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bulbs between Cottages Three, Four and Five
burned brightly, nearly drowning out his view of the back alley
that ran from 10th to 11th.
    He straightened from the wall and narrowed
his eyes, thinking he had seen a shadowy figure back there. Take it
easy, he told himself. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to be
cutting through the alley.
    Kirk looked to his right, the walk between
Five and Six lighted. But not between Six and the wall. Son of a
bitch, he would have to get the ladder and change it before going
back to the shop.
    Kirk stepped to the edge of the pool and
gazed down through the mist. Damn it. Gets dirty so fast. Clean it
in the morning, he ordered himself.
    Kirk stood in the mist and flicked his eyes
toward the vacancy. Good old Cottage Two, Kirk frowned. He had all
the supplies in there and still hadn’t painted it.
    Kirk got his keys out and went to Cottage
Six, pulled the screen door open and unlocked the door. He entered
into the dimness of the living room and heard the shower going.
    Good, he thought. The water heater was on
the job.
    Bad, he thought. She hadn’t left yet.
    Kirk had wanted some time alone; a little
time, that’s all. Sit and think about how he might change his life
around. His eyes landed on the trophy that sat on the coffee table.
Damn it, he had told her he never wanted to see it again.
    The award. His award.
    Best shot in the Armed Forces National
Competition. Kirk had won it for the Marine Corps. He could still
see the smile on his weapon-instructor’s face. The first time he
had ever seen Sergeant McKay smile.
    Kirk, shipped off a week later. Halfway
across the world. Then a month later, friendly fire at sunrise.
Adam Forstadt dying in his arms. The explosion at sunset. Shrapnel.
Waking the next day in a German hospital.
    Kirk had sworn at the time that he would
never touch another firearm, and he had kept his word.

Chapter 18
    Kirk entered the bathroom and studied the
silhouette behind the shower doors. The far panel slid open a crack
and she peered out at him.
    “Hi,” Lisa said impatiently, and she closed
the panel.
    Her abruptness didn’t bother Kirk. She
didn’t mean anything by it. He understood her ways, what everyone
else seemed to take as cold and difficult. They didn’t know her as
well as he did; they didn’t know the real Lisa Brock.
    Kirk stood at the sink and faced the foggy
mirror. No reason to wipe it. He wasn’t going to shave. He
unsnapped the onyx buttons of his black western shirt.
    “Not now,” Lisa called over the flow of
shower water, “I don’t have time!”
    “Just going to change my shirt,” he called
back. Kirk took it off and dropped it into the hamper. Removing his
T-shirt, those two little words of hers stayed in mind. Not now,
heard so often lately.
    Kirk checked his fingernails. There was
always that extra bit of grease after cleaning up at the shop. He
opened the cupboard under the sink and took out his tube of
Lan-Lin. Squeezing some on the nailbrush he dampened it with
water.
    Hands in the sink he brushed away the
grease. Then as he rinsed his hands, the shower water cut off.
    Lisa gave him a light shove. “C’mon, I’ve
got to get going.”
    Kirk moved aside and used a washcloth to dry
his hands. He sat bare-chested on the hamper and watched her defog
the mirror with her hair dryer, and he wondered if she was really
going to work.
    Kirk studied her towel-wrapped backside. He
lowered his eyes to the clear tight skin of her legs. He sat there
with thoughts of lifting the towel.
    Not now, he heard her say among his
thoughts.
    Kirk breathed deeply, shifted on the hamper
and leaned back against the wall. “I want to work on the car,” he
said. “Can you drive me to Staub’s?”
    Lisa kept her eyes on herself in the mirror,
blow-drying her dark shoulder-length hair. “Want to work on the
car,” she mocked. “On a Friday night, no less. Bet Staub’s making
you do it.”
    “You’re right,” Kirk said, “but I really do
want to