The Big Bang! Theory - A fourth--and final--short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind (17 page)

So far, Judy hadn't been
impressed with people's outpouring of sympathy and condolences.
True, Buddy wasn't her husband of x-number of years. But instead of
"We're so sorry for your loss," she got: "What killed him? Heart
attack? Stroke?"

"It's usually one or the
other when someone goes sudden like that," the driver of the
Medi-van said when he bumped into Judy at Heritage House the day
before. She'd been called into work to answer her employers'
equally pointed questions.

"Why was Buddy Fusco at
your home, Judy?" Ron Carlson asked.

Ron and Bev, the live-in
managers of Heritage House, weren't newcomers to the geriatric care
business. They'd "downsized" from a facility in Reno after Ron's
gambling got out of hand.

"More tea?" Bev
offered.

Judy had taken comfort in
the fact they'd invited her to their apartment, which sat adjacent
to Heritage House, instead of squaring off in their office. "Buddy
and I started seeing each other outside of work a few months ago.
Dinner. A movie or two. No big deal. I honestly didn't plan to take
things to the next level, but I liked Buddy and well...he
asked."

And, as her fundamentalist
family claimed, Judy didn't know the meaning of the word
"no."

"Fraternizing with
residents is frowned on," Ron said.

So is hoarding individual
packets of butter and walking down the hall in your birthday suit,
but both happened at this facility on a regular
basis
, Judy barely refrained from saying.
"Buddy understood this would be one-time only."
Literally.
"If he were alive right
now, we'd both be back to our normal routines."
I wish with all my heart.
"No harm,
no foul."

"Unfortunately, Buddy died
in your presence, Judy, and as an employee of Heritage House--even
off-duty and off-site--the rules of resident-employee interaction
still apply," Ron told her.

His wife added, "Since
we're so close to the situation, we've asked Home Office H.R. to
make a decision. You'll be on administrative leave until we get a
ruling."

Neither would speculate how
long the decision-making process would take.

So Judy had returned home
to fume, fret, pace, cry--and sleep on her sofa. Bad juju aside,
she viewed the symbolic cleansing of space as a positive
distraction. Anything to keep from dwelling on the fact the
circumstances surrounding Buddy's death had impacted her life more
than the actual loss of his life.

Did that make her a
ghoul...or worse?

She clamped her hands on
her hips and took a deep breath. Where to start? Take down the
mini-blinds? Or prep for paint?

A loud growling sound made
her spin in a circle looking for her cat--until she remembered
Homer Simpson--her rescue kitty of indiscriminate parentage--was
outside.

She sucked in her gut. Had
she forgotten to eat breakfast? That was a first. She looked around
the kitchen with no real urge to eat. Nothing sounded good.
Especially not the can of tuna she'd set on the counter.

Kelly, her fitness trainer,
constantly nagged Judy to eat more protein.

"I swallow a raw egg white
every morning before I leave for the gym," Kelly claimed. "You
should try it."

"Well, foo. Why didn't you
say so? I'd lose weight in a snap if I tried that," Judy had
replied. "Because I'd throw up thirty seconds later."

"Naw. It's tasteless and
slippery. One gulp and it's gone."

Just what the men who
"accidentally" came in her mouth said, too--back in the day when
she and Shawn were swinging. Whenever she'd complain to her ex
about the "pre-shooters," as she labeled them, he'd shrug off her
criticism. She vividly recalled their final argument on the
matter.

"Guys are different, Judy.
We only have so much control. You should take it as a compliment.
You turned him on so much he couldn't hold back. Get down on your
knees. I'll show you."

"Like hell I will. My mouth
is a no cum zone."

"Jeez, Judy, you act like
I'm asking you to swallow hemlock."

She'd crossed her arms and
stared him down. "Cum...hemlock...same difference."

Not surprising, he didn't
put up a fuss when she asked for a divorce a few months
later.

Judy opened the
fridge.

Mayonnaise is mostly eggs,
isn't it?
She opened the can of tuna and
dumped it into a clean, repurposed margarine tub. The smell made
her stomach flip-flop worse than a politician in an election year,
but she persevered, adding a heaping tablespoon of glistening white
mayo atop the smelly fish. Holding the bowl at arm's length, she
quickly stirred the mixture before reaching for the white bread.
Some habits were impossible to shed--just like those last forty or
so pounds she doubted she'd ever lose.

"Some people are born thin,
some aren't," her mother said one day when Judy complained about
not being able to fasten the waistband of her skirt. She'd
undergone a growth spurt, but Mom chose to see a normal, healthy
development as an assault on her finances. "You've got your
grandmother Banger's hips. Means I'll be buying you husky-sizes
before long and they cost more. But, at least, you don't take after
your father's uncle Porter. He was queer as a pink Fig
Newton."

Judy draped a limp shroud
of iceberg lettuce over the tuna and added the top slice of bread.
"Whoever heard of a pink Fig Newton?" she muttered, cutting the
sandwich in half with a tad more gusto than necessary. "What a
ridiculous thing to say."

Luckily, pants size wasn't
the only thing Judy and her mother didn't have in
common.

She grabbed an apple from
the fridge--a token nod to Kelly--and carried her lunch to the
counter where she usually ate breakfast every workday. Once settled
on her comfy stool, she tapped the small white plastic remote even
knowing her ancient TV--possibly the last black and white set on
the planet--would barely be warmed up by the time she finished
eating. Her pre-work routine included watching the news so she
could talk current events with the Heritage House patrons. She
especially enjoyed pushing the buttons of the hardcore Fox News
enthusiasts. Arguing politics got the blood pumping and kept the
mind nimble, she'd been told by her predecessor.
What advice will I give the person who takes over
after I'm fired?

Her appetite fled and she
pushed her half-eaten sandwich to one side.

This is a first, she
thought. Usually, any sort of emotional anxiety turned her into an
eating machine. Her divorce accounted for at least thirty extra
pounds. But for the past two days, food had been the furthest thing
from her mind.

She polished the pretty red
apple across the top of her thigh before taking a bite. Chewing,
she propped her chin on the heel of her hand and stared blankly at
the tiny screen. The volume was too low to make out any words, but
she'd seen the commercial before. A half-naked man with abs you
could crack an egg on. She chewed a little faster to accommodate
the juices flowing from her saliva glands.

She had no idea what
product he hawked, but if it involved guilt-free sex, she'd max out
her credit card without regret. She could see herself licking the
pointy tip of his man nipple. Her panties got damp just thinking
about it. Not an unusual malady of late. Apparently making love
with Buddy had flipped on her sexuality switch--the one she'd
forgotten existed. Now, everything turned her on. She'd even
downloaded the first book in the wildly popular X-rated romance
series the Herry ladies were always nattering about. Most claimed
to be scandalized, but every one of them, Judy noticed, continued
reading the second and third installments. The most honest among
them admitted to being titillated. The word alone made Judy
horny.

Where'd I leave my
Kindle?
She plopped her half-eaten apple
atop her half-eaten sandwich and turned off the TV.

She sifted through a pile
of unopened bills on the counter. Nothing.

Maybe I left it by the
couch.
She hopped off the stool and headed
in that direction, but before she reached the living room, her
doorbell made its repugnant belching sound.
"Must...buy...a...new...one," she muttered, pivoting on one
heel.

"Jed," she exclaimed a
moment later. "That was fast."

A rougher, less-polished
workingman's Matt Damen turned from checking out her deck to say,
"Hi, Ms. Banger. Howya' doin'?"

He stuck out his hand and
waited while she fumbled with the screen. "Um...good," she answered
witlessly, her focus immediately transfixed by the strength and
rough calloused authenticity of his grip.

"Cool. Good to see you
again." He motioned toward the street. "I just finished my punch
list at a job three rows over when I got your message. You know,
that's like the third or fourth bid I snagged in this trailer park
after doing your deck," he said, obviously pleased to share the
credit for his success. "Nothin' big, but, hey, who turns down work
in this economy, right?"

His friendly, gregarious
demeanor threw her. Buddy had handled every detail of the deck,
from planning to payment. Most of the time, she'd left for work
before Jed arrived onsite. Could that explain how she'd missed the
fact her contractor was a genuine hunk? "I thought I saw your truck
around last week."

His smile favored one side
of his lean, permanently tanned face. The blue of his eyes nearly
matched the color of his faded denim work shirt. At the frayed
neckline of his plain white t-shirt a sprinkle of wiry male chest
hair caught her attention.

Had she overlooked his
attractiveness on purpose because she had a dozen years on him?
Funny, but after screwing a guy twenty-plus years her senior, age
seemed...relative. Unless Jed had a wife and a passel of kids at
home.

"So, what's up? Any
problems with your deck?" He hefted his leather tool belt from his
left shoulder to his right like a mountain climber prepping for an
ascent. It looked heavy but he didn't seem to give it any thought.
"I brought my tools in case you had a board loose or
something."

He stepped to the left and
tapped a spot where the decking met her trailer's
siding.

Judy looked down. In cat
lives, his laced-up steel-toe boots were on life number eleven. But
his equally well-broken-in Wranglers looked form fitting not worn
out. And what a fine form they covered--thick, muscular thighs,
trim butt, the slight beginning of a beer belly nestled above a
plain leather belt.

Or was his wife a good
cook?

"The deck is great," she
told him. "No problems at all.
I
might have a screw loose, but that definitely is
not your fault."

His thick sandy brows moved
up and in. When he cocked his head, a thatch of bangs dropped
across his forehead in a way that made her mouth go dry. She'd been
a sucker for good hair since the sixth grade. Richie Mason. Her
first crush. He'd cost her half her babysitting money--spent on a
fancy, much too mushy Valentine's Day card--and a week in detention
after an unfortunate collaging accident involving a pair of
scissors and a lock of his hair.

"Pardon?"

She shook her head to
refocus on the present. "I want to put new flooring in my bedroom.
Do you do that?"

"Sure. All the time." He
reached into his pouches and pulled out a thick, black and green
tape. He tossed it from hand to hand like a novice juggler. "Let's
get you measured up and I'll run some numbers."

Proactive. Straight to the
crux of the matter. No dithering. Just what she needed in her
life--a good example.

She held the door for him.
Had he gotten taller since he worked here? Probably she hadn't been
aware of his size because he'd worked outside the whole time, but,
lordy, the man really filled out a doorway.

She closed the screen and
took a deep breath. Fresh air, wood and the faint hint of mint. Her
nostrils crinkled, picking up the lingering, less pleasant aroma of
tuna.

"Are you hungry?" she
asked, scurrying across the room to dump the remains of her lunch
in the garbage under the sink. "There's still some tuna
left."

As she straightened she
noticed him checking out her derriere. Really? My butt? The one she
was working her...well..um...ass off trying to shrink to a more
socially acceptable size?

"No, thanks. I'm good." He
looked around, nodding in a pleasant way. "Nice place. 'Guess I
didn't come inside last time I was here."

"It's home. For now," she
added under her breath. "Follow me. My bedroom is this way."
Said the black widow spider to the
delicious-looking young fly.

In With A Bang!

~~~

Book III - More Bang! For
Your Buck - a third, short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger
kind.

Judy unearths a box from
her past—sex toys, costumes, handcuffs, anything your basic BDSM
aficionado might need. She’s prepared to take on Lewis Fusco
alone—until Prudence O’Riley, straight off the plane from Greece,
appears. Before she can entertain second thoughts, Judy finds
herself tied to a bed, in the company of not one, but two naked men
and a whip named Gerald. She only has one question: Who called the
Judge?