Page 42 of The Love Losers

ROSIE

Conversation ceases in the station when Nicole and Damien come in, guided by Officer Richards. She left us at her desk with Officer Nutman, who has spent the last three and half minutes-slash-eternity telling us about his idea for edible dental floss as if he hadn’t been throwing passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive threats at us for the previous hour.

Maybe he prefers to pitch to people who are under the threat of arrest because they’re not in a position to tell him it’s a godawful idea.

Nicole’s hair is in utter disarray that suggests they’re five minutes late because she and Damien decided to get their quickie in before coming. She’s wearing a shirt that saysMy sister-in-law sucks. I swallow.

“Thank God,” Anthony mutters, possibly because Officer Nutman seems to have come around to the idea that he might really be rich, and this whole pitch is leading to a request for funding. I wonder if that happens to him a lot.

“Oh, it’s you,” Nicole says as they get closer, snapping her fingers and pointing at Officer Nutman. He palls noticeably.

“You know each other?” I ask, both fascinated and worried that it could lead to our arrest.

“Sadly. And we know this guy, too,” she says, indicating Anthony. “That’s Anthony Rosing Smith, certified super rich guy.” She pulls a piece of paper out of her purse and shoves it at Officer Nutman, who takes it with a scowl.

He glances at what looks like a photocopy of Anthony’s driver’s license, presumably from the paperwork he put together for Nicole and Damien, then says, “Look, you’re telling me you know this man, and I suppose you must. But I still don’t see it.”

Sighing, she takes a sharpie from the container of pens on Officer Richards’s desk and draws a beard on the photocopy of Anthony’s license.

An amazed “huh” escapes Officer Nutman as he studies the picture from various angles.

“Why don’t we go to an interrogation room to talk?” Damien suggests.

“I think we’d prefer to leave,” Anthony says stiffly. “It’s been a long, unnecessary night.”

A little gasp must leave my lips, because he turns to me and adds, “This last misadventure, I mean.”

“I could get you in on the ground floor, with the Flossnacks,” Officer Nutman says. “That’s trademarked, you know. Did the whole paperwork and everything.”

“No, thank you,” Anthony tells him stiffly. “I work mostly in real estate.”

“We all need to have a talk in the conference room,” Damien repeats, this time to Anthony. “Do you think it’s a coincidence someone called the cops on you the same week someone threatened your mother?”

I feel like an idiot for not having considered that possibility sooner, but the expression on Anthony’s face suggests he hadn’t thought of it either.

“What’s this, now?” Nutman says.

Officer Richards sighs and grabs his coffee from his slackened hand, taking a sip. Her eyes lift in surprise. “Is therewhiskeyin this?”

He pulls it away from her. “Try that again, and I’m going to file an internal complaint against you.”

She heaves a weary sigh. “Why don’t I handle this, Nutman? You can go take a rest in the breakroom.”

He considers her offer before briskly nodding. “Well…all right. But don’t let them walk all over you, Jolene. Make sure you’re the one holding the carrotandthe stick.”

“You’re into kink, aren’t you, Nutman?” Nicole says with a grin. “I could tell the moment I met you.”

Damien murmurs something to her, possiblyshut the fuck up, because, surprisingly, shedoesshut up, and Officer Richards leads the four of us into a room that’s empty other than a little rectangular table surrounded by six wire chairs. I glance at Anthony as I sit, and he smiles at me, but this isn’t a real smile. It’s the kind he gave out to patrons at the bar tonight and probably clients at work—a placating smile meant for other people. I give him a return smile that probably looks the same.

“Can I get you anything?” Officer Richards asks.

“Coffee with whiskey sounds pretty good,” Nicole says.

“We’re fresh out,” the officer tells her. She glances at Anthony, who looks like he would rather be anywhere in the universe than this small, stuffy little room. I can relate. It feels like years ago, not hours, when we were gliding around the heaps of supplies in the warehouse, dancing to Cyndi Lauper.

I should have let him kiss me.

I should have let him, and now maybe the moment is gone forever.

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