Chapter 6
Let the Games Begin
What a difference a good night's sleep makes! At first, that was all I could think of to explain Greg's ebullient mood. It was when I sat in the darkened room watching Centauri that I realized that I had probably absorbed some of the pain he had been carrying when I held his hand last night. When he put his arm around me in the screening, I felt his hand on my shoulder and it clicked that by trying to send him low-grade feelings of warmth and calm, I may have absorbed some of his pain. Sometimes when I send, I absorb too.
I have to admit, it was fun joking with him. He was like a teenager, flipping my hair, eating my food, trying to tickle me and putting his hand on my bare knee under the table. I felt like I was back in junior high with Mike Thompson, flirting and giggling.
That morning I had trouble deciding what I should wear. I eventually tugged on my tattered denim skirt and white peasant blouse. I realized when I was in the restroom at the café that I looked like an old hippie. But I still looked good in it; my somewhat round abdomen was covered by the straight front skirt, so I felt that I was more than presentable. I'm average weight, but I inherited my mother's pooch. I've never had a flat abdomen and I sport a rather boring butt. It's firm provided I keep exercising, but frankly, I hate exercising and if someone would invent a 'firm butt' pill, I'd take it.
I don't do well in relationships. Usually when the guy finds out that if I want, I can read what they're feeling and usually hear what they're thinking, he's out the door. Men don't like that much "truth" in a relationship. I've only had one relationship last more than a year and that was because Porter had enough self-esteem that he wasn't afraid of the unvarnished truth. A relationship with me requires someone who values the truth and isn't afraid to express it when the truth isn't pretty.
I didn't know Greg well enough to know whether he could handle a relationship with that much truth. Since he would be out of my life in a few days, I didn't see the need to tell him I was intuitive. If Furey hadn't said anything, then he must not want his dad to know either. However, the fact that Greg had managed to fall in love and marry an intuitive made me think that maybe he could handle it.
Greg kept whispering comments in my ear that made me burst out laughing. The Centauri series was about an ambassador assigned to the planet Centauri and a race of aliens called, surprisingly, Centaurians. The Centaurians looked kind of like horned toads.
"Do you think a Centaurian penis is knobby too? With a tongue like that, he'll pull all the girls on Earth. You see that thing on his back? I had an infection like that. I started using condoms after the infection went away."
Each remark was punctuated by my elbow in his side. But I knew I was only encouraging him with my laughter. After the show, we took Furey to the writer's seminar and were a little surprised to find him deeply absorbed in their thought process. He turned and looked at me, I think I'd like to be a writer.
That's great. I think you would make a very creative writer.
At eleven we went to the auction, taking our seats up front (or at least, I took mine and they sat next to me.) There was a staff jacket on sale from the upcoming movie that I wanted, but the bidding went over $200 and it wasn't that important to me, so I dropped out of the auction.
When they held up a mint-in-box Gorn, Furey started wiggling in his seat. "Oh, oh, oh Dad! A Gorn, a Gorn!"
He shook his head, "Don't look at me." Furey's face fell. He looked at me, his lip extended. His father relented, "Your Grandmother sent me some money to spend on you for your birthday. You can go up to $40."
I was happy when he won the auction for $34. He took the money and ran to the front to claim his prize. Greg snickered and shook his head, "He really is spoiled."
"Yeah, but in a good way. He's a good kid. When do you go home?"
"Wilson goes home tomorrow afternoon, but we're staying a few days to see my Mom. She lives here."
"Really! That's great, I bet Furey is excited to see his Grandmother."
Greg nodded, "He and his grandmother have a thing goin'on. I was a rather difficult kid to raise, but Furey has more of his mother in him. My Mom thinks he's a more angelic version of me."
Furey came bouncing back to the seat, his blue eyes bright and excited, his smile wide and cheerful. I admired his action figure with lots of oohs and ahhs. His father simply rolled his eyes.
I wondered if I'd get to see them after the Convention. I wasn't working a case, just finishing up the paperwork from the last one and I could easily take off early in the afternoons. But I didn't want to invite myself, so I took a wait and see attitude.
We met Wilson for lunch, grabbing sandwiches from a nearby Subway and going down to the harbor to sit. Furey ran around skipping rocks and chasing the seagulls. Wilson rolled up his trash, grabbed mine and headed for the trash can. When he got back, he looked at the two of us.
"I'll take him for the rest of the day, you two enjoy yourselves. Just make sure you're back by 6:00 pm so I can go to the dinner tonight. They've hired Dennis Miller to be the guest speaker and I want to see him. "
We looked at each other and House said timidly to me, "Uh, was there something at the Trek convention you wanted to see?"
I shook my head, "Not necessarily. I want to make sure I'm back for the big Trek party tonight, lots of raffles and fun."
"What would you like to do?"
I looked around, "This is Seaport Village. It has lots of boutiques, galleries, restaurants, I could show you around it."
Greg chuckled, "I know all about Seaport Village; I used to live here. My Mom still drags us down here on occasion for dinner when we come out."
"Oh! Sorry, I just ...you lived here? Wow, I lived in San Diego until I left for college. Where did you go to school?" I asked as I stood up to join him. We walked towards the book store as Furey waved goodbye to us from down the path. He and Wilson started skipping stones again.
Greg put his sunglasses back on, "Mt. Carmel. You?"
"Morse."
His eyes flew open and he took in a sharp breath, "Morse High School?"
I got that reaction a lot. Morse was one of the toughest schools in the city. "It had calmed down a little by the time I got there. No more race riots. In fact, it was a magnet school for computers when I was a student there."
He looked amused, "Still, I can see you carrying a knife and acting all tough."
"Yeah, right...that's me. Believe me, when I got into the FBI, learning to shoot, knowing I might have to hurt someone someday, was not easy for me."
He stopped and twirled his cane, "We seem to be wandering aimlessly, what would you like to do?"
I opened my gate to see if he was secretly thinking what most men think when they ask that question. I wasn't surprised to have visions of us screwing pop up in my mind. I didn't want to appear easy despite the fact that, in my mind, I was right under him matching each of his moves.
"Let's go back to the hotel and sit by the pool, have a drink."
He looked around as if he was expecting a thunderstorm to hit, or maybe he was hoping a thunderstorm would hit. It was sunny and about 65F outside. Not exactly tanning weather, but pleasant enough to sit outside by the pool. The Marriott resort where they were staying, was next door to Seaport Village. On the east side of the hotel was the convention center. We walked back to the hotel and I grabbed a seat on the little two person outdoor sofa. I thought he might take the chair next to me, but he opted to sit close to me on the sofa.
"How long have you been in the FBI?" He asked.
"Sixteen years."
"What's your position?"
"Special Agent—out in the field."
He smiled wickedly, his blue eyes crinkling, "Oh, I'm sure you are very special." He started moving slowly towards me, both of us a little unsure of the other. I knew this was the make or break point. Either I tilted my head and presented my lips or I pulled back. I paused. I had just tilted my head when a young female voice pierced my indecision.
"Can I get you something from the bar?" the waitress asked.
Greg and I both sat up straight. He turned and practically snapped at her, "Talisker, neat."
I tried to smile, "Margarita, please."
She nodded and took off towards the bar. I looked out over the pool and palms. For some reason I quickly calculated the number of queen and canary palms.
He could see me looking around the pool, "What's so fascinating?"
I felt like I had been caught idling away, "I was just counting the number of canary palms. They have ten. Did you know that a full grown canary palm goes for $6,000? You've got $60,000 in trees right here."
He rolled his eyes, turned to me and glared, "Look, do you want to go up to my room and look at my artwork?" He gave me a stage wink.
I blinked. "Isn't this a little fast?"
"I was hoping you were the fast one."
I started smiling; the ball was smack dab in my court. "Greg, I ..." I couldn't finish the sentence.
He gave me a smug look, "Look, we have the whole afternoon. I know San Diego, I've lived in San Diego, there's nothing you can show me I haven't seen or want to see in San Diego except what's under that blouse. I wouldn't mind exploring that. Now, we could stare at the chlorinated pond in front of us or we could go upstairs and contemplate the paint strokes on my Hallmark copy of Renoir above my bed."
I almost burst out laughing, instead I looked at him without expression, "I love Renoir."
He exhaled sharply and smiled broadly, "Okay. Renoir it is."
We got up and walked by the waitress, asking her to send the drinks up to the room. She smiled a little too knowingly. We kept walking to the elevator and when the door closed, Greg put a tentative hand around my waist. I reciprocated by slipping my arm around him.
He started chuckling.
"What?" I asked, smiling with him.
"I was just hoping the painting above my bed is a Renoir."