Page 10 of Centering Kaos

4

Kaos

PIZZA.

When Emily first muttered the word, I thought it was a metaphor for something, but no, I was delivering pizza.

Neither my bike nor my Escalade made for a believable food delivery vehicle, so I borrowed Naomi’s Subaru. As I picked up the order, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my assignment. Since life before the service had consisted of nothing but school and hockey, I’d never actually had a job. Now, my volunteer work had me pretending to be gainfully employed at Pietro’s Pizzeria. If my old hockey buddies could see me now, I’d never hear the end of it.

Well, until they saw that picture of Tina all covered in bruises with a black eye and a split lip. Then they’d gladly slip into the same company T-shirt I was wearing and join me on this little adventure. When we finished with Matt, Tina wouldn’t even need a divorce.

Matt lived in an upscale neighborhood in Duvall, a suburb of Seattle. As I navigated in his direction, I decided being a pizza delivery man wouldn’t be so bad. It’d get me out of the house and keep me busy, enabling me to discover unfamiliar neighborhoods and meet new people. If I ended up losing my shit, botching this job and killing the motherfucker, maybe I’d give it a try.

After I carefully disposed of his body, of course.

The navigation app led me to a perfect family home with two executive-level vehicles parked in the driveway and another at the curb. Just as Tina had said, Matt was hosting himself a little get-together to watch basketball. She knew about the party because during their last supervised visit, Matt had invited Dylan. He knew damn well the boy wouldn’t be allowed to attend, and only did it to stir up shit with Tina.

I couldn’t wait to ruin the bastard’s day.

Parking behind the car at the curb, I cut the ignition and tried to make sense of the house. I’d pictured something dark and ominous, but the two-story craftsman was painted a cheerful blue. In my mind, there had been bars on the windows, but these windows were flanked by white shutters. A matching picket fence lined the professionally cut and edged lawn. Colorful flowers lined the walkway, and there wasn’t a weed in sight. A welcome sign even hung over the doorbell, and the mat beneath it celebrated spring.

This was the home Matt had shared with his wife and child.

He had stashed pictures of his abused hooker here.

The bastard had beaten the shit out of his wife just on the other side of that door.

It should have looked like a prison.

Boxes in hand, I headed up the driveway. The front window was open, allowing me to hear the game buzzer followed by indecipherable mutterings of the announcer. Cheers responded. The game was in full swing, and Matt and his buddies were into it. Good. Their distraction would make my job all that much easier.

Keeping the paperwork Emily had given me out of sight between the two pizza boxes, I situated the receipt on top of the box and checked the pen I’d snagged from the pizzeria. When it drew a black line on the box, I knew I was good to go and rang the doorbell.

I’d been expecting the man in the photo to answer, so the stout balding man who opened the door threw me off. Before I could say anything, his gaze zeroed in on the boxes in my hand, and he shouted, “Who ordered pizza?”

He swung the door wider, revealing a living room with two brown leather sofas and a matching recliner. The place was crowded with men. Heads turned toward us, and I scanned the faces finding no sign of Matt.

“Who cares? Just grab ’em and shut the door,” someone said. “The light’s reflecting on the TV.”

The stout balding man reached for the pizzas, but I stepped back.

“Sorry, I have a message for a Matt Parker and need a signature.” Nobody else would do. If I didn’t get Matt’s John Hancock, today would be a flop. I’d be burned, and the ladies would have to come up with another plan that didn’t involve me. I had not come this far to be cut out now.

Someone shouted for Matt.

The blond haired, blue-eyed, dimpled pretty-boy came around the corner and smiled at me.

Much like his house, Matt was a deception. He reminded me of a kid I’d once played hockey with. The motherfucker would smile and wave at the crowd with one hand while he cup checked his opponent with the other. I’d never had much use for people who took cheap shots, and I still carried around a bit of PTSD from those fists or sticks to the groin. Everything about Matt Parker made me want to drop the boxes and rearrange his pretty face. Making the outside of him look as repulsive as the inside would be hella satisfying.

But that wasn’t the job.

So, I plastered a smile on my face and forced myself to ask, “Matt Parker?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t order any pizza. There must be some sort of mistake.”

“No mistake. The order was placed by a…” pretending to read the ticket, I said, “Bill Orwell. He wants you to know he’s sorry he can’t make it to your party, but wanted to send over a couple pies as a thank you for the invite.”

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” A dark-haired man stood from one of the couches and glared in our general direction. “I know you’re after that raise, Parker, but inviting the boss…? That’s low, bro. Even for you.”

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