8. Meri
CHAPTER 8
MERI
How is it that this man can make me laugh when I’m madder than I ever remember being?
“Someone must’ve really pissed you off.”
My forehead wrinkles with confusion at the hardware store cashier’s comment. “Excuse me?”
The teenager nods at the items he’s scanning. “This might as well be a murder kit.”
I take in what I’m purchasing: garbage bags, bleach, other cleaning products, zip ties, a shovel, gloves, a roll of thick black plastic, and cute rubber boots with polka dots on them.
Damn, he’s right. This looks bad.
Chuckling, I shake my head. “You either listen to too many podcasts or watch too much Dateline.” The boy grins sheepishly. “I’ve got a property that needs to be cleaned, and I’m putting in a garden at my house.”
“And the zip ties?” he asks, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“For my tomato plants. Little suckers need to be attached to the stakes, so they’ll grow right.”
“Whatever you say,” he retorts, clearly not convinced.
He gives me the total, and I pay with cash, which only furthers his suspicion, if his expression is any indication. Poor kid’s probably going to be watching the news for any murders for a while, wondering when I’ll strike.
“Have a great day!” he calls after me as I exit the store.
Shaking my head, a grin splits my face.
Fucking kids and their overactive imaginations.
“Meri?”
I stop in my tracks at the familiar voice and turn to my left. Poker strides toward me, glancing at the items in my cart as he advances.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask.
“Apparently, the same thing you are,” he says, nodding at my purchases.
“Buying a murder kit?” I quip.
He rears back. “What?”
I explode into laughter at the horror in his eyes. When I can’t get control of myself, he rests his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
By sheer force of will, I compose myself and grin. “I’m good. But shit, you shoulda seen the look on your face.”
Poker shakes his head. “So, not a murder kit?”
“No.” I tell him the same thing I told the cashier, and the relief in his eyes is comical. “I was just about to head to the warehouse to start cleaning up.”
“Right. Which leads me back to your original question. I was gonna pick up some supplies before going there myself.”
“Well, no need to waste your money,” I tell him. “I’ve got it covered. And really, you don’t have to help me. It’s not like there’s a lot to do.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he says, leaving no room for protest. “You hungry? I can grab some takeout and bring it with me.” My stomach chooses that moment to growl, and he chuckles at the sound. “Guess that answers that question.”
“I could go for some pizza,” I say.
“Works for me. Any preference on toppings?”
“As long as there’s lots of cheese and no anchovies, I’m good.”
“Got it.” He starts to walk backward. “Gimme time to order and pick it up, and I’ll meet you at the warehouse.”
After agreeing, I walk the rest of the way to my Honda Civic, the car I use for everything other than attending my poker games, and toss my stuff into the trunk.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the warehouse lot and park near the front entrance. I grab the cleaning supplies and carry them to the door, digging through my purse for my second set of keys as I do. When I lift my gaze, I frown.
Taped to the door is an envelope with ‘Mistress Green’ scrawled on the outside. I drop my bags to the ground and yank it free. When I open it and pull out the piece of paper, my frown deepens, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
Mistress Green-
It is with great displeasure that I pen this note. I hope, given time, you will realize that you put your trust in people far beneath you. What must a man do to gain your favor? So far, it seems the only requirement is being a thug with horrible taste in attire. I won’t beg for your affection or attention, but know this… If you don’t start making better choices in the company you keep, you will suffer.
-N
Crumbling the paper in my fist, I shove it and the envelope into the bag of supplies and unlock the door. I stride into the large main area of the building and dump everything onto the bar. Needing to distract myself, I get to work.
By the time Poker arrives fifteen minutes later, I’m a sweaty mess, and my hair is piled on top of my head in a messy bun. I’ve been mopping the floor meticulously from one side of the space to the other, and I’m only halfway done.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding about cleaning,” he quips as he sets the pizza box on the bar.
“Nope,” I say, my tone clipped, focusing on an invisible spot on the floor.
Poker grabs a slice of pizza and walks toward me as he takes a bite. “What’s wrong?” he asks when he reaches my side. “Did something happen?”
I stop mopping and lean on the mop, huffing out a breath. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”
He stares at me a moment before nodding. “Okay. Why don’t you take a quick break and eat while it’s hot?”
The scent of melted cheese and tomato sauce hits me, sending my stomach into another round of rumbling. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
He follows me to the bar where we both stand and eat silently. Once half the large pizza is gone, I close the box and take a deep breath.
“So, wanna try this again?” Poker asks.
I glance at him. “Try what again?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I reply automatically.
“Bullshit. Talk to me, Meri,” he presses. “Because when I left you at the hardware store, you were in a great mood, and now…” He shrugs.
“It’s nothing, Poker,” I insist halfheartedly.
“Again, I call bullshit. C’mon, we’re friends, right?” I nod. “So, talk to me.”
Sensing that he’s not going to let this go, I sigh and reach into the bag where I stuffed the crumbled letter.
“This was on the door when I got here,” I say after handing it to him.
Poker smooths out the paper and scans the words, his eyes sparking fire by the time he’s done. “What the fuck?”
“Neero must’ve been more pissed than I realized last night.”
“I don’t give a rat's ass about his feelings,” he barks. “This is a threat, and I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” I admit. “I’m so mad I could…”
He levels his gaze on me and smirks. “You could what? Put your murder kit to use?”
His remark has the intended effect, and I burst out laughing. How is it that this man can make me laugh when I’m madder than I ever remember being?
“Feel better?” he asks.
“A little,” I say, pinching my thumb and forefinger together. “I just don’t get it. He’s been playing for over a year, and you’ve been here almost every game he’s at. Why does he have a problem all of a sudden?”
“He’s just jealous.”
I scoff. “Of what?”
Poker smirks.
“Of the way you look at me when you think no one is watching.”