Chapter 12
TWELVE
Miles
“Where the hell were you all weekend? You never got back to me.”
The smell of stale beer overlaid with Chance’s cologne burns my nose. It seems like more and more often, he’s showing up at work with the weekend’s bad decisions trailing behind him.
I push a bottle of water in his direction and dig through my drawer for some ibuprofen.
“I was helping a friend with some renovations.” It’s close enough to the truth.
“A friend? What fucking friend is doing house shit and needs your help?” Chance shakes four, maybe five, pills into his palm and washes them down before slumping into the chair across from me. He sets the water bottle on the floor and crosses his arms over his chest. Most likely to hide the way his hands are shaking.
A beat passes, drawing into a full minute, before he lifts his head and fully focuses on me. “That chick, the SOS call Erin got on Friday from her friend. She didn’t send Blake in to help, did she?”
My fingers still, hovering above my keyboard. Not that I was actually typing anything of importance, just responding to an email from Aly’s lawyer. I shake off his stare. “Blake didn’t need to drop what he was doing for everyone. Wasn’t a big deal to step in and help her out.” I tap the delete button a handful of times and try to think of a stronger way to ask when I actually need to show my face in California.
“Her? Her who? Erin or one of her friends? You got an in with the wives, man? Providing services while their husbands are gone?” A slick look settles on his face.
“Not funny,” I say. Yeah, there’s a teasing tone, but that’s not my thing. Never has been, and sure as fuck is never going to be. Cheating, lying, deception, and avoidance are hard fucking limits. “There’s no spouse. You remember that chick who passed out in line at the convenience store when we were out, grabbing lunch, a couple of weeks ago? Turns out, she’s Tyler’s math teacher. Erin went to school to hash out Tyler’s shitty math grade and brought home a new friend.”
“Sleeping Beauty?”
“Snow White, man. Get your Disney shit straight. But, yeah, that’s her. She had a pipe burst, so I fixed her shower, patched some drywall. No big, just giving her a hand.”
“Just a hand?” He scrapes his palm across his three-day stubble, the skin on his wrist shiny with fresh ink.
I shake my head, not wanting to get into this with him. Of course, Chance takes it up a notch, sticking his tongue out between his fingers.
“Shoplifting the pootie? Tapping the single mom? Clark, that is not like you.” He laughs, standing to hopefully walk away. “You’re going to have to give up your cape, lose the hero shit. Now that you hit it, man, you have got to quit it. Take a field assignment and get the fuck out of town.”
“Right,” I say, shaking my head.
I love the guy, but sometimes, I just want to smack the shit out of him. Beat some sense into him. Not because what he’s saying is wrong. It’s just not even close to what went down, and he should fucking know that’s not me.
“Shut up, asshole. I replaced a valve, changed her fucking showerhead, and almost had to take her for stitches after she fell and split her knee open.”
As the words spill from my mouth, I know—I just know—he’s going to latch on to the comment about roughing up her knees. But, no… Nope, that’s not what he goes with.
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up.” Heads turn all through the cubicle farm because when Chance is on a roll, people can’t help but pay attention. “What kind of showerhead?”
“A nice one. Sleek, clean, modern, brushed nickel. Rainfall?—”
“Kiss of death, man. You done fucked up,” he says, laughing.
Don’t get me wrong; the dude needs to laugh more, but I’d prefer with me as opposed to at me.
“And you replaced what? Her handheld with the different settings, the pulsing action? Poor girl just lost her best friend, and I’m guessing you didn’t even properly console her.”
Groaning chuckles and taunting ooh s float through the office.
“What? What’s the big deal? It was a shitty old showerhead. I definitely gave her an upgrade.”
Chance laughs. “You think, but reality is, Superman, you left that woman high and dry. Single ladies—I’m guessing, especially single mommies—have a special relationship with their showerheads. Nothing like pulsing spray on the bean to start the day off just right.” A Cheshire cat grin makes him almost unrecognizable. A touch evil and all kinds of shitty. “Taking that away from her, that’s just wrong, Clark.”
I scoff, “Fuck that noise. Maybe if you were better with your dick or put your mouth to good use, the women you date wouldn’t have to get themselves off in the shower.”
If—hopefully when—I get there with Chloe, the only reason she’ll need a long shower after sex is to wash it all away so I can dirty her up again.
Chance laughs all the way to the door. He just fucking got here, and he’s already taking off. “I’ve got my shit covered, man. No complaints yet.” He grabs his crotch, as if that somehow makes his point, and strolls out the door.
I blow out a frustrated breath and read the email again. I used to love spring in San Diego. Now, the thought of going back there at all makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t really have a choice in the matter, not if I want a shot at justice. Though is justice really even a possibility? There’s no way to make any of this right.
Erin needs a heads-up. Jason Grant and Calvin Feuerborn, the owners of Fire Born Security, do, too. I check the project schedule both here and in San Diego. Calvin was instrumental in pushing me out of California, and I don’t know if Jason created a spot for me or if there really was an opening, but here I am. They’re the true heroes, the ones who saved me when I was convinced I’d been broken beyond repair.
It’s too late in the day to drop this on anyone’s desk here, and even though Calvin saw me through the worst of things, I need to follow chain of command. I should work as far ahead as possible, get things set for when I need to bounce, but the thought of why, of what’s on the other end of my quick trip, is enough to put me off digging into the next thing on my list.
What I really want is to escape for a minute. Run until I’m exhausted. Drink until I can’t remember. Find a little slice of normal.
I lock up my files and shut down my computer. Whatever I need, I’m not going to find it here, in the office at six o’clock on a Thursday night.
“You finally ready to kick out of here?” Chance asks as I pass his desk.
“Yeah, I’m done. You?” I dig my keys out of my pocket as Chance slams his laptop shut.
“Yep. Buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know. Probably gonna be shit for company tonight,” I say, pushing through the door.
Some people, far more conscientious than me, are still working, so we ignore the flash of the security panel and just listen for the lock to click as the door glides shut.
“One drink. A beer at Chick’s, and then I’ll let you go fix your shower fuckup.” Chance is still laughing as he climbs into his black-on-black-on-black truck, lifted and pristine.
I should go, have a beer, and be done. The problem is, the more I think about my options for distraction, the less I want to be around people. And that right there is the deciding factor for me. I will not give in to the demons that whisper it’s best to hide. The evil spirits who lure the vulnerable in with the false promise that it’s best to be alone. My choices are drinking with Chance or crashing Chloe’s evening. And I’m not ready to share this with her. I need to put the Aly situation to bed. Do what I can to see that my ex-wife gets the help that she needs. And then maybe—just maybe—I can move on.
I pocket my keys and pull myself up into Chance’s passenger seat. “Fuck it. Let’s get ripped.” It’s his turn to distract me from my demons.