One Night At Fat Jack’s
EPILOGUE:
Post-Game Cleanup
Ingrid blinked. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d gotten back here, to the pool hall and bar where she’d been the previous afternoon and evening. There was a car behind her, with a guy sitting in the driver’s seat: had he driven her? The car didn’t look like a cab, though.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She could see her own car parked down the street. She breathed a sigh of relief: for a horrible moment, she’d been afraid someone might have ripped it off.
She snorted, annoyed at herself. If somebody had, it would have been no more than she deserved. She couldn’t imagine that she’d gotten drunk enough to black out, but she really had no idea what had happened after she’d whipped that oaf—Tony, had that been his name?—at pool. She’d just have to remember to be more careful.
A grinning George Custer watched Ingrid head down the street. Already her final programming was kicking in. She’d glanced back at him for a moment, mere seconds after getting out of his car, and her gaze had swept over him and his vehicle as if she’d never seen either one of them before. And as soon as she got home, she wouldn’t even remember having been at Fat Jack’s. She wouldn’t even remember the name of the place.
Who was it—Henry Kissinger? He wasn’t sure—who was supposed to have said that power was the ultimate aphrodisiac? George’s grin broadened. It certainly turned him on to have a babe like Ingrid in his power as she had been last night!
Ingrid got into her car, fumbled the key into the ignition and started the engine. All she really wanted right now was to go home. She didn’t really feel hung over, but she was tired, as if she’d been exercising hard. It was a good thing it was Saturday; she didn’t think she’d have gotten much work done at the office today, the way she felt.
As she drove away, headed back to her apartment, the blonde continued to scold herself. Sure, it was fun to show up those macho assholes by beating them at their own game, but if she was going to get blotto drunk in the process, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. Who could tell what might happen? Maybe I’d better lay off, she told herself once more.
Finally she was home. She pulled into her usual parking slot—luckily, nobody had taken advantage of her car’s overnight absence to occupy it—and cut the motor. She got out of the car and headed inside.
As she stepped through the door of her fifth-floor apartment, Ingrid shook her head. She had the oddest feeling all of a sudden, as if she’d forgotten something. She had no idea what it was, though—and after all, how important could it have been if she’d let it slip out of her mind like that?
She sighed. She could hardly remember what she’d done last night, come to that. All she knew was that it had been a plain-vanilla evening, boring as hell, home alone here in her apartment.
Maybe next Friday she’d go out on the town. She deserved it, after all.
George Custer was whistling as he went through his front door. Life was good. Ever since he’d discovered his hypnotic technique, he’d had the kind of sex life most guys could only dream of. And so what if he was taking advantage of his “dates?” It wasn’t as if the beautiful but stuck-up types he went after didn’t deserve it, after all.