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“Suck,” Karen snorts.
Great. My permanent record is in the hands of the cop equivalent of Beavis and Butthead.
“I don’t want any charges pressed against Mallory,” Will declares, giving me a look of kindness that takes me back to my teenage self, when he could have melted my heart with one one-hundredth of that power. “It sounds like this was a case of wrong place, wrong time.”
“Wrong industry,” I agree.
“I don’t want to add another wrong, so let’s not read her her rights,” he tells Karen, who tucks the zip-tie handcuffs into her belt and gives me a stern look, as if she’s telepathically making sure I understand I’m getting away with something.
“Thank you,” I say to him, tears finally emerging, a wave of relief surfacing on the churning ocean inside me.
“You’re welcome,” he says as I leave, his body a wall I have to pass as he opens the front door. Reflex makes me inhale, his scent similar to high school, yet different. His cologne is more sophisticated, but the essence of Will Lotham is still there.
Still strong.
Still hopelessly out of reach.
I’m halfway to my car when I hear him shout, “Mallory!”
I turn around. He is standing on the top step, his arm pulled back in perfect quarterback form. “Here! Catch!”
The object sails through the air like he plotted out y = -x² and followed the parabolic curve.
I fumble, but complete the pass.
No. Not that kind of pass. I wish.
I take the dog’s chew toy–okay, string of anal beads–he threw at me back to my car, turn the key in the ignition, and drive away.
With my phone charging this time.
Chapter Five
You know how I know I live in a small town?
When the garbage man shouts through my open window: “Hey, Mallory! Heard you finally found a new job! Nice ass!”
My pillow doesn’t act as a good shame silencer, sadly.
The beep beep beep of the truck backing up, pivoting to leave the cul-de-sac where I’m renting someone’s in-law apartment, adds insult to injury.
I’m up now.
There are only two good things about being unemployed: my time is my own, and I can sleep in.
Tom the Trash Dude just ruined one of those.
Habit makes me pick up my now-charging phone from my bedside table and check notifications.
Seventy-six of them.
I rub my eyes and try to focus. That can’t be right. Normally I have four or five, and three of those are links to ketogenic recipes for bread from Perky, who doesn’t understand (or care) that gluten-free brownies aren’t free carbs that don’t count because she has celiac disease.
I open the notifications.
I click the first one, expecting a recipe for some low-carb piece of juicy meat.
And I’m right.
