Page 83 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Still not a cop.” But I lower my gun a bit, intrigued.
Blowing out a heavy breath, he puts his badge back and gestures toward Trish’s old-ass truck. “No, but that there is Patricia Lorraine Garret’s vehicle. And sheiswanted by the Georgia police.”
Patricia. Patty.Trish.
The moving around. Living in a trailer. The secretive past. Pulling her gun on me when I showed up unannounced.
Between this and the notebooks, that short stack of ours has some serious explaining to do.
Douche-canoe smacks his lips again. “It’s very important that I speak with her.”
I’m pretty sure the smile I give him is more bared teeth than anything. PR would not be pleased. “I’m sure it is.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods, rocking back on his heels, thin strands of hair falling out of their combover. “So if you’ll be so kind as to tell me where Miss Patty is, I can just be on my way.”
“Oh, you’ll be on your way all right.” I raise the gun once more. “Because whether or not that truck belongs to Patricia Whoever-you-said”—I raise the gun to his eye level—“this right here is a Browning Superposed, break-action, double barrel shotgun. Andittells me that you’ll be on your way regardless.”
His hands go up again and he takes a large step back. “Now, ma’am—”
“And if that doesn’t quite motivate your feet to get going, there’s always the call into theactualpolice I made just as soon as you started banging on my door.” I tilt my head as if I’m listening. “In fact, we should hear sirens any minute. I wonder if that lame P.I. badge of yours is licensed outside the state of Georgia?”
He doesn’t speak, but his shifty eyes answers for me and he takes another step back. “I, uh…”
Making sure to keep my finger off the trigger, I jam the gun hard against the metal screen, the loud noise making Private Dickless jump before turning and scurrying back to his car, which I now see is parked a ways down the road. It’s one of those electric, toy-looking cars. No wonder I didn’t hear it.
Once he’s in and peeling out of the RV park as fast as his little electric engine can go, I let myself relax and take stock. Trish’s security door has a big-ass dent in it, and I think I scratched up the barrel of her gun.
But considering she’s apparently wanted by the law, I don’t think she’ll hold the damages over my head.
Closing the main door, I make sure to latch and turn every lock before staggering back to the couch from hell.
I consider callingMiss Patty, but she’s safely tucked in up in Rose’s ivory downtown tower, so no use in her not sleeping either. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. At least until you get eight hours of sleep.
Jesus, I’d settle for just one hour right about now.
A notification lights up my phone. Another unknown number. Sliding open the screen, I’m greeted with my official NASA headshot. My stalker has gotten creative and turned it into a gif. I watch my image’s eyes crossed out with flashing x’s, like a cartoon character dying over and over. Sighing, I blank the screen.
You know your life has taken a dark turn when an implied death threat from your unknown stalker feels reassuring. I let my head drop back, resigned to having a matching bruise on my ass in the morning.
Hours later, just as the sun starts to bake this oven on wheels, sleep finds me.
It finds me with a shotgun braced on my lap, but it finds me.
* * *
HOLT
“Appliances are in!”
As Melissa enters the barn, Cookie huffs at the woman’s singsong voice.
I scratch the calf’s head. “It’s okay, girl.”
The small interior designer walks right up to Cookie and rubs her head. “Did you want to come see?”
I eye her warily. She looks oddly enthusiastic about a fridge and some ovens, even for a designer.
“If you think they look good, then I’m sure they do.” Really, I’ve just been avoiding the house. The morning after Jules left, the sense of peace I usually got from being on the ranch was strangely absent.
