Page 8 of Shattered Fate

Pop laughs. “Tough guy. I know she sleeps in your bed.”

“Ain’t got nothing going on at the moment,” I say, clicking my seatbelt in place and grabbing the bag of food Pop brought me. Double bacon cheeseburger. No one does ’em better.

“Your mom stop trying to set you up?” he asks casually, rolling out of the parking lot and into the street.

We drive over the bridge, and the Renegade’s dark except for the brightly lit cargo ships floating along. Because of the seizure of Black’s ship and the women they found in one of the containers, all ships go through a more stringent search before they’re granted permission to embark. The new mayor is determined Huxley’s memory will eat shit and die, no pun intended, though it is apt, and things are starting to turn around a little in King’s Crossing.

“She has, thankfully, decided her friends’ offspring are too good for me.” I crumple the burger wrapper and throw it into the bag, and I struggle to suck the thick chocolate milkshake he brought to go with my meal through the too-narrow straw. The malted flavor hits my tongue.

Zarah slams into my mind like an avalanche, and buried, I can’t breathe.

“Could have found a good match,” Pop says, navigating through the city.

Behind me, Baby farts, and sighing, I slide down the window to let out the smell before we die. “Told you.”

Pop huffs a laugh. “I’ve smelled worse, and so have you.”

I swear he coddles my dog more than I do.

“No one wants to put up with me,” I say, though not to find any sympathy. It’s just the truth. I’m a broke PI who works with his old man, lives in a loft apartment without a kitchen table (thought I was lying, didn’t you?), whose dog comes first. I can’t imagine any woman would want to sign up for that for the rest of her life.

I mean, sure, I date every once in a while. I need sex the same as any other man who’s not a stark-raving lunatic. I’m decent looking, some women even say I’m hot, especially if I don’t bother to shave—which I haven’t for a few weeks—but weall know when it comes right down to it, you don’t marry looks, you marry what’s underneath and right now all I got is a dog and a truck that’s almost paid off.

“You don’t want to settle down? You’ll be thirty-seven next year. Not thinking about kids?”

I jerk my thumb at the back. Baby whines. She knows I’m talking about her. “I already got one. And no, I’m not ready to settle down. How am I going to stake out rich divorcées if I get hitched?”

“You don’t. You get a real job. Put that badge to use.” He sounds sad when he says it.

“Didn’t like being a cop. So I stopped being a cop.”

Probably the best thing I ever did. I didn’t know the KCPD was so full of fucking bullshit. I read the paper. So many fucking dirty cops doing whatever the Blacks told them to do to earn a little extra money. The new mayor is having a fine time cleaning out all the scum.

“Besides, you need the company so you don’t fall asleep on the job.” I slap Pop’s arm as he coasts to a stop at the curb. He cuts the engine and the lights, and I slide the window up. The smell’s gone, and without the heat going, it’ll get cold in here real fast.

I suck up more of my malt and force down Zarah’s mournful eyes. She’s not my responsibility.

Fuck.

I slam my head against the backrest.

Pop takes my headbanging in stride. He’s used to my volatile temper. Baby whines, stands on the seat, and pokes her cold nose into my cheek. I turn my head and she gives me a little tongue. Maybe Pop’s right. It’s time to settle down so I can stop Frenching my dog.

Comforted, Baby lies back down and soon her snoring fills the car.

The lights in the divorcée’s house shine bright, and two cars are parked in her driveway. Pop checks out the registrations and they belong to two women who are also divorced. Either they’re forming their own First Wives’ Club, or they’re having an orgy. I’m not interested in either so long as the woman we’re being paid to tail stays put. We’ve been watching her for a month. She’s not seeing anyone.

Pop lets me have an hour of silence. “See your brother’s attorney?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

Max’s lockbox key burns a hole in my pocket.

Pop leaves it at that. We’re both patient men. Have to be to do a job like ours. Ninety-five percent of it is doing exactly what we’re doing. The other five percent is digging up shit about people online.

I suck the dregs of my malt through the white and red striped straw, easier now that it’s melted.

Whoppers.

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