Screw It Read online

  In the office I share with Matt, I sit at my desk and boot up my laptop. Before Windows finishes doing its thing, Matt saunters in and sits down at his desk. I stand up and move my long legs to Matt’s desk. I put a hand on it, leaning in to have a look at the photos and his notes scribbled on his notepad.

  “Got photos, and there was no sign of a struggle. Forensics is running a tox screen and lifting prints off the pill bottle found on the nightstand. I got shit from the husband, but when the neighbor got there, I told the husband we’d be back on Monday to get his statement. By then, I think the shock will have worn off.” He shakes his head. “Shit, man, if I ever lost Krissy like that…”

  Pulling in air through my nose, I nod once. “Yeah.”

  His focus goes back to the notes, and mine do, too.

  My eyes roam over the evidence list. “No cell phone? No purse?”

  “I looked but couldn’t find them. Couldn’t ask the husband ’cause after we got the initial information, he freaked. He was already under sedation before I realized the purse and cell were MIA.”

  I make eye contact with Matt. “Right. We need to search the house for them.”

  “We’ll do that when we get his statement on Monday. Why don’t you pull her files and see if we can find a history of depression or drug use? Pull his file and bank accounts, too. The only thing I got outta him was that he came back from a business trip and found her dead. I’ll check airlines to confirm what he said is true.”

  “Will do.”

  Pushing off his desk, I make my way back to mine.

  By the end of the day and after a lot of research, this is looking just like a suicide, but the case does have its inconsistencies. On paper, she’s normal. She has a good job, husband has a good job, and they live well. There’s no history of depression, and other than a handful of speeding tickets and parking tickets between the two of them, there’s nothing else on their records. Generally, someone in her fifties with her background and life-standing wouldn’t take her own life, but unfortunately, it happens. It’s not the norm, but it does happen.

  Her name is on the pill bottle, and a visit to her doctor confirmed that she was taking the meds. Doc said with the traveling she did, her sleep schedule was a mess, so she was taking the pills to unmess her foggy, sleepless head.

  Matt’s long gone to his family by the time I shut down the computer.

  On my way home, I call my brother, Jed.

  “Hey, brother. What’s up?”

  “Got my first case.”

  “No shit? That’s awesome.”

  I grin. “Yeah.”

  “Daddy,” a little boy’s whiny voice sounds over the phone, stretching out the word. “I want to play Mario Kart.”

  My nephew, Nick, is five years old and already kicking ass at video games.

  “After dinner, buddy. Did you clean your room like Mommy said?”

  Silence.

  “Go clean your room.”

  I chuckle.

  “You won’t be laughing when your ass is in my position. Fuck, man, you’d think I was water-boarding them instead of telling them to clean up after themselves.”

  My chuckle turns into a laugh, even as my gut squeezes. I’m looking forward to a day when I can tell my son to clean his room.

  “Hey, before I forget to ask, can you watch the kids next Sunday? Anna and I are going with Shannon and Chad to see Poison.”

  I snort on my laughter. “Remember that time we went to see them and you—”

  “Don’t wanna remember, man. I was shitfaced.”

  “Yeah, you were.”

  “Dinner’s ready!” Anna’s shout is heard from the phone.

  Jed’s tone turns impatient. “Can you babysit?”

  “Fuck yeah, I can.” I grin.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “You say that like it’s a hardship, dude. Your kids are the shit.”

  His smile is heard in his voice. “Yeah, they are—when they’re not being told to clean their goddamn rooms.”

  “Right. Gotta let you go. I’m almost home, and I got myself a date to get ready for. What time do you want me there?”

  “Around seven.”

  “Sounds good. See you next week.”

  “Awesome. Later.”

  I sigh, tap my phone to end the call, and open the door to my truck. I slam the door shut and stride to the stairs of my apartment building. Once I make it to my place and open my door, I head to my room to change before my date with Stacy. As I do this, I’m hoping to fucking Christ that she is hot, not lazy, not crazy, not narcissistic, not too shy, and that she can hold a conversation that doesn’t involve me laying out how much of my paycheck she gets to spend. And, for fuck’s sake, I hope she’s someone I want to keep around.

  Karma Blows

  Sweat drips down my skin. An hour-long run in June slickens every inch of my body when I walk into my apartment. The grainy moisture pools in every crevice, including my minimal cleavage. My mind is emotionless, just how I like it. My throat screams for relief, so I grab a glass from my cabinet and fill it with tap water. After gulping down half the cup, I run the glass over my heated skin. Leaning against the counter, I go over my to-do list in my head.

  Shower.

  Perfect spicy egg sandwich.

  Work at Mario’s.

  Work at Hole.

  Keep an eye out for new dick.

  If not dead on my feet, look online for food trucks on sale.

  I shower quickly and dress in tight black pants and a cherry red Mario’s T-shirt. Unlike popular myth, the red goes great with my hair. Although I detest flowers, I’d liken the color combination to a rose and tiger lily arrangement. It’s complementary and beautiful.

  Bare feet padding across the floor¸ I head to the kitchen to check off the second item on the list.

  While I was in foster care, I decided the way I was going to make something of myself, proving that I was not a mess like my mother, was to open a food wagon. It’s not glamorous, but most importantly, I’ll be my own boss. Making everything from scratch will set me apart. For breakfast, I’ll have light, fluffy doughnuts and two types of egg sandwiches—one tongue-tingling spicy and one earthy, crunchy veggie. Wings, pizza, and buffalo-chicken bites will be available for football season. Meatball, steak, fried chicken, or veggie subs will be on the menu for lunch and dinner. All food will be homemade, and all will be awesome.

  I learned how to cook from my foster mother, Tammy.

  She said, “A good woman takes care of her family the way she knows how. Cooking a meal made with love is how I know to take care of my family.”

  A long, long way down the road, I’ll take that advice. For now, I’ll use my cooking skills to make money.

  Once my truck is up and off the ground, I’ll branch out and hire someone to run a second truck and then a third and then a fourth and so on. Before long, I’ll be spreading my trucks to other cities.

  I’ll build an empire.

  Then, I can relax, knowing no one who looks at me will see my mom.

  But first, I need to plan and save twenty-five grand.

  I pop an English muffin into the toaster oven, the door clanking when I snap it closed. Wrist flicking, I whisk an egg, and then I toss diced green peppers, a little salsa, a few dashes of cayenne pepper, and some crumbled bacon into a bowl. When everything is mixed together, I pour the combination into the heated pan. The mixture sizzles and bubbles as it cooks.

  I jump when there’s a knock at the door.

  Shit.

  The egg will burn if I leave it too long, so I dash to the door and check the peephole. I find Matt standing on the other side in his uniform, and I smile before unlocking the door and letting it swing open.

  “I’m in the middle of cooking. Close the door and lock it, will ya?” I call over my shoulder as I make my way back to the kitchen.

  “Sure thing, Bee,” he says.

  I smile to myself when he says, Bee, his nickname for me. I think it
’s cute, something a real brother would call his sister.

  As I grate some cheese, the door clicks closed, and the locks clonk home. Matt’s footsteps sound against the wood floor, indicating he’s joining me in the kitchen.

  “From that fantastic smell, I’d say you’re doing the spicy one this morning.”

  I grin as I sprinkle the cheddar cheese onto the nearly cooked egg. “Glad you’re here. You can tell me if this one’s perfect. I added more cayenne pepper.”

  “Girl, I told you the last one was fuckin’ awesome. I also told you perfect is the enemy of good enough.”

  I roll my eyes, grab a plate, take the muffin from the toaster, and set it down on the dish. “That expression is stupid. Why settle for good enough when you can have perfect?”

  His voice dips as he says, “Because perfect is unattainable. The only perfect person ever to be on this earth died two thousand years ago. Trying for perfection just means you’re wasting time working toward the unattainable while what you got is good enough.”

  I blow out a breath in a way that if I had bangs, they’d fly up. “I get what you’re saying, Matt. I do. But it feels like giving up. I can’t ever give up.” My tone is soft as I slide the finished egg concoction onto the English muffin.

  Silence stretches as I add the finishing touches and cut the sandwich in half.

  Finally, he nabs my head and plants a kiss on my temple. “I know, Bee.”

  I press my lips together, knowing that he thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am, but I’ve spent my entire adult life working toward perfect. I’m not about to change now.

  After I hand him half of the sandwich, he takes a bite and moans. “Damn, girl, this is good. I’d pay through the nose for this shit. Good thing you’re like my little sis, and I get this shit for free. You need to come up with something wicked for a name, like Becca’s Banging Bomb Bite.”

  I giggle before taking a bite. My mouth still full, I say, “That’s the worst name ever.” The biting hot flavors flood my mouth. The kick, the veggies are a perfect combo, but it could use a touch more bacon.

  “Never said I was creative.” He shoves the rest in his mouth.

  I take another bite before setting it down on my plate, and I start to clean up. “So, what’s up?”

  “Figured I’d swing by on my lunch break. I need a favor.”

  Matt worries about me, and he pops by often, but a favor is rare.

  “What do you need?”

  He sighs and gets down to it. “Are you busy next Sunday?”

  Sunday is my only day off at the bar, and he knows I like to keep the evening to myself to work on my business plans. “I get off work at Mario’s at six, but I have the rest of the night off,” I say, wiping down the counter.

  “Do you think you can babysit?”

  At the mention of hanging out with my girls, my business plans are forgotten, and I smile huge. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  He grins back. “Thanks, Bee. The girls will be excited.” He pulls away from me. “I’ll let you go, so you can get to work. I need to meet up with my new partner.”

  “Oh, you finally got assigned?” My tone rises at the end, indicating my surprise.

  Matt has been a detective for a few years now, and his previous partner retired last month.

  “Yeah. Good kid. Smart. I think we’ll work well together.”

  I give him a soft smile. I’m happy for him. “That’s great, Matt.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I’ll have Krissy give you a call.”

  “Sounds good.” I turn back to the counter and finish wiping it down with Lysol and a paper towel. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Right. Later, Bee.”

  His footsteps sound as he moves across the room toward the door, but before I hear the locks disengage, there’s another knock at the door. Whipping my head around to look over my shoulder, my eyebrows pull together. I have no idea who that could be. Matt and his family are the only people I know.

  Matt checks the peephole, snaps his head in my direction, and shoots up an eyebrow. I’ve seen that eyebrow shoot up a million times. It means the same thing every time.

  He’s saying silently, You’ve got some ’splainin’ to do, Lucy.

  Well, Matt wouldn’t say that. It’d be more like, You’d better tell me what the fuck is goin’ on, girl, and do it quick.

  His attention swings back, so he can unlock and open the door. After dropping the spray bottle and paper towel on the counter, I make my way to the door.

  My jaw drops when I see what’s surprised Matt so much. There’s a guy, who I assume is a flower delivery dude, holding what looks like three-dozen long-stemmed red roses. He shifts the ginormous bouquet to the side. “Rebecca Bailey?”

  “Uh…” I stutter and look at Matt.

  He shrugs.

  I turn back to the flower guy. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Awesome. Here ya go.” He steps forward and shoves the monstrosity in my arms.

  Jesus, this thing weighs a fuckload.

  The scent of roses assaults me. It punches me right in the gut in a way that if it were physical, I’d double over and drop to a knee. My blood warms and then simmers before turning to a rolling boil. I clench my teeth together as my muscles tense all over. I don’t like surprises. I don’t like getting a shit-ton of flowers and having no fucking clue who they’re from. I don’t even like flowers because they remind me of a cemetery. They awaken memories of going to the flower shop to pick up the flowers Tammy chose for my mama’s grave—every year. They bring me back to when I walked up to my mama’s grave and laid down those stupid red roses while hating every second because the reminder that my mama was gone, that my control was gone, slapped me in the face. Anyone who knows me understands that I hate flowers, especially red roses.

  Once the flower dude leaves, Matt closes the door.

  I say in a near whisper, “What. The. Fuck?”

  “Who are they from?” he asks, his tone gentle.

  I make my way to the couch and plop the flowers down on the beat-up coffee table, and I start searching for a card.

  I don’t answer Matt because I’m not sure, but I have a good guess.

  Rooting through the huge bunch, I clench my teeth so that grief doesn’t settle in, and I finally locate the white card. Snatching it from the plastic holder, I open the envelope and slide out the card.

  I’M SORRY I UPSET YOU LAST NIGHT. WE’LL TALK TONIGHT.

  —BRIAN

  Seeing red, I tear the card in two and reach for the bouquet, prepared to march outside to chuck the flowers and the torn card into the dumpster, but Matt grabs my bicep before my hands can wrap around the flowers.

  “Who are they from?”

  “The fucking dick,” I hiss.

  His chin jerks, and that eyebrow makes an appearance. “What?”

  “That guy I’ve been sleeping with dropped the relationship bomb last night, so I told him we were done. Apparently, he doesn’t understand English.” I take a deep breath and clench and unclench my hands, attempting to rein in my anger. I know I’m overreacting, but seriously, I thought I was pretty fucking clear the night before.

  His lips part, and his eyes grow wide as light dawns. I don’t discuss my arrangements at length because Matt is like an older brother to me, but he knows I don’t date and that my relationships are strictly sex.

  He also knows why.

  “So, he said he cared about you and sent you flowers. And you’re pissed? Fuck, girl.”

  Frustrated, I huff a breath through my nose. “First of all, he knew. He knew I didn’t date or do the mushy shit and that I had no plans to anytime in the near future.” Matt shakes his head, but I continue, “And you know how much I hate flowers, especially roses. With that shit, it’s either anger or tears, and I’d much rather be angry. It’s easier to deal with. Give me a fucking break, Matt.”

  “Becca—” he starts slowly.

  I shoot out my hand. “Don’t. I don’t need a fucking lec
ture right now, Matt. You know I love you to death but don’t. I need to get rid of these and Febreze the shit out of my apartment, so my stomach doesn’t roll. Then, I have to work at Mario’s.”

  He sighs, but I don’t care. I’ve heard him tell me a million times that I need to live, and I don’t have time for the don’t-let-your-life-pass-you-by speech for two solid reasons. First, and most pressing, is that I really need to get a move on before I’m late for work. Second, I’m not letting my life pass me by. For Christ’s sake, I work two jobs, and I have been busting my ass, so I can make something of myself. Do I want a husband and kids someday? Maybe but not right now.

  I reach for the flowers again, but he stops me.

  “I got them,” he says gently.

  I let out a long breath and silently count backward from ten. My anger deflates, and my tense body loosens. “Thanks, Matt. Sorry for snapping. I just…I just hate flowers. I hate being out of control. I—”

  He bends down and sweeps the offending bunch off the table. “Don’t, Bee. I get it. My feet aren’t standing in your shoes, so I don’t understand the way you walk in yours, but I get it. You’re not there. You’re not ready. I just don’t know if you’ll ever be ready to let people in. You are not your mother. It’s okay to slow down, find someone, and be happy. You can start living.”

  “Matt,” I start, my voice soft, “I can’t slow down. I have to prove to everyone, prove to myself, that just because my mom’s blood runs through my veins, I’m not her. After, maybe I can find someone. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of time. I’m only twenty-six.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. His eyes roam my face, and I give him a half smile. He grins in a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you way. He turns to walk to the door with me following behind him. He stops once he reaches it, and I lean past him to open it for him.

  His gaze skitters across my face. “I get you’re still young, Bee. But you’re so caught up in control and order and proving that you’re not your mother that you’re letting good people who could, should, be in your life walk. That’s not a good way to live.”