Page 50 of Resting Grump Face
“I… don’t even know what that is.”
“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives,” Paul whispers insistently into the phone. “They’re the worst agency of them all! Always after the little guy!”
“Why would the ATF want to visit me? And on a…” I check the date on my phone. “Sunday?”
“Maybe he’s Post Office. I hear they pay surprisingly well. And he does have a package. A small one, but still… Okay, now he’s looking at me funny. Do they even work on Sundays? It looks like he’s mad. It’s probably because of his small package.”
Steps echo in the background.
“Hold on, sir,” Paul shouts weakly. “You can’t just… What are you… Don’t hold the elevator for him, Robyn! Okay, he’ll be up soon. I will take a break. Defending this place against the oppressive government is a lot more work than one might suspect.”
Before I can answer, Paul hangs up on me. There’s just enough time to put on a shirt before the knock on my door. It’s not an angry knock, not the kind of knock a Federal Officer would use if they wanted to arrest you. It’s also not the kind of stressed out knock a postal worker would exhibit after having to deal with Paul. If anything, it’s a grumpy knock.
And there’s only one person I know who can make even his knock sound like it got up with the wrong… hand.
I take a deep breath to prepare for what is about to happen, then open the door.
Mr. My Body Is Immune To Hangovers Grayson is leaning against the frame of my door. He lets his gaze wander up and down, and in best Ryker manner says the wrong thing, “Well, you look like sh?—”
“Let me stop you right there.” I hold my hand up. “I am going to give you another chance and open this door again. Obviously, this is nearly impossible for you, but… don’t be a dick.” I do as I say, close the door, wait a second, and open it one more time.
Ryker’s expression is pretty much unchanged. Grumpy as they come. “Rough night?” he asks this time.
I shake my head and lie, “Regular night. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Try again.” I close the door once more, wait, and open up.
His stoic expression seems to crumble a little. “I hear it helps to have someone else occupy the wrong side of the bed, so you get to wake up on the right one.”
“Gross. Again.”
Close. Wait. Open.
Smile.
Fuck.
I wish it was the hangover that makes my knees go weak, but I know it isn’t.
“You look like shit. Probably because you had to spend a rough night with your very own nemesis, so I brought you breakfast.” He holds a box up for me to see.
“It actually wasn’t that rough. I just like to wake up looking like I've been in a bar fight. Street cred is important around here.”
He nods. The smile has left his mouth, but it’s still visible in the wrinkles around his eyes. “I hear you. Those centenarians are notoriously dangerous.”
Like him, I try to remain as stoic as possible, grab the box, leave the door open, and go back inside. Ryker follows, and we both take a seat on my way too tiny sofa. He brought breakfast burritos, which I hate because it’s just what I need right now.
Then he continues, “After I tucked you into bed last night, I did the same with Paul. I met him twice yesterday, yet he didn’t even recognize me this morning.”
“How do you know he didn’t recognize you?”
“Well, he said,‘Who the fuck are you, spook?’and when I told him I was here to see you, he swiveled away from me in his office chair and then called you.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, that’s Paul. He’s the best. He takes a bunch of medication because of his new hip, among other things, which sometimes makes him a bit of a loose cannon. His sleeping schedule is also all over the place, which tends to make it worse as well, so basically you should expect him to be a bit of a loose cannon at all times.”
We eat our burritos and Ryker takes a brief tour through my apartment, by which I mean he gets up and walks all the way from the sofa to the window and back, all five steps. He lets his fingers glide over my dresser and stops mid-stride when he discovers a dead plant sitting next to a few books.
“This is a cactus,” he says.
“Thatwasa cactus,” I correct him.
