by Carmen Green
Furious, Tia scribbled her name and thrust the action plan back at Chance, who grinned. “Ah, so the peacock awakens.” She snatched the papers. “Get to work.”
Tia turned to her desk and looked at the reports she needed to complete. The worst part of her job was that sometimes it was just plain boring. Her assignment for the past month had been to review data from Alaskan meteorologists, who, on a daily basis, measured glacial melting. Not exactly her dream job, but someone had to do it.
She tried not to think about it as she plugged in figures for the next three hours.
She typed in numbers that resembled her bank PIN and realized she needed to check her account balance. Craning her neck to see if Chance was around, Tia typed in her banking institution and accessed her account. $897.04. That was all the money in her checking account. She already knew her savings account was empty.
Her heart rate increased by ten beats a minute as she memorized the withdrawals, closed the screen, and returned to the weather Web sites before getting her checkbook out of her purse.
The card for the anger management class fell out.
Damn. She still had to face that awful music.
“Want to do lunch with us?” Ronnie/Rhonda asked.
Tia fumbled with the checkbook. “You need to make some noise and stop sneaking around, scaring people.”
“The guilty always protest too much,” Ronnie/ Rhonda said, with a sweet grin, his eyes bright blue. “Hungry, peacock?”
Tia glanced at the card, knowing somehow that the class wasn’t going to be either free or cheap. “I’d better not, but thanks.”
“Don’t let that Morticia freak get to you.” Ronnie/Rhonda’s voice rose a bit.
“I’m not,” Tia said to quiet him. “I’ve got something to do, that’s all.”
Tia didn’t fold under the intense scrutiny. The last thing she needed was to cause a scene. That would surely get her fired. And she’d make Chance’s day.
“All righty then. Come on, girls,” Ronnie/Rhonda said to the two station interns who stood dutifully behind him. “We’re lunching on the outdoor patio at Blanco’s so we can babe watch an hour of our life away. Ciao.”
“Ciao,” Tia said, as the group weaved to the elevator and left her in miserable silence. She and Ronnie/Rhonda had never been close friends, but the cross-dressing man was always good for a laugh and gossip every now and then.
Not for the first time, Tia wondered why he’d been kept on at the station. Two years ago, he’d started as a man and then one day showed up as a woman. The staff had been aflutter and his parents hadn’t been happy, but Ronnie/Rhonda had endeared himself to the people at WKTT and now he was a treasured member of the staff. The truth was, he knew something about everything and that made him invaluable.
Tia eyed her checkbook again. The state had cashed her thousand-dollar check in a hurry.
She dialed the number on the card for the class and waited. Instructions were given, and then her mouth fell open. She pressed ONE to hear the message again. “Registration for the anger management class is $295. If you are registered before five p.m. eastern standard time tomorrow you will be enrolled in the class that begins tomorrow night at 7:30 p.m. at Reynolds High School. To register using a credit card only, please press two.”
Tia disconnected the call, then redialed. Her fingers hovered over the 2. That was three hundred dollars. She needed that money for other important stuff.
Like that cute Kate Spade purse she’d eyed on eBay.
The judge’s words haunted her, as did Chance’s.
She didn’t have a choice.
Tia pressed TWO and entered her credit card number, then ran to the bathroom stall for a good cry. This better be worth it, she vowed as she hunkered over the toilet, relieving herself.
The outer door opened and closed.
“Of course I was serious about your niece working here,” Chance said into her cell phone. “I just have to clear up a personnel issue, and then we’re all set. Two weeks, tops.”
Tia had stopped peeing midstream. She cringed at her only option and let her bare ass hit the seat. Quietly, she put her feet on the door and prayed she didn’t catch anything else communicable.
“The job will be vacant in two weeks. The idiot in it won’t last. Right, of course. I didn’t mean to offend you. Good-bye, Miss ...” Chance’s voice trailed off as she snapped her phone closed. “What was I thinking? Why did I say that? God, I’m in trouble. I’ve got to get Tia out of here, or I’m toast.”
Tia strained as her butt started to slip on the seat.
The outer door opened and closed with a hiss, and Chance was gone.
Tia let her legs down and shot off the seat. She vowed to soak off the germs tonight, righted her clothes, and left the stall. Washing her hands, she was back at her desk in under a minute.
She was the idiot Chance had been speaking of. Why had her job already been promised to someone else?
Well, she wasn’t going to make it easy for Chance to fire her. In fact, she was going to be employee of the freaking year if it killed her.
Chapter Nine
The corner of Tenth and Piedmont wasn’t a normal hookers’ hangout, but construction on Luckie Street had driven business in.
The calls about the trash and activity had started coming in at midnight, an hour into Byron’s shift. He’d responded with increased patrols, sometimes flashing his lights, but as soon as he pulled away, they’d resurface, like cockroaches, and claim the corners again.
Unsettled, he drove the streets, wishing everyone would just go home and go to sleep. That’s where he wanted to be. At home. Asleep.
Alone. There wasn’t another option, considering he didn’t have anyone.
That was cool, he reminded himself. His last girlfriend, Lynn, had driven him crazy with her suspicious, jealous ways.
But she could cook. And she could make him lose his mind in bed. More than once he’d been glad for the half acre of space between his house and his neighbors. Or else he’d have had some explaining to do.
He directed his patrol car up Fourteenth and down Piedmont Avenue, heading back toward the heart of the city.
He and Lynn were over. For good. And no amount of reminiscing would change that. She was crazy. A drama queen with no throne.
Months ago he’d made himself delete her number from his cell phone, but he still remembered it.
His cell phone rang, surprising him.
Lynn.
Had he talked her up, or what?
He hesitated over whether to answer, then pushed the phone icon. “Byron Rivers.”
“You sound just as sexy as ever. Hello, handsome.”
Damn.
She sounded like rain after a long drought. Her voice made him want to vacation in its sweetness for a hot minute. But this was Lynn. His ex for a reason. “What’s up, Lynn?”
“Missing you. You been thinking about me?”
“Not really,” he lied.
“You weren’t ever a good liar. That’s why I was always glad to use you as an expert witness. Juries believe you. I’ve been thinking about us.”
“At two in the morning?” he asked. “Ten months after you walked out? Why would I be crossing your mind?”
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I blew it. I know I did. But the best part about making a mistake is forgiveness. You told me that once.”
Her sexy voice lured him but didn’t make him forget. “You left me. I wasn’t ambitious enough, remember? I’m still the same beat cop who only makes enough money to eat out once a week.”
He drove to the edge of his territory, then headed back in.
“Now who’s holding a grudge? I’m a changed woman. You’ll see. What time do you get off?”
“You know.” She was an attorney and had connections everywhere. “Just like you knew I was working.”
Her husky laugh took him back to some of their better days.
“Can I make your
breakfast?”
“I don’t—”
“A man has to eat. Bacon, waffles, grits, eggs,” she purred. “Coffee with cream. I haven’t lost my touch. You’ll be completely satisfied.”
The offer hung out there like a seller hawking tickets. Maybe he was being too close-minded. “All right. Breakfast and that’s it.”
She laughed again. “See you at eight a.m. at your place. Be safe.”
As soon as the call disconnected, second thoughts ran through his mind. Lynn Summer, a defense attorney from Chicago, had a plan for her life that included a man who wasn’t Byron. He didn’t make six figures or more, nor did he see himself getting close to that in the foreseeable future.
Lynn, who loved the finer things in life, was the same woman who’d left with every designer bauble he’d ever bought her.
Except his broken heart. She hadn’t placed much value on that. He tried to dial her back but didn’t get even her voice mail. She was trouble. Just like Tia Amberson.
Byron slapped his forehead and stomped on the brakes. He had to register for the anger management class. He dug out the number, dialed, and paid, pissed.
Women were nothing but trouble.
He cruised past a parking lot, saw the same action, and stopped.
He amended his earlier thoughts about women. People were crazy.
He called in the public sex act and got out of his patrol car. The couple was too engaged to notice him.
He tapped the kneeling woman on the shoulder with his billy club. “Police. Stop what you’re doing, and get up.”
The man reacted first. His eyes shot open. He jerked to the right. Unfortunately, he must have met teeth, because he started squealing and running in place.
The hooker turned around, unfazed. “Cain’t you see we’re busy?”
“Breaking the law. Get up. You’re under arrest.”
“Really?” she said.
Damn, Byron thought. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Suddenly, dirt sprayed his face. Temporarily blinded, he grabbed hold of the freakishly strong woman. Luckily, she was still kneeling. They wrestled for a minute, with Byron grinding his teeth when her nails dug into his arm. Ten seconds later, he had her subdued, and within a minute, she was in the back of his patrol car.
Outside the car, he went through her bag while she cussed and kicked at the window.
“Hey,” Byron hollered at her. “You better not mess up my car.”
He just prayed she didn’t defecate on the backseat. That was the worst.
Byron radioed the station. “Run a check on Strawberry Jones. Five-foot-ten female, 185 pounds.”
Several seconds passed. “It’s a hit,” came back the dispatcher. “Wanted in three counties in Georgia, and in Alabama for solicitation. The other charges range from assault with deadly, assault on a police officer, threatening a witness, and jaywalking. She’s a badass.”
Byron looked at the thrashing hooker and gathered her stuff off the hood. His arms were bleeding, and the threat of impending doom seemed to have come to rest on his shoulders.
The john had gotten away. But, Byron reasoned, hopefully, this bust would help get him off the night shift and get his career back on track. Byron wasn’t normally morbid, but somehow he didn’t think so.
Chapter Ten
Old memories resurfaced as Byron walked through the white-walled halls of Reynolds High School, his alma mater. Although the school had been remodeled and upgraded to accommodate twenty-three hundred students, the unpleasant years he’d spent here couldn’t be glossed over with new paint.
He’d been a boy of small stature; “underdeveloped,” his mother liked to say apologetically to her church lady friends.
His father promised he’d grow up thick and tall one day. For Byron, someday had been too far away. The daily torture of being knocked around Reynold’s waxed floors had been frustrating.
He was grown now, yet here he still felt unsettled.
At the end of the hallway, he consulted the paper in his hand.
Anger Management: Room 100.9. He looked up again. 100.7. 100.17. 100.27. Across the hall were 101.7 and 101.17.
He’d just come from 102.7.
What kind of numbering system was this? He tried applying an equation but grew more frustrated. In five minutes, he’d be late for his first anger management class.
Good. He was mad, anyway.
Two girls dressed in cheerleader uniforms approached.
“Ladies, can you direct me to 100.9?”
The tallest girl slid the paper from his hand. “Don’t you get the sequence? This hallway is all sevens.”
Oh.
“Go down two corridors. Take the steps down. Through the double doors, fifty paces. Turn left, and you’ll be on the nines corridor. Ninth door on your left.”
He must have looked confused, because the shorter girl yanked a pen from behind her ear and took the paper. “Here, let me show you.”
When Byron looked down, he swallowed. She’d drawn a “you are here” map on the back, and an illustrated guide.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. To his dismay, they followed him, to make sure he’d made the correct turn, before going on their way.
Two minutes later, he was outside the room. A steady hum of pleasant voices filtered into the hallway, and Byron felt a smidgen of relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
He stepped into the room, and every mouth shut.
No, this would be worse.
Ten angry women glared at him as if he alone were responsible for labor pains, PMS, and the disproportionate number of men’s and women’s restrooms at the football stadium.
“Is this anger management?” he asked, hoping against hope it wasn’t.
“Yes.” The instructor, a short man with even shorter sleeves, stood behind the desk, his credibility decimated by the length of his comb-over. The look of fear in his eyes didn’t help, either.
“I thought this class was for men only.”
Angry murmurs resounded from the natives. “No,” the man responded, letting Byron hang in idiotic limbo alone.
“Great,” Byron said.
Byron heard his response in his head and ventured to see the reaction. They were pissed. He hadn’t meant to offend them. Nevertheless, he wished he had his Kevlar vest, gun, pepper spray, cuffs, and billy club.
These women didn’t appear to need provocation to devour him and then pick their teeth with his bones.
Maybe if he sat down, they’d forget he was there.
Byron headed up the aisle and was confronted by their size 4X leader. Frustration prickled that he wasn’t in his uniform. Had he been, he’d have ordered her back. However, his student status didn’t allow for a coup de grace. So he retreated and twisted his ankle on a well-placed booby trap—a purse.
Evil snickers filled the room.
Because the air was charged with X chromosome energy, he feared if he didn’t diffuse the women, he’d disappear from society and emerge years later, wearing an apron and, he swallowed, pearls.
He tried to squeeze by their leader, who had her forehead to his chest, but her stout legs held firmly at a ninety-degree angle—enough to turn her into a steel girder.
Every time she inhaled, his legs slipped a little, until his hamstrings were pressed solidly against the unrelenting table behind him.
To gain the advantage, he exhaled and caved his chest.
Another tactical error, Byron realized when the sumo’s body filled the space. Oxygen whooshed from his mouth. His lungs panicked and screamed for air.
The woman received encouragement from her friends. “Go on, girl!”
“He ain’t nothin’ but rude!”
“Show him who’s boss!”
His brain received an instant message from his lungs: breathe now or die. “If you’d just let—” he said and stopped. He was going to pass out.
Just before the silver stars in his eyes turned black, she popped through, and he gulped in
air.
“No, you didn’t just call me fat!”
Byron stared at her in disbelief. She’d almost killed him! “I didn’t call you fat.”
“I heard you. You called me fat,” she told the indignant mob.
“I heard him, too,” a woman said, although she was two tables away.
“I never said that!” “I’m a cop,” he wanted to declare but didn’t. Who’d believe him in a mob of angry women?
The instructor finally interceded. “It’s over now. Everyone, please take your seats.”
Was that the best he could do? The little wimp wouldn’t even look Byron in the eye.
Byron touched the chair the big woman had vacated. A purse landed on the plastic. “Taken.”
He moved across the aisle. “Taken.”
He touched another. “Taken.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. Which of these seats isn’t taken?”
The lady at the fifth table from the front pointed to a chair in the back of the room.
“That’s just great.” Byron grabbed the seat and planted it firmly against the last table and sat.
He leaned back, and the chair groaned. Forced to hunch forward, Byron couldn’t help but remember how little he’d liked school.
The instructor approached him. “You should apologize for calling Pebbles fat.”
Pebbles? What sensible grown-up would have the nickname of a cartoon character? A little white tag on the instructor’s breast pocket announced his name.
“Look here, Fred. I didn’t call her fat, so I’m not apologizing.”
Fred sucked up brownie points by showing his disappointed frown to the class.
“Don’t you see what’s happening? If we don’t stick together, we’re dog food.” Byron tried to establish a sense of brotherhood with the man, but he knew it was a lost cause.
“I’ll have to report your lack of cooperation,” Fred said loudly.
And that would be all Captain Hanks needed to have his badge. “Wait.” Byron hated not having choices. He chewed the inside of his jaw before forcing his lips to move. “I didn’t call you fat, but I apologize if you misheard me.”
He’d managed to elicit consternation from every person in the room.
“How is that a real apology?” Pebbles demanded.
