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He grinned and gave me a light punch on the arm. “I know, that’s why I said it. You and me, we’re too alike. Hell, I’ll be shocked if you can keep this job long enough to get the health insurance.”
I scowled. “Gee, thanks for having so much faith in me.”
“Aw, c’mon, Angel, lighten up. It’s not that. You like to do your own thing too much to stick with the same job for so long.”
And what the hell was my own thing? Whatever it was, so far it sucked.
“This is shit pot,” I announced after a moment, stubbing out the half inch of joint that was left. Normally I’d smoke it down as far as possible, but I still wasn’t feeling any buzz. Didn’t seem to be any point to smoking the rest of it.
He shrugged without looking at me as he picked up a remote and turned on the TV. “So get your own.”
“Seriously,” I said. “I don’t think that’s pot. I’m not feeling a damn thing from it.”
He flicked a glance my way. “It’s the same goddamn bag we started the other night. You liked it enough back then.”
I grimaced, then stood.
“Where y’going?” he asked.
“Dunno.” I rubbed my arms. Everything felt weird and faded, like the world was turning into a black and white movie. And the dialogue and music on the TV seemed flat and tuneless. But I wasn’t feeling the beer or pot at all. I was still cold sober and I didn’t want to be. “Home, I guess.”
“Nice.” His mouth curled into a mild scowl. “You come over and drink my beer and smoke my shit and then leave? What’s up with that?” He grabbed my hand and gave it a small tug, then offered a sly smile. “C’mon . . . stay.”
I hesitated. I liked sex with Randy, even though we were so on-again off-again that I’d pretty much lost track of whether we were dating or not. After almost four years, we were so damned used to each other that whenever we were together we ended up in the same comfortable patterns.
And I knew what part of that pattern would be. I’d stay, we’d screw, then we’d get high on whatever he had around, and I’d probably oversleep.
“I can’t.” I tugged free of his grasp. “Sorry. I gotta go. I have work tomorrow. Y’know? That job I won’t last at?”
“Are you actually pissed at me about that?” he asked, a frown forming between his eyes.
“No! I’m not,” I insisted. “I just need to get home. I can’t screw this up.”
“Sure. Whatever,” he muttered. He didn’t reach for my hand again and shifted his attention to the TV. For a brief instant I wanted to go ahead and pick a fight, simply to see if that would snap everything back into focus. Get him and me all riled up and see if that could somehow get him to act like he gave a shit if I was around. We’d yell and scream, then we’d make up and get high and fuck.
And I’d oversleep and lose my job, I thought. I knew myself too well. But it’s only a job, right? Whoever wrote that letter can’t have been serious about the whole go-to-jail thing. . . .
I shook my head, scowling. God, I was weak. How could I even be considering risking it?
The same way I’ve risked everything else in my life. By not giving a shit. Or getting so fucked up I couldn’t give a shit, even if I wanted to.
Yeah, well, I needed to give a shit about going back to j ail.
“I’ll, um, see you later, babe. Okay?” I said.
He grunted something that might have been a yes. I left to the sound of him changing channels.
Chapter 6
The ringing of my phone jerked me out of a nightmare—rotting flesh and crawling maggots, reaching hands and flesh dripping off bones. I struggled to shake off the lingering horror as I groped for my cell phone, almost grateful to be woken up even though it had to be obscenely early, since I could see through my crooked blinds that it was still dark outside.
I finally found the answer button. “Yeah?” I croaked.
“Good morning!” my partner, Derrel, said in an insanely cheerful voice. “I need my Angel to come out and play.”
The display on my nightstand clock showed 5:10. Ugh. Being on call sucked the big one. My usual shift didn’t start until eight A.M., but twice a week I was on call, which meant that if anyone died in the middle of the night, my ass got to go pick them up and bring them back to the morgue. On the other hand, it also meant that I took the van home after my regular shift was over on those nights, which saved me a few bucks in gas money.
Still, waking up this early was just wrong. “Why can’t people be reasonable and only die after eleven A.M.?” I whined.
