The 'Burg: Hold On Part 11

On this thought, Garrett moved to his refrigerator, pulled out a beer, twisted off the cap, and turned to rest his hips against the counter, looking into his s.h.i.+tty condo, the eclectic warmth of Cher's pad not layering over what his eyes saw.

The feel of her, the smell of her, the memory of being with her in her bed was what filled his mind.

For years, he had stupidly tried to f.u.c.k Mia out of his head and his heart, knowing he was doing it and completely unable to stop himself.

And to make that s.h.i.+t even s.h.i.+ttier, he'd done it by actually f.u.c.king Mia any time after their divorce that she came around to get a dose of his c.o.c.k.

More often than not, though, when he sunk his d.i.c.k into a woman who was not his ex-wife, Mia filled his head. Drunk or sober, it happened. It made him feel like an a.s.shole. But he kept doing it.

With Cher, it did not.

With Cher, he was with Cher.

On a night when he was trashed and that s.h.i.+t was sure to happen, it didn't.

On a night where he never expected he could do it, he'd laughed. Not a little, a lot. His gut clenching with it. His eyes watering with it.

And he did that with Cher.

No, he didn't just do it with her, she gave him that.

You came here to get me to go to Frank's so you could tell me what went down with us was just a drunken f.u.c.k, no more. We don't change. Am I right?

She'd been right.

Garrett looked to the clock on his microwave.

It was just before nine thirty. Her s.h.i.+ft that day was noon to eight thirty.

She'd be home.

He engaged his phone, opened his texts, and shot her one.

Ethan got a sleepover this weekend?

He took another pull from his beer, thinking Cher's early s.h.i.+ft was noon to eight thirty and her late s.h.i.+ft was eight to three thirty. He knew that because he was a cop and he paid attention to everything, an occupational hazard, so he'd noted it just from being a regular at her place of business.

Those s.h.i.+fts meant, either way, on school days, she didn't have to rush Ethan to get ready. Even if she'd only had a few hours of sleep, she could make him breakfast, take him to school, not have to be anywhere but with him. Late s.h.i.+ft, she could also go get him, get him home, make sure his schoolwork got done, make him dinner.

But even if they had time together, either way, that time was still f.u.c.ked.

People did that kind of thing all the time, s.h.i.+ft work that meant they had to get creative about who looked after their kids.

But those people didn't have Cher's history and a kid with a stick-up-their-a.s.s stepmom who decided the way of the world and that her way was the only way. Garrett knew that was the way Peggy whoever-she-was was the minute he saw the b.i.t.c.h. Cher didn't need to lay that out. He knew she was trouble of one variety or the other before she opened her mouth.

Before he knew she was bringing Cher trouble.

f.u.c.k, he hoped the junkie ex was dirty.

He pushed away from the counter, took his beer to the couch, and grabbed the remote.

He found a show right when his phone sounded.

He grabbed it off his coffee table and his mouth curled up when he read, Kiss my a.s.s, Merry.

Using his thumb, he returned, You want that, brown eyes, I'll work it in.

She didn't make him wait and shot back, Go f.u.c.k yourself.

Now, sweetheart, you know that's not the way it works.

Then came, We're done.

He ignored that and sent, Sleep tight. See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow? she returned.

Have good dreams.

Tomorrow?

Garrett didn't reply.

Merry? Tomorrow?

Garrett again didn't reply.

Don't f.u.c.k with me, Merry. I don't need your s.h.i.+t.

Garrett grinned, but he didn't reply, and at that, Cher let it go.

He trained his eyes to the TV, not watching it.

He was thinking that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

The only thing he knew was that he was going to do it. And right then, as much of a d.i.c.k as it made him, it was because Cher Rivers was the best f.u.c.k he'd ever had, bar none, including Mia.

After their showdown, where Cher showed him a different kind of fire than her normal-a fire he liked-and a vulnerability she'd never shown before-the kind as a cop and as a Merrick he couldn't ignore-he wanted more.

It was also because, when he was low, she took his back.

So now that she had the possibility of trouble, he was going to take hers.

If she wanted him to or not.

Chapter Four.

Plotting My Murder Cher The next day, after I'd dropped Ethan at school, I was about to go out to the garage to get the storm windows when my phone rang.

I moved to my purse in the bucket chair, pulled the phone out, and saw a number I did not know.

I'd learned a long time ago never to answer those kinds of calls. I was careful to program in any numbers that I would need to know, including doctors, dentists, Ethan's school. I'd learned to do this, because if it didn't come up as programmed, they were either someone trying to sell me something or someone I absolutely did not want to talk to.

This being someone I didn't want to talk to, I dropped the phone on top of my purse and headed to the garage.

I had the windows out of the garage, stacked against the side of the house, the screen switched out in the front door, and was moving to the first window when I heard shrieked, "You think I won't f.u.c.k with you?"

I looked left and went still.

My next-door neighbor was cool-Tilly, an old lady. She was quiet. She was also private but friendly and happy to look after Ethan on the rare occasion I needed her. She did this because she was a good woman and she liked us, not because Ethan or I mowed her lawn and shoveled her snow whenever we did ours (which we did).

And she acted like the light of G.o.d shone down on her when her a.s.shole son or her b.i.t.c.h-face daughter deigned to pay her a visit, bringing her grandchildren. I was not in my house 24/7, but I didn't miss the fact that these pilgrimages back home to momma happened rarely. Ethan and I had lived there for over two years and those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had shown twice, collectively.

But the house next to Tilly's was a rental. Not one like mine, where my landlord gave a s.h.i.+t. One where the landlord didn't, so it was in visible disrepair, which meant the rent was lower and the renters were of the same level.

I'd seen the new tenants. They'd been around a few months. In that time, they'd had one party that was loud, which I'd had closed down.

But they were around a lot, in and out a lot, and had a slew of visitors, so I had a variety of opportunities to see them.

Being a person who was quickly judged, I was not judgmental.

Still, the man had d.i.c.khead written all over him, and the woman was a sister in the way she'd convinced herself she couldn't do much better, so she didn't try.

Now she was on the stoop, red in the face, still in her shapeless nights.h.i.+rt, hair wild, clearly, even from a distance, p.i.s.sed way the f.u.c.k off.

He was in jeans and a jeans jacket, a few feet down the walk from her, his back to me, but his body language was easily read and he shared his woman's mood.

Since they were a house away, I didn't hear what he said. I just knew he replied when she kept screeching.

"f.u.c.k you! You don't change your mind, motherf.u.c.ker. Carlito will learn all your s.h.i.+t!"

At that, I knew it was time to go inside and do it quiet so neither of them would know I was outside and I'd heard what I'd heard.

This was what I did.

When I soundlessly closed my door behind me, I looked into my living room and hissed, "s.h.i.+t."

I didn't know Carlito.

But I worked in a bar that served booze to cops, bikers, and bankers. Hairdressers and lady doctors. Farmers, plumbers, and lawyers.

And at a bar, customers considered waitresses deaf to anything but drink orders.

Also at a bar, customers considered bartenders their own personal shrinks.

So I knew that the least of what a man called Carlito was was a low-life loan shark.

But considering I'd heard his name murmured on more than one occasion by Colt, Sully, Mike, Drew, Sean, Merry, and a number of other cops in that 'burg, I suspected he was more.

I did not need that s.h.i.+t on my block, but it was more.

I did not need that s.h.i.+t on the block where my kid lived.

I went to my kitchen to pour myself a travel mug, emptying the last cup of joe from the pot into the mug to take out with me when the coast was clear. I was standing in the living room, holding it in my hand and listening for my neighbors, when my phone sounded with a text.

Excitement and annoyance chased its way through me as I looked to my phone on my purse, wondering if the text was from Merry.

Last night, through texts, his games had begun.

I was trying to ignore this.

It was hard to ignore.

I put the mug down on the coffee table, grabbed the phone, and saw it wasn't from Merry. It was a text from Violet telling me she could pick Ethan up from school on Thursday when both Mom and I were working.

When I texted her back to confirm and give thanks, I saw I had a voicemail.

It was from that number I didn't know.

I didn't want to listen to it, but just in case the school got a new extension or some teacher was calling me from their own phone for some reason, I went to it, hit play, hit speaker, and heard, "Ms. Sheckle. This is Walter Jones. I would appreciate it if you could phone me back when you have a moment. Just so you know, I'll make it worth your while. I was a profiler with the FBI, currently freelance, and am researching a book I'm writing on serial killers of the last twenty-"

I set my teeth and hit delete.

f.u.c.king motherf.u.c.ker.

I jumped and turned when a knock came at my door.

I had a s.h.i.+t door that, even wearing my daintiest high-heeled sandal, I could kick through. It was two layers of thin, cheap wood with a small diamond window at eye level so you could look out.

And in that diamond window, I saw Merry.

f.u.c.king motherf.u.c.ker.

He'd texted tomorrow.

And it was tomorrow.

I stared at him through the window, but he did not stare at me.

He opened the door and walked right through.