"No wonder you picked Monopoly! I bet I would kick your ass in Risk."
"Dunno, sweetheart. I've been on every one of those continents."
"Fine. Scrabble!" I insisted, watching as he shuffled the money into piles to put away.
"I could beat you. In three languages," he shot back, nothing about him prideful at the boast, just relaying facts.
"I hate you so much right now," I declared, shaking my head as he closed the box, and tossed it under the coffee table.
"Sore loser?"
"No! Not sore. I just like to win sometimes." Or all the time. All the time was good too. It just really sucked to lose every time the first time you played board games in years.
If there was an afterlife, my father was there tisk-tisking at me.
"Oh, that must be dinner," Fenway declared as the beep of the alarm system could be heard through the door.
The door pressed open, and in walked Kai, carrying three bags, and a bottle of wine under his arm.
"You old enough to drink?" Fenway asked, taking it from him with a smile, moving toward the kitchenette to grab the corkscrew, knowing exactly where it was. Y'know, because he had been in hideout here more than a time or two.
"Ha ha," Kai said, spreading the plastic to-go containers across the coffee table, then pulling it closer as Fenway filled up coffee cups with the wine since actual glassware was not something they kept stocked up here. "How you doing, pretty lady?" Kai asked, sitting right down in the center of the couch, seemingly as a barrier between Fenway and me, even though both of us stayed respectfully pressed to our own sides of the couch.
"She is a sore loser," Fenway informed him, handing me my wine, then Kai his before moving to his side of the couch, and reaching for the remote.
"I am not!"
"I would let you win," Kai said, hitting me with his shoulder as he reached to hand me my ravioli.
"You guys are making me seem pathetic," I said, shaking my head. "No, not that!" I almost shrieked when Fenway clicked on The Bourne Ultimatum. That one was suddenly off limits. Along with all the Fast and Furious movies. And anything Stephen King. "I think there has been enough crazy in my life lately," I was quick to cover when their eyes fell on me, worried. "I would just prefer something a little lighter," I added.
"As you wish," Fenway said, going back a screen and toggling over to comedies instead.
When that one rolled to credits, our bellies filled, my head a little swimmy thanks to Fenway being a little heavy-handed with the wine pours, and Kai immediately suggested another, I felt it again. The tug. The gut feeling thing I never used to believe in.
And when the second movie went to credits, and he suggested a third, there was no denying it anymore.
Kai was here for a reason.
He was there for babysitting or distracting.
But for whom?
I was saved from my curiosity a moment later when Fenway snatched the remote from Kai. "Alright. Me or her?"
"What?" Kai asked, feigning ignorance.
"Who are you here to keep busy, Aven or me? I very much doubt you have a pressing need to watch Dirty Grandpa at almost ten o'clock at night."
"I think you underestimate my love of Robert De Niro," Kai hedged.
"It has to be her, right?" Fenway pressed. "Quin doesn't give a shit if I go stir crazy up here. But he cares about her. And he sure as shit doesn't want the two of us getting close. So you're here to distract and cock-block, am I right?" There was a sigh from Kai who was clearly not into outright lying to our faces. You had to respect that. "Why distract though? What are they up to?"
"Fenway, this is..."
"Is something going on with my case?" I asked, maybe a little too anxiously. If something was happening, it involved this woman. And I was worried it would not have a good end.
"Yes. But that is all I am allowed to say."
"You do realize that that is going to drive her nuts now, right?"
"What can I say? I suck at this babysitting thing. Where is Ranger when you need him?"
"Off in his woods where poor, unsuspecting humans don't have to cross paths with him, I hope," Fenway said, lip curling, the two of them clearly not on good terms.
"Yeah. Well, now that I have utterly mucked this up, I can head down to walk Jules out, can't I?"
With that, he gave my knee an apologetic squeeze, then jumped up to do just that.
"Those two crazy kids," Fenway said to his retreating form before turning to me. "There's really no point in sweating it, sweetheart. They do what they do. We sit here and allow it to happen. That is the deal when we sign up. We no longer have any say on how it gets fixed; we just get to enjoy the benefits of a life cleared of whatever mess we found ourselves in."
"Yeah, but--" I trailed off, realizing what I was about to say right before it escaped my lips.
"But what?" he pressed. "I'm a big boy; I can handle it," he added when I hesitated again.
"But the mess I am in is of no fault of my own," I told him, knowing full-well that all his messes he had enjoyed creating. "I don't like the idea of someone dealing with my problems for me."
"Ah, that is the problem with you bootstrappers," he said, making me jerk slightly at the term my father would have used, a word you didn't often hear. At my raised brow, he shrugged. "You have always had to do everything yourself, so you don't understand the freedom that comes along with delegating tasks."
"Freedom that gives you space to fuck married women, you mean?" I asked, cringing at my snippy tone, knowing I was just snapping out of my own pride.
"Oh, say it ain't so," he said, sighing slightly. "I have gone and somehow pissed off the only person in this office who doesn't already hate me."
"You didn't piss me off. I'm just... anxious. And tired, I guess."
It was just a saying, but I found as soon as the words left my mouth that they were true. I was tired. The bone-deep kind. The kind where you could crawl into bed for ten hours, wake up, and were so exhausted that you just needed to curl back up again.
Maybe everything that had happened was finally catching up with me now that there was nothing left to worry about. I was out of my house, safe. I didn't need to get up, go to work, put on a brave face I didn't feel.
I just had to exist.
And just existing left a whole hell of a lot of room for the memories to come back, for the reality to settle down upon me.
"Maybe the wine is going to your head," he suggested, not making a big deal out of it. "You should see if you can get some rest. Won't do you any good to sit up worrying. No," he said when I went to reach for the containers on the coffee table. "I'll clean up."
"What?" I asked, smile warm. "You're not going to take someone else up on an offer to delegate an undesirable task?"
"Nope. I'm gonna let your bootstrapping ass go to bed, and then I will show you that I am more than a pretty face."
I moved to stand, reaching to squeeze his hand, glad for a chance to go to bed without cleaning up, a luxury I hadn't been afforded in all my adult life.
"Just wondering. You know, for a friend," he said, making me turn back in the hallway. "That rectangle thing in the sink, that is what is referred to by the commoners as a 'sponge,' correct?" he teased, not able to keep a straight face.
"I have faith in you," I told him, giving him a smile that felt slow in my tired body. "Goodnight, Fenway."
"Goodnight, Aven," he called back from where he was bent over, stacking up the to-go containers.
I went into my room, washing my face, then carefully prying off the butterfly sutures, the cuts sealed up, even if they were red and ugly still. The bruises weren't any less prominent either. I tried to avoid looking when I passed by the mirror during the day. I didn't want to obsess over it seeing as there was no fixing it.
Just a few more days, I reminded myself.
Then they would be light enough to cover with just a little cover-up, and some full-coverage foundation. No more of that godawful stuff th
at Jules got me that was most often used to cover tattoos.
I took a deep breath, pulling off my clothes, and slipping into the shower, trying to wash the residual tension down the drain.
By the time the water ran cold, my eyelids felt weighted, making my blinks slower, making we quickly brush my hair, slip into panties and a tee - since Jules bought me PJ pants because no one really ever wore nightgowns anymore - and climbed into bed, lulled by the sound of the sink running a few rooms away, smiling a little at the idea of Fenway getting water, soap, and food gunk on his expensive suits.
It was the little things, sometimes, that helped the most.
Then, sometime around midnight, I slowly drifted off to sleep.
TEN
Quin
What I really needed to do once Aven and I got back to the office was drag myself back to my place, have a glass of whiskey, and get some fucking sleep already.
Really, that was the only explanation for my actions.
Not only did I tell her about how alone I felt last New Years - something I would never have admitted to anyone else - but then I went ahead and invited her to my apartment in the city for this one.
If she was alone.
Lord knew I would be.
I usually stayed way the fuck clear of Times Square anytime from Thanksgiving until Groundhog Day. I wanted nothing to do with the droves of tourists going to see the tree or the Rockettes, or the ball drop on New Years, wearing fucking adult diapers, so they didn't have to try to find somewhere to pee all night.
And since my apartment was right on Broadway where the masses would be gathered, yeah, no.
That was not where I wanted to be.
And yet, I agreed to be there.
For her.
What the fuck was that?
That was what a week-long tired did to a man.
Or so I was going to go ahead and try to believe.
"Yo, finally," Smith greeted as I went into my office.
"I had my cell if you needed me," I said, shaking my head. "What?" I asked at his raised brow.
"Wasn't interrupting your date."
Fucking Christ.
I liked working with a high ratio of men since they tended to keep the drama down, but it also meant one had to endure ribbing over every little thing in life. I'll never forget the time Kai wore a striped shirt to work and got called The Hamburgelar for three months.
"What next, Smith? Gonna do that sitting in a tree song?"
His lips twitched at that. "Don't tempt me."
"What did you need me for?"
"Found the sister," he said, tossing a file onto my desk. "Mary Hill. Forty-eight. Never married. Lives alone in a shack much like her brother's, but on Third Street turf, just five streets that way," he said, waving a hand to his left. "Get this though," he said, flipping the pages. "Not only was Jacob in therapy since he was seventeen, so was Mary. I'm no shrink myself, but I'm thinking that says some fucked up childhood shit."
If we had the time - and the inclination - we could dig; we could figure out exactly what kind of trauma that was. But in this case, there seemed like there was no reason. Jacob was dead. Mary, well, we had to see about her was all.
"Change into something that doesn't look like you're about to go to a fucking gala," Smith said, shaking his head at my suit. "And we will head over on foot. Take a look. Maybe have a talk with her."
He didn't mean talk per se.
He meant a nice, friendly threat.
The We know you attacked our friend, and you better stay away from her kind of threat.
Usually, it was enough to deter people.
Especially women.
"Alright, give me five," I agreed, grabbing a tee out of my file cabinet, and going off to the bathroom. I didn't, almost as a rule, dress down. When you were the face of your business, what you presented to the world told them all they needed to know about it. If you dressed like a slob, no one was going to trust you. And since my life was my work, there was no need for me to have a supply of jeans or sneakers or shit like that. Dressing down, for me, was throwing on a black tee with my slacks.
I stopped on my way back, brewing a shot, throwing it back, and letting it burn all the way down.
"Alright, let's go," I said, reaching for a gun, tucking it into the waistband of my slacks.
I didn't plan for things to go south, but you never really knew what to expect.
"You weren't kidding about a shack," I mumbled as we moved down the quiet side street, all the houses dark except for the one that was supposed to be white, but was covered in dirt and moss. The front penny brick steps were crumbling, the mortar that was supposed to hold them together nothing but a wish and a prayer at this point. A window to the side was cut, a bright yellow plastic grocery bag used to keep the cold wind out. And likely failing epically.
"She's on her last leg of unemployment. Figure cash isn't very fluid right now."
"What'd she do before?"
"Overnight custodian at the high school."
Good job for a loner with some mental health issues.
"See some movement around the back," Smith said, jerking his chin in that direction, which was infinitely better than staying on the street where we could be noticed.
I took a breath, fighting back my impatience, my desire to just charge right in there. If this were a man, we wouldn't be checking things out before heading in and doling out the threats.
Threatening women, in general, was not something any of us wanted to take on. But there were times when it was necessary.
This was one of them.
"Aw shit," Smith growled, sighing out his breath from where he was perched below the window, peeking into the corner where the curtain was pushed over slightly.
"What?"
"She must be off her meds."
I didn't have to ask.
Really, I'd been working side-by-side with Smith long enough to know exactly what he meant when he said shit like that.
If Mary Hill was off her meds, that meant she was having a break. It meant she had something she planned to use to off herself with.
Likely, a gun.
So now we weren't here to threaten her, we were here to try to stop her from killing herself.
Just when you thought you knew what to expect on the job, people had to go and be, well, people.
"Alright, let's go," I said, sighing out my breath, leading Smith to the front door, knocking a bit too roughly in my impatience.
"Go away!" Mary snapped from inside as Smith tried the door handle.
"Let's hope to leave without bullet holes," he said before pushing the door open, and storming in.
Creep ran in the family.
But whereas her brother stalked defenseless women, Mary just collected a shitton of beady-eyed, evil-looking dolls from some bygone era. They stared down at you from every corner of the room, stacked on shelves, sitting on the end tables, propped up next to the TV.
I swear to fuck circus music started playing in my head as we crossed into the living room, making the woman twist around, eyes wild, a cigarette hanging between her lips.
My eyes trailed down her, taking in the sweat and food stains on her clothes, the bloody rag tied around her leg. I'd bet good money that she didn't even think to clean that fucker out. She would have a raging infection within the next day.
"Who the fuck are you?" she growled, waving the gun around. "Get out of my house."
"I'm afraid we can't do that when it looks like you are in a bad place, and holding a gun," I reasoned, trying to ignore the way the doll right to my left seemed to be peering into my fucking soul. There was nothing creepier than dolls, man. Give me a room full of clowns any day.
"The fuck do you care if I kill myself?" she shot back, waving her hand outward. "You don't know me."
"We know you a little. You're Mary Hill. You used to work at the school."
"Until those fuckers suggested I retire." She didn't retire, though. She was on unemp
loyment. "And when I wouldn't, they fucking laid me off. Downsizing, my ass! They hired three new night crew staff after I left."
"Well, if they couldn't appreciate you, Mary, it was good you left," Smith tried, his voice a little more patient than mine.
"Don't you try to butter me up, you fucking J.Crew looking sonovabitch."
Lovely.
Also completely out of touch if she thought Smith could model for J.Crew. He was more of an Outdoor Living kind of guy.
"Christ," Smith hissed under his breath, and I had to hold back a smile.
"Look, Mary," I tried. "We just want--"
"Stop saying my name like we're friends. We ain't friends. Never seen your ugly mugs in my life. Get the fuck out of my house before I put holes in both yous."
"I'm afraid we can't leave when it seems like you're going to kill yourself," I said, going for blunt since that seemed more her speed.
"None of your business if I do or not. It's my life to live or to end. And what the fuck do I have left? Huh? Huh! No job. No friends. My brother is missing. And that stupid cunt's dog..."
"Keep it together," Smith mumbled under his breath at me.
"You really should have that leg looked at," I said, teeth gritted.
Really, what were we doing here?
She wasn't exactly wrong.
It was her life.
"Fuck my leg," she shrieked. "And fuck you. Get the fuck out of my house before I call the cops!"
"What are we doing here, Boss?" Smith asked as Mary advanced at us, gun raised, eyes wild, everything about her saying she was completely capable of shooting us right that moment.
"Mary," I tried one last time, hissing out my breath when a bullet whooshed past my ear, lodging in the doorjamb with a solid thunk.
"I said go!"
And, really, there wasn't too much choice in the matter once they started shooting, unless we planned to shoot her ourselves.
Which was never in the plan.
"Alright, we're going," I agreed, whacking Smith in the chest so he would go out first, then moving outside with him, watching as Mary slammed the door, glaring at us through the window.
"Holy fuck, she's unhinged."
"We're going to have to call it in anonymously," I agreed as we moved down the street.
The Fixer Page 14
