Page 1 of A Labor of Hate
CHAPTERONE
EIGHT-TWENTY-SEVEN on themorning of March eighth.That was the exact moment I knew I loathed Colt Dixon with every fiber of my being.
Not everyone is unfortunate enough to have an arch nemesis and even fewer have the origins of their rivalry memorized so thoroughly.But for me, it was impossible to forget.After all, March eighth was consistently the worst day of my life.
Normally, I could numb myself through working, reminiscing with my sister, or gorging myself on unholy amounts of spaghetti carbonara until I slipped into a carb-induced food coma.Normally, I wouldn’t be living out of boxes and sleeping on the floor while the truck with my furniture was delayed another three days.And, normally, I’d be close enough to Pittsburgh to bring the flowers to my brother’s grave in person.
But what really set me off was that freaking outlet.
“No.No no nono,” I muttered, my voice thick with sleep and panic.
My eyelids scratched over my sleep-deprived eyes.My joints ached.A suspicious amount of sunlight bled through the rickety blinds.Birds chirped outside, nearly drowned out by the bustle of traffic.And, worst of all, my phone wasn’t turning on.Nothing but my haggard appearance reflected back to me in the phone’s black screen, no matter how desperately I punched the buttons.Of all the days for my phone to die, this had to be the worst by far.
It took some impressive floundering and murderous stabs with the plug of my phone charger before I finally figured out what went wrong.Rather than reviving from its near-death experience last night, my phone had been abandoned in its hour of need.
Not by me, of course.I wasn’t amonster.
Nope.The murderer this time was the outlet.The faulty, non-functioning, only-good-for-a-practical-joke, outlet.
By the time I found one that actually worked, the clock on the stove had already prophesied my doom.I was mega screwed.Super ultra mega screwed.It was already eight o’clock, and I had to be at the field office in fifteen minutes.
The Detroit Field Office.My new home, if you could call it that.
Crap, crap, crap, crap.This was bad.Really bad.
I scrapped my plans for a shower, opting instead to spray enough perfume and deodorant to suffocate a horse, and begged my late Nonna to put in a good word for me with the Powers That Be.I’d need all the help I could get.Especially today.
My curls stuck up in a riotous mane, one semi-appealing bug away from singingHakuna Matata.I yanked out the first semi-professional clothes I could from my suitcase, nearly groaning in dismay at the wrinkles marring the fabric.It would be fine, though.It wasn’t like anyone my age even owned a clothes iron anymore.
Skidding in my lucky cow socks, I pushed my coffee maker through its morning routine and brushed a scant amount of mascara over my lashes.A quick scrub with my toothbrush and a to-go mug of my budget-friendly caffeine fix, and I was out the door.
A goose hanging around the parking lot hissed at me as I scurried past.Hot coffee splashed onto my hand, and I bit back a four-letter contribution to my brother’s swear jar.
Since the goose didn’t pursue, I maintained some modicum of dignity as I scurried across the parking lot.Gravel and salt crunched underfoot.I threw my things into my car and fired it up, cursing the early March frost coating the windshield.That set me back another precious three minutes as I clawed at it like a madwoman with my dinky scraper.
Once I was able to finally program the address into my barely-alive phone’s GPS, an incoming message caught my eye.
Order to Jasper’s Floral unable to be fulfilled.Full refund issued.
The words blurred on the screen.This couldnotbe happening.It had taken me a stupid amount of googling just to find a florist who could deliver my order to my sister, Dekker, and now the one I’d found was flaking on me?
I frantically peeled out of the parking lot, the online florist’s number already being dialed as I navigated through rush hour traffic.It was a bit of a pipe dream that anyone would answer, considering they didn’t “open” until nine, but after the morning I was having, surely karma owed me this one thing, right?
Wrong.
It took white-knuckling the steering wheel to keep from pterodactyl screeching when the call went to voicemail.I even skipped the greeting like I was some CEO billionaire instead of a stressed FBI agent.
“This is Lex Piper,” I ground through clenched teeth, cycling through the different stages of grief.First came denial; “You’re joking, right?Please tell me this was some fluke with your system, because what self-respecting business cancels an orderthe morning of?This has to be a mistake.”
I slammed on my brakes as the light turned red.Anger was next; “Look, I went with you guys because youassuredme you could fulfill my order.Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a florist who’d do a bouquet with daffodils?”My voice pitched higher, bordering on hysteria.Here came depression.“And the bouquetneedsto have daffodils.They were his favorite, and this was supposed to be theonething that went right today, and now it’s ruined!Everything is ruined!”
I missed my turn, cursed brightly enough to fill my brother’s swear jar to bursting, and whipped onto the next street as my GPS rerouted me.Now came bargaining; “Is this a delivery issue?Because if you make the bouquet, I’ll organize different transportation for it.All you need to do is make it.”The field office came into view just as acceptance set in; “You know what?It’s fine.I’ll figure something out.Thanks for nothing.”
I punched the “end call” button as I pulled up to the security booth, badge and ID at the ready.The guard gave me a judgy look, and it took a significant amount of self-control to keep from making a snippy remark about his unibrow.Instead, I flashed a smile that probably looked more psychotic than reassuring as I gripped the steering wheel so hard my wrists locked up.With how my morning was going, he’d probably radio me in as a security threat.I’d be surrounded by the SWAT team in minutes, and it wouldn’t matter whether my pants were wrinkled, since they’d be pressed into the slushy asphalt while SWAT members cuffed me.Then I’d be shipped off to Guantanamo where I’d never see a daffodil ever again.
The catastrophized scenario made an unexpected laugh burst out of me.Not an innocent giggle, either.This was a Harley-Quinn-level, she-knits-tiny-jackets-out-of-ramen-noodles-for-her-voodoo-dolls cackle.If the security guard wasn’t worried before, he sure was now.But, unluckily for him, he’d already returned my things and raised the gate.
Sucker.
