Me: Cat Daddy — Did you know paleolithic art dating back thirty
thousand years showed people using dildos to pleasure themselves and others? That means people invented sex toys before they invented the wheel.
Mark: Phoebe, what are you and Dr. Cutie doing?
Me: She’s making me wear this stupid thing on my head, and my tummy hurts. I need a nap, daddy. The mean doctor is laughing manically and drinking something that smells funny. Phoebe, for shame. Bedtime,
Young Lady.
Mark: Lol. Have a better day?
Me: I did. How’s yours going?
Mark: Wrapping things up soon. See you later on.
Me: Sounds good, Handsome. Be back after dinner.
Mark: Later, Cutie.
I put my phone down and picked up Phoebe, tucking her into her kennel with fresh food and water. Chick and Duck followed behind me, and I refilled their food as well before giving the place a once over and checking in with the evening vet tech. I felt a little better heading to the restaurant, but it still felt like this was the beginning of the end—the end of us, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
21 - MARK
Something was the matter with Jenna. Since coming back from Mom’s house two nights ago, we’d been off. Not even bringing home three bonsai trees and two giant topiary plants brought a smile to her face. It was more than her period and more than a bad day at work. Something was pushing us further apart with each second that went by. Sure, we still joked, and kissed, and found every excuse to touch, but our dynamic had changed.
The day of Phoebe’s surgery, she went out with her friends, and even though she crawled into bed later that night and wrapped herself around me like a spider monkey, it wasn’t the same, and I was struggling. The next day she was gone before I woke up, and when she came home, she had Phoebe with her, and we were both distracted for the night, trying to keep the damn cone on her tiny head. We hardcore snuggled again that night like we were trying to repair whatever had broken.
Today was a double shift that, thankfully, was almost over. Mom was over for her second day in a row, and not even her selfies of Phoebe crawling in a giant boob bonsai could get me out of my funk. I usually loved patrolling. Driving was calming and cathartic, for the most part, but today, everyone on the road pissed me off. I finally parked in the shade underneath an overpass to do paperwork and get my head on straight.
My duffle bag was halfway packed on my bed. The last freaking thing I wanted to do was leave, and I felt like a failure for thinking about moving out early, but it was what I’d do when the house was ready. I knew I could make a few rooms livable if worst came to worst.
You could always man-up, tell her how you feel, and get your head out of your ass;a voice whispered that sounded suspiciously like my dad, but that was stupid. I was doing this because of him, and I’d never heard his voice calling me out before.
And I couldn’t do that, Dad, because I didn’t know how the fuck I felt.
Yes, you do,the traitorous voice mockingly said back.You’re just too chicken-shit to admit it.
Even if I was prepared to face the fact that maybe, just maybe, this whole single decision was a mistake because most cops were married and happy. The cold, harsh reality was this jobtooklives, and I refused to do that to someone.
But was that refusal worth your chance at happiness?The voice tried one last time, echoing deep inside my head, but I was done listening.
I scrubbed my hand over my face and scratched my beard, picking up my phone and staring at our last message thread. There wasn’t anything new, so I threw it in the cup holder, flicking on the radar and staring out my front windshield.
There went a car three over the speed limit, then one going two, then four. I usually looked the other way unless they were at least going over five, but I kind of felt like being an asshole and pulling over the white minivan driving by doing four over. Still, it was probably a mom on her way to soccer practice, and I wasn’t that much of a douche, even if it would make me feel better taking my frustration out on someone.
I could always ride down to Battery Park or around Boone Hall Plantation. Cruising past the giant oak trees, marshes, and southern palm trees with my windows down might help. It was impossible to stay in a bad mood with the sun shining, the September weather a balmy eighty-one degrees, and big, white, fluffy clouds in the sky. I smacked my head against the back headrest and closed out of the program on the laptop installed in my Interceptor. My mind was swirling with more thoughts and colors than one of those giant rainbow suckers at the checkout counters at grocery stores.
Puzzled at the bizarre thought, I barely noticed the black car zipping by me in the far left lane, registering twelve over the limit until my radar buzzed, snapping me out of my funk. I flipped on my flashers and clipped on my seatbelt, ensuring the coast was clear and pulling onto the highway. I felt bad for feeling giddy about pulling over this person who thought they thought they were above the damn rules.
The rules were there for a reason.
They kept people safe. They protected people. They keep jack-asses in black sedans from causing five-car pile-ups on the freeway and untold amounts of personal heartache and damages. I gritted my teeth as I darted between cars to get closer to the vehicle. He tapped on his brake lights and moved to the center lane as soon as he saw me.
Good.
At least I wouldn’t be making a call about an idiot that wasn’t going to stop for blue lights. As I got closer, I radioed in the plate number and found out it should be a guy in his mid-fifties with no outstanding warrants and a resident of South Carolina with no points on his license. He moved to the right lane, and I followed, getting right on his bumper as he pulled off the road and turned off his car.
I let him sweat it for a minute while I got my attitude under control and reached over for my campaign cover, making sure the strap was correctly adjusted across the back of my head.
