Fifty-Two Pickup: Threes (Jessica Rogers Book 3)

by Jayden Hunter

  I was behind on several series, but I had to be careful what I picked to watch while staying over at my sister’s house. Nothing would be more awkward than having to explain to my sister why I was watching something like a Sansa Stark rape scene or someone’s throat being slit on Boardwalk Empire when Abby or Ruthie walked in the room needing a hug after a bad dream…

  They were both good kids, but I swear, there were times I’ve babysat when getting them to bed was a two-hour ordeal.

  Zack and Peter came down to the kitchen looking for a snack.

  “How’s things?” I asked.

  “Fine,” Zack said.

  “Normal,” Peter said.

  “What’s normal?” I asked.

  “The same as always,” he answered.

  Boys…

  You’d think I was torturing them trying to get a conversation started. They rummaged through the pantry and finding something acceptable, they headed back upstairs, but not before I caught Zack by the arm and asked him to sit with me a minute.

  “He’ll be right up, Peter,” I said.

  “We’re playing—”

  “Five minutes,” I said.

  “Okay.” He left without another complaint. Ten-years-old and I already saw him as a future lawyer. I’m not sure if that is a compliment or a curse. Zack, at thirteen, was harder to read than his brother. I know it’s an awkward age—thirteen—at least I know it’s difficult as a girl. I’m sure it’s the same for boys. I smiled at him, trying to convey a non-threatening attitude.

  “How’s things really?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—I sat down and motioned for him to take a chair at the kitchen bar counter with me—“with your parents.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked. “I’m not asking you to reveal any secrets,”—maybe I shouldn’t be prying at all, but I do care—“it just sort of seemed to me like there was some tension. I just wanted to you to know you can always talk to me.”

  “I know, Aunt Jess,” he said. “Bethany has—”

  I interrupted him and pointed towards the across the kitchen. “They’re in the game room,” I said.

  “Matt’s here?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Is that not okay?”

  “I guess,” he said. “You’re in charge.”

  “You like him?”

  “He’s alright,” Zack said. “Peter is waiting. I’d better—”

  “One more minute,” I said. “Do you think your parents are fighting—I mean—more than usual?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He looked down, not comfortable with my line of questioning, which wasn’t my intention, and then said, “A little—I guess.”

  “Okay,” I said rubbing his head and standing up. “Go play video games with your brother. Don’t stay up too late. Brush your teeth—and all that—I’m going to go supervise your sister…”

  “Aunt Jess?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You think maybe sometime you could give me some poker lessons?”

  “Of course, honey,” I said smiling at him. “Anytime.”

  He left me standing there wondering, once again, what I was doing with my life. As difficult as my relationship with my sister was, I had to acknowledge she was a good mom. Well, at least she had great kids…

  Speaking of which, I reminded myself, I needed to check on the hormonally driven teens in the game room. I considered sneaking in, but then realized that would be something my sister would do. So I made an effort to be noisy. They were shooting pool and listening to music. Fully dressed, thank the heavens.

  “Who’s winning?” I asked.

  MATT WAS POLITE and asked me to join them shooting pool. We played cut-throat and chatted about music and movies.

  And, of course, I tried to sneak in a few personal questions.

  I was prying—trying to be mom-like I guess—when my cell phone went off. My sister was calling—instead of text messaging—which immediately gave me anxiety. If she wanted to check on the kids, she could have just texted.

  Looking at Bethany, I joked, “Your mother has an uncanny sense of timing…you being right behind the eight ball and all…”

  She sneered at me.

  “The kids are fine,” I said into the phone, skipping hello, and sounding in charge.

  “It’s not Eve, Jess,” a voice said, it was a friend of my sister on the phone. I recognized her friend’s voice, but the woman’s name escaped me. It’s not often I get these kinds of phone calls, ones that start with a mystery about why someone is calling late at night on someone else’s phone.

  My mind instantly flashed through all the horrible possibilities.

  Death, destruction, fire, earthquake, zombie invasion...

  “Jess, are you there?” the voice said.

  “Yes, what’s wrong?” I said, trying to maintain a sense of composure. I turned from Bethany and her friend.

  “Eve’s going to be okay,” the woman said. “But we are at the hospital. I think she’s got a broken leg.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “She’s…” The unnamed woman started crying. I could tell she’d been maintaining herself and her emotions finally overwhelmed her. I let her cry. Knowing it was just a broken bone—assuming that was the extent of it—gave me some sense of comfort.

  At least she was alive.

  When you’ve lost a parent early in life—or I suppose anyone—it hardens you, but also makes you, or at least it made me, a little jumpy about these kinds of things. In the second between hearing the word 'hospital' and the phrase 'broken leg,' I’d already planned the funeral.

  I was imagining having to move in with Ray and the kids while they adjusted. It’s amazing how fast the mind works out the details to hypothetical, scary situations.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman finally said after she got herself under control.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Tell me what happened.” I’d walked back into the kitchen for privacy, but Bethany was perceptive too, and she’d followed me. I could tell she was concerned. I guess my body language gave it away.

  “We were in a little accident. An ambulance came,” she said. “I’m sorry it took so long to get in touch with you—”

  “Never mind, it’s okay,” I said. “What hospital?”

  THE REST OF THE NIGHT WAS A BLUR, and it seemed to go by in montage of slow and fast motion…

  I wasn’t able to get ahold of Ray until the next day—dead cell phone battery he claimed—asshole brother-in-law. I’ve never been so upset with him. A battle for another day, I suppose.

  Midori got an Uber to Newport Beach. Once I confirmed she was on the way—and once I reiterated to Bethany that her friend needed to leave and that she was in charge until Midori showed up—I drove to the hospital.

  I reflected on the fragility of life the entire drive.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My main problem with cops is that they do what they're told. They say 'Sorry mate, I'm just doing my job' all the fucking time.

  ~ Banksy

  I AM ALWAYS CAREFUL on first dates. Coffee shops—generally, a Starbucks—are my favorite go-to place to meet for the first time. Screening men through online dating sites is not an exact science. You’ve got basic answers to questions, and hopefully a reasonable facsimile to what they look like, but even after messaging back-and-forth a few times, it’s still partially a guessing game.

  Everyone loves to travel. Puppies and romantic walks along the beach are go-to descriptors.

  With my decision to not include too many unreasonable filters, I know I have to be extra careful when I agree to meet someone out in the wild.

  I’m open to different races and cultures, but not men who are overtly religious, too short, too overweight, or too broke. A guy has got to have a strong personality to capture my attention, but he’s got to have a kind disposition to keep it. It’s not an easy combination to find.

  I SAT ACROSS
FROM ALAN MORRIS a few days after Eve was home from the hospital—other than a minor fracture and a lot of bruising, she was okay—and I told him about my experience over the last couple of days.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” he said. “She’s lucky—all things considered.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “True. I bet you see all kinds of horrors?” Alan was a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department, Robbery-Homicide Division, RHD for short. I had a few reservations about dating a cop, but I didn’t want to be narrow-minded about it.

  “You can’t imagine,” he said. “The things people do to each other.”

  “Is your job like what I see on television or the movies?”

  “Some days, sure,” he said. “But mostly, no. It’s rare to have shoot-outs and car chases—I investigate—a lot of leg work, interviews, phone calls, hunting down witnesses to talk to, that kind of stuff. Occasionally we make the evening news, of course.”

  “I had a date with a reporter,” I said. I’m not sure why I thought of it—maybe because I was still a little bit pissed off about Barry Campbell’s using me as part of his investigation into online dating in Los Angeles for a freelance piece. “He was doing a story—”

  “Barry fucking Campbell,” he said.

  “You know of him?”

  “Yeah, the bastard is doing something on the Department." Alan frowned in that no-nonsense cop way. No love lost between nosy reporters and cops I guess.

  “Is there something to hide?” I asked.

  “There are always things people like to keep in the dark,” he answered.

  “Sure, but,” I said, “with my thing—he’d asked me out on a date…”

  “Bastard.”

  “But, with you guys, I mean the Department, it’s a public service, you guys are public employees, so it’s different.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s not an invasion of privacy for an investigative journalist to look into how cops do their job like it was to ask me out on a date as part of a story he was doing, that’s what I mean.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But it’s…” He took a sip of coffee and gave me a smile. A sly one. “Maybe this is a bad topic?”

  “No,” I said. “I think it’s a fair topic. Why does it seem like you think it’s okay for cops to have secrets?”

  “We have a difficult job,” he said.

  “Yeah…and?”

  “Having people that don’t know what it’s like, constantly looking over your shoulder, constantly second-guessing, armchair quarterbacking, it’s unreasonable…”

  “What is?”

  “The public’s expectations.”

  I considered that for a moment. I hate judging anything without seeing it from both sides, without taking into account the other positions besides my own, but I was sensing something here I didn’t like. Are all cops arrogant?

  I decided to ask him.

  “Do you think, in general, that cops have a feeling like they are better than everyone else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like…” I tried to think of how to broach this topic without sounding like I’d already made up my mind. “Like, it seems to me that cops believe that they're in a special class of citizenship, above the commoners…”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “I just don’t think your average citizen gets what we’re really about.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I have a job. I do it. Like I said, you’d be shocked if you saw some of the stuff I’ve seen. It’s not like the movies…”

  “Okay, but what about the things you guys do, like, take poker for instance,” I said. “I used to play online poker, it was fun, you guys shut it down—”

  “Wait a minute, that was federal—”

  “Yes, I understand,” I said. “I know the difference, but I mean from a citizen's perspective—you’re all cops, and some of what you do—”

  “I’m with RHD, it has nothing to do with poker,” he said.

  “You’re missing my point,” I said.

  “Which is?”

  “It’s guys like you that used to put men in prison for selling marijuana,” I said.

  He glared, then gave me a fake smile.

  I gave him a smirk and said, “Nowadays, big corporations are selling weed, and—”

  “It’s legal now, and—”

  “But again, you’re missing my point.”

  “You’re not saying you think robbery and homicide are going to be legalized someday?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You realize that gay sex used to be illegal in California?”

  “That was before my time,” he said.

  “Yeah, I get that. Neither one of us was born back when Prohibition was in force either,” I said. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I don’t like people trying to control other people’s behavior,” I said. “Especially by using guns and threats of prison…”

  He frowned.

  I guess I had known the date was over some minutes before this point in the conversation, but his smug attitude bothered me. I gave him a sideways smile. He’s an investigator, so I assumed he knew it was over too. How to make a graceful exit was my next thought.

  Alan Morris, detective. I’d assign him the three of spades and move on.

  I decided to be more careful about what kind of alpha males I dated. Being strong and confident is attractive. Being arrogant and cocky isn't.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Spearfishing. Because golf is for pussies.

  ~ Online meme

  I WAS READY TO END MY LITTLE DRY SPELL.

  Bad dates, babysitting, hospital visits, what’s a single girl got to do to get laid?

  “You up for a little fishing trip?” Brad asked me the day before I found myself racing over the Pacific in his boat. I looked like I'd dressed to go snow skiing in the local mountains, it was, after all, January. But the day was pleasant and warm. The sky was clear, and when he stopped the boat, I was able to take off several of my outer layers of clothing.

  “It’s about sixty feet deep here—give or take,” he said. “I’m going to take a look. You want to get wet?”

  “Yes,” I said smiling.

  “I meant,” he said laughing at me, “I meant, do you want to suit up and check out the”—he pointed to the Pacific—“ocean?”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks, but I’ll stay here and guard the boat.”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about pirates.”

  “That may be,” I said. “But, still…”

  “Alright,” he said. “I won’t be too long. I just need to stay in shape, so I’ll make a few trips to the bottom, check it out, and then we can cruise around or have lunch. We can troll for Yellowtail if you’d like, or just cruise…”

  “Or…” I winked.

  “Yeah, or that,” he said. He walked over to me and kissed me. It was one of those slow—the best is yet to come—kisses…

  “I won’t be long,” he said.

  “You just said that,” I pointed out.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I’m dressed up like an Eskimo.”

  He rubbed his nose against mine and then kissed me again. “You like halibut?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’ve speared a few in this area,” he said. “Not as exciting as a yellowfin—”

  “Why don’t—”

  “Not in season right now, yellowfin. Yellowtail, yes, we could try putting out some lines—”

  “I drink yellowtail,” I said. “I don’t know about eating yellowtail. I do like yellowfin—what is the difference anyway?”

  “Yellowtail wine?” he asked.

  “Now yellowfin and yellowtail?”

  “Oh, just different species of tuna, yellowfin is the more desirable one, it’s
often called ahi, the Hawaiian name.”

  “I see,” I said. “Are you going to hurry up and catch a fish…”

  “Sure,” he said while taking off his clothes.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t watch you undress,” I said. “I might lose control.”

  He laughed at me while pulling on a wetsuit.

  “Well, that ruined the mood. You look like an aquatic mammal.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s way too cold,”—he slipped on diving fins, weights, and picked up his mask—“to not wear all this gear. But, I’ll be out of the water soon, and you can help warm me back up.” He retrieved a long spear gun and stood in front of me looking like an alien.

  “What happens if you don’t come back?” I asked. It was probably one of those back-luck questions, the kind of thing you’re not supposed to ask, but I didn’t like being left alone in the middle of the ocean without some idea of what to do if I needed help.

  “If I don’t come back to the surface after each dive within about five minutes,” he said with a serious tone in his voice, “it means I’ve drowned. Call the Coast Guard.”

  I frowned.

  “It’s not going to happen. This isn’t a deep dive, I’ve got years of experience, and I’m not pushing anything today. It’s mostly a little workout, and who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky—”

  “You could get lucky right now,”—I placed my hands on my hips—“just say the word.”

  “I’ll be quick,” he smiled.

  I frowned.

  “I meant with the dives,” he said.

  “Good. What about sharks?”

  “Hey, now that’s bad luck,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “You’ve just called them,” he said pointing to the ocean. “They hear the word shark, and they know to come sniffing around.”

  “Sure…”

  He walked to the edge of the rear deck and held up his spear. “If they come around, we’ll be eating shark fin soup.” With that, he entered the water. I sat and watched as he disappeared and then reappeared minutes later. He was free diving, meaning no tanks like a scuba diver, and I was impressed and fascinated with how long he could hold his breath.