Culture Shock Part 8

"No, I'll do the dishes," she mumbled.

Alex tied the top of the garbage bag shut and hefted the trash over his shoulder.

Her stare caught his attention. "What now?"

She shook her head. "That isn't the way a lady carries a trash bag."

"A lady, a lady, a lady," he mimicked her. "I never realized how many responsibilities a lady has." He tugged the bag from his shoulder and hugged it. "Is this better?"

"Much. Be careful not to let the plastic tear."

He rolled his eyes. "How in the world did I ever manage to empty my own trash without your guidance?"

"Sooorrryyy, I was only trying to help." She took a deep breath and tried to figure out why they were arguing with one another. "Alex..."

"You know, being you is cramping my style," he said as he reached the door.

That did it. So much for trying to be nice. "How can that be?" She c.o.c.ked her head. "I'm having the time of my life being you. I never knew what I was missing by not having a hairy chest."

"Okay, I surrender. You may look like me, but you act just like a frustrated female and I'm sorry I engaged you. We all know there's no winning that war. And you should be nicer to me. I bought the lock for your door since you never seem to find time."

"So sue me!" she snapped. "I don't have a mind like a steel trap which you undoubtedly do. You've done nothing but nag me about it since I mentioned it."

He rested the garbage bag at his feet. "I'm not doing it to be a pain. I'm concerned. Didn't looking at those pictures today make an impression on you? The victim never had a chance to become more security conscious, but you do."

She grasped the back of her neck and stared at the ceiling. "You forget I was raised where people still leave their cars keys dangling from the ignition and sleep with the windows open."

"Well, Dorothy, you aren't in Kansas anymore. Welcome to the real world."

"Nebraska ... not Kansas," Cynthia snapped.

"Wherever! I just can't win with you."

Sweeping up the sack with one arm, Alex opened the door with the other. "I can't very well do anything mechanical with these stupid fingernails of yours, so I guess I'll call the super and tell him I have the part and he needs to install it."

"Okay, okay! You made your point. Call him already." She picked up the phone and shoved it toward him. "Since you reneged on fixing it yourself."

Alex walked out the door and, in her opinion, did his best female impersonation yet. Tossing her long tresses from side-to-side, he turned and held up a limp wrist. "I'd do it for you right this minute, but I'm afraid I'd break a nail."

She stuck her tongue out and slammed the door.

Alex stopped for a moment in the hallway and pondered what had just happened. Why all the sniping? He'd apologize and start over when he came back up. If they didn't work together, it would only make things harder on both of them.

He descended the stairs to the landing and took the side door to the alley. When he exited, he almost ran smack into the arms of Thomas Carpenter. The smell of his foul breath blasted Alex in the face. He stepped back. "Excuse me."

"Well, well. Miz Freitas...or may I call you Cynthia?" Thomas cooed with all the charm of a viper. "This must be fate, meeting two times in one day." He reached to take Alex's hand.

The beads of sweat across Thomas Carpenter's brow glistened under the streetlight and, beneath his pointy nose, his smile displayed jagged and yellowed teeth. Alex pulled his hand away and restrained the desire to punch Carpenter in one of his beady little eyes. Alex wanted no part of fate that involved this slime bag, but he pasted on a fake smile and composed himself. "Well, h.e.l.lo again, Mr. Carpenter."

"You didn't answer me," Carpenter said in a sing-song voice. "May I call you, Cynthia?"

The man's chintzy advances were annoying, and, when he planted his obese self in the path to the dumpster, Alex's hackles rose. "I suppose you can call me Cynthia," he said through gritted teeth, "but if you'll excuse me, I need to make a trash deposit and get back. I have work to do tonight."

Thomas Carpenter stepped aside, but only enough so Alex would have to brush way too close for comfort. With a jarring elbow jab, Alex persuaded him to move further. He fluttered Cynthia's eyelashes. "Now, Mr. Carpenter, I'm not quite that thin."

The man grimaced and clutched his side for a moment. His pained look melted into a smile. "Might I phone you sometime, Cynthia? Perhaps we could have dinner together."

Did nothing discourage the man? Alex almost laughed. He wanted to say, when pigs fly out of my b.u.t.t, but he maintained a ladylike demeanor. "Oh, I'm afraid not. I'm...I'm engaged." He dropped his trash in the dumpster and turned. "Yes, I'm engaged." He repeated the lie, shocked that of all the excuses he could come up, he choose that one.

"Well, who is the lucky fellow, if I might ask?"

"Alex. Alex Carlyle. A good-looking ... brute of a man ... and a very jealous policeman."

"Oh, pity for me."

"Yes, 'tis a pity. But, thank you so much for the offer. I do have to run. Ta-Ta."

Alex hurried back upstairs. Where the h.e.l.l had *ta ta' come from? He'd used the phrase in plural form before to describe a woman's anatomy, but never as a parting statement.

Once back inside the apartment, he leaned against the closed door, huffing from the climb up the stairs. "You wouldn't believe what just happened to me."

Cynthia turned from the sink, her hands covered with bubbles. "What?"

Her demeanor had mellowed. Maybe she, too, had decided fighting was nonproductive.

He dared not broach the subject and incur her wrath again. "I ran into that same creep I met this morning. Thomas Carpenter. I can't wait 'til you get a chance to meet him."

"Oh, really? Who is he?"

"Evidently he lives in this building. I've never seen him before, but twice today he made a pa.s.s at me...well, actually at you. G.o.d, how do you women put up with pigs like that?"

She grinned at him. "I'll let you know. I'm hanging out with a whole bunch of them right now. It's not exactly a sty...I believe it's called a locker room."

Alex trudged up the street toward The Cairns. The trek from the BART station sometime seemed much longer than others. This was one of those days. He had made an unfortunate choice of Cynthia's shoe selection and his feet killed him. For the past couple of days he had sensed someone was following him, but when he turned to look, there was never anyone there. Eerie. He chalked it up to an overactive imagination. How could he possibly be thinking straight under the circ.u.mstances?

As he rounded the corner onto his street, he was surprised to see two patrol cars parked in front of the building. Flashing red lights bounced off the aged-brick walls and lit up the growing darkness, and, although the sight was familiar, it wasn't something he usually saw in front of his own residence.

Despite his aching arches and shins, Alex picked up the pace and hurried past the black and whites and into the building. From habit, he scanned the numbers painted on the vehicles and recognized one as his own squad car.

A niggling fear crept into his mind and he tried to quell it. There were other tenants in the building, so there was no reason to expect the officers were even on his floor. Somehow, he didn't believe his own rationale.

How he wished he had his own long legs so he could take the stairs two at a time as he usually did. But making the best of Cynthia's short ones, he scampered up the steps, his pumps thudding against each one and echoing in the stairwell as he went.

His heart skipped a beat and he took a deep breath when he saw Cynthia's front door standing wide open. He peeked around the corner at the four officers inside, one of them being Cyn. The place was a mess; papers scattered everywhere and all the drawers stood open. At least he was relieved to see Cynthia was okay. Alex cleared his throat to get their attention. "Uh! h.e.l.lo."

She was the first to turn and acknowledge him. "Are you the tenant, Ma'am?" she asked in a manner more convincing than he expected. She definitely knew how to play the part. But why was she acting as though she didn't know him? Maybe her shame of their shared apartment building kept her from revealing where he lived.

"Uh, yes. Can you tell me what happened here?" He played along.

"Most likely just a routine burglary. One of your neighbors noticed the door open and called us."

Alex tried to think how a woman would react. He lightly smacked his palm against his cheek. "Oh, my!"

Two of the officers brushed past him and left, leaving only Cynthia and Mike. "We'll need you to go through and note anything that may have been taken so we can file our report." Cyn carried on the charade, but gave him a warning look. Her tone was very professional.

"Oh, yes, sir, officer. I certainly will, officer, sir. I hope they didn't get all my diamonds." He meandered into the bedroom.

Cynthia followed, leaving Mike in the living room. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he stayed. "Stop acting like an idiot," she whispered. "I don't talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a dim-witted southern belle," she said, motioning for him to lower his voice.

"Sorry," he complied. "I was just trying to be sweet and feminine."

Mike stuck his head around the corner. "Anything missing?"

Startled, Cynthia instantly went back to making notes on her clipboard, while Alex continued with his mock search of Cynthia's belongings. He turned and purposely cast a sweet smile in Mike's direction. "Nothing that I see, Officer."

Alex turned back just in time to see Cynthia roll her eyes.

He hadn't realized how much he missed working with Mike. What would he think if he knew his current partner was really a woman trapped in a man's body? It was a sure bet he wouldn't believe it. He wasn't sure he did.

To further annoy Cynthia, he brazenly batted his eyelashes at Mike, poured on the sugar. "But, can I call you if I do discover something is missing?"

Just as Alex expected, his partner reacted to Cynthia's shapely body and pretty face. He might be married, but he wasn't dead. A silly grin formed on his face. "Why, sure you can." Oozing charm, he straightened his tie. "I'll give you my card."

Alex wanted to kick Mike in the a.s.s. If his wife could only see him now, she'd give him more than a card.

"Oh, darn. I notice you have a great big ol' wedding ring on your finger." Reverting back to his southern-belle accent, Alex gave his partner a gentle reminder, enjoying the opportunity to take the wind out of Mike's sails.

Alex returned his gaze to Cynthia. It was her turn. She deserved something for buying such c.r.a.ppy shoes.

"You know, Officer, I'm sure this was all my fault. If I'd just listened to my friend and had my deadbolt fixed this wouldn't have happened." He purposely emphasized key words.

If looks could kill, he would have dropped on the spot. He'd pushed things a little too far.

Her jaw visibly tightened. "Sounds like you have a very intelligent friend. You'd better listen and take care of that right away."

Now he'd cooked his own goose. He'd had his fun but Cynthia was going to be p.i.s.sed when she got off duty, and he'd have to hear all about it.

As Cynthia and Mike walked out the door, Mike b.u.mped into the building super and almost bowled him over. He grabbed the handyman's arm and kept him upright. "Wow, excuse me, sir. I didn't see you."

The super's eyes turned wide and he stiffened. "It's okay," he mumbled. "No harm. I was just making a service call down the hall." He hurried away.

Cynthia turned to her partner. "Service call? Right! I live in this building and believe me, there is no service."

She wanted to slap herself for revealing too much.

"Where you live is no secret. Your address is on file, remember?" He scanned the corridor walls and the outdated tiles on the floor. It's not the Ritz is it?" Mike smiled.

"Far from it."

"Do tell...what apartment does your little filly live in? If she's better looking than the babe we just left, I wanna see her."

Cynthia steered Mike toward the stairs. "Never you mind. We're done here."

Chapter Nine.

The annoying alarm sounded. Alex awoke with a terrible stomachache. Not the start to the day he had hoped for since he spent all evening helping Cynthia clean up the mess from the break-in and listening to her berate his actions. Hopefully, the crime had been the act of a random burglar. He'd worried all night it might have been more, but his concern at the moment was this awful pain. He grasped his belly as the aching intensified.

Forcing himself out of bed, he stumbled to the bathroom. When he used the toilet tissue, a crimson stain caught his attention. "Oh, my G.o.d, what's wrong?"

Despite his heart climbing into his throat, he managed to draw in a deep breath. The cause of the blood dawned on him, he was having a period. "Oh for Christ's sake, I don't believe this." He looked upward. "Why do you hate me?"

Luckily, he wasn't totally ignorant. After all, he'd lived with a woman before, and there was absolutely nothing that wasn't advertised on TV these days. Nothing was sacred. How many times had he been forced to watch tampon commercials and other feminine hygiene products?

Rummaging under the sink, he searched for whatever it was Cynthia used during her monthly. He found the very item he'd seen advertised so often. Pulling a cylinder from the box, he grimaced and began reading the instructions on the back of the carton.

He squinted at the small print. "Warning: Do not insert cardboard cylinder." That seemed rather obvious to him, but then hairdryers came with warnings not to use them in the bathtub or shower. Obviously there were some ignorant people in the world.

But ... what the h.e.l.l did he do with the string? He dangled the tampon in the air and studied it for a moment, then following the diagram, he propped one foot on the closed toilet lid, but hesitated. "I can't do this." How did a woman...especially one with long talons?

Reality gave him a stern reminder. Using the tampon was a necessary evil given his situation. With clenched teeth and squinted eyes, he probed for an opening and inserted the cotton torpedo, leaving the string dangling for removal. A queasy feeling seized him, and he plopped down on the commode. This was the last time he was going through this torture. He had to find a way to get back into his own skin and the comfort he missed so much.

Cynthia stopped by on her way to work and found Alex, still clad in a bathrobe and, curled in a fetal position on the couch. She arched a brow at him. "Why aren't you ready to go?"

He glared up at her. "You started your period. My stomach is killing me."

"Oh, is that all?" She clucked her tongue against her teeth. "It's called cramps. Now you know what it feels like. Get up and get dressed."

He adjusted his position and closed his eyes. "I'd prefer not to. I think I'm dying."

She bent over and shoved her face close to his. "No one ever died of cramps. Get up!"

"I can't," he whined.