In yet another one of my many questionable choices, I chose my first post college apartment a whole three blocks off campus. I’d had one of those quintessential university experiences and couldn’t find it in me to leave the zip code that’d given me so much.
Sure, I learned a few things from my professors, but more importantly, I learned who I was. Things that my small town out in the Panhandle couldn’t have ever taught me, that’s for damn sure. The delicate artistry of a woman’s collarbone, for one. The way spit pools in the back of your mouth at the first, desperate inhale of the sharp musk of a man’s inner groin for another.
As keen as I’d been to move to Austin and join the criminal justice department’s shiny new fast-track work-study scholarship program, at the end, I’d wanted to slow everything down. Savor it for a bit.
Most days, I appreciate the strange set of circumstances that led to my career.
Not today though.
Too fucking weird and disturbing for anything approaching appreciation.
Exhausted in my bones and flying high on adrenaline, I step into the inky night, my balcony overlooking the abandoned complex behind us. I shake out my hands, trying to offload the day’s more disturbing aspects, but the broken windows and shadowy, twisting oaks aren’t helping.
Fuck. I’m a nervy mess.
Pivoting back inside, I grab my gun and shoulder holster. I don’t want anyone getting any bright ideas about fucking with me tonight.
Angela Lansbury meows at me as I linger in the doorway, letting out all her precious air conditioning. I shoot her the finger and push outside, then turn back once more for the slim, antique cigarette case on the entry table.
What’s one more bad habit? I think as I slip the silver case into the thigh pocket of my joggers. Besides, the nasty taste of the borrowed cigarette still lingers unpleasantly on my back teeth.
Ignoring Angela’s judgmental gaze and the shifting shadows next door, I engage the lock and trot down the ancient metal-and-stone stairs, the familiar groan a balm. The air is heavy with late-spring humidity as I turn away from campus and head toward Lamar, looping from my street down to the river and back.
By the time I pass my apartment again, my lungs are burning, my quads fucking hate me, and I’ve spent the last mile hallucinating tacos. The remaining distance to the twenty-four-hour food truck park is uphill, and I curse the struggle.
“Little late for you, Detective,” Raul says as I pay him through the app.
“Shitty day,” I respond, and he nods like maybe this isn’t the first or seven hundredth time people have come to him for the healing power of his greasy tacos.
Raul’s empathetic look makes me want to hug his neck and weep, but instead, I add a Mexican Coke to the mix. Sleep isn’t happening anyway, might as well enjoy my soda as God intended.
After inhaling everything—plus an order of freshly fried churros—I accept the wet paper towels from Raul and wipe off the cumin-and-cinnamon-heavy grease from between my fingers.
“Thanks, man.”
“Anytime.”
Sending him a two-finger salute, I walk the half block to The Drag, not bothering to wait for the lights to cross the empty thoroughfare onto campus. I’m not a student anymore, nor am I certain of the legalities of being here, but no one’s ever looked at me sideways on the nights when I need a familiar place to decompress after shit goes sideways at the office.
The last time I came here, I’d just been told that Brantley Whitaker, star witness for the case against his father, had died of an overdose.
If that wasn’t the biggest pile of horseshit I’d ever heard.
Maybe the serial vigilantes will take out the senior Whitaker next.
Strolling past the familiar buildings on tree-lined pathways, I pause at the George Washington statue to look out over the mall. The tower rising behind me and the popular fountain at the far end are both hallmarks of the institution.
Tonight, though, I focus on the field of green in between, more specifically, the flowing, almost airy bronze statues that now flank the carefully maintained grass.
I know the artist—I snort at the understatement.
At some point, I’ll have to explain to my parents why I had to come to Austin.
I just hope they’ll still be proud of me.
6
MAVERICK
