whispered.
He lifted a hand, and it seemed
like he was going to touch me but I moved before he could.
Fast.
As quick as my four inch stiletto
heels could take me, I dashed to the counter where Sadie had her cash register.
I grabbed my bag.
And I got the fuck out of there.
* * * * *
Three hours later…
I sat in the dark on my ass in my
living room. My back was to the wall, my knees up. I was still in my killer
dress, but I’d taken off my heels.
The Rock Chick phone tree had
been engaged so I’d learned that Sadie was okay. She had her thing, let it out,
and then Duke had done his thing.
Duke worked at Fortnum’s with us.
In fact, Duke had been working at Fortnum’s way before Indy inherited it from
Grandma Ellen, so he was the veteran.
He was a Harley guy with a gray
beard, long gray hair and a rough voice that somehow felt smooth on your soul
whenever he used it (even if he was tearing you a new one while using it; I
know it sounds crazy but it’s true, trust me). He wore Harley tees (always),
leather vests (occasionally) and rolled bandanas around his forehead (without
fail).
And he was wise. Very much so.
Therefore, when the Rock Chicks
came to the point in their drama where it was clear everyone needed to quit
fucking around because they needed their shit sorted—tough love or gentle and
sweet (as the case may be)—Duke stepped in.
So it was Duke who stepped in
with Sadie and sorted her shit.
Duke could do that.
But not me.
I closed my eyes, shook my head
to get my mind off that path, and opened my eyes, pointing my thoughts in a new
direction.
I stared into the dark at the
shadowy shapes in my apartment and commenced trying to figure out what the fuck
was up with me.
And not why Sadie’s outburst that
night so deeply affected me.
I sensed I wasn’t ready to face
that.
No, I thought about where my life
was leading me.
I gazed at the shadows.
I liked my apartment. That said,
it wasn’t much to write home about, but since I wasn’t there often, it didn’t
need to be.
The building was two-story and
built in the fifties. The rooms were not spacious and there was no personality.
Though, the last couple of years, the landlord had pulled out all the dull,
uninspired bathrooms and kitchens and put in new dull, uninspired bathrooms and
kitchens.
Not much, but it was something.
He’d also jacked up the rent.
Annoying but not surprising.
Recently, though, my unit had
been getting a facelift that came all from me.
I had new cushiony, awesome
furniture that invited you to sink in and stay forever (major discount from a person
who used my services who knew a person who owned a furniture store). I had a
new flat screen TV (ditto on the discount, as you know). Due to gift
certificates from other “clients”, I had new kitchen implements (not that I
cooked much, seeing as I was never home; still, gadgets were gadgets, and
everyone needed as many gadgets as they could get), new bathroom towels and
sheets (total lush—I should so totally have gone the way of expensive towels
and sheets ages ago; alas, a
bartender/barista couldn’t usually afford luxury).
Also due to my activities, I had
more shoes and clothes in my closet and a collection of gift cards of a variety
of denominations to restaurants, bars and movie theaters.
All payments for my services.
All making life that little bit
sweeter.
I’d done the defensive/evasive
driving course and kicked its ass. I was all over defensive/evasive maneuvers in a vehicle and could not wait to
do the chase program. And with more practice at Zip’s and wisdom from Darius,
I’d also cleared the house in C. Springs without killing one innocent.
This shit was it for me.
I loved doing it and I was good
at it.
And it made life better in a
variety of ways.
So I didn’t understand what was
holding me back from going whole hog, getting licensed and putting out a
shingle.
And maybe more importantly, with
all that going so well, why did I think I was
He lifted a hand, and it seemed
like he was going to touch me but I moved before he could.
Fast.
As quick as my four inch stiletto
heels could take me, I dashed to the counter where Sadie had her cash register.
I grabbed my bag.
And I got the fuck out of there.
* * * * *
Three hours later…
I sat in the dark on my ass in my
living room. My back was to the wall, my knees up. I was still in my killer
dress, but I’d taken off my heels.
The Rock Chick phone tree had
been engaged so I’d learned that Sadie was okay. She had her thing, let it out,
and then Duke had done his thing.
Duke worked at Fortnum’s with us.
In fact, Duke had been working at Fortnum’s way before Indy inherited it from
Grandma Ellen, so he was the veteran.
He was a Harley guy with a gray
beard, long gray hair and a rough voice that somehow felt smooth on your soul
whenever he used it (even if he was tearing you a new one while using it; I
know it sounds crazy but it’s true, trust me). He wore Harley tees (always),
leather vests (occasionally) and rolled bandanas around his forehead (without
fail).
And he was wise. Very much so.
Therefore, when the Rock Chicks
came to the point in their drama where it was clear everyone needed to quit
fucking around because they needed their shit sorted—tough love or gentle and
sweet (as the case may be)—Duke stepped in.
So it was Duke who stepped in
with Sadie and sorted her shit.
Duke could do that.
But not me.
I closed my eyes, shook my head
to get my mind off that path, and opened my eyes, pointing my thoughts in a new
direction.
I stared into the dark at the
shadowy shapes in my apartment and commenced trying to figure out what the fuck
was up with me.
And not why Sadie’s outburst that
night so deeply affected me.
I sensed I wasn’t ready to face
that.
No, I thought about where my life
was leading me.
I gazed at the shadows.
I liked my apartment. That said,
it wasn’t much to write home about, but since I wasn’t there often, it didn’t
need to be.
The building was two-story and
built in the fifties. The rooms were not spacious and there was no personality.
Though, the last couple of years, the landlord had pulled out all the dull,
uninspired bathrooms and kitchens and put in new dull, uninspired bathrooms and
kitchens.
Not much, but it was something.
He’d also jacked up the rent.
Annoying but not surprising.
Recently, though, my unit had
been getting a facelift that came all from me.
I had new cushiony, awesome
furniture that invited you to sink in and stay forever (major discount from a person
who used my services who knew a person who owned a furniture store). I had a
new flat screen TV (ditto on the discount, as you know). Due to gift
certificates from other “clients”, I had new kitchen implements (not that I
cooked much, seeing as I was never home; still, gadgets were gadgets, and
everyone needed as many gadgets as they could get), new bathroom towels and
sheets (total lush—I should so totally have gone the way of expensive towels
and sheets ages ago; alas, a
bartender/barista couldn’t usually afford luxury).
Also due to my activities, I had
more shoes and clothes in my closet and a collection of gift cards of a variety
of denominations to restaurants, bars and movie theaters.
All payments for my services.
All making life that little bit
sweeter.
I’d done the defensive/evasive
driving course and kicked its ass. I was all over defensive/evasive maneuvers in a vehicle and could not wait to
do the chase program. And with more practice at Zip’s and wisdom from Darius,
I’d also cleared the house in C. Springs without killing one innocent.
This shit was it for me.
I loved doing it and I was good
at it.
And it made life better in a
variety of ways.
So I didn’t understand what was
holding me back from going whole hog, getting licensed and putting out a
shingle.
And maybe more importantly, with
all that going so well, why did I think I was
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