Trixsters Anonymous

by Ahren Sanders

  “Keying a car is mostly reserved for teenagers and juveniles.”

  “Exactly! Carlton is juvenile!”

  “Have you spoken to your insurance company?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here today. Limp-dick needs to pay for this, or else, my premiums are going to skyrocket, and I may lose my insurance.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue that insurance generally doesn’t drop you after one claim, but seeing her spirit, I assume this isn’t her first claim.

  “Did you tell Oliver this?”

  “He didn’t give me a chance. He tried to placate me the instant I mentioned Carlton.”

  I stand beside her, crossing my arms, and survey the damage. If this was my car, and the situation was reversed, Carlton Breen would undoubtedly have his ass kicked.

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Arggg! All of you are alike! You think I’m being overdramatic!” She throws her arms in the air, her voice escalating.

  I bite my tongue to stop from grinning as her fiery spirit from earlier returns.

  “No, Emerson.” I reach to clasp her wrist gently. She snaps her face to mine. “I’m not like anyone else. When I say I’ll do something, it’s my word, and I’m telling you, I’ll look into it.”

  Her face softens. “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m headed out of town for the weekend, but when I get back on Monday, I’ll make some calls.”

  The air between us starts to buzz, and she nibbles on her lower lip, lowering her eyes to where I’m still holding her wrist.

  “Can I give you my number so you can call me when you find something?”

  Without answering, I hand her my phone. “Put it in.”

  She tugs her hand free and does as I ask, a small smile forming on her lips. When she hands it back, she opens her door and slides inside. “Thank you, Detective Scott. I hope to hear from you.”

  I step back, watching her back out and drive away. When she turns the corner, I look at my screen and see she’s entered her number and left me a message.

  My friends call me Emi.

  “Emi,” rolls off my tongue, and I tap my phone in my hand. I make a mental note to myself; I’m going to make it my business to find out more about Emerson Baker.

  Chapter 2

  Emi

  To: Trixsters Anonymous

  From: {Website Contact- Anon 1}

  Subject: Referral

  Dear Trixsters,

  I think I may need your services. A friend of mine heard of you through an acquaintance.

  She assures me of your discretion and professionalism, but I’m skeptical to delve into details until I understand more. How exactly does this work?

  Regards,

  Suspicious Fiancée

  I read the email over Maren’s shoulder and then pace in a circle around her kitchen.

  “We’re really doing this?”

  “Are you getting cold feet?” She raises an eyebrow, looking bored.

  “No, I think it’s more of a cross between excitement and nervous jitters.”

  “Well, you need to figure it out soon because we have our first potential client.”

  I stop moving and give her a nod. “Go for it.”

  She starts typing, and I grab us both a bottle of water and sit next to her. Since the day Maren broke up with Carlton, we’ve been in planning mode for Trixsters Anonymous. We worked tirelessly, Maren on the IT side and me researching how to start a small business. While neither of us knew if our little venture would take off, we wanted to be prepared. What we didn’t expect was the complexity of being anonymous.

  The main concern was how to open a bank account and accept payments. We decided to classify TA a consulting business, and I called a friend from school for advice.

  Leah works in banking in Savannah, so we took a road trip to visit her. It was easy to get out of town, explaining to our families and friends that Maren needed a getaway. This was believable by all because her mother was convinced she was on the verge of a breakdown and in denial after ending her engagement. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Maren played along.

  Last weekend, we got a room on the riverfront in Savannah and finalized our business plan. While everyone thought we were drowning our sorrows, we were actually holed up in our hotel, coming up with tons of scenarios that may come our way.

  Leah met with us, and without giving too many details, ATC, Anonymous Trixsters Consulting, now had a bank account. We also had a hefty balance, thanks to Carlton Breen’s outlandish taste in diamond rings. ATC was our clever way to twist our title in case anyone ever tried to find out who we were. It was my idea to switch the spelling around because Trixsters with an ‘x’ was much cooler.

  Leah didn’t ask questions, but we led her to believe our business was in graphics, and Maren had to be careful because of her full time position.

  During the weekend, we picked up two new computers for TA business exclusively, Maren built a website and email addresses only. Once someone logged onto the TA.com site, the only option on the landing page was a ‘Contact Us’ button.

  Anyone wanting to contact us was able to write a brief message, which would originally be transferred through without them having to disclose their name. Maren was then able to build a code that linked their message and trapped their emails for reply. Then we spent hours creating forms, auto-replies, and correspondence messages. By the end of the weekend, we also had new cell phones, for TA business purposes only, and new wardrobes, including everything we could need to disguise ourselves.

  Sure, there were things that would pop up along the way, but we were prepared to deal with them as they came. One of our largest hurdles was marketing. It wasn’t like we could print business cards and hand them out, so we had to rely on word of mouth.

  This turned out to be easier than we thought. Once word spread of Maren’s broken engagement, the questions started coming in.

  Her phone, email, and text messages were blowing up with questions from friends and coworkers who were concerned. She took this opportunity to plug our business without making a big deal of it.

  One Saturday night, we invited about a dozen of these women to her house for a cocktail party. She pretended to be solemn and heartbroken, and these women rushed to the idea of consoling her.

  The whole day, she was high on excitement, buzzing around her house. The minute the first guest arrived, she threw me a wink and opened the door as a different woman. I have to give it my best friend; she should consider acting. As each woman came through the door, she fell into them with huge hugs, even shedding tears to keep up the act.

  I served drinks and appetizers, biting my tongue all night to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. Finally, after a few rounds of my famous margaritas, the questions started.

  “Maren, honey, are you sure he cheated?”

  “Maren, Carlton has always been such a gentleman. Maybe there’s a mistake.”

  “Maren, sometimes men don’t think things through. Are you sure you can’t forgive him?”

  “Maren, maybe he will forgive you for this and you can get him back.”

  At this statement, I almost threw up in my mouth, but I kept my cool, waiting for the question. My patience paid off when one of her coworkers asked.

  “Maren, how did you find out?”

  Ding! Ding! Ding! There it is…

  Maren squared her shoulders and gave me the briefest glimpse, then started her spiel.

  “I had suspicions for a while, a feeling I couldn’t shake. He was acting differently. One day, I came across an anonymous group online that helps women in my situation. They were professional, discreet, and provided me with the information. They also warned me that there may be nothing to report, and I prayed they were right. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. It was gut wrenching, but I had pictures, audio clips, and fool-proof evidence Carlton was cheating. There was no choice but to confront him.”

  The room was silent, mouths hanging
open at her confession. I stood back, watching the expressions on some of their faces, and saw blatant curiosity. Finally, the question came.

  “What was the name of this group?”

  “Trixsters Anonymous.”

  In that minute, the seed was planted. All we had to do was wait.

  Now, as she responds to our first potential client, the jitters start to dance in my stomach.

  She turns the screen to me, showing what we drafted as our initial contact response.

  Dear Suspicious Fiancée,

  Trixsters Anonymous is a completely confidential group that specializes in a variety of services.

  Most of our clientele come to us when they have strong suspicions of infidelity and don’t have the resources to uncover the proof. Our main goal here at TA is to research these concerns and provide information for our clients.

  Our methods are never disclosed; however, any evidence, if found, is turned over to you privately.

  We have implemented a strict code of privacy in order to protect ourselves and our clients. If you are interested in retaining our services, we have a few guidelines you must adhere to.

  NDA to be signed by both parties.

  All information provided by clients will be contained in secure, protected files. Encryption programs have been put in place to ensure complete anonymity.

  Payments will be made via wire transfer.

  All correspondence between TA and clients will be done electronically. We highly recommend opening a separate email account with strong password protection. If interested in retaining our services, please respond to {1298yirhz@ta.gru} with your direct contact information only. You will receive a confirmation email within forty-eight hours.

  Thank you for contacting Trixsters Anonymous.

  *Disclaimer: You are receiving this email on a protected server where only you can view. All correspondence has a high level of encryption that cannot be shared and will be deleted from the server in seventy-two hours.

  “Send.” I hit the button and bump Maren’s shoulder with my own. “Now, we wait.”

  “Now, we wait,” she repeats.

  “What should we do next?”

  “Why don’t we talk about your scene at the police station yesterday?”

  “It wasn’t a scene! I merely wanted someone to take me seriously.”

  “Sounds like you found someone to take you very seriously.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

  “What are you talking about?” I play it off, knowing exactly what she’s going to say.

  “Word has it that the newest detective on the force showed a particular interest in your hissy fit. He even offered his personal assistance in your claim.”

  “He was nice,” I offer, avoiding her eyes.

  “Nice, huh? Rumor is swirling that he—”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Nina needs to keep her mouth shut. There’s nothing to tell.” I huff. Nina is Maren’s cousin, and she’s full of gossip. Working at the police station, she always has a story to share.

  “Why are you blushing, Emi? Don’t you want to tell me how the hot cop took one look at you, stormed over, and demanded to know what was happening. Not to mention, his eyes went glacial when Ollie tried to hold your hand.”

  I want to argue with her, but her last sentence makes my heart flip. I snap my eyes to hers in disbelief. “They did?”

  “According to Nina, no one missed it. Except you, apparently.”

  “He was nice.” I shrug, repeating my earlier statement.

  “So you’ve said. Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  I try to deflect, but his face instantly flashes in my head. Walker Scott has been on my mind a lot more than I want to admit in the last eighteen hours. At first sight of him in the station, I knew he was the man from the restaurant the other night, but I didn’t know if he remembered seeing me, so I decided to play it cool.

  There’s no use in trying to fool Maren, so I sigh and decide to let loose. “His name is Walker Scott, and he’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously, he puts every other man to shame in my book.”

  Her face lights up in delight, and she jumps out of her chair, rushing to her fridge. In less than two minutes, she’s poured us both a glass of wine and is leering at me with expectant eyes. “Go on,” she urges, bouncing back into her seat.

  “I don’t know much more. It was a brief meeting where I explained my suspicions of Carlton. He looked at my car, told me he’d look into it, and I gave him my number in case he finds anything.”

  “Okay, well, you say he’s hot. Nina says he’s hot. I want more details.”

  I take a sip of my wine and think of how to describe him. “He’s beyond hot, he’s gorgeous. He’s about Oliver’s height but a lot more muscular across the chest and arms. He wore dark jeans and a tan sweater that were casual but looked anything but casual. He could have been modeling them the way they hugged his body. There’s something about him; it’s a combination of rugged and polished—if that’s even possible. He carries himself with a calm façade, but you can tell with one look, he’s intense. I swear to God, his eyes are the most unique shade of hazel, they shine. You have to see him to understand.”

  Her face splits into a triumphant grin as she starts typing and then turns the computer to me. “Oh, I’ve seen him.”

  My eyes bulge as I realize what she’s done. Pictures of Walker Scott fill the screen. “Mare! Where did you get these?”

  “Nina may be a snoop, but she’s an excellent source of information. She takes pictures at all the police events around town. I asked her to forward me a few.”

  I scan the pictures, stopping on one where Walker is mid-punch at the annual police vs. firefighter boxing match for the local after-school club. My mouth starts to drool at the image. His face is shielded by protective gear, but his body is on full display. Sweat glistens everywhere: his chest, shoulders, and clearly defined abs. He has several tattoos on his arm, one extending to his left pec. I can’t make out what is it, so I lean in closer.

  Right as I do, Maren switches to a new screenshot where he’s standing outside the station among a few other guys. He’s laughing, his head thrown back and arms crossed. There’s a deep dimple in his cheek, and even with the odd angle, you can see the glint in his eyes.

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” I sigh dreamily.

  “He is. Nina says he’s caught the attention of a lot of ladies in town.”

  “Figures.” My dreamy mood vanishes.

  “Nina also says he’s never once paid attention to any of them. In the months he’s been here, not even a date. The singles in her circle were starting to get frustrated, figuring he was gay.”

  “He’s not gay,” I say with absolute certainty.

  “Oh, I know. Nina says the heat between you two was visible from the other side of the room.”

  “I think Nina reads too many erotic books.” I try to sound annoyed but fail.

  “Nina also says he’s ex-Army. You know what that means. I see a very smitten Emi in the future.”

  I squirm in my seat. The first time I saw Pearl Harbor, I declared I was going to marry a military man. “You’re acting crazy. I’ve had one conversation with him.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t wait to meet this Walker Scott.”

  “Whatever.” I wave her off.

  “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars he asks you out the next time you see each other.”

  “You’re on. He’s helping me with my car, that’s it. Tell Nina not to start gossiping all over town.”

  “Uh-huh, we’ll see.”

  I gulp the rest of my wine, using the glass to hide my expression. The last thing I want her to see is the hope on my face.

  The hope that I lose this bet.

  “’Lo,” I answer my phone groggily, not checking the caller ID.

  “Emerson?” I bolt up in my bed, completely awake, recognizing the deep, rich, gravelly tone.

  “Yes?” My voice comes out in a
n unattractive croak.

  “This is Walker Scott.”

  “Hi, Detective Scott.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  I look at the clock and see it’s seven-thirty a.m. What the hell did he think I’d be doing? “Um, yeah, it’s the crack of ass in the morning.”

  He chuckles, the rumble sending a tingle up my spine. “The sun is up. Pretty sure it’s been up for a while.”

  “Not in my house. I’m coated in a cloud of darkness until at least eight a.m.”

  “I highly doubt you could ever be coated in a cloud of darkness.” He mutters softly, but I still hear and fall back on my bed with a goofy grin.

  “Is there a reason you’re calling me before the chickens crow?”

  “You mean roosters?”

  “Huh?”

  “Roosters, they crow.”

  “Whatever, you’re really confusing me.”

  “Rooster… never mind. I called with information on Carlton Breen.”

  “Fuck-stick,” I murmur under my breath.

  He laughs again. “I need you to text me the name of your body shop and the quote for repairs.”

  “He’s going to pay?”

  “He’s going to pay.”

  “Did he admit to defiling my baby?”

  “Not yet, but he will.” His tone takes on a new edge. “If it would be easier, I could swing by now and pick it up.”

  Panic sets in, and I rush to say, “You can’t.”

  He goes quiet, and I think about how brash that sounded.

  “I mean, you can’t swing by now. I am literally still in bed. I work from home and don’t log in until eight-fifteen, so my mornings don’t really get started until about eight o’ five.”

  Great, now I sound like a lazy ass.

  “I’m not lazy, but I have a relaxed schedule that allows me a lot of flexibility.” I keep rambling.

  The sound of his laughter flows through the phone, and I smack my forehead for not shutting up.

  “I get it. Not everyone gets up as early as me. I was offering to make it easier on you.”