The itch from earlier is back. It urges me to ditch work and act on the new information I dug up.
I remind myself that I can’t let the dark urges of my soul control me.
By noon at Mocha Lisa,I’m ready to crawl into a hole and sleep for the next twenty years like Rip Van Winkle, but a little dose of energy shows up in the form of a loud, five-foot-nine woman that I call my best friend, Blake Jennings.
“Ding! Dong! The bitch is here!” Blake throws her arms in the air as she stands in front of me on the other side of the register. Half of her short mahogany hair is tied in a knot on top of her head. Her oversized cream sweater hangs almost to her knees, and her cozy scarf makes me want to curl up on my couch with a fluffy blanket.
Blake rests her hands on her curvy hips. “Where the hell did you go last night? You hung my ass out to dry.”
She knows I don’t swear and is determined to hear me say at least one curse word. She’s convinced herself that if she does it enough in front of me, one day I’ll slip up.
I shake my head, laughing at her vivaciousness. “I’m sorry. It was late. I had the morning shift.”
Yesterday, Blake had a gallery opening to showcase her renowned oil paintings, but her charcoal portraits are my personal favorite. After the show, we went out to a bar with some of her friends, and when ten o’clock rolled around, I was beat. Besides, she seemed happy cozied up next to the handsome Henry Cavill look-alike who bought her a drink.
Blake narrows her eyes, pretending to be skeptical, but she knows I’m not a partier when I have work. I like to relax and have fun just like anyone else, but when I have to open Mocha Lisa, I’m in bed early like a grandma.
I shrug a shoulder. “Pumpkin oat milk latte, no foam with a pump of vanilla to make up for bailing?”
Blake cracks a smile. “You know how to worm your way into my heart.”
When I’m done making her drink, I make my own and take my break, enjoying my thirty minutes of freedom sitting with my friend on one of the cushy couches. She catches me up on what I missed when I left the evening before, and I tell her about my usual morning commute to work. It’s a normal conversation.
Blake gets quiet after she takes the last sip of her coffee. She sets her empty cup down as her gaze darts to the side.
“What’s going on?” I question.
She sighs and clasps her hands together. “I got a news notification on my phone. Normally, I ignore those, but this one caught my attention.”
“What was different about it?”
Blake speaks softly so no one else can hear. “It was about the women who have been killed in the last month and a half.”
I tilt my head to the side. “What did it say?”
“Some think it’s John the Baptist…”
Alarms go off in my brain, and my eyes bounce around the room as if there’s a threat in my immediate vicinity. “That’s not possible. You know it’s not.”
Blake is the only person in my life who knows who my father is. I haven’t confided in anyone else. When I was eighteen, I had people following me around and harassing me. They might as well have had pitchforks and torches.
“I know. I just want you to be careful, okay?” She places her hand on mine.
Covering her hand with my other, I nod my head. “I will.”
“Promise you’ll call me if something happens?”
I nod again.
Her phone beeps, and she checks the screen. “I have to go. The gallery owner needs me to sign some paperwork.” She stands to leave but turns back. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Waving her off, I even add a smile for good measure.
Her shoulders rise and fall, then she turns and exits into the cold.
When she’s out of sight, my head falls, resting against the back of the couch. I rub my eyes and massage my temples, warding off my impending headache.
This is not what I need right now. Living my day-to-day life is already difficult enough. I can’t add this to my plate as well.
