What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 04

"I love your place," she said.

"Thank you." Was I supposed to offer her a tour? The only other room was the bedroom.

"I'm sorry," she said, glancing at the black-and-white image frozen on the screen. "You were watching a movie, weren't you? I don't recognize it."

"You've never seen King of the Bullwhip?" I asked. "I'm shocked, shocked. Are you sure you went to a real college?"

"Wellesley?" she asked.

"Never heard of it," I kidded her. "Would you, er, like to watch it with me?"

For the next hour, Shawn Michaels did a creditable job of feigning interest in a movie that normally would have put even me to sleep. The whip duel at the end was amazing; Wizen would be pleased. But its lack of Oscar nominations was not a big mystery.

"That was really neat, Rick," she said when it was over. "Where'd you dig that up?"

"Actually, Alison's sister found it for me," I said in all truthful innocence.

Shawn Michaels' gorgeous blue eyes narrowed as she leaned forward.

"So," she said, "you taunt me with a rival?"

"Shawn . . .." I had so many questions. "Why?"

"Why you?"

"Well, yeah."

She sat back and took a big gulp of wine.

"So I was on vacation for two weeks, right? I spent my time in the Keys, laying out on the beach during the day, hitting the bars in the evening, letting myself get picked up by good-looking guys at night. And on the way home I said to myself, what a fucking waste of time that was. What a fucking bunch of shallow airheads. And when I got home and was starting to feel sorry for myself, sorry that my 'real life' was even worse here in the capital of nowhere, I read your article. Then I read Allie's sister's e-mail."

She took another swig of wine and looked into the distance. Her eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment but when she returned her attention to me they seemed alive, almost eager.

"And I said, fuck, Shawn, maybe what you were looking for all along was right here in good old Charleston. Here's a guy who takes his job really seriously, a guy who can spin the head of a babe who looks like that. Too bad, I thought, that he's so fond of my friend Allison. And then that little . . . impediment vanished, for which I'm truly, truly sorry, Rick."

I shrugged and smiled.

"Her loss. My gain. I saw my chance and here I am."

I still had not broken myself of the habit of staring blankly at beautiful women who showed up at my apartment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm making you very uncomfortable, aren't I? I'm just not your type, am I? Too old?"

She drained her glass and started to stand up. My smile stopped her in her tracks, half-in and half-out of the chair. It was a pose designed to redirect the blood flow of any red-blooded male, with her ample chest jutting out in front and her firm, round ass behind.

"What?" she asked.

"My type? Shawn, I don't have a type. I basically haven't had a relationship since the accident that put me in this chair. Up until two weeks ago, I hadn't had sex in that long either."

As she sat back down, I knew that she could hear the pain in my voice. She had a thoughtful expression on her face, and was absent-mindedly twirling a strand of hair in her fingers.

"So if I seem at all reluctant," I said, "it's because I have so little practice in responding to a beautiful, sexy woman . . . sitting in my apartment . . ."

"Throwing herself at you?"

Shawn Michaels stood up and walked over toward me. She turned and sat that gorgeous butt right in my lap.

"Honey, when I came here tonight, I wanted what Angie had, a night of great sex. And now that I've gotten to know you a little, you know what I want?"

She was kissing my face as she spoke, soft gentle kisses that left my skin hot and wet and tingling.

"What?" I asked, more a gasp than a real question.

"To know you better first," she said. "I want a date. I want to date Rick Handley. I want him to pick me up tomorrow at my place and take me out to dinner at Carson's."

"Carson's?" I asked with a laugh. "We can't get into Carson's."

Carson's was the best restaurant in Charleston.

"I'll take care of that. Do you know the Prince Arms?"

"Sure," I said. "You live there? Nice."

"It is," she agreed. "Six-thirty? We'll have a drink and then go to the restaurant."

'That sounds wonderful," I said.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I'll see you then, Rick."

She stood up and smoothed out her skirt. I wheeled her to the door and bolted it behind her. Wow, I thought. Just wow.

I would have loved to have dreamed about Shawn Michaels that night. Instead, my dream started with Lash LaRue's sidekick, Al "Fuzzy" St. John, a man who had apparently modeled his beard after a swarm of bees. He wore a badge just as he had in King of the Bullwhip. What the hell was his name? Ah yes, Fuzzy Q. Jones. Deputy Fuzzy Q. Jones.

He was the first one to see me as I pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon. In true sidekick fashion, he hitched up the pants that were threatening to slide off his non-existent hips.

"Hep ya, there, young fella?" he asked.

"Buy you a drink, mister?" I asked.

He smiled, a look he might be better off dropping from his repertoire. At least until he could afford a few more teeth. We both ordered whiskey. Fuzzy downed his in one gulp while I learned that I didn't have any money in my pockets.

The saloonkeeper was understandably upset and even Fuzzy took a few steps away from me.

"So you ain't plannin' on payin' for this whiskey, friend?" the saloonkeeper asked. It struck me that the word "friend" might be a piece of hyperbole.

"I intended to pay," I said. "I intended there to be money in my pocket."

"You're a funny man," the saloonkeeper said. He hauled a nasty-looking pistol out from behind the bar. It seemed clear to me that we had all gotten off on the wrong foot. Some of us were also overreacting a little.

"Mr. Wizard!" I screamed. "I don't wanna be a Swiss cheese!"

"You don't want to be a what?" Wizen asked.

"For Christ's sake, can't you make my body tingle a little first? It freaks me out to be there one second and here the next."

"So what did you learn?"

"That they're not very friendly people. And that I need money."

He apologized profusely, but assured me that he had "saved" the game.

"I don't want to go back to that game," I said. "They were about to shoot me in that game. This time -- just this time, Wizen -- we need to start a new game."

"Very well, Rick," he said with a sigh. He waved his hand and I was back in my bed. I fell asleep quickly, expecting to be summoned once again. But when I woke up on Saturday morning, I realized that the only thing that I had dreamed of was showing up late for my date with Shawn. Or showing up without my pants. Or showing up and finding someone else there. Or forgetting it entirely.

Only the latter was not actually possible. There was no way I was going to forget a date with Shawn Michaels. I couldn't have forgotten a date with anyone. When I had told Shawn in a fit of honest self-pity that I hadn't had a relationship in twelve years, I hadn't mentioned I hadn't even had a real date during that time.

My mom had assured me when I went to college that there would be lots of girls who would want to date me. Even if that was true, none of them had given me any indication of that. I was the "guy friend" during college, the one that the girls asked about other guys. Perhaps they thought I was some sort of eunuch. Later, Allie had set me up with a couple of blind dates, and I had gotten a few women to accompany me to the theatre. It only occurred to me afterward that they were more interested in the advantages of the handicapped seating section than in me.

I had certainly never been to Carson's before. The best restaurant in Charleston may not be on a par with, say, the best restaurant in New York, but coat and tie are still de rigueur. I spent an hour deciding which tie looked best, and then trying to find a shirt that matched. Apparently both had been purchased to go with a suit that I no longer owned, so I had to start all over again. Finally, by around two o'clock, I had the outfit assembled. The shoes were shined, the tie pre-tied. I found a baseball game that brought me to five o'clock, leaving me only an hour to get nervous all over again. I did a little research on Lash LaRue. Showering, shaving, and dressing took up another chunk of time. Finally I was just too nervous to stay. I figured if worse came to worst, I could just wheel slowly. Or wheel around the block. Or just wheel in circles for a while.

"You look marvelous," Shawn effused when she opened her door. That was the word I was going to use, and I stumbled trying to find a substitute. The first word that came to mine was "delicious." She was dressed in a cream-colored short-sleeved cocktail dress that perfectly complemented her tan.

"You look incredible," I said, finally finding my voice. "Thanks for not wearing heels. You know how we guys are about dating taller women."

She laughed, a full, musical sound that immediately set me at ease.

She leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the lips."

"I think this is going to be fun, Rick Handley. Come on inside."

It was a wonderful evening. I hate to admit it, but the memory of walking into Carson's with Shawn Michaels, and watching heads turn one after another, will stay with me forever. She had not only made a reservation, but had managed to get us one of the best tables in the place.

We spent the evening just eating and talking. A meal at Carson's is an experience to be savored, with each course more spectacular than the next.

I wheeled her home at ten o'clock, the city lights blotting out everything except the full moon. I grew more and more nervous as we approached her apartment.

"Can we talk for a bit?" she asked as we reached the well-appointed lobby. She gestured to a couch. I slowly wheeled myself forward.

"What's wrong?" she asked after perching herself on one end. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Why the long face?"

"Because this is where you tell me that you had a great time but you think we should be friends."

She stared into my eyes, a look of incredulity passing over her face.

Then she started laughing. If I had thought her laugh musical before, this one was symphonic. It started softly, a low chuckle. She looked at my face, which I'm sure held a sad but earnest expression, and her laughter rose in pitch. She leaned back in the sofa and tears came to her eyes. She was holding her sides. I had to make a conscious effort to lift my eyes to her face in order to avoid staring at the long legs that were stretched in front of her. Finally, after another fit of giggling, she wiped the tears off her cheeks and scooted forward to the edge again. Her eyes twinkled at me.

"I really want our first time to be bareback," she whispered.

"Sure," I said.

"Normally, I insist on the guys taking their share of responsibility," she said. "But down in Florida, with the sun and the drinks. You know how that it is."

She rolled her eyes. I had no idea how it was.

"So I got tested on Thursday," she said. "I was hoping to have the result of my tests today. But my doctor says they won't be in 'til Monday."

"So," I said, stalling for time, "this whole conversation has been about sex, right?"

"God, you are such a find," she said. She grabbed my face and pulled me forward for a long, slow kiss. "You're beautiful, Rick Handley. I love you."

After I made my way back to my place, I spent a few minutes just staring at my lucky self in the mirror. I told myself that I was on Cloud 9, that all the way home my feet had never touched the ground.

And then I looked down at my legs and just started laughing.