Dodge shook his head and left.
Jillian giggled to herself as she walked to the laundry room to see if there were clothes that needed folding or ironing. She brought the ironing board and pile of shirts to the kitchen so she could keep an eye on Lilith. The first shirt she laid on the ironing board was missing a button.
“Hmm … missing button. What are the chances you have a spare one?” Jillian smiled to herself. “Not that it would matter. I can hang kitchen cabinets and weld pipes but the simple task of sewing on a button is something I’ve never mastered. But ironing … ironing I can do.”
Chapter Fifteen
Day
Jessica Day was getting a second chance at life, a glimpse at normalcy again, all thanks to the good Dr. Luke Jones. Of course she was bound by verbal contract to no longer call him doctor, or Jones, or Lucas, or Lukey, or Lulu, or anything other than plain old Luke. It was like the sun refusing to shine after the rain, leaving the rainbow invisible. She felt certain that he popped little kids’ balloons, gave out toothbrushes at Halloween, and went to bed before the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve.
Their first unofficial counseling session resulted in her cleaning his kitchen sink and oven, then removing all the dishes from the cabinets and wiping the shelves down. Everything was spotless before she started, which made her job that much more difficult because he insisted she go through the motions like some sort of Mr. Miyagi training. She in turn got to talk about whatever she wanted to discuss or share. For some reason since the night of their agreement she hadn’t been in the mood again to talk about the kidnapping or anything related to it.
Jessica found herself running ten minutes late for their second meeting as she raced across town after work.
“You’re late.” Luke greeted her with a frown as she slipped off her heels.
“Astute observation, genius. I also forgot a change of clothes, so tonight can we stick to meaningless chores that can be performed in a tight skirt?”
“Do you sew?” Luke asked while walking toward his bedroom.
“No.”
“Do you iron?”
“Why? Do you have some boy scout badges that need to be ironed on to your button-down khaki before the next meeting?”
“Boy scout badges are stitched, not ironed on, and no that’s not why I’m asking.”
“The dry cleaners under starch your whitey tighties? Your hang low swaying despite your robotic gait?”
“Nice try. I cleaned out my sock drawer and found some old dress socks that I’m going to donate, but they’re a bit wrinkled so you’re going to iron them for me. Well … really more for the lucky recipients.”
“You’ve got to be kid—” The moment she turned the corner to his bedroom she saw the ironing board set up with a huge pile of argyle socks next to it.
“Some of the pairs are the same design, so make sure you match right and left ones together.” Luke sat in a leather chair by the window with his feet propped up on an ottoman.
“Are you high? There’s no such thing as right and left socks.” She held up two matching socks as if to prove her point.
Luke glanced up from the crossword puzzle he was working on. “Those are both left.”
“Oh my gosh! I knew it! I knew you were a whacked-out OCDer. I can’t believe they gave you a license to practice psychiatry.”
He stood and took the socks from her. “See how this area in both of these is worn thinner than the rest, both on the right side under the big toe? That’s how you know they are two left socks.” He handed them back before resuming his position by the window.
She plugged in the iron. “You need to get laid. Normal people don’t think like you. When was the last time you had sex?”
Luke ignored her. It was his usual MO when she tried to pry into his life.
“I bet you’re a missionary man. By the book: seven-point-five minutes of foreplay, thirty seconds of clitoral stimulation to get her lubed up, and exactly thirty five thrusts until climax, followed by ten minutes of spooning, a kiss on the cheek, and maybe even a gentlemanly ‘thank you’ before insisting she leave so you can get your necessary eight-point-five hours of sleep.”
Luke didn’t flinch.
“Do you suppose there’s a high demand for argyle socks at Goodwill? Do they even accept socks there? It’s like donating underwear. Really, who wants to risk athlete’s foot or toenail fungus? I don’t know … it freaks me out a little, like bowling allies. You ever get a pair of rental shoes that are still warm inside? How about hotel rooms, talk about crazy. I know the sheets and towels are washed, but at what temperature? When you dry your face with one do you ever wonder how many butt cracks that cotton has slid through?”