma Mazur's penchant for Pay per View porn.

"Shit for brains," my father muttered. I didn't know if that was directed at O'Reilly, O'Reilly's overly agitated guest or me. I guess it could have applied equally to any of the three of us if I was really going to be honest about it.

My dad made a rude Italian hand gesture at the screen as O'Reilly faded to a breathless commercial about home equity loans. He shifted around in his barcalounger some, then looked past my left ear. "So you serious about that Negr—Mexican guy? Rooster?" That's my dad. Politically incorrect as they come and about as tactful as the average moose wading through a tea shop. I smiled in spite of myself.

"Ranger, Dad. Not Rooster." He made a dismissive gesture. Unless a nickname was Italian, it didn't register in my father's lexicon. "And he's Cuban-American, not Mexican." Again with the dismissive gesture, telling me to cut to the chase and answer the real question already. Unusual tactic for my father, but then we only had two minutes for the commercial break, and I was pretty sure he was ready to tune back in to O'Reilly as soon as the time was up. "And no," I elaborated. "We just work together." If I was going to start covering my ass, I might as well start at home since the ass-covering at the sub shop hadn't gone quite so well. Besides, there was no way I could tell my father about my hormonal overloads when I was around Ranger. There are some things that fathers and daughters just don't discuss in Italian families. Said daughter's libido ranks pretty high on that list. I'm pretty sure most Italian fathers convince themselves that their daughters all have immaculate conceptions just like the Virgin Mary, and I certainly wasn't going to disabuse my Italian father. When push came to shove, I'm pretty sure my father liked to think I slept in the guest room at Joe's house instead of having balls to the wall sex on every available flat surface, too.

My father's eyes locked with mine and he didn't blink. "I would ask what kind of work you think you're doing, but I'm not sure I want to know." He raised his eyebrows at me and gave me a level look. I couldn't help myself, I started squirming. Jeez, I'd forgotten he could be like this. Usually it was my mother who "handled things", but on occasion when things had gotten really out of hand with me or Valerie growing up, Dad would sit us down for "the talk." My father didn't say a lot during those "talks", but he had a way of making sure we did plenty of talking. Instinct kicked in, and I opened my mouth, ready to sing like a canary, but my father cut me off with an abrupt gesture. "You'll always be my daughter, mia piccola, and I want you to be happy. But you're playing with fire here, and somebody is going to get hurt. I don't want it to be you." He gave me a final definitive nod, and turned back to the television screen, just in time for O'Reilly's summary. A few minutes later, my father rose from his chair as O'Reilly's logo signed off and I heard his heavy tread move ponderously toward the dining room table, the familiar slide of the chair being pulled back, and the almost indiscernible protest of the chair's wooden slats as my father sank down into the seat at the head of the table. I heard the reassuring clink of china and tableware moving, and moved to join my parents at the dinner table. Time, tide, and pot roast waited for no one, especially in the Burg. It didn't matter if your whole world had started to crumble around you, the pot roast went on.

My appetite had kind of deserted me after the whole talk with my father, and my mother silently bundled up enough leftovers to feed a small army. I think she was worried that Joe and I might really be through this time, and she wasn't opposed to pulling out all the stops to do her part to salvage things. The more I thought about it, the more worried I got, so I wasn't about to turn down any ammunition she might care to send with me. I had plenty of roast beef wrapped up tight in aluminum foil, and if that didn't do the trick I was armed with both spice cake and chocolate pudding. Now that my earlier bravado had the chance to wear off, I was left with a sinking feeling that I might need all the help I could get.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I pulled up in front of the row house on Slater. The lights were on downstairs, so Joe had made it home. I held the bag of leftovers to my chest like a shield and walked slowly up the walk. I briefly considered knocking, then decided that wouldn't look good. Joe had given me the key to his house years before, just as he had a key to my apartment. Knocking just seemed awkward, so I fitted my key into the lock and swung the door open. It only opened halfway, and I pushed the rest of the way in. A stack of boxes stood behind the door, partially blocking it from opening all the way. I didn't see Joe in the livingroom, and my curiosity got the best of me. I folded back the flap on the top box and looked inside. A bag of hamster food, my old running shoes, a couple pair of underwear, half a bottle of my favorite root beer shampoo, some miscellaneous hair doo-dads and makeup. I felt my stomach drop. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, my curiosity left me in a rush. I had no desire to see what was in the other boxes. None whatsoever. I backed away slowly as if they would grow arms and come after me, and walked right into the end table, sending the lamp flying across the livingroom rug. I turned to watch its progress, and flinched when I saw Joe casually leaning against the kitchen door frame, the first two fingers of his right hand loosely holding an open beer bottle by the neck. I put my hand to my chest to still the pounding of my heart. "You scared me!" I managed to choke out.

"Did I?" He seemed to consider that for a minute, then moved with catlike grace to the sofa. Choosing the end farthest from me, he sprawled himself across two cushions, affecting a relaxed post, but his eyes were those of a predator. "Good," he said with finality.

I drew in a deep breath. "Joe, I really think we need to talk."

Joe shook his head slowly. "Nothing left to say, Stephanie. Your things are by the door."

I moved forward to go over to him, but he glared at me with such venom that I stopped in my tracks. "There are some things I need to say to you, Joe," I began, but he cut me off before I could go any further.

"What are you going to say to me, Stephanie? Huh? What?" He looked around the room as if gathering his thoughts. "You're going to say what—that Manoso's hand on your breast wasn't what it looked like? That all the times people have seen you with his tongue down your throat they all just had the wrong idea?" He jumped up and started pacing, a feral cat stuck in a cage and looking desperately for a way out. I pushed myself up small against the wall and stayed there, my eyes never moving from Joe. "I gave you chance after chance after CHANCE to level with me, Stephanie, and you never did!" The final words were practically growled.

I felt hot choking tears gather behind my eyes because I knew he was right. Still, I felt driven to salvage our relationship. "Joe, listen to me. I only ever had sex with Ranger once, and that was a long time ago after you broke up with me." It all came out in a rush, but I had to get it in there.

The look he gave me withered me on the spot. "After DeChooch?" he asked. I nodded assent.

"That was the only time," and technically, it had been.

Joe laughed, an ugly, bitter sound. "Bullshit."

"No, Joe, I swear to you, that was the only time."

Joe gave me a look that would have melted glass, his derision written plainly across his face. "So when did you become a white house intern, Stephanie? Huh? Just how do you define 'sex'? What? It doesn't count if you don't have an orgasm? It doesn't COUNT if he just goes down on you? It doesn't COUNT if his cock isn't inside you? Huh? Is that it?" He stopped for a minute and took a swig from his beer bottle. My mouth was so dry I couldn't say a word. "Let me ask you this, then. If it had been my hand on some other woman's breast, or my tongue buried between some woman's legs, would it have been sex then?" His eyes drilled into me, and I finally dropped my gaze.

"Yes," I whispered.

Joe just nodded and looked at me like I was something unclean he had found in the gutter. "Get out, Stephanie," he said wearily. "And don't come back."

I stumbled down the steps then and didn't look back. Somehow I made it back to my apartment on autopilot. I knew there was no way I could put on a neutral face for old Mrs. Bestler in the elevator, so I pulled myself up the stairs instead, let myself into my silent apartment and twisted the deadbolt behind me.

My legs wouldn't carry me any further. I slid down the back of my door, knees drawn up to my chest and just stayed there, head resting on my knees, for what seemed like forever. I was afraid to move, afraid something would jar loose inside of me and I'd start screaming and never be able to stop. What had I done? What had I been thinking? I shook my head in denial, still not wanting to think about what I was doing with my life. You can't have your cake and eat it too.

Great. Just my luck. Jiminy Cricket had taken up permanent residence in my brain. Where had he been hiding when I could have really used him, before I was up to my ass in alligators? Okay, reality check. The naked truth was that I'd been alternately shoving sugar and hot sex at old Jiminy for years in increasingly desperate attempts to shut him up. Apparently, he'd climbed to the top of the Big Rock Candy Sex Mountain and was going to chirp for all he was worth now, and there was nothing I could do about it. So start singing already, Jiminy.

Okay, first of all, Jiminy was right. I couldn't have my cake and eat it too as any fool knew. I couldn't have the security and sanctuary of Joe's love and the dangerous excitement of playing around with Ranger behind Joe's back. The two were mutually incompatible. Bad call on my part, even if I didn't like to admit it to myself. It was pretty unfair to demand fidelity and monogamy from Joe when I'd been stealing kisses and more with Ranger. Joe had been right about that. If the situation had been reversed, and it had been him messing around with someone else, I'd have taken his gonads off with a dull spoon. And fed them to him. Instead, I'd made a fool of him, and in front of his friends and family. I remembered how completely humiliated I'd felt when word got around about Dickie screwing that skank whore Joyce Barnhardt and me catching them in the act. I'd felt like a million fingers were pointing straight at me, and like people were snickering at me behind their hands because I was such a loser that my own husband would pick a two-bit loser like Joyce over me. If I was going to be honest with myself, most of the time I still felt like that.

Admittedly, knowing I had two hot guys after me did a lot to assuage my bruised ego, but I really didn't want to go there either. I'd never thought of myself as particularly shallow or selfish, and this introspection was getting more than a little uncomfortable. I didn't want to think about using Joe or Ranger as an emotional bandaid, or worse—some kind of trophy male crutch. And if I'd made Joe feel even half as bad as Dickie had made me feel, I'd never forgive myself. Okay. Honesty time again. Of course I'd made Joe feel that bad. Granted, we weren't actually married, but we were an accepted couple in the Burg, and we'd had a monogamous if somewhat ill-defined form of commitment going on. We had always talked in "probablies". Probably we would get married. Probably we would have kids. Probably this and probably that, all the way to probably we were faithful. The only problem with that last probably was that I knew Joe had been, and now we both knew I hadn't been. So probably he'd never forgive me.

I remembered the broken look on his face when he'd told me to leave and I shivered. No probably about it.

And that left Ranger. Ranger and whatever-the-hell it was that we had between us. Our non-relationship relationship, I guess. Stealing kisses and sneaking a feel now and again. Hot whispers in clandestine places. But no commitment, no strings, nothing "stupid" like rings or children. Was that enough? Was it what I wanted, or just as importantly, what did he want? Had he "won" by default now that Joe was out of the picture?

I was exhausted, emotionally drained, and empty, but I knew I would never sleep. I'd been bouncing along letting life and the wind carry me wherever they would until I'd smacked face first into a brick wall today. It had left a figurative knot in my head, in my heart, and in my gut. Until I figured out what to do with that knot, there wouldn't be any rest. My knees had stiffened up while I sat hunched against the door, and I unfolded myself with some difficulty. I stomped the feeling back into my numb legs until the pins and needles distracted me from the lump in my throat. I fished my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and flipped it open, punching in Ranger's number on speed dial. He answered on the second ring. "Yo, yourself. Can you come over? I need to talk to you."