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The woman with pink hair and cute jeans, who essentially body-tackled me on my first day at the George Stanley and swore we’d become best friends, somehow managed to sleep over at my apartment just eighteen hours after first laying eyes on me.
When we met, I thought she was too colorful, too loud for someone like me to want to be near. I was quite sure her excitement would wear off, and I’d be able to push her aside so she’d stay at her desk and I would stay at mine. But now it’s morning, and stumbling into my living room on sore feet and with crusty eyes, I stop in the doorway and am reminded of my guest.
Her presence sucks the air from my lungs. But her position on the couch makes me shake my head.
She sleeps on the sofa in such a way that her neck is bent at an almost ninety-degree angle, her butt is squished between the cushions, and her feet rest on my wall. Her socks are rainbow with polka dots, but her legs are long and bare. Her jeans have been strewn across my television. Like she literally stripped-down and tossed them last night.
So now my employee is half-naked in my apartment and not at all sorry for it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I move past the TV and toss her jeans to the couch. “This is a sexual harassment case in the making.”
Aubree startles awake, snorts for that first breath, then straightens her neck and searches the room with confused eyes until she’s watching me, but upside down. “What?”
“You’re half-naked in my apartment!” I turn out of the room and groan when I stop in my kitchen and remember I still haven’t shopped for groceries.
No groceries means no coffee. And no coffee means I’m set to go on a rampage unless Tim helps me out for a third morning in a row.
“I didn’t return yesterday’s mug.” I stumble to the fridge and rest my forehead against the cold steel. “Shit.”
“You say something?” Aubree steps into the kitchen with her jeans on, but with wildly messy hair. “Minka?”
“Too soon!” I swirl out of the kitchen and back into the hall. “Too soon to call me Minka. Too soon for you to be half-naked in my apartment.”
I move into my bathroom and slam the door shut. Only when I look up, do I remember the storm damage and the temporary patch job the builder did.
“And it’s too early in the morning for you to be speaking!”
“You’re grumpy.” A soft thud on the other side of the door tells me she’s leaning against it and has no intention of getting up again. “I feel crusty and gross,” she calls through the wall. I flip the shower on and strip off my mismatched tank and shorts. “Can I shower here before we go back to work? I can wear my same jeans again, but I’ll use one of your tops, if that’s cool?”
“It’s not cool!” I step under the boiling shower spray and tip my head back. “It’s not cool, you shouldn’t be here, and I hate that you’re forcing your friendship on me.”
“I think you’re sweet for expressing your emotions. I think you’re smart. And I’m going into your room now.” Heavy footsteps thud along the floor. “I’m taking a shirt, and unless you fight me for it, you can’t stop me.”
“I’ll fight you!”
I won’t fight her. I’m too tired to even try.
“Don’t touch my shit,” I demand. “Then order us some food.”
“Not ordering us food.” She opens the bathroom door, startling me until I recoil against the wall and hug the shower curtain to my body. “I’ll cook us something.”
“Get out!” My eyes drop to her hands, balled around the sunflower-yellow top she selected from my still-unpacked suitcase. “And put my shirt back!”
“I’ll wash it and return it just as soon as I get home.”
“Go homenow.”
“You’re so grumpy, Doctor Mayet. Men must think that’s so cute.” Sniggering, she steps out of the bathroom with a swish of her hair, and she sings—she actuallysings!—her way through my apartment.
Ten minutes later, I exit the bathroom wrapped in a towel and head into my bedroom, but I guess I’m not as easy to surprise anymore, because when I find her sitting on my bed, her legs folded and my top neatly beside her knee, I only point at the door and wait as she unravels her long legs and exits my room.
She steps into the bathroom, only to step out again a moment later and help herself to the hall closet. She snags a towel, closes the door once more, and just a second later, the shower starts, and my legs give out so I drop to my bed and press my face to my hands.
I’m exhausted. I’m frustrated. I know with my whole heart and soul who killed that little girl last night. And now, I have to call Detective Malone, the guy Ikindahad sex with last night, to tell him to bring the hammer down.
The hammer will be easy. It’s the most satisfying part of my job, especially when pieces of shit like Garry Thoma are so blatantly obvious in their crimes. But willingly,voluntarily, calling Archer back into my life is at the end of my long list of wants this morning.
And I sure as shit won’t be doing it pre-coffee.
