A bel y flutter? What was that al about?
“What?” I snapped and ignored my bel y.
“You’re lyin’.”
“I am not lying,” I lied again.
He shook his head.
Then, to my surprise, he let me go and stepped back.
I stood there, feeling weirdly bereft.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I waited then waited more.
“Wel , finish it,” I demanded when he didn’t say anything.
“I get the feelin’ I’l see you again,” he told me.
Oh crap.
I didn’t figure that was good at al .
He pul ed my gun out of his jeans, released the clip and with a casual, over arm throw, he tossed it wel away. Then he leaned in, shoved the gun in the waistband of my cords, right in front, by my hipbone.
right in front, by my hipbone.
Then he turned, walked away, threw a muscled thigh over his Harley and roared off.
I stared until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Then I pul ed my gun out, lifted up my sweater and checked to see if there was a mark where his hand slid against me.
I did this because it stil burned.
*
I parked Hazel (my vintage, red Camaro) in the garage behind my house, scanning my mirrors while the door came down just to be certain I was safe. These days there was no tel ing. I got out of Hazel and did the routine of walking the fifteen feet from the garage to the backdoor. Eyes open, gun at the ready (I had an extra clip in my glove compartment), listening and praying no one was out to get me.
I unlocked the door and walked through the shared back room of my duplex where Nick and I kept our washer and dryer, an extra freezer, tools, old paint cans and the kitty litter which Boo, my cat, could access through the cat flap in my backdoor.
I unlocked that door, unarmed the alarm and flipped the light switch to my retro kitchen. Pink metal cabinets, pink fridge, pink oven door, huge black and white diamond tiles patterning the floor. One wal was brick, the rest painted steel gray. It was cool as shit but not on purpose, only that it had been there so long, it had come back into fashion. I’d bought a high, fifties-style black Formica-topped table with gleaming stainless steel sides and kickass retro stools with black leather swivel seats because the kitchen demanded it.
Boo approached from the other door and began immediately to tel me about his day.
My cat was black with dense, soft fur and yel ow eyes.
He was too fat, unbelievably proud and he was the only clumsy cat I’d ever known. Boo pretended he meant to fal over and miss his leaps from furniture to table or whatever, but he was just not coordinated. At al .
“Meow, meow, meow. Meow meow. Meoow, ” Boo told me, obviously having a ful day and feeling I needed to be kept apprised of every second of it.
I threw my gun and bag on the table and swiped him off the floor.
“Meow! ” Boo protested.
“Shut up, Boo. Mommy’s had a very bad day. She did something stupid, then got cornered by a hot guy and now she’s pretty much fucked.”
“Meow,” Boo replied, thinking his news was more important than mine.
To shut him up I gave him kitty treats, feeding him from fingers to fangs.
This made him happy until I stopped giving him treats and he complained, “Meow.”
“That’s it,” I told him, “only three or the vet is going to yel at me again.”
“Meow,” Boo didn’t care what the vet thought.
“Whatever,” I wasn’t in the mood to argue with Boo.
I dropped my cat, walked into the hal and pul ed off my boots.
Nick owned the whole of the duplex; he let me stay in my side for half the mortgage, kind of. Even though I was now twenty-six (nearly twenty-seven), he didn’t like me paying for anything, even my rent. So, I put it in a bank account each month and gave him a check on New Year’s Day every year. He tore up the check so the money just sat there earning interest.
Sometimes you just didn’t argue with Nick.
The duplexes were weird. They weren’t in the greatest part of town, though I thought it was pretty or, at least, part of it was. It was official y Baker Historical District but the not-so-good part.
We were on Elati and had a park in front of our house but there was a subsidized high-rise apartment building on one side of the park and a low-rent apartment building across the park opposite it.
Our house was historical y registered and Nick kept it in great condition, regardless of the ‘hood. He’d redone his side, knocked out wal s, put in a bedroom and tore out his pink kitchen.