Duty and the Beast

by Chelsea Field

  I woke up to a knock on the door. My bedroom door rather than the front, which was rare. A moment later, my housemate Oliver slipped inside carrying a tray.

  Like me, Oliver called LA home thanks to a broken relationship. But I’d moved here to get away from my ex, whereas Oliver had followed his girlfriend over only for it to end in an acting career for her and a lot of resentment for him.

  He said he stayed for the weather. Which made sense given the dreary climate in England. Especially since he loved wearing novelty T-shirts so much, and it was almost always sweater weather in the UK.

  Meow trotted in after him, leaped onto the bed, and sniffed my face delicately in greeting. While she was happy enough to nap with me when he was out, she spent her nights with him.

  Her favorite person had come to a halt a few feet away. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed himself, with his feet bare, jaw unshaved, and dark blond hair scruffier than usual.

  His posh British accent, however, was as impeccable as always. “Morning, Iz. Etta mentioned you’d had a bad day yesterday, and I know this has been a rough week for you, so I thought you could use a little TLC.”

  I shuffled my way into an almost-upright position and rubbed sleep from my eyes as if it might help me understand what was happening. “Huh?”

  “I present to you, breakfast in bed!”

  Oliver came closer and lowered the tray with a flourish so I could see its contents. Meow looked too.

  There was a Pop-Tart, a piece of buttered toast, a bowl of cereal, a cup of tea, and a bottle of beer.

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, and I’m no cook, so I thought I’d give you a range of options.”

  His efforts—which most primary school children could’ve replicated or one-upped—brought a smile to my lips. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Oliver’s lips quirked too. “You mean I really shouldn’t have, right? Sorry, I feel bad about subjecting you to my terrible culinary efforts after all the times you’ve whipped up gastronomic delights for me. But I was hoping the thought might count for something or that it would make you laugh at me if nothing else.”

  I laughed and assured him, “The thought definitely counts.” Then I stopped petting Meow for a second to select the cup of tea and Pop-Tart from the tray. “This is perfect, thanks.” I should’ve gone with the toast, but he was right. This week had been rough, and at least I hadn’t gone for the beer. Not that I could imagine stomaching beer for breakfast. Gross.

  Oliver shook his head. “You know things are bad when you consider this pathetic offering perfect, but I’m glad you like it.” He pointed at the beer. “Are you going to drink that?”

  “Nope.” I patted the bed. “Sit down and tell me a funny story or something.”

  “Okay.” He sat down by my feet and took a swig of his beer. “Once upon a time there was this girl who was sad for some reason, but she wouldn’t tell anyone what was wrong. So her friend served her breakfast in bed dosed with truth serum—”

  I experienced a moment’s panic when in my sleep-addled state I thought he was serious, and my brain strove to identify the substance in the mouthful of Pop-Tart I’d been chewing. Then I realized that one, there was no known truth serum that worked reliably outside of fiction, and two, if there was, it wouldn’t be available or even heard of in Oliver’s world.

  “—and she told him what was wrong, and they figured out a way to fix it and then everyone was happy. Also, three guys walk into a bar. The fourth one ducks. That’s the funny bit of the story.”

  I was automatically formulating a response to divert his attention when I realized that Oliver was pretty much the sole person that I might actually be able to talk to about this. Unlike Etta, Mae, and Harper, he was far enough removed from Connor that he didn’t have any emotional stakes and wouldn’t judge me for supposedly dating someone so soon after I’d broken up with Connor, only to change my mind not long afterward.

  Meow purred encouragingly from where she’d stolen the warm patch on my pillow, so I took a deep breath and let an edited version of events spill out. How after going on a couple of dates with Rick I’d realized how much I wanted Connor back, except Connor was refusing to even talk to me about it. How I had so much to explain and apologize for and promise to do better, but none of it was going to have any effect if I couldn’t get him to listen. And I was stuck for fresh ideas on what to do about it.

  “So why not write to him?” Oliver asked. “In an email, or a letter if you’re feeling old-school.”

  It was an excellent point. One I probably would’ve come up with eventually now that I’d slept and recovered from the conversation on the stair landing, but still. “That’s actually a good idea.”

  “Hey, no need to sound so surprised. As a bartender I’m a fount of relational wisdom, you know. I hear more sob stories than most psychologists on a weekly basis, and it’s impossible not to pick a few things up.”

  “Like write a letter if your partner’s not talking to you?”

  “Sure. Or like, funnily enough, going to a pub and spilling your guts to a random bartender doesn’t work as well as communicating with your partner about it.”

  I chowed down the last piece of my Pop-Tart, put the remainder of my tea on my nightstand, then slid forward and gave Oliver a hug. “Thanks, Oliver. You’re the best housemate a girl could wish for.”

  He blushed. “Of course, Iz. You know I’d do anything for you. Well, almost anything.”

  It was only when he stood up to leave that I realized his T-shirt said:

  PEOPLE DISAPPOINT. PIZZA IS ETERNAL.

  I didn’t want to think too hard on the fact that this was whom I was taking relationship advice from…

  Galvanized by the positive start to my day, I bounced out of bed determined to make the most of it. I used my time in the shower to mull over what I would say to Connor, then sat down to write. After two hours, I’d written a thousand words and discarded 917 of them.

  This was going to be harder than I thought.

  Deciding a mental break would do me good, I got up to swing by the supermarket for ingredients and make a new batch of dog treats. Between Etta’s dog Dudley, Levi’s dogs Waffles and Syrup, and now Connor’s new dog, they were going to be in hot demand.

  Thinking Dudley might like to accompany me on my walk to the shops (seeing as I was buying things for him after all), I planned to pop in on Etta before I left. But when I walked past her window and saw her and Mae huddled together, I chickened out. I wasn’t ready to experience the combined force of the pair of them again.

  I did still walk at least, enjoying the sunshine on my face and pretending it would make up for the Pop-Tart breakfast. I was supposed to be thinking further on Connor’s letter, but I found myself pondering what Etta and Mae were up to instead.

  They’d been spending a lot of time together since Mae had come down from San Bernardino County for a visit, and it was always disconcerting when the two of them started scheming. When they’d first met, they’d “joked” about opening a PI business, except I was no longer convinced it was a joke. Etta had recently returned from visiting Mae with a fancy new camera she claimed was for a newly acquired interest in bird watching. I thought it was more likely she was using it for her long-held interest in people watching. And with Etta’s thirst for adventure and shooting things, Mae’s PI background, their combined intelligence, and a bunch of time on their hands, they were the epitome of a dangerous duo.

  But they weren’t my problem to solve right now. If they had landed a private investigation gig, the pair of them could take care of themselves. It was the people they were investigating I’d be worried for. Or if they were plotting something to cheer Connor up, I’d effectively eliminated myself as a player on the board by telling them about Rick.

  Dammit. It had crossed my mind more than once after his death that if I’d kept my mouth shut that night, they would never have found out about our supposed relationship. But it’s not a
s if I could’ve predicted what was coming, and the damage was already done.

  Half an hour later, I was back in my apartment ready to cook up some doggy drool-worthy treats. While I sliced meat and prepared the other ingredients, my thoughts returned to what I should say to Connor. I needed to apologize for not taking his concerns for my safety more seriously. I hadn’t realized how deep his wounds ran. But I also needed to lay out my side of things and try to convince him—using the cold hard logic that he loved so much—why he shouldn’t let this issue keep us apart. I’d use that same logic to go through all the ways I’d been thinking we could work together to fix this and reach an agreement we were both happy with. Chances were we’d have to compromise, but that’s how relationships worked.

  This letter idea was growing on me. It gave me a chance to formulate the most rational and compelling argument possible without letting my emotions get in the way. Something I’d risk doing if we were talking it over in person. Connor thrived on rational and compelling…

  I caught myself about to taste Syrup’s special “cookie” mixture and gave more of my attention over to the baking after that. Most dogs liked dehydrated meat. Syrup liked broccoli. I’d been experimenting, trying to come up with something she enjoyed even more as part of my effort to win the shy dog over.

  I was getting Syrup’s special treats out of the oven when Etta let herself through the door. Her eyes went straight to the tray I was holding.

  “Savory cookies? Wow, things must be worse than I thought. Wanna talk about it?”

  “The cookies are for the dogs,” I said, avoiding her other question. “These are cheese and broccoli with bacon grease. And I’m dehydrating a bunch more slivers of chicken, beef, and lamb heart too.”

  I’d found an old dehydrator on Craigslist for twenty bucks and hadn’t been able to resist buying it, but I’d quickly learned to avoid liver if I didn’t want to stink out the house. While Dudley had been happy enough to eat the treats I made for my two-legged friends, I’d wanted to offer him a more healthy alternative.

  Etta picked up one of the cookies and sniffed it. “It doesn’t smell half-bad, actually.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. I put some liver powder in there too.”

  She placed it back on the tray hastily. “Well that’s awful sweet of you, and Dudley appreciates your efforts, but don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding my other question.”

  I suppressed a groan. Etta was harder to divert than a bloodhound on a deer trail. You might be able to convince a bloodhound to give up the chase if you had a tasty enough treat. Etta wasn’t so easily swayed. “Thanks, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, so I jumped in quickly. “And I’m feeling better after a solid night’s sleep anyway.”

  Imagining trying to divert Etta from the trail by offering her cookies reminded me of the ones I’d seen on Hunt’s desk. I finished transferring the dog treats to a cooling rack and decided to have some fun. “Are you enjoying the chocolate-chip-and-salted-caramel cookies I made you?”

  “Oh yes, they were scrumptious.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean were? I made you a double batch.”

  “So you did, dear. But you know, Mae has been over a lot this week,” Etta covered smoothly.

  “Didn’t she only arrive two days ago?” Gosh, was it really only two days ago?

  “Well yes, but we had a lot to catch up on. I was actually hoping you could bake me some more cookies today? Except with pecans instead of chocolate chips this time.”

  “But salted caramel and chocolate chips are your favorite.”

  Etta found the four-pack of jelly donuts I’d bought in a weak moment at the store and fished one out for herself. “That’s true, but I like to change things up sometimes, and I’ve had a hankering for pecans lately.”

  I couldn’t hold my game face any longer and smirked. “You mean Hunt has a hankering for pecans lately. I saw my cookies on his desk. He told me you made them for him.”

  She froze, donut halfway to her mouth. “You didn’t rat me out, did you?”

  Etta had been acting differently since dating Hunt. Instead of the neighbor who picked through lovers like an assortment of chocolates, the parade of men to her apartment had stopped. Instead of oversharing details of relational encounters, she rarely spoke about Hunt at all. My theory was she was embarrassed—not just about going steady but that she was dating a man almost her own age. She would certainly be embarrassed if I’d ratted her out. I suspected my irrepressible friend was in love.

  I laughed and swatted her arm. “Of course not. Your secret’s safe with me. Any other special requests now I know what’s going on?”

  Etta beamed and resumed eating. “Well,” she said between mouthfuls, “it’d be wonderful if you could have them ready early this afternoon. I have something I need to sweeten him up for.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks, dear. Your mother raised you right.”

  Trying to get Etta to talk about her past had become a game of sorts. I jumped on the opening she’d given me. “Speaking of mothers, how is it that yours never taught you how to bake?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t for want of trying on her part. Now have you seen your pesky housemate about the place? I wanted to ask him something.”

  I had to hand it to her. Etta was good at answering questions without really answering them. “Oliver’s in his room.”

  Having promised to make Hunt’s cookies in a hurry, I washed the mixing bowl and baking trays twice (the last thing I needed was Hunt getting food poisoning), then assembled the ingredients for the salted-caramel-and-pecan cookies. It was a recipe I’d made so many times by now, with the exception of the pecans anyway, that my thoughts drifted to the letter while I worked.

  Meow rubbed herself against my ankles, and I fed her some of the scraps of fresh meat I’d saved with her in mind. “See?” I told her. “There are benefits to having dogs around.”

  She licked her lips and stared at me haughtily.

  Etta reappeared just as I was slipping the tray of cookie dough into the oven, which made me realize how much time had passed. “What were you two talking about for so long?”

  She scraped her finger around the mixing bowl I’d yet to wash again. “Nosiness isn’t a becoming trait, you know.”

  I snorted. “Said the pot to the kettle.”

  Her finger carried its loot into her mouth and came out clean. “Why, would you look at the time? I need to skedaddle, but I’ll pop back for those cookies soon. Thanks again, dear.” She kissed me on the cheek and, true to her word, skedaddled from the apartment.

  That piqued my curiosity. Besides, it was nearing midafternoon, so I slapped together some sandwiches and knocked on Oliver’s door. “Hey, I made us some sandwiches for a late lunch.”

  “I don’t feel like eating,” he called out, sounding glum.

  What? Oliver always felt like eating, especially when he was feeling down. “I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in.”

  He was the picture of gloomy in bed. Back slumped against the headboard. Chin tucked far enough that his hair had flopped into his eyes. He was staring blankly at his laptop and couldn’t have looked any more depressed if his ex walked up to the bar and ordered a Bitch Slap cocktail.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head instead of answering.

  I tried again. “What did Etta want to talk to you about?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about a second time,” he mumbled.

  Oh boy. “Do you need me to tell you a funny story about a boy who was sad and whose friend dosed him with truth serum to convince him to talk and helped him figure out a solution and then everyone lived happily ever after?”

  His lips tugged upward just a bit. “No, I’m good. But thanks.”

  I eyed his T-shirt again. “Want me to order pizza?”

  He didn’t say no immediately, so I made the decision on his b
ehalf.

  “I’m ordering pizza.”

  I called the pizza place and turned the cookies around, pondering the oddity of both Etta and Oliver refusing to tell me what they’d discussed. What would those two talk about that they couldn’t let me in on?

  Then I received a phone call that shoved all thoughts of that mystery from my head.

  9

  With mere minutes before Connor arrived, I raced to transform my home hairdo, clothes, and lack of makeup into a professional ensemble, hoping my hair didn’t smell too noticeably of lamb heart and broccoli. Then I tapped on Oliver’s door again.

  “Sorry, something’s come up, and I need to head out, but there’s a pizza with your name on it that’ll be here soon, so make sure to answer the door when someone knocks. And when we both have some spare time, I’m taking you to see that movie you’ve been raving about. The one with those, um, cat alien thingies, okay?”

  Meow had trailed in after me, wondering if there were any more treats, so I picked her up and placed her on the bed with Oliver. “I’m going to make you a deal,” I bargained with her. “Look after Oliver while I’m gone, and I’ll ply you with treats when I get home.”

  Leaving Oliver with Meow on his lap and at least a half smile on his face, I snatched the cookies out of the oven and texted Etta to let her know the special order was cooling on the kitchen counter and she was welcome to come over and help herself since I had to run out.

  I also reminded her to be certain to get the ones with pecans rather than broccoli in them.

  Then I rushed downstairs to meet Connor, who was picking me up on his way to the police station. I wasn’t sure what was going on; all he’d told me was that there’d been developments on the case and Hunt wanted us there immediately.

  In the seconds between spotting Connor’s black SUV and opening the door to get in, my nerves jangled like keys in a jogger’s pocket. I’d spent much of the morning thinking over all the reasons we should be together, but I doubted he’d been doing the same. And we hadn’t left things in a good place. Would it be awkward today?