Luis had got lucky. Keith and Sam sat back, looked at each other and took another break. Passing the tequila back and forth. Keith got up off the sofa and went to go see what was in Luis’ fridge.
Sam turned the television on. Got The Beverly Hillbillies and sat there, idiotically mesmerized. “Hey,” Keith called, “got some roast beef in here, swiss cheese, tomatoes and, let’s see, what else…”
“Sold! Please tell me he has some crackers.”
He checked the cupboard. “Yep.”
She sprang up to her feet and rushed in, shoving him away from the fridge with her hips. “7-Up!” Pulled out a half-filled quart bottle, handed it to Keith and, full-blown munchies setting in, rummaged around. Any and everything edible was fair game.
Keith got glasses and ice. Then switched channels on the television to a station with some monster movies on it and poured a couple rounds of soda. He was glued to the King Kong version with Jessica Lange and those thick thighs of hers.
Okay, he decided, am way too preoccupied and need to put my mind on something constructive. One thing for sure, when he got back home Lesli was going to have to hold him off.
The kid came in loaded down with a tray full of cold cuts, cheese, crackers and everything else she could fit on it. He laughed, moved over on the sofa and cleared space on the coffee table. Handing Sam her drink, he again had to look away.
They were both completely buzzed. Sat gobbling grub, slurping soda before switching back to booze. Laughing at Charles Grodin play an utter, ruthless creep while Lange and Jeff Bridges nobly took up for the big gorilla.
Keith was not in good shape. Worrying about his woman, distracted by the mere notion of sex. And hadn’t slept good in more than 24 hours, which complicated things worse: The more tired he got, the more susceptible he was to, in a word, sensual urges.
By now, sitting there with this incredible creature, Keith was half wild with desire. And not altogether sure that, in love or no, he could fend off any more of Sam’s incorrigible flirting.
She sidled over, licking her fingers, then wiping them on a piece of paper towel. Sort of snuggled, draped an arm on his shoulder and seriously stared, holding him transfixed. “Keith?”
“Uh…yeah?”
She traced her fingers over his chest, let her hand rest on his thigh. “Can I tell you something?”
“Uh…sure.” Whatever perfume she wore had reasonably held up through the night of working out. Was still working. Fairly faint, but, yes, working.
“I love…” She searched for the next words, looking down at her lap. Then back at Keith. “Well, maybe not love. But, I sure do like you a lot. I probably would’ve fired me too. But you let Helen talk you into taking me back.”
“Don’t nobody talk me into nothin’. And who says I took you back? Like we was boyfriend and girlfriend or somethin’?” Samantha gave him a golden smile. Wizened. Catching Keith completely off guard.
No one, he thought, would ever accuse this kid of being a bimbo. “Okay, she talked me into it.”
“You let her.”
“So?”
“So, thank you.” She then leaned on him and, in no time flat, fell asleep. Keith clicked the system remote and got another movie. With Michael Rennie. Something about a robot resurrecting Rennie from the dead, warning the world to stop making ever more dangerous weapons of mass destruction, with Patricia Neal, who had to be one of the hottest White women on face of the earth.
Next week: Time to take care of business
Dwight Hobbes welcomes reader responses to P.O. Box 50357, Mpls., 55403.
