Page 30 of Whiskey Chase
The blinds twitched again.
“Might as well open the door, Wade,” Bowie called out.
We all heard the sound of the deadbolt sliding open. Wade Zirkel peered through the inch of door that he cracked open. He had a ball cap on and a polo shirt that was plastered over “I go to the gym seven days a week” muscles. He was the kind of fake-tanned, bleach-toothed, former quarterback who was still riding high on his high school fame. I hated him even more.
“Well, hey there, Bodines. What do I owe the pleas—”
Jameson shouldered his way through the door, shoving Wade back a few paces.
“You can’t just come in! That’s breaking and entering,” Wade squealed.
“Actually it’s only trespassing,” I pointed out.
“We’re not here for pleasantries,” Bowie announced. “We’re here for Scarlett’s stuff.”
“I can call the cops,” Wade announced, puffing out his impressive chest. The handsome bastard looked like a cross between Paul Walker and Vin Diesel from the car movies.
“Do you really want to do that?” I asked him. “The fines for trespassing are a lot lighter than harassment and larceny. Did you know you can face up to six months in prison for petty theft?” I asked him.
Wade blinked, his tan face going a shade of red.
“That’s right, Wade. We brought ourselves a lawyer,” Bowie said. “Now, are you gonna let us take Scarlett’s stuff, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”
Wade bobbed his head under his red Zirkel Auto Sales hat. “Help yourselves,” he said meekly.
“Do we know what stuff she has here?” Bowie asked me in a whisper. I shrugged.
Gibson stalked up to Wade and stared the man down. He was a big guy, but the second Gibson Bodine invaded his personal space, he shrank into himself, shoulders stooping, gaze gluing to the floor.
“I want a sandwich,” Gibson announced.
Wade gulped audibly. “Okay.”
“Make me a sandwich, Zirkel.”
“S-s-sure. Roast beef or t-t-t-una?”
If Wade made it through this encounter without pissing his pants, I’d consider it a miracle.
“Come on,” Bowie said, leading the way down the hall and up the stairs. “Gibs will babysit him.” He handed out trash bags.
“You all take the bedroom. I’ll start in the bathroom.”
I had no idea what we were looking for. I found a pink hoodie on the floor of the closet and threw it in the bag along with a pair of leggings that I doubted belonged to Zirkel. I really hated the idea of Scarlett being here with this guy. He was an overgrown asshole with a pretty face who obviously didn’t know how to treat women.
Jonah tossed me a Bodine Home Services t-shirt and a pair of socks with hearts all over them.
Feeling irritable, I grabbed the stack of scratch-off lottery tickets off of the nightstand and added them to the bag.
“Find stuff?” Bowie asked, sticking his head out of the bathroom.
Jonah picked up a scrap of material off the shag carpeting. “What’s this?” It was black-and white-striped and stretchy.
“That’s Misty Lynn’s ‘get lucky’ tube top,” Bowie said, glowering at the shirt. He snatched it out of Jonah’s hand.
I briefly wondered what kind of alternate universe I’d landed in. Here, your neighbors knew what outfit you wore to get lucky. In Annapolis and D.C., you kept your secrets on lock down because, sooner or later, someone would use them against you.
“And we hate Misty Lynn?” Jonah guessed.
