Just Like a Man by Elizabeth Bevarly Page B

stood outside Victoria's Secret, gazing through the display windows at the scantily clad dress forms that didn't even have a head or limbs, mainlining thongs and garter belts.
He used to be such a nice, normal guy,
they'd all say,
but now he's got a V-string on his back.
    Tucking the lacy garment back into his pocket, Michael unzipped and shed his coveralls, revealing blue jeans and a lightweight, oatmeal-colored sweater beneath. Then he checked all his equipment to be sure it was still taping, and, deciding not to question his actions, he left the safety of his hideout and headed for Hannah's house. Yes, he could have just activated the living room cam to see what she was doing, but something in him revolted at the thought, because it was so, well, revolting. That seemed like such an extreme—and unnecessary—invasion of her privacy, and he didn't want to be guilty of that.
    No, he'd much rather invade her privacy in person.
    The rain had finally stopped falling, but the air was cumbrous and chill with the lingering damp. The sun had set, smudging the sky a murky soot, but a street lamp on the corner spilled bilious light over much of Hannah's front yard. Michael cleared the four porch steps in two quick strides, then, before second thoughts prevented him, he pushed his thumb against the doorbell. Instead of a melodic
ding-dong,
a shrill, quick buzz shot through the house on the other side of the door. The jerky sound was at odds with his quiet surroundings, and the juxtaposition made him even edgier. After a moment of silence, he heard the creak of hardwood flooring as someone approached. Another moment passed in silence as Hannah, he was certain, viewed him through the peephole and tried to figure out where the hell he had come from and what the hell he was doing here. Then, finally, the door opened, a scant few inches, and her face appeared on the other side.
    Only then did Michael realize what a stupid thing he was doing. How on earth was he supposed to explain his arrival at her front door at this hour of the night? Not that it was that late—it couldn't be much past eight—but it
was
night, and normally, parents didn't visit the director of their child's school at night. Nor did they visit the director of their child's school at home. Nor did they show up without calling first. Nor did they show up without a vehicle of some kind. What the hell had he been thinking?
    Oh, right. He hadn't been thinking. He'd been sniffing Hannah's panties. So that explained that. And there were thick shrubs obscuring the driveway, so maybe she wouldn't notice the absence of a car. How to explain the rest of it, though…
    "Uh, hi," he began eloquently. And for the life of him, he could think of not one single additional thing to say. So he stood there foolishly, hoping maybe this was all just a hallucination brought about by a lingerie high.
    Hannah eyed him warily for a moment before replying, and when she finally did, her words were tinged with suspicion. "Hello. Mr. Sawyer. What brings you out?"
    So it wasn't a hallucination. Her voice was too clear, too pure, too reserved for it to be anything other than the real thing. He strove for a lighthearted, faintly comedic tone when he said, "Would you believe I was just in the neighborhood?"
    "No."
    He waited for her to elaborate… but she didn't. So much for lighthearted and faintly comedic. "Well, then," he tried again, "would you believe I needed to talk to you about Alex and it couldn't wait?"
    Oh, fine,
he told himself derisively.
Just use your son to further your own treacherous agenda, why don't you ? Some father you are.
But then he realized maybe he
did
want to talk to Hannah about Alex. Maybe.
    "I might believe that," she said, interrupting his self-contempt. Not that he wasn't grateful. "But I don't know why you'd drive all the way to my house when you could have picked up the phone," she added. "For that matter, I don't know why you wouldn't call me at work. During the