Dan’s behind the counter when we arrive.
“Did you order to go?” He looks at the empty counter under the heat lamps and back at me. “I don’t have a pie for you.”
“Nah. Erik and I are playing hooky for the afternoon,” Dad says. “Having some father-son time.”
“Good to have you.” Dan bobs his head in acknowledgement. “Grab a seat and I’ll be right over.”
We sit in a booth and Dan follows us over with two glasses of water. He doesn’t offer us other drink options, which doesn’t give Dad the chance to ask for a beer before taking our order.
While we wait for the pizza, I notice his hands tremble around his glass. Whatever he had earlier is wearing off apparently.
“How’s the job down on Maxwelton?” I make small talk to distract him.
“It’s painting walls.” He scratches his arm. “Some days I’m the guy who actually watches paint dry. Pretty boring stuff.”
The subcontracting job as a house painter is the most recent in a lot of short-term jobs. He holds on long enough to help Mom with the bills and pay off some of their debt. I don’t know if he gets comfortable, lazy, or self-destructive but at some point the drinking will cost him another job. He’ll leave early to go drink. Show up drunk. Or the final phase: not show up at all. Seems we’re still in the first phase on this job.
Guys he grew up with and still remember him as the golden boy give him a break. They hire him over and over, despite broken promises and the risk of ruining their own business’ reputation. The jobs get simpler and less essential to the job sites. A man who once owned the largest commercial building business on the island is now a mediocre house painter.
It’s depressing as fuck.
I can’t imagine how it feels for him. Alcoholism is a fucking terrible disease.
“How’s the coffee business?” His voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
“It’s all right.” It’s better than okay, but I don’t feel right telling him how well business is going for us. Feels like bragging.
“Make sure you keep your eyes on the books.” His advice is sound, but holds more bitterness than bad coffee.
I catch Dan watching us. “Excuse me, Dad. Be right back.”
“How’s he doing?” Dan speaks in a low voice.
I shrug. “Same. Still mostly showing up for the job.”
Dan’s probably closer to my age than my dad’s. Hard to tell though because he has gray hair, but a young looking face. He could be thirty-five or fifty. The way he gives Carter and me shit sometimes makes me think he’s not so old. He definitely has the “been there, done that” attitude about him. Nothing really fazes him.
For an older guy, he’s pretty cool. I respect him in a way I don’t with my own father. Not anymore.
“Work and a sense of responsibility are good as long as he manages his stress.”
“I found him today in his truck waiting for the Legion to open.”
Dan frowns. “That’s not a good sign.”
“He’s about to get banned from the Eagles again.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing?” He strokes his beard like he’s really weighing the best options for my dad’s drinking haunts.
“People know him at the private clubs and they’re more likely to give him a ride home or call Mom, or us.” Dad’s favorite place besides the fraternal Eagles’ clubhouse and the Legion is the Rod and Gun club.
“What happens if you let him bottom out again?”
Familiar shame hits me out of nowhere.
“We end up being a scandal again? I’m trying to protect Mom from humiliation.” I leave off the “more” part. “She’s been through enough and kept our family together. She deserves better.”
She doesn’t deserve being the mom to an Internet sensation either.
“Sometimes you need to shatter before you can put yourself back together again. Pieces of ourselves get damaged over the years and don’t fit right. Breaking apart can help realign the important connections.” He doesn’t make eye contact as he speaks. Instead, he stares over my shoulder at Dad. “Our pasts can be stones in our pockets, weighing us down until we sink.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about Dad anymore or himself. I don’t know much about him, but I’d guess he has his own heavy stones from the past.
“Wow. You’re really deep.”
“That’s what she said.”
I snort. “Wasn’t expecting you to say that.”
“Sorry. My humor balances out the philosophy major.”
The pizza man is a philosopher? I file this away with the few things I know about Dan. It’s a tiny list.
Jeff slides our large pepperoni onto the counter from his wooden paddle.
“Hey, Dan,” my dad yells from across the small restaurant, “what’s a fellow got to do to get a beer around here?”
Dan meets my eyes. I shrug.
“Light beer okay, Carl?”
One beer won’t make anything worse at this point.
My phone vibrates with text messages. I try to ignore them while eating. Everyone I know eats with their phones in one hand, even when they’re out with friends. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.
Texts continue to hit my phone. My phone buzzes around on the bench next to me like a vibrator.
“You gonna answer that?” Dad mumbles, his mouth full. “Might be a pretty lady asking you out for a good time.” He winks.
I glance at the screen. Carter’s name appears multiple times. The most recent one is from Jonah. I open his first.
*You have a new hot girlfriend you didn’t tell me about?*
I respond with snark. He knows damn well I don’t have a girlfriend.
*Yeah, your sister.*
*Stay away from my sister.*
*Why are you asking me about my hot imaginary girlfriend?*
*The name Cari ring any bells? Or whistles? Did I mention she’s hot?*
Of course Jonah would think Cari is hot. Her colorful hair and punkass attitude are just his type. If she has an anchor tattoo or inspiring words on her wrists, he’ll definitely be a goner.
Wait, how does he know what Cari looks like and why does he think she’s my girlfriend?
*I don’t know any Cari.*
I’m not lying. Not really. I glance up at Dad who is happily drinking the light beer swill Dan brought him and munching away on his second slice of pizza.
*She knows you.*
*Stop being cryptic.*
*Some pretty woman named Cari is here and for some strange reason she’s asking for you.*
*Here where?*
*At Joe’s. She says she’ll wait.*
I drop my phone and it lands face down in the oil on my slice.
“Shit.” I use my shirttail to wipe it off and type a bunch of nonsense to Jonah, then hit send. “Shit.”
“You’re repeating yourself.” Dad wipes his hands on a well-used napkin and finishes off his beer.
My phone vibrates.
*Is djasdkl some cool new text speak for excited? I’ll tell Cari while I keep her company.*
*Don’t let her leave.*
“I need to go back to the warehouse.” I open my wallet and pull out a couple bills. Then I remember I drove us here.
If I drop Dad at the Legion, then today’s “operation keep Carl sober enough” will have been a waste of time.
Other than the part about having a decent time with my dad.
I calculate driving times in my head. If I have to take him home, I’ll add another hour before I can get back to work.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I think up an alternative. I text Carter.
*Free pizza at Sal’s if you can get here in ten minutes.*
*Is this a trap?*
*Free pizza and I’ll buy you beer later.*
*Be there in 7.*
Impressively, he arrives in exactly seven minutes. I’m halfway out the door by the time he spies Dad.
“Thanks, bro. Six pack of Alaskan
Amber will be waiting for you at the house tonight.”
A California license plate stands out amongst all the Washington cars in front of the café. I’m staring at it, memorizing the numbers because I’m frozen in my front seat after racing over here. I take a picture . . . for future evidence. Just in case.
I have no idea what I’m about to walk into, or why she’s here, or how she tracked me down so fast.
I’m still sitting in the Bronco when Jonah walks out and stares at me from a safe distance.
“You stayin’ in there all day?”
“I might.”
He opens the door I should’ve locked. “You’re acting nervous. About a girl. What’s going on? You back in seventh grade?”
“Shut up.”
He’s blocking the door so I can’t slam it on him.
Do I tell him how I “know” Cari? Or go in there and yell at her first?
I’m not the kind of guy who yells at women, but I’m tempted by the demon-dating jezebel.
“I’m counting to a hundred.”
“Didn’t know you could count that high.” His laughter dies down when he catches my glare.
“Is she some girl you got knocked up in Mexico?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me this? Like I’m too stupid to use a condom?”
“Condoms fail. I could give you the statistics, but you don’t seem like you’re in the mood for math right now.”
More annoyed by Jonah’s lame ass attempt at humor than scared to deal with stalker girl inside, I shove past him.
“If things don’t work out between you two lovebirds, let me know. She looks like she’s more my type than yours,” he shouts before closing my door.
I don’t bother giving him a reaction as I march inside.
SHE’S HOLDING A Starbucks cup.
A rant builds in my head.
A freaking venti. It’s Italian for twenty. Not small, tall, or “grande.” Big is subjective and shouldn’t be a drink size.
Twenty isn’t a beverage size. Small, medium, large, and given it’s America, extra-large are sizes. Hell, I’d accept short and tall as sizes.
Twenty is pointless unless you add ounces. It’s not a cup of coffee. It’s not even a pint or a freaking a quart of coffee. Who would order two and a half cups of something? A cup, a pint. Those are classic measurements. Timeless.
Twenty’s a random, pointless size.
A freaking venti cup of something that’s probably closer to a candy bar than a real cup of actual coffee.
And she’s drinking it through a straw. A hot beverage through a straw.
I groan in disgust.
Using my excellent deduction skills, I conclude she’s fresh off the ferry or drove down from Oak Harbor. Either way, her venti fakeaccino is probably lukewarm at best.
I do her the favor of immediately throwing it into the trash.
“Hey, that was my coffee!” She looks like she’s thinking about digging that cup of sadness out of the garbage.
“That wasn’t coffee.”
“Yes, it was. The good people of Starbucks sold it to me as coffee and it tasted like coffee.”
“Pfft.” It’s all I can do not to spit. “I’d make you a real coffee, but it will probably be wasted on you.”
The glare I know so well from Mexico is back. When she’s not glaring, she’s pretty with wide eyes, a small nose, and full, perfect lips.
“Flip me off. I know it’s your signature move. Do it. You might feel better.”
Her eyes, which I thought were green but have brown in them too, darken like a shadow of something evil passes behind her irises. I’m not going to lie, I’m a little bit afraid of her.
Cross that out.
She scares me.
Her nostrils flare the slightest bit. Her fingers twitch where they are pressed into her biceps as if she’s holding herself together. I take a step back, out of range in case she explodes.
At least blood will be easy to clean off of the painted industrial floor. The regulation fire hose could probably do the job in a few seconds. Also good for the zombie apocalypse, which is going to be messy.
I make a note to talk to Jonah about adding a fence with barbed wire around the property as an outer perimeter.
Being on an island is an excellent start. First sign of the outbreak, we could blow up the bridge over Deception Pass. Cutting off the rest of the world is a dream for a lot of islanders. Having the Naval airbase in Oak Harbor could be a blessing. Or a curse.
We could probably self-sustain ourselves for a long time with fishing and farming. However, things could get dicey as resources on the island diminish and locals get infected.
Are there zombie animals? What about fish? Would the fish be infected? I know there’s collectively enough frozen and smoked salmon on the island to last for years.
“Why are you mumbling about zombie fish?” Her voice filters in through my rambling mind.
“Why are you?” I snark back.
Her eyes roll back, briefly exposing the whites. Like a zombie. “I can’t even with this.”
“You are unable to even—? What does that mean? Are you at odds with yourself?” She’s very strange.
“You’re weird.”
“I was just thinking you’re evil. I guess that makes us even.” I fight the urge to stick out my tongue at her. If she had a ponytail, I’d pull it and run away.
Her back stiffens. “You don’t even know me.”
“You are single-mindedly ruining my life because I called your boyfriend out on being an ass-wipe. I don’t need to know you to know if being a psycho were an Olympic sport, you’d at least get the bronze.”
Based on all the women I’ve met, she’s definitely a top three psycho.
Layla’s eyes widen from her spot eavesdropping behind the counter. There are other customers sprinkled around the café.
I’m creating a scene and need to shut it down. “How dare you show up at my business and harass me. I have a lawyer.”
“At least you can afford one.”
“When I sue you, you’ll be paying my legal fees. Thanks for saving us the trouble of tracking you down.”
I need to walk away. Adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream. I’m not an angry guy, but in this moment I understand seeing red. I feel like a bull trapped in a ring by a man in tight pants, charging at any movement out of confusion and anger.
I storm toward the warehouse and my office, slamming the door behind me. I pace around the small space barely big enough to hold two desks, a couple of chairs, and some filing cabinets. For a moment I think about sweeping everything off my desk and throwing things. Maybe breaking something.
What I should do is call my lawyer and let her know my worst nightmare is here.
Once again listening to classical Muzak, I’m praying my lawyer picks up her damn phone for once. When her voicemail kicks on, I leave a message and then opt to get transferred to the operator. I kick my desk repeatedly with the steel toe of my old work boots.
I reach her assistant and she tells me Virginia is gone for the day at a trial.
That’s just great.
“Have her call me. As soon as possible. I think I need a restraining order as well as the other letters.”
“You can call the police if you’re being harassed. File a report with them and it’ll be easier to process the order.” Her voice is flat and unemotional, probably from dealing with nut jobs weekly. Me having a stalker doesn’t faze her.
I hang up after a sarcastic thank you.
A soft knock sounds on the other side of my door. I freeze and hold my breath. I can’t deal with anyone right now.
The knocking continues. If it were Jonah, he’d have barged in here already.
“Go away, Layla.”
The sound stops.
I don’t hear footsteps walk away. “Go. Away. Layla.”
She could be wearing sneakers and has silently left already.
I crack open the door to c
heck.
“I need to talk to you.”
I slam it in Cari’s face.
After I turn the lock, I lean against the cool metal. I think I hear a faint sigh on the other side.
My brilliant plan has one major flaw.
I’m now locked inside my office while the enemy is on the other side. The side with my business partner, employee, customers, and the rest of the world.
Meanwhile, I’m trapped inside a tiny box without a window. No food. No water.
So much for being good at planning for the zombie apocalypse.
The lack of windows and the metal building are pluses.
Crazy woman set on ruining my life blocking my freedom? Definitely in the negative.
Perhaps I could use this moment to try out my zombie dodging and survival skills.
Glancing around the office, I take inventory of what I can possible use to defend myself.
No, I’m not talking a knife or a machete. I’m not going to jail for murder.
I need something bright and shiny to distract her. Or colorful.
A box of T-shirt samples on a shelf catches my eye. I can work this. I toss a few on my shoulder.
Everyone likes free T-shirts, right?
I undo the lock as quietly as possible. The click echoes loudly in my ears. At least the knob turns silently before I pull open the door a crack. I half expect her face to come through the narrow opening like Jack in The Shining.
Nothing happens. She’s not out there.
Popping my head out, I look around like a ground hog looking for its shadow. Or a prairie dog popping up out of its hole, tense and ready to disappear if it spots a predator.
I don’t see her.
This is the part in the horror movie when the hero thinks the coast is clear and he can safely waltz away from the mayhem.
Oh no, my friend. It never works out that way.
I pull the shirts off my shoulder and hold them in front of me. I plan to throw them at Cari if necessary before making a run for my truck.
Yeah, I know. Making a break for it never works out in the horror movies either.
I have a clear shot through the warehouse, but I hear voices in the café. It could just be Jonah and Layla chatting it up. Or Cari could be out there, hiding, patiently waiting to pounce.
Anything but Love (Wingmen #3) Page 7
