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“Anyone you got your eye on?” she asks, and just for a second, I think about confessing everything about Squealer. Abby’s clearly an easy girl to talk to.
“I actually have a date tonight,” I inform her, at least acting like I’m excited about it.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” She sucks on her milkshake, seeming genuinely interested.
“You know Mark Peterson? He’s a district attorney.”
Abby nods her head, looking impressed. “Good catch, a little on the straight side, but then you are a cop, so I guess it fits.”
“Being a cop’s just my job, it isn’t who I am,” I tell her, but I doubt she’d understand. It’s hard to make friends when people think you're constantly judging them.
“Oh, that’s my ride.” She looks over my head out the shop window, and I glance over my shoulder to the black van that's pulled up outside. “Poor Tawk’s landed the babysitting rota today. I ask for a few hours in town, and Nyx and Brax worry I’m gonna try and score.” She rolls her eyes sadly before standing up.
“Sorry, I just made this totally awkward, didn’t I?” She sighs as she throws her bag over her shoulder and grabs her milkshake.
“Not at all. If you ever wanna talk, just give me a call.”
I pull my notepad out and jot down my cell number.
“I haven’t made many friends while I’ve been here in town,” I admit as I hand it over.
“Maybe I should check up on you after your hot date. Peterson seems straight, but you never know.”
I laugh, relieved that nothing about our conversion has seemed forced like I expected it to.
“Here,” she snatches a napkin out of the holder and helps herself to the pen from my pocket. She scribbles her number down and hands it over.
“Text when you get home from your date, or if you pick up some psycho vibes and need me to make up some cop emergency.”
She giggles as she rushes out of the deli door, jumping into the van where the Native American guy from the club sits waiting for her.
Why do I feel so fucking furious? I don’t give a fuck that she’s going on a date. That's what normal people do. Right? So why does the thought of it make me want to throw things against the wall? I’m so fucking mad, I can’t face speaking to anyone at the club, so I head back up to my cabin and pace the floor while I figure out what to do.
“Nothing. You do fucking nothing,” I tell myself out loud, tearing at my hair when I think about her taking him back to her place. Doing all the kissing at the front door shit that nice girls expect on dates. His hands on her skin, his lips touching over hers where mine have. It’s more than my head can cope with. Something predatorial is taking over me, it’s crushing and consuming, and I don’t know how to fucking handle it.
I want to rip it out of me. Beat the fuck into myself and tell me to get a grip. I should get high, snort so much blow that I forget Alex Monroe's name, and have a fuck fest with Mel and Krissy that will level me the fuck out.
But instead of calling them to hook up like I should, I storm back out of the cabin and find myself banging my fist on Maddy’s door.
“Right, I don’t want no bullshit questions, I just need you to give me the address of that district whatever… Mark Peterson’s office.” I take her by surprise, ranting at her the second she opens the door. And I don’t accept her invitation to go inside. Instead, I pace out on her porch while I wait.
“You seem kinda tense,” she tells me a few minutes later when she returns with a post-it note.
“I’m fine. I just need to deal with something personal.”
“With Mark Peterson?” She stares back at me, confused.
“What did I say about the questions, Mads?” I take a quick look at the address and figure it's about a half-hour ride. I don’t even know if he’ll be there, but it’s where I’m headed.
I’m about to race to my bike when I remember the lecture Jess gave me just the other day about being polite around the girls and turn around.
“Thanks for this.” I hold up the post-it gratefully.
“You’re welcome. Happy to help.”
I nod back before rushing to my bike, firing her up, and heading out to Fountain.
I sit on my bike outside his office building and watch the people coming and going. Turns out, Mr. stable-fucking job has his own parking spot outside, a shiny plaque with his name on it, and everything. I only have to wait an hour before he swings his brand new, reliable saloon into it. And I barely give him a chance to gather up his briefcase before I march across the street, open the door for him and rip him out of his seat.
