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Rooster laughed at her response. “She’s the shit,” he said.
Stash nodded, “Yeah, she is.”
Rooster’s eyes snagged on one of the computer screens, “Hey, man, look at this.”
Stash rolled his chair over and commandeered the keyboard. “What’s doing in the deep….” Then he saw it. “Dude, this is some serious shit.”
“Better make sure we’re right,” Rooster agreed.
“We’re never not right,” Stash went on, wide eyes glued to the computer screen.
“But this is Gate,” Rooster said.
Stash nodded, “We’ll make sure.”
*************************
Anna
I locked the front door and crossed the foyer to the coat rack.
Savannah, a seaside town in Georgia, was perennially warm, with snowfall maybe twice a century.
But a Stella McCartney trench coat never hurt anybody. So I hung my overcoat on the rack and stepped out of my heels.
They were black and sensible, but Italian, so even though they were low-key, they were still swank. And I could stand in them all day, which with the work I did, happened more often than not.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror, gray pantsuit and white blouse pretty much de rigeur these days. I remembered a time when my wardrobe had leaned more toward leather and fringe.
Now, it was all power suits in monochrome. Boring, but appropriate.
I crossed through the den and up two steps into the kitchen.
The house had been a divorce gift from my father. And I hated it with a burning passion.
More for what it represented than the house itself. The house was actually pretty lush, an old Victorian on East Huntington that my father had spared no expense remodeling.
So I was currently stuck in a house that was a Southern Living wet dream but that broke my heart in the worst kind of way.
Stella, all 19 years of fresh face and big eyes, met me in the kitchen.
As soon as I saw her, I opened my arms, and she bounded into them.
“Hey, mom,” she said as I squeezed.
“Hey, yourself, Sunflower,” I answered, using the nickname she’d given herself when she was three.
She’d gone after the name so hard that everyone from her preschool to our church called her that. Some people, including myself, still did.
She squirmed, and I let go, laughing.
“How was work?” she asked.
“Sucked, but that hug made it better,” I grinned, opening the fridge to survey the contents.
“Lucky came by earlier,” she said.
I let the refrigerator door close, “That explains it.”
