Page 5 of Ransom

The mysterious thing. I could ask, but I really don't care. Matt does a lot for his sister and her kid. He spends a lot of his weekends in the city with them. Not sure what happened to the kid's dad, but again, I don't really care enough to ask. I don't know her, so other than hoping she's okay in a kumbaya kind of way, I don't think about her. If Matt has something he wants to share, I'll listen, though.

I'm not a shitty friend. Just a selective one.

I learned when I was a kid to be choosy about who I let into my life. Now, it's filled with people I actually like, and a few that I tolerate.

"Right. Thanks for today. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks." He turns to leave but hesitates, asking over his shoulder, "How's Maggie doing? Is she holding up?"

As always, a little bit of sadness wells up. "She's hanging in there. The chemo is rough."

He winces, walking back to me. "I wasn't around for the last time, but this time is pretty bad isn—". I don't let him finish, just reach out and twist his nipple through his shirt. He slaps his hand against his chest and gives me a wounded look. "Jesus fuck, Blair! What the hell?”

"Hey, you have a problem, take it up with Maggie. She ordered me to nurple anyone who dares talk about any of that shit. She's here now. That's what we focus on. She's not living thinking the worst, so why the hell should you?"

He groans and rubs at his massive pec. "Maggie's fucking delusional. How are we supposed to just pretend she's not sick?"

"You don't pretend. You just focus on the fact that she's here now. We're all going to die, Matt. Hell, you could walk out there and drop dead from a massive stroke. None of us know when we're going. So why focus on that possibility?"

"Is it really that easy for you?"

"Easy?" Is it easy to look at my best friend snuggling her son on the couch, sunlight dancing on thinning dark hair and act like everything's okay? No, it fucking isn't. "It's easier than cancer. I'd say Maggie has the harder role to play."

Wincing, he nods. "Right. You're right. It's just…she's so young. It's not right."

"No, it's not. And you can be damn sure she'll take that up with God when she sees him. Hopefully a long, long time from now."

One black eyebrow wings up. "She's sure she's going up there, huh? I think Old Man Morrison would have an opinion on that."

Out of habit, I look over my shoulder, making sure no one else is listening. No need to spread this shit around. "Doesn't matter. He deserved it." I'll stand by that till the day I die. You don't swat anyone's kid with a broom. The second he touched Max, he had to die.

Well, not die, but pay. Big time.

"He had to toss a thousand eggs, Blair. The stores wouldn't take purple ones."

"That's unfortunate. But the sheriff never charged anyone." And he can afford it. He has more money than most around here. He’s miserly and grumpy.

He’s on my tolerate list.

"Right. There was no proof." He says it like he knows exactly who did the deed, which, of course, he does. My fingers were purple the next day. That orange soap does wonders for grease, but food-grade dye’s another story.

"Nope. Not a spec."

He rolls his eyes and nods. "See you tomorrow, boss."

"Asshole," I mutter, fighting a smile as I watch him walk to the back. He knows I hate when he calls me boss. “Jerk stuck me with all the cleanup."

I go through my routine, cleaning up from the day's work. Matt's tools are already neatly put away, but I wipe mine down and put them back in their spots in the tool chest. I'm not a naturally organized person, but I learned a long time ago that searching for my tools every morning is frustrating and a colossal waste of time.

And I hate wasting time.

The breeze is blowing through the open bay doors, and I give myself a second to breathe it in. There's a crispness in the air—cold enough that I almost put my flannel on. Almost. I fucking love Fall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Max on his bike, nearly blocked by two very large men and a dog. The dog I'm not worried about. The wag in his tail makes it damn clear he's not a threat. The men? I don't like the looks of them. From the back, one in a motorcycle jacket, one in a suit, they look like trouble. They don't fit in here at all.

Leaning the broom against the tire of the Oldsmobile on the lift, I head for the little group, just in time to catch Max in all his six-year-old glory.

"Are you bad guys?" he asks, scowling up at the men. "You look like a bad guy. Do you have a gun? Are you going to rob the joint?"

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