Sullivan frowned.
“Really,” said Ramsey. “I already want to suck it down my throat.”
He swallowed hard, found his voice but had nothing articulate to say. He settled on, “Jeez.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I know, right?”
Suddenly parched, Sullivan raised his Yuengling. He drank deeply.
Ramsey also took a drink. “Don’t worry. I want to see Bruno Mars too.”
“Jeez,” he said again, because, really, what else could he say?
Ramsey didn’t give any more thought to Sullivan Day’s tongue or any other part of him during the concert. They had excellent seats a few rows back from the stage. She did wonder if Sullivan would ask her how she scored the seats because he had to figure they were expensive and hard to come by, but if he had questions, he kept them to himself, reluctant, she figured, to go full out interrogation on her. Caution demanded that she have a story prepared in the event cop curiosity overcame reluctance.
They carried on with the rest of the fans, standing more than sitting, swinging, swaying, bumping hips and shoulders, bouncing to the beats, and when it was over, really over, because the encore felt like a second concert, Ramsey and Sullivan stayed in their seats, exhausted and exhilarated, until the crowd thinned.
“Is it too early to evaluate the date?” asked Sullivan as they headed to Ramsey’s car.
“I think we can do that. One to ten, ten high. Any rating five or below means we’re done. Just so you know.”
“You always have these rules?”
“Sure, but usually I’m the only one doing the rating. Seems fair at three dates that you have a say too.”
“Well, then, tonight was a solid eight for me. Would have been a nine if it hadn’t been for your driving.”
She gave a short laugh. “Then you won’t mind driving back.”
“God, no,” he said with considerable feeling.
Ramsey opened the passenger door and got in while Sullivan walked around to the driver’s side. They buckled in and after a few adjustments, he pressed the starter and joined the line of cars exiting the lot.
“Haven’t heard your number yet,” said Sullivan. “I’d rather not be kept in suspense, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s the same as yours. A solid eight.”
“So, we’re good for another go?”
“Seems that way.”
“You don’t sound all that confident. I’m not relieved.”
She looked over at him. He was staring straight ahead, carefully inching his way forward until their line caught the next green light. Even in profile, she could make out he was frowning, though whether in concentration or because he was not reassured, she couldn’t know. “Aren’t you wondering what would make an eight into a nine or even a ten?”
“I think I mentioned this evening would have been a nine if you hadn’t driven like a maniac, so I figure an eight’s good. Room for improvement, sure, but it doesn’t come with the pressure of a ten. Why? What do you think would make this eight a nine or climb to a ten?”
She sat back, eyes on the cars ahead of them again instead of Sullivan. “I guess we’ll see,” she said quietly.
Ramsey had known even before Sullivan stuck his tongue out at the Stationhouse Grille that she was going to sleep with him tonight. That is, unless the evening had gone terribly wrong or he didn’t want to sleep with her. She didn’t think the latter was a possibility, but then he wasn’t always easy to read. Maybe she got the signals crossed. It had happened before. Most notably with everything related to her marriage.
Sooner or later she’d have to tell Sullivan about Jay Carpenter. Later was her preference. The thought of sharing with anyone what an idiot she’d been did not settle well with her. Maybe idiot wasn’t the right word. Naïve. Foolish. Blind. Hopeful. Common sense, or at least some sense of self-preservation, should have dictated she throw in the towel much earlier than she did, but remaining hopeful that her situation would change, that Jay would change, kept her from realizing she was the frog in the pot and Jay was slowly turning up the heat.
Thank God for his upper right cut or she might have never gotten out. She still wondered if she had provoked him to it. She hadn’t done it on purpose, but subconsciously, maybe. Jay apologized, of course, but he didn’t take responsibility. It wasn’t his way to own up to his misdeeds, and his misfortunes were always someone else’s fault. Mostly hers, but not always. He blamed his absent father, his needy mother, his unreliable colleagues, his lousy internet connection, and if all else failed, he would point confidently to the change in the weather. To hear him explain it, the barometric pressure had a lot to do with his moods.
“You’re pretty quiet over there,” said Sullivan, glancing her way. “Sleepy?”
“No. Thinking.”
