Little black riding hood

It's been a very intense couple of weeks, for reasons you can guess but of course I can't tell you.

Friday night I was totally fried when I finally got some freedom, did some window-shopping and was walking home. But not so fried that my sixth sense didn't tell me I was being followed. And badly, at that. This was an amateur. So I didn't head in the direction of home, walked instead a long way down Pennsylvania Avenue and let the crowds thin out. I stepped into an alley and waited. My gut was tight but I was cool and focused. I unsnapped the retention snap on the holster holding my SIG Sauer (for you gun nuts, I was wearing my Galco Silhouette highride, a very nice accessory for my pants suit). When the figure passed me, I whispered, just loud enough.

"Hi, there."

The figure jumped in surprise and faced me. Beneath the black hood of the raincoat was...Robin.

"Amber..." she sputtered.

"Why are you following me?

"I'm not..." I saw the red of her face even in the dim light. Then her expression changed and she advanced toward me in the alley, her body quaking with anger.

"You fucked my husband!" she shouted.

Fuck

I know, I know. You warned me, and I had an uneasy feeling about out solitary romp. I took a step back and lied. I'm usually a very good liar.

"Lying little bitch!" she screamed. "I saw the video on his computer!"

Fuck, fuck. He taped us.

"Look Robin," I said. "James told me you were OK with this, and you have your own boy toy on the side..."

"I...do...not!"

I'm usually very good at defusing situations. But she just slapped me, hard. I felt I had to let her do it. But it was no girl slap — I almost felt some dental work start to come loose. When she tried it again, I grabbed her wrist, turned her, put an arm lock on her and kicked her behind the knee, dropping her to the pavement, face down. Then I heard the blip of the siren and saw the walls reflecting the emergency lights.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It was a DC police cruiser, pulled to the curb. Two officers were getting out of the car.

"Stay," I commanded Robin. Then I walked (in a non-threatening manner) to the cops and discreetly showed them my credentials. They went away, silently resenting the feds. I walked back to Robin, who was on her knee crying. I helped her up.

As we stood there, she cried and told me how they had started swinging after their kids had grown up and left the house, how she was very reluctant at first but grew to enjoy it, but how each had pledged to do no cheating on the side.

I'd like to tell you that I took her back to my place, made us drinks and we made passionate make-up girl love. But that didn't happen.

"He's in love with you, Amber," she blubbered. "I don't want to lose him!"

If that was true, she had bigger problems than me. She's a pretty woman worried that she's losing her looks. If James is screwing me on the side, who else might he be doing? I am that most threatening thing to a married woman: A single woman who men want to fuck. And a redhead. But all I could promise was that I wouldn't see him again. As she pulled up her black hood and hailed a cab, I knew I wouldn't be getting any more invitations to the lifestyle club. Now I just need to call in a favor and get the asshole's video erased before it ends up on the Web.