Handled by Angela Graham Page A

out of my house now!” I pry open the door he’s attempting to block.
    Corey releases a deep rumble of frustration. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I said her name , that’s it! I didn’t cheat!”
    “Yet!”
    “Paige, I’m being honest with you and you’re acting like a total cunt.”
    No, I wasn’t, but I’m happy to show him the difference. Moving back, I open the drawer to my nightstand and pull out my .22, the only dependable thing in my life.
    “Grab your shit and leave.” I turn so he can see I now hold a gun, my eyes deceptively cool. Overreaction? Probably. Am I tired of being shit on? Yes.
    “Are you insane?” he yelps.
    Perhaps.
    “Goddamn it, Paige!” Backing up slowly, hands in the air, all color drains from his face. “Put the gun down!”
    “No, not until you leave. You may not have screwed her, but you just proved that I’ll never be enough for you.” I gulp down the annoying weakness I can hear edging my voice and reaffirm an icy tone. “So we’re done. D-O-N-E.” I smile sweetly, half tempted to curtsy.
    When he stops to stare at me, waiting for God knows what, I release the safety, point the gun at the ceiling, and pull the trigger. Good thing I’m on the top floor.
    And just like that, the most recent asshole flees from my life.
    “Tell Holly I said hi!” I yell as the front door slams. Plopping down on the bed, I stare up at the cracks surrounding the bullet hole, chunks of plaster falling on my head.
    Guess I’ll be moving again. Like soon.
    Happy New Year to me!
     

Chapter 1
    “It’s Amelia, I’m not in right now, leave a message after the beep.”
    Six days and fifteen messages later…I still get my cousin’s answering machine. Something’s definitely wrong. Amelia used to be the one calling me, often , to talk about everything from the ridiculous little things her cat did to the latest book she read. And now I hear nothing? My concern has reached a whole new level— fear .
    I drive twenty over the speed limit the entire way to her place, lugging everything I own, my car packed to the brim. Sadly, it all fits in my rusted out Sedan, but I digress. Either Amelia’s dead or being held hostage somewhere. No other options make sense. This is Amelia we’re talking about…she’s not exactly the poster child for spontaneity.
    By nightfall, I’m pulling up to her apartment complex, hoping like hell she’s there. I stow my trusty .22 in my purse, then pull the hood of my coat over my head while jogging through the snow to her door. I knock a few times, impatiently waiting, then finally resort to pounding with my fist.
    Nothing. I lean in, ear to the door, but the only sounds from the other side are distressed yowls from Lucy. Luckily, I still have the emergency key Amelia gave me when she moved in here.
    I open the door slowly, more concerned than ever. Amelia would never leave her cat to fend for herself.
    One foot inside the apartment and I feel, rather than see, her rub against my leg.
    “Lucy,” I whisper, scooping up the fluffy ball of fury, hoping she’s not declawed and ready to unleash her wrath on any jack-in-the-box intruders lying in wait. Buy me some time to grab my gun, sacrificial feline .
    My other hand fumbles blindly for the wall switch, and a sigh of partial relief escapes as I flip on the light. The apartment looks the same as the last time I was here, months ago, minus Amelia or any signs of robbery. Shamelessly holding Lucy way out in front of me, I creep as stealthily and silently as possible toward the bedroom. Wishing I had some WD-40 handy, cause you know this damn door’s gonna creak on volume bullhorn, I push it open and toss the poor front man of this operation—the cat—on top of the lump under the covers.
    “Wake up!” I shout at her.
    Please let it be her. I really don’t want to have to fire any warning shots.
    “What the fuck?” a throaty voice yells back. Make that a very deep, very masculine voice, compelling even