The Good Cop Read Free

did. It was one of his favorite games, and I came to think of it as “The Tease.” We seemed to play it every time my testosterone level was about to blow the top of my head off. It was excruciating but in the long run…infinitely worth it.
    He stepped back, holding me by the shoulders at arms’ length, looking at me with that slightly knit-eyebrow, slightly cocked-head expression that I seem to recall seeing on lion tamers’ faces when they want their charges to pay close attention. Slowly, still holding my right shoulder with one hand, he inched his other hand down the front of my shirt and, in slow motion, unbuttoned each button. Then he returned his hand to my shoulder and pulled me slowly toward him. When our faces were about three inches apart, he slowly opened his mouth and in what seemed like super-slow motion, closed the gap between us.
    When he sensed I was getting a little too eager, he broke the kiss and backed away. Now it was my turn, and I echoed his unbuttoning routine. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster, but I knew it was part of the game, so I did it. My turn to repeat the slow-motion kiss. When he broke it off— he had to, because I certainly wasn’t about to—I took a step forward and he took a step back. It was all part of a symbolic dance which guided us slowly toward the bedroom: one action (shirt-tails pulled out of pants; shirts slid off shoulders and dropped on floor; belt buckles undone, etc.), one step at a time. After eight years, we still timed it perfectly.
    And by the time we reached the bed, we were in our shorts and I was about to explode. Neither one of us had said a single word, but we didn’t have to. Tom moved in front of me and pushed me gently back onto the bed, then slid my shorts off, then his, and slowly—really slowly, lowered himself on top of me.
    He rubbed the side of my face with his chin and I felt the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of my ear. Eight years, and I knew exactly what came next.
    “Foreplay over,” he whispered, and the lions came out to play.
    *
    I’d been invited to Tom and Lisa’s for dinner the following Friday, and the intervening week literally flew by. I was working for Glen O’Banyon gathering information on a patent infringement case with possible implications of fraud, which involved tracing down the paper trail of exactly which of the parties had gotten the basic product idea to whom and when. Hardly the kind of stuff that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, but I never minded working for O’Banyon because it paid pretty damned well.
    Tom had started his job at the Montero, but he called me at least three times during the week, which produced a strong teenage-testosterone response every time. I mean, it wasn’t as though I’d been exactly celibate for the past eight years—or even the past eight days, for that matter—but maybe there was a large element of reliving a very nice part of the past that made it special. I realized, too, that Tom had probably been the first guy I’d really thought I was in love with. I had no illusions about Tom being Mr. Right—I was afraid our lifestyles were just too different for that—but it was certainly a pleasant interlude.
    *
    Friday evening finally rolled around, and I left the office a little early so I could stop at the liquor store near home and pick up a really nice bottle of wine as a housewarming gift. A quick shower and change of clothes and I was ready. I was for some strange reason mildly nervous about seeing Lisa—and, I was pretty certain, Carol—again, but….
    It was a nice evening, so I decided to walk to their apartment rather than fight trying to find a parking place, and besides, I could use the exercise.
    When Tom had said “Spring and Warner” he meant Spring and Warner—the building was a relatively new high-rise on the southwest corner. I rang the buzzer, and after a wait of no more than three seconds, was buzzed through to the small