Commitment Issues (20 page)

It was almost like he had studied under Chico. It was how my agent had fucked me.
Bam. Slap.

He lifted away from my mouth and put both of his palms against the inside of my knees. I was seriously pinned against the bed. Nothing was holding my lover back.
Bam. Slap. Bam. Slap.

"Ugggh,” he growled as the headboard hit the wall. “Ugggh,” he said. “Ugggh. Oh God...."

"That was a fuck,” I laughed and saw him laughing too. What I'd call a fuck with anybody else was still making love with Wyatt. We always made love, but I saw that we could sometimes do so with lots of energy. Every time he slammed into me, my mind exploded with stars. He could find my prostate. He could nail every one of my love points.

"I love you, Mr. Man,” he said as he collapsed on me. I had never seen him work up so much sweat before, but he was really laughing from pleasure. It made me smile that I could bring so much pleasure to the man I loved.

"Yeeee-hah,” I said. “Have a nice ride?"

"The best. I love you so much."

I'd known him for over a year, but this was only the sixth time we had had sex. Seventh? Maybe it was seven, but you can't blame us, because I was in the hospital for a good slice of that. Each time had been different. There was so much about Wyatt that I wanted to learn. There was so much about his body that I wanted to explore.

He stayed inside me as long as he could but rolled off to the side eventually. He reached up to jack me off, but I stopped him. Having him inside me like that was better than an orgasm.

"Want to catch the eleven p.m. meeting?” he asked.

Hell no, I didn't. I wanted to stay in bed with Wyatt. I never wanted to get up again. I wanted to bolt the doors or brick ourselves in.

"Sure,” I lied. Alcoholics go to AA meetings, and I know the drill. It had been months since I had gone to a meeting because of the bombing, and I knew that it was time. Wyatt sprang out of the bed and was dressed in a flash. I didn't move so quickly.

We took the elevator down to the lobby and changed to the parking garage elevator. I never really understood why they couldn't make one elevator for the tower and for the parking garage. It must be some kind of security measure. Everybody had to show their face to the guard behind the desk. There were closed-circuit cameras everywhere, but expecting every guard to be alert enough to see everybody on every camera must have been too risky.

"Good night, Mr. Roberts. Good night, Mr. Nelson."

I waved to the guard as we walked across the lobby from one set of elevators to the other. We all had reserved spaces in the parking garage. Our three-bedroom condo came with two slots. My bike was in one, and Wyatt's car was in the other. He took the space up against a far wall because he could shimmy through the tight space.

"That's weird,” he said. “My rearview mirror is knocked off."

"Somebody must have been walking around down here,” I said.

"Stop,” he said, and I froze. “Run back. Get away."

"What's wrong?"

"Red,” he said with fear in his voice as he ran away from his car. “Come on away from there, babe."

"What's red?"

"There's a red glow. Something red was glowing on the cement under the front wheel."

"You sure it wasn't a reflection?"

"I saw what I saw, Sean."

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Hey, Agent Iacocca,” he said into the phone. “It's Wyatt Nelson.... We're fine, but there's something I thought you ought to know about."

It took the FBI guy over a half an hour to get to the condo building. We were waiting for him at some benches near the parking elevator. Wyatt had gone back into the building to alert the security guard. We sat and waited. I got to look at Wyatt. I know, I know—there was a scary red thing. If we were on Apollo 13 or the Titanic, I'd still want to spend whatever time I had looking at Wyatt or talking with him.

"I am so sorry about all this,” I told him.

"About what? You didn't put the red glow under my car,” Wyatt said.

"No, but it's some fruitcake who got pissed at one of my commentaries."

"Maybe it's part of the great VRWC."

"VRWC?” I said with one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy."

"You've been hanging out with Janie Marroquin too much."

"Her husband told me the same thing, you know."

The guard directed Iacocca over to the garage.

"Hi, Agent Iacocca,” I said.

"Hey, Mario,” Wyatt said. I did not want to know why they were on a first-name basis. Ignorance is sometimes the most wonderful tactic.

Mario Iacocca told us to stay back at the elevators. Wyatt told him what he had seen and pointed out the car. It only took the FBI agent a second beside the car.

"Good eye, Wyatt,” he said. “It looks like a bomb under your engine.” He had his cell phone in hand and was calling for help. “What's on top of the garage?"

"Nothing, just air,” Wyatt said. “Swimming pool and tennis court on the roof."

"Good,” Iacocca said, “we don't have to evacuate the whole building. Let's get out of the garage as fast as we can in case there's a remote trigger or timer."

We went back to the lobby.

"When did you use the car last?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

He told the security guard in the lobby that he needed all the security tapes for the past forty hours. He asked the guard if they had a way to shut down the swimming pool and tennis court and told him they would have to put barricades over the entrance of the garage. The security guards were told to stay out of the parking garage and walk around the outside of the building.

Within another half an hour, more agents and officers showed up. I saw them on the video monitor at the guard's station in the lobby. Wyatt and I weren't allowed back in the garage. Most of the new people had jackets with FBI or POLICE in big white letters. A few had ATF on their backs. They were taking this very seriously.
I guess we won't make the eleven p.m. meeting.

The police brought a little robot, but it was too wide to get between the wall and Wyatt's car. They had to send in a heavily padded officer.

Every security guard on staff was there too, and I saw the building manager arrive. They were going to post a couple of guards at the entrance of the parking garage and do valet parking for the residents. I was halfway expecting the building manager to ask me to move, since my presence made everybody in the condo tower a target, but he never said anything about it.

As Wyatt and I headed back to our condo, I saw an officer with a dog going to each car in the garage. It was probably a bomb-sniffing pooch. The guard station had all the monitors turned to the various cameras in the garage. Somebody could have landed a helicopter on the roof and nobody would have known. Maybe the system recorded all the cameras but only showed a select few.

If Wyatt was afraid, he didn't show it. I was terrified, and I was angry that somebody would go after my lover when I was the real target. What kind of demented creep would even do something that disgusting? The bomber had already attacked me, and now he was attacking Wyatt? Yeah, I could have been killed if the car blew up, but it was just as likely to take out Wyatt on a solo trip to the grocery store.

So now what? I guess that I live in fear, even in the protection of a condo with security guards.
The bomber had proved that I was not safe even in a guarded cocoon.
This just gets better and better. Do we move to Antarctica? Do we live in a maximum-security prison?

Wyatt seemed to be able to go on about his business. We were in the den of the condo. He had gotten his motorcycle helmet and had pulled out some of the padding. He was carving a hole for his Bluetooth intercom around where his right ear would be.

"Be careful,” I said.

"Always."

"No, I mean it. If you are ever in a motorcycle wreck, God forbid, you don't want anything harder than a cotton ball or piece of tissue paper next to your head."

"Good point,” he said. “I'll make the hole deep as possible."

Just as he was finishing his helmet, there was a knock at the door. It was Agent Iacocca.

"Wow,” he told Wyatt. “Great eye, Wyatt. We got the bomb, and it is on its way to the FBI lab in Quantico in Virginia. The bureau is sending a jet and team just to get it. This is something that we've all been after for a couple of years. It's awesome."

"So you get a medal?” I asked.

"Maybe a toaster,” Wyatt said.

"I'm afraid they're taking your car,” the FBI guy said. “Evidence. All I can say is that I will try to get it back to you ASAP, but no guarantees."

Wyatt looked surprised, but he just shrugged. “Evidence,” he said. “Keep the car as long as you need."

"Keep it forever,” I said. “We'll rent a car tomorrow and go out looking for a new one. I've been wanting a new car for a while."

"You don't like my wreck?"

"It's not that—okay, in a word, no."

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... And that's how this nation of immigrants is facing the latest in a long string of immigrant waves. That's Perspective America. I'm Sean Roberts....

"And, we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio intercom.

"We got our rental car,” Wyatt said. He poked his head into the studio when he saw the ON THE AIR light go off. We were probably the only condo in the entire building with its own on-the-air light. It was a very exclusive club.

"Rental?” Janie Marroquin asked. My editor seemed miffed. “You throw your money away. You guys could have borrowed my car."

"We're going out to look at cars today,” I told her.

"He's embarrassed by my wreck,” Wyatt laughed. “I think he planted the bomb to force me to agree to get another car."

"What are you going to get?"

"I want a GTC,” I said.

"That's a Bentley,” Wyatt whispered.

"Chinga, man,” she laughed. “What are you really thinking about?"

"He's probably serious,” Wyatt said. “He wanted a Corvette until one of the other residents told him that the Corvette scrapes the ground at the entrance. It sits so low to the ground, and whoever designed the garage didn't plan for it."

"We're going to look at everything, Aston Martin to Kia,” I said.

"Go-fast car, though?"

"Yeah,” Wyatt said.

"Hey, you know that you can get a security system that will alert you if anybody so much as touches your car?"

"Really?” Wyatt said.

"After-market stuff,” she added. “The best ones even make sounds on your key fob to know somebody's messing with your wheels. It starts flashing an LED in case you don't hear the chirps. I'll get you some brand names and shops. You just set the car to let you know if anybody touches it in the garage, and you can check it by looking at your fob. I mean, we see that you can't count on these rent-a-cops here."

She was right. I was hoping we could get a Tesla, which is an electric sports car. There weren't any Tesla dealers within a thousand miles. And the Tesla Roadster was on the other side of $100,000. Ouch.

Wyatt wanted a smart car, but I insisted on something made in the USA.

We settled on a Cadillac CTS-V coupe. It was barely sporty enough for me, but Wyatt was excited. I had to admit that the guys at Cadillac had produced a tight car. In the past, my complaint had always been that even sporty-looking Cadillac models were mushy on the road. Our CTS-V held itself well in corners. It wasn't as good as a Corvette, but there isn't an American car on the road that behaves like a Corvette.

It took almost a day to buy the car, and I didn't even want financing. I had been making good money for a while, and I didn't have much in the way of expenses. There was a monthly payment for the common fees at the condo, but I didn't have a mortgage. All these years of having a good job and cheap apartment finally paid off. Imagine me buying a Cadillac and paying cash.

I tried to get them to let me put it on a credit card, but the dealer wouldn't go for that. Imagine how many points I could have gotten.

Janie told us about a car-alarm store that had the fancy don't-even-touch-me alarm. The store picked up our car from the dealer and took it to get its alarm and tinted windows.

We didn't see the new car for a couple of days.
Let's see, what in the world will Wyatt and I do if we're trapped in the condo with no wheels for a couple of days?

"Rental car, babe,” he said. “Don't forget we—"

"Whatever,” I said in protest.

"How long were you and Chico together?” Wyatt asked as he looked up from his menu.

"Huh?” I said. You can always count on the big-time radio announcer to come up with witty banter.

Wyatt had gotten me out of the condo for supper. I didn't really want to go out. Funny how a bomb can make you nervous about getting into a car. He got on his knees and looked under the car. He wanted to start the car and drive up to the condo elevators to pick me up. He said it was because I was still on the mend from the apartment explosion. I told him that if there was a mad bomber trying to kill me, then I couldn't really disappoint him. The truth was that I knew I wouldn't be able to face another day if Wyatt was hurt in some plot that was aimed at me.

The security desk kept a camera trained on our rental car all day and all night. A local police officer was assigned to the building. It supposedly was to be backup for the regular security guards. Funny how the guards were more alert and attentive when the officer was near. I'm sure it was just a coincidence.

Why was I a target? I had no idea, but I knew that I had to protect Wyatt as much as I could. Wyatt had to take the lead in crawling around on the ground looking for bombs because I wasn't completely healed.

Oh, fuck it.
I got on my knees to look under the passenger side of the car. When I got up, there was a grease stain on one of my knees. Wyatt wanted me to go change, but I told him that we ought to just go. Grrrr.

"You and Chico? I see how you look at him."

"We weren't a couple,” I protested.