Page 56 of Fiona and the Fixer

“Fuck you.” With the money in hand, I stormed out of his office, his laughter echoing off the dingy hallway walls. Fucker.

25

FIONA

At six on the dot,Dottie breezed into my house. I gave up on the locks keeping people out.

“Helloooo!” she called.

“In here,” I replied. I was parked on one of the kitchen stools with a glass of wine. I’d stopped at the store for a bottle after I closed the bookstore. I’d earned it.

“I was going to call, but I decided just to stop in instead.”

She came in and set a reusable sack on the counter. This was the most dressed down I’d seen her, in jeans with some paint stains on them, old sneakers and a University of Colorado gray sweatshirt with a bright blue t-shirt peeking out of the bottom.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

I tipped the paperback over so she could see the cover.

“Back In The Saddle.”

At first, I’d been ready to kill Dax for leaving me in charge of a romance bookstore. The only job I could think of that I am less qualified is a preschool teacher.

But then I realized he’d left me alone and I didn’t have a fake boyfriend snooping into my snooping. I had to agree with him that me going back into the pickle shop now would be a bad idea. But he’d implied the bookstore was across the street and the perfect place to watch the pickle shop.

So I pushed one of the remarkably comfortable chairs to be positioned right by the front window so I could watch across the street. To blend in like a good FBI agent I was trying to pretend not to be, then attempted to listen in to what was going on over there. It took a while to filter out all the usual noise. I eventually picked up a few things.

“–fucking pickle brine. I got it on my shoes. I’m sick of smelling it.”

“You’re taking the shipment across the border, so nothing but cactus and tacos starting soon enough.”

I was called to ring someone up after that and by the time I got back to my spot, I couldn’t pick up any other chatter. The lights were off in the place, and I could see the closed sign on the door from across the street.

There was talk within the bookstore.

Women were talking.

About me.

My hackles went up, completely used to people complaining about me, gossiping.

My father.

Why were you born?

You should’ve been a boy.

You’re worthless.

No one wants you.

My coworkers.

She’s too uptight.

Do we have to invite her to happy hour?

I think her brain tumor made her even less exciting.

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