Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales (10 page)

I say, why use labels? I’m uncomfortable calling myself anything other than a mother. That’s the one label I am comfortable with. I’m a mom first and foremost. A private investigator next, even though that is fairly recent. Seven years ago, I wasn’t a private eye, but a federal agent.

So, even that is subject to change. Perhaps someday I might find myself better suited for a different job, although I will always help those in need. Although I’d always admired Judge Judy, I would never want to be in her position: to judge the actions of others. That takes wisdom… a lifetime of wisdom. Technically, I’m only in my mid-thirties, although I look much younger. Still, far too young to judge others.

Truth is, my current lifestyle’s perfectly suited to private investigation. Other than meeting new clients, who tend to want to meet during the day, I get along just fine working the nightshift.

So yes, one of the constants in my life is that I’m a mother. Of course, even that was threatened just a year or so ago, when a rare sickness almost took my son from me. A son who was growing so fast.

Supernaturally fast.

Don’t ask.

I have a daughter, too. A daughter who offers many challenges, the least of which is that she can read minds as easily as she reads her Facebook newsfeed. I’m a sister, too. My sister has had a rough time of it, of late. She’s recently been introduced to some of the darker elements of my world, and might be holding a grudge. But she’ll get over it. She’d better. I need her in my life.

Of course, there is another constant in my life… a constant I ignored. A constant I denied. And, as they say, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.

Denial is my sanity.

You see, I have to deny what I am. Who I am. Or I would go crazy. I know I would. In fact, a part of me is certain that I just might be crazy. But let’s not go there.

Yes, call me anything. But please, just please, don’t call me a vampire.

At least, not to my face.

try to get to work around nine.

Luckily, I have a very loose definition of
try
and
around
. And since I like to think of myself as
progressive
, I don’t worry about things like
time
. That’s the beauty of being progressive: I’ll get there eventually.

At just past ten, I arrived at my building. With a mocha latte in one hand and my keys in the other, I smelled the cigarettes and cheap perfume wafting under my office door into the hallway.

Before slipping the key in the lock, I tested the handle. Still locked. I looked around. My pathetic business complex was quiet. Precisely four cars sat scattered around the parking lot. One of them was my van. The others might have been the same three cars I’d seen upon leaving my office yesterday.

Speaking of yesterday, I’d had precisely no clients come in, and had received exactly four calls from Bank of America credit card services. Apparently, I owed them a crap-ton of money. Apparently, they would get it when they got it. They didn’t like that answer, of course, which might have been why they’d called three more times. I was looking forward to more such calls today.

Yippee!

My office is in Huntington Beach, but one would never guess it. It was too far away from the addictive, salt-laden ocean breeze. Too far away from the bikini babes. And definitely too far away from a steady stream of walk-in business.

One might assume that my office was on the wrong side of Huntington Beach, the inland side. The side that abutted a hall-in-the-wall called Midway City. The side, of course, with the cheaper rent. Cheap or not, I was still two months behind on it.

Now as I slid the key into the lock and, balancing my mocha latte like a pro, I slipped my hand behind me and pulled out the Mossad’s weapon of choice: a Walther pistol. I wasn’t part of the Mossad. I wasn’t a spy either. I was just a private dick, and mostly, I wasn’t even that. Mostly, I was an out-of-work desk jockey.

Now, as I opened my office door, I was certain someone had broken in… and was waiting for me inside.

My office isn’t big, so there aren’t many places for a man to hide. Or, in this case, a woman.

It turned out she wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding, either. In fact, she was sprawled on my couch, sound asleep. I relaxed and slipping the gun back behind my back, just inside the waistband of my jeans, studied the scene of the “crime.” A coffee mug rested on the floor next to her, filled to overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes.
My
coffee mug, in fact, which she’d commandeered from the cupboard over the small sink in the far corner. Next to the sink sat an old, but reliable, Mr. Coffee. Or, as I liked to call it,
Señor Café
, because I liked to think of myself as international and mysterious. Kind of like James Bond, only bigger and tougher.

Anyway, the coffee mug was a favorite of mine. It also had the UCLA logo emblazoned across the side. I was one of those people who happened to think the UCLA logo should be emblazoned across most things, but I might have been in the minority.

Who she was, I didn’t know. Why she had broken into my office and from all appearances, smoked the night away, I had no idea either. I counted seventeen mostly smoked cigarettes, although one or two had only been consumed halfway. I shook my head.
Wasteful.

She looked to be about twenty-something. She might have also been cute, if not for the way she was presently drooling on my couch arm.

Speaking of arms, the inside of one of hers was covered with fresh track marks, all puckered and raw. Also on the inside of her arm was a stylized tattoo that said, “Fuck off, pigs.”

I was impressed by the correct use of the comma. Many other tattoos covered her body. Or, at least, the parts of it that I could see. On her ankle, there was a skull with a dagger through it. On her wrists were inked two roses, the stems dripping blood. Around her neck—yes, her
neck
—curled a barbed wire tattoo, also dripping blood. Behind both ears, turgid middle fingers flipped the bird.

Classy.

As badass as she wanted the world to think she was, all she was now was a gently snoring girl who’d broken into my office, abused one of my prized mugs, and was now staining my couch with her drool and cigarette stink.

Such is my life.

I also saw bruising, and not just a little bruising, but a lot. She’d been beaten recently. Worse, I suspected what I could see was only the tip of the iceberg.

I might have felt weird about inspecting a sleeping woman so thoroughly; that was, if said sleeping woman hadn’t broken into my office. I looked again at her mouth and saw the possible reason for all the drool… the inside of her lower lip was split. She’d taken a shot to the face. I noticed now how the blood mixed with the drool. Yes, I was going to have to get the couch cleaned.
Again.

Don’t ask.

How she’d broken in was a mystery. The mystery might have been solved if I’d gone through her purse partly spilled open on the floor next to her. Two more unopened packs of cigarettes peeked out from the inside.

I always liked a woman who was prepared.

I stood back and considered my options. Call the cops?
Probably.
Wake her up?
Maybe.
Check my email?
Definitely.

So, while my uninvited office guest slept away, I powered up my computer and checked my email. I checked some sports scores. I checked my Facebook. Lastly, I checked my bank account.

Depressed, I did some triceps dips along the edge of my desk, as I’m sure most people the world over do. After all, who wouldn’t want nice triceps?

Next, I did some diamond push-ups. Very few know what a diamond push-up is. Even fewer know how to do them right. I’m one of the rare minority who probably does them perfectly. Case in point, my hands were brought in together, centered just below my chest, my two index fingers and thumbs forming a perfect diamond. The burn is fabulous on both the triceps and the outer pecs. Since my focus was on the triceps this morning, I did just that: focused the burning in those. I did push-up after push-up, cranking them out quickly, but precisely, over and over. I could do this until the cows came home, or until I got tired of them.

Or, in this case, until the mystery girl woke up on my couch, which she did now, gasping as she sat up.

However, I wasn’t quite done with my diamond push-ups. No, no, no. My arms burned, yes, but not
enough
. And so, I cranked out twenty-five more, knowing that I now had an audience.

When I was finished, I nodded to the woman who was now sitting up on the couch and watching me, her mouth hanging slightly open—and not because she had been recently beaten up. I think, perhaps, she might have been in awe. At least, I liked to think so.

“And that.” I hopped up to my feet. “Is how you do a diamond push-up.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” she said.

“Few do,” I said. “Now, start talking.”