Page 27 of Suddenly Dating
Amy Schumer!
Casey was right! At long last, she was living the kind of life she’d wanted. She was officially hanging out with the cool kids of East Beach, and stodgy, uptight, laundry obsessors could go fold some boxer shorts.
Nine
Harry had endured a very long week, filled with many headaches and late nights. He’d lost a crane operator to a DUI and had to scramble to find another one. His crew had uncovered some bones, which of course brought everything to a grinding halt while authorities determined what sort of bones they were. It turned out they were large animal bones, and his crew was cleared to continue the work—but the three days lost to working on that section of the bridge had put them behind schedule.
He was losing money again, and it felt like it was pouring through his pockets. Not only that, he had some legwork to do in preparing to bid on another subcontracting job, but it was work he had to do after ten to twelve hours on the job.
Today, however, he’d left his job site early, because he’d heard that the newest state project was sixty-two miles of toll roads with three bridge spans, and the main contract had gone to Horizons Enterprises.
He planned to do some research tonight—he wanted to know everything there was to know about Horizons Enterprises. When that company sent out specs for the bridges, he was determined to aggressively pursue it. He wanted at least one of those bridges, but he was gunning for all three.
He had been looking forward to an inflatable raft, a beer, and a pool overlooking Lake Haven. He wanted a little down time before he cranked up his computer. But of course, his crazy roommate was on hand to blow that idea out of the water.
He sat in his office now, staring at his email inbox. He didn’t really see the messages there, because his head was filled with images of Lola’s glittering blue eyes, her pert little smile, the droplets of water on her skin. He didn’t know where she went after her friend left. He heard a door slam somewhere and ignored it. After another quarter of an hour of staring at a computer screen and seeing nothing but her, he got in his truck, and went to look for something to eat.
He didn’t have much luck. East Beach did not attract the sort of people who ate at McDonald’s. There were probably more private chefs than grill masters in this village, and after driving aimlessly, he couldn’t find anything that didn’t require a reservation. He finally decided he’d have to make do with the few groceries they kept on the shelves at Eckland’s Hardware and General Store at the bottom of Juneberry Road.
He perused the aisles before settling on some chips and dip. This weekend, he would make it a point to visit a real grocery store. Tonight, he would dine like a frat boy.
Harry parked in front of the house and, holding the bag of chips between his teeth, dug in his pocket for the house key as he walked to the front door.
He’d hardly cracked the door before he smelled something so savory that his stomach instantly began to grumble. He started for the kitchen, but hesitated mid-stride, startled by the big mess. It didn’t seem as if she’d even had time to do this. Pots and pans, measuring cups, and various dishes were scattered across the bar top. A carton of cream was sitting open on the counter.
Not only was the kitchen a mess, but he noticed things he hadn’t noticed earlier—such as the stuffed beach bag on the couch. Two pairs of sandals looked as if they’d been kicked off her feet near the door and had scudded across the wood floor. And on the dining table, papers and books covered the entire surface.
A small tornado had torn through this house.
Harry didn’t see the tornado or hear her rattling around. He walked into the kitchen and dropped his chips on the only empty space on the counter, shaking his head in disbelief. That delectable smell was coming from the oven. He opened the fridge. She’d stuffed real food—fruits and vegetables, juices and yogurts—in and around the fast food containers he’d left through the week. Harry had to move aside several things to reach his beers, which, unsurprisingly, had been shoved to the back.
With a beer in hand, he wandered through the kitchen to the dining room and looked out at the gold and pink shimmer of sunset on the lake’s surface. The hills around the lake had turned into dark greens and purples with the setting sun, and lights were beginning to twinkle in them.
Harry took a swig of his beer. Now that the pool had been cleared of the little lunatic and her pal, he intended to go outside and soak in some of that sunset. But he happened to look down at the mess she’d left on the dining room table. A stack of typewritten papers caught his eye, the text marked up with pencil. Words had been lined through, others written above it. What was this? He picked up a page from the pile and read:
Sherri hadn’t thought about the first man she’d killed in a long time. There was no point to it, really—she’d always believed that people who looked back were unnecessarily sentimental. Conner had died, his death was ruled a suicide, and that was that.
She wanted to watch Sam die like she’d watched Connor die. That ass should never have ignored her texts. His death was going to be painful.
She was on her way to the little hardware store on 9th Avenue for plastic sheeting. They still did everything on paper there—untraceable—and bonus, there were no surveillance cameras. The knives and the acid would be bought in other old-school mom-and-pop shops that hadn’t upgraded their point of sale systems. Why were people so cheap, anyway? Wasn’t it fascinating that in a world where the United States could listen in on phone calls of world leaders, there were still stores that wrote receipts by hand? Idiots.
Sherri strode toward the subway entrance, but before she could reach it, her phone rang. She dug it out of her purse. “Hello?”
“Sherri?”
Her heart surged to her throat. Sam. She slowed her step and ducked to one side to avoid the sidewalk traffic. “Hey,” she said. Her heart was suddenly jackhammering in her chest, and for a tiny moment, she had the fear that Sam somehow knew what she was planning. “What’s up?”
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You sound a little winded.”
“Oh! I, ah... I was running.”
“Running?” He sounded confused. As well he should be, as Sherri had never run in her life.
“Yep. I’ve taken up running. Trying to drop a few LB’s.” For all she knew, he’d called the cops, and they were closing in on her now. She looked wildly about.
“You don’t need to lose any weight,” he said. “You look great, Sherri.”
Sherri’s breath caught; she slouched back against the brick wall. She thought she might love him all over again. “Sam, thank you,” she said, grinning now. She’d been so hasty in her decision to kill him! Maybe the woman she’d seen going into his apartment with him was just a friend. A consultant. A cousin. A landlord—
