Culture Shock Part 6

"Very funny...and that reminds me. Don't do anything to make me look stupid today."

She stiffened. "How in the world could I possibly do that? I don't know a blasted thing about being a cop, and you don't want me to make you look stupid. That makes perfect sense."

"Okay, I guess I didn't explain myself very well. A few months ago, I took the Lieutenant's test and I'm still waiting to hear the results. I don't want anything to screw my chance to advance. This whole body exchange thing couldn't have happened at a worse time."

She fixed her gaze on him. "You don't actually think there would be good time for this to have happened, do you?"

"Of course not, but you know what I mean."

"I hadn't considered the prospect of messing up your entire career. What if I do?" Worry thinned her lips.

"Don't worry. Just remember everything we've talked about and you'll do fine."

His words of warning struck a chord in his own mind. "But, what about me? I've always sucked at math and I'm supposed to go and crunch numbers. I'm beginning to think I might just take my chances with the shock thing again."

Her brows rose. "Really?"

"No!" he said adamantly. "That's the last possible alternative."

"Then come up with an alternative." She glared at him.

"Right after I find a cure for the common cold." His patience was already being tested and it wasn't even eight a.m.

Cynthia rubbed her thigh. "I've slept in these same clothes for two days now, and I'll bet if I check, I have a bruise from sleeping on your stupid keys. It sucks to be you." Unshaven, and grizzled, she sauntered toward the door.

Frustrated by the faulty door lock, she mumbled inaudibly under her breath. As she walked out, she looked over her shoulder. "I'll be baaack," she declared in a great Arnold Swartzenegger impression.

Despite the stress, Alex chuckled as he went back into the bedroom and scanned his clothing options for the day. Flipping through the hangers, he grimaced. Didn't the woman own anything but dresses?

Finally, he found some slacks, but feared the dress code didn't allow them. He pulled out a little black number with a white collar. All he had to do was stand it for eight hours. Wearing women's clothing couldn't be worse than an overnight stake-out. He draped the dress on the bed, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While he waited for the water to warm, he glanced in the mirror. "Cripes, what a mess. And I don't have the first idea how to fix this hair. She'll have to show me."

In the shower, Alex wanted to languish in the warmth and explore his new body, but unfortunately his knowledge of the hot water supply precluded it. Letting his hands slip slowly over her firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s and down her abdomen, he gently lathered every inch and crevice of her delicate skin. Somehow, it just wasn't the same. His actions were way too perverted and did nothing for him. He doubted it did much for her either.

After showering, Alex wrapped a towel around his waist. A glance at the mirror showed a problem. Although alone, he caved to the need for unexplained modesty and re-adjusted the wrap over his chest. Then opening the medicine cabinet, he was confronted with all types of face creams, lotions, and perfumes. He shut the door, refusing to imagine what all that c.r.a.p was for.

Back in the bedroom, he dropped his towel and left it where it fell. The black sheath proved to be harder to put on then it looked, as he awkwardly wriggled his body until it fell down past his hips.

He opened the closet and surveyed his shoe options. Tennis shoes? No, that wouldn't fly with business attire. He gaped at the row of high heels. "No f.u.c.kin' way," he mumbled.

Believing he wouldn't fall and break his neck in something less elevated, he opted for a pair of sandals with a short, block heel. He glanced at the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. The dress didn't look quite right. What had he overlooked? He caught sight of the bra.s.siere slung across the dresser. "s.h.i.t, now I have to start over!"

He tugged the dress up and over his head and tossed it on the bed. Looking at the bra, he tried to figure the best way to hook it. He'd always had a knack for undoing them, but he had no idea how in the h.e.l.l to put one on. After several tries he succeeded. He shimmied into the dress a second time, then, turning from side to side, checked the mirror again. This time, he looked just fine, but he understood the gravity issue women worried about. Cynthia definitely had nice b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but the uplift from the bra made a difference in the fit. G.o.d, what was wrong with him, thinking about how her t.i.ts looked in a dress? He might be inhabiting her body, but somewhere inside lurked her thoughts.

No sooner had Alex finished, Cynthia appeared in the doorway. "Well, I'm ready...I think."

She was a mess. Pieces of tissue dotted numerous razor cuts on her cheeks and she had combed his hair all wrong. "Gees, Cyn, take it easy on my face. Should I call 911 and ask for a transfusion?"

"Very funny, Alex. I've been shaving my legs for years, but this was a lot tougher than I expected."

"Come here and let me show you how to comb my hair. That looks ridiculous."

"Can I help it if you have unmanageable hair? I'm not used to dealing with waves."

Her gaze rested on him. "And, what do you plan on doing with mine? You certainly can't go to my job looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you just got out bed."

"I did."

"I know, and it shows." She looked him up and down. "Although I must say, you did okay picking out a dress."

"Thanks."

Cynthia lowered her gaze. "The shoes aren't bad." She looked closer. "Wait! You forgot panty hose."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I never go to work with bare legs." She turned and rummaged through a drawer and withdrew a new package of nylons. "Here, put these on."

Alex groaned and kicked off his shoes. He sat on the bed, tore into the wrapping, and held up the delicate leg coverings. "I don't have a clue how to put these things on."

Cynthia took them from him and demonstrated how to gather them together. The rough skin of his hands snagged the silky fabric. "Christ, Alex, don't you ever use lotion. Your hands feel like sandpaper." She wrestled with the nylons. "Like this," she said as she handed them to him.

Not at all used to his new fingernails, Alex did further damage as he mimicked her actions. She grabbed his hands and made him stop. "Take your time, go slow...and about the lotion. Don't let my hands get like these." She rubbed his palms together, creating a grating noise.

"Yeah, like my biggest worry is hand lotion right now."

After ma.s.sive grunts and groans, several attempts and a few more snags, Alex had wriggled his hips enough to get the waist where it belonged. "I never knew what you women go through. I am so glad I was born a male." He dipped his feet back into the shoes. "Satisfied?"

"Not hardly! Let's do something with that hair."

He followed her into the bathroom and sat on the commode while she gave him styling instructions. He rolled his eyes and acted like he cared.

She toyed with one last stray wisp. "Okay, that looks pretty good." She reached for a tall can. "Close your eyes while I spray."

Alex squeezed his eyes closed.

Obviously knowing her own hair, she administered a hearty dose of hair spray. "There! It's actually easier to do my hair from this perspective," she said as she stood back and admired the finished product.

Alex went into a coughing spasm. "Are you trying to asphyxiate me?"

"Quit complaining. Now, for makeup."

"Oh, no way!" He tried to stand.

She used her new-found strength and pushed him down. "There is no way you are leaving this room without at least blush and mascara."

"Oh Christ ... if I must." He closed his eyes while she worked her magic.

Cynthia hunched over him as she coated his lashes. "Quit blinking. This isn't as easy as it appears."

"Why couldn't you be a natural beauty?"

"Watch it, buddy." She stood back and again surveyed her handiwork. "You look fabulous. A little lipstick and you're good to go."

"Will that be the last of the torture, or do you have more in mind?"

"Lipstick and that's it." She handed him a tube. "Pucker up."

Slump-shouldered, Alex stood before the mirror "What now?" he said through pursed lips.

"Just apply the color to the lips and then blot them together."

Alex did as he was instructed. "How's this?"

"Perfect. Very good for a first attempt."

"G.o.d, I hope it's my last." He turned and looked at her. "Okay, your turn, and take the toilet paper off your face."

Cynthia sat and let Alex wet and comb his hair. In comparison, it took no time at all. "That's it?" she questioned.

"Yep. Check it out."

She peered in the mirror as she peeled the last pieces of tissue from his face. "Okay, so it takes you a lot less time to get ready than me. I'm beginning to think women got the raw end of the deal."

"It may surprise you, but I think I agree." He followed her into the living room.

Tension built as the moment of truth drew near. While wringing his hands, Alex gave her a refresher course in what they had already covered.

"Okay ... remember! Your partner's name is Mike. His wife is Mich.e.l.le. You're working on the disappearance case. Two dead now, two missing. And don't forget the confidential things I told you about the victims. And to think I wasn't going to share it with you. Any questions?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "No, I think I'm thoroughly confused. Oh, yeah, what was your locker number again?"

"Thirty-two, and remember what we talked about. You clip the holster to your belt with the little leather bands, make sure the safety is on the gun, and for G.o.d's sake, try to think like a guy."

She tilted her head and stared at him. "Why don't you just ask me to walk on the moon? It's about as easy."

"Any last minute instructions from you?"

She thought for a moment. " Since you insist you lack math skills, perhaps it would be best for you to just try to look busy and bring the work home for me to do each night. Oh, and keep your knees together when you sit and try to walk like a lady."

He laughed. "I'm giving you instructions about a weapon and all you worry about is whether or not I keep my legs together." He glanced at the clock. "I've gotta go, right?"

"Yes." She shoved him toward the door. "Don't be late ... and, no farting or belching!"

Alex's mind spun. Too many things to remember. Pa.s.sing gas he could control, but how about all the other things he couldn't. What if she shot someone on accident? What if...the possibilities were too horrible to imagine.

Chapter Seven.

Alex reminded himself of all the things Cynthia had ingrained in his mind as he walked out into the hallway and down the stairs. Little steps, little steps, little steps. A gentle sway of the hips. Walk like a lady. Another tenant joined him just as he reached the first floor landing. The man was normal height, although his excess weight made him appear much shorter. Balding, with a pointed nose, his beady eyes never left Alex. Trying to maintain a ladylike composure, Alex smiled politely. "Good morning."

"Hi there, good-lookin'. How come I've never seen you before?"

Holy cow, the creep was flirting with him. Alex continued to remain calm. "I'm fairly new to The Cairns."

"Well, my name's Thomas Carpenter. What's yours?"

The seedy little man couldn't possibly believe women would find him attractive, but still Alex forced himself to be polite. "Cynthia Freitas, but...you'll have to excuse me, Thomas, I'm running late. Nice meeting you." Alex hurried out the front door before the man could utter another word.

The walk to the BART station was mostly uphill, and by the time Alex got there he gasped for breath. The demands of police work kept him in good physical condition so feeling winded after a little jaunt was totally out of character. While waiting on the train platform with a crowd of other pa.s.sengers, he glanced down at his feet. The stupid shoes he wore caused his state of breathlessness, and adding to his discomfort, cold air swirled around his bare legs and crept up his skirt. He shivered.

A painful cramp seized his calf and verified his suspicions. Although he walked on female legs, something in his brain kept him from walking like a lady. Who would guess what lengths of discomfort women went through to look stylish? He bent and kneaded his muscle, hoping the spasm would release. It soon eased. If only he could ma.s.sage his temples and make the confusion go away.

His mind raced with all the things he needed to remember: her office...first floor, third door on the right. The yellow folder held her current project and computer diskette. The plan: act busy and bring everything home.

The train arrived, and the swift-moving ma.s.s of people in search of seats swept inside. He feigned a coquettish smile when a gentleman stood and volunteered his seat. Feeling a tad guilty, Alex accepted, thinking it was much better than standing in unfamiliar, and totally uncomfortable, shoes.

He eyed the men suspiciously and wondered about the ident.i.ty of the serial kidnapper. Although lost in Cynthia's body, his determination to find the killer fueled his every thought. The short hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the realization he had become fair game in the flash of an electric jolt. He'd never felt quite so vulnerable...and uncomfortable.

Five stations later, he was still grumbling about Cynthia's shoes. His Charlie horse had eased, but threatened to return. When he disembarked, he stepped onto the platform, still nursing his leg cramp. The thought of what lay ahead wore heavily on his mind. He should have worn high heels, he might have broken an ankle and at least had an excuse to miss work. If he hadn't tried to be so suave in the first place and make first base with Cynthia, he wouldn't be in this position now. So much for being a Don Juan.

As much as he hated to, Alex followed Cynthia's directions. Standing on Center Street, he glanced up at the name on the building. Harris and Morgan, Accountants.

"Well, here I am," he muttered, as he took a deep breath and walked in the door. He stood for a moment and surveyed the interior. Not bad if you liked being confined. Counting doors as he went, he started down the hallway and stopped at the third door. He reached for the k.n.o.b.

Just as he was about to enter, a skinny woman with mousy, brown hair and eyegla.s.ses resembling a 747-jet windshield approached. "Good morning, Cynthia."

Alex's mind raced, trying to recall the descriptions and names of Cynthia's coworkers. Stuart was the short guy with gla.s.ses. This certainly wasn't Frank nor Linda the gal with blonde hair. Oh, s.h.i.t, he couldn't remember. "Call her sweetie," his inner voice commanded. "All women call each other that."

After wishing "sweetie" a good morning, he darted into Cynthia's office and closed the door. Leaning against it, he released a pent up breath.

File cabinets lined the wall to the side of a large oak desk. Everything was neat and tidy just like Cynthia's apartment. The only difference...the walls were newly painted in a neutral color. On a side wall, Cynthia, or perhaps someone else, had hung a large scenic poster of the ocean. The breaking waves looked so realistic, Alex expected to feel the sea spray.

A stack of folders rested on the corner of the desk just as Cynthia had described. A calculator, a stapler and a pencil cup sat next to her nameplate, and on the wall behind her desk hung her diploma. Her computer sat beneath it. When Alex was satisfied that Miz Sweetie wasn't following him in, he walked over and pulled out Cynthia's chair and sat.

He plucked out a pencil just in case someone walked in. A freshly-sharpened number two was certainly something an accountant would be holding. Then taking the top folder from the stack, he opened it and studied the entries on the enclosed ledger sheet. "Hmm...makes no sense at all." He raised a brow as he realized he looked at someone's budget. "Holy c.r.a.p, look at all that money. This guy is loaded." He gave a low whistle.

The open folder lay next to the pencil in preparation for any unsuspected visitors, but he was way out of his league. Computer programs were not his forte. He knew nothing about spreadsheets or equity reports, let alone how to put in the correct equations to arrive at totals. With any luck, he wouldn't have to demonstrate skills he sorely lacked.

He rummaged through Cynthia's top desk drawer and found nothing out of the ordinary. More pencils, papers, calculator tape, boring stuff. Inside the bottom drawer, he found a box of tampons and a new package of panty hose. Obviously her emergency stash, but not the chocolate he hoped for. Engulfed by feelings of privacy intrusion, he pushed the drawer closed and leaned back in her chair.