Page 20 of A Breath of Life
We were arguing in circles. Tallus saw a future of prosperity, and I saw the inside of a prison cell. We were not the same people.
“What if—” he started.
“No. Conversation over.”
“But—”
I growled, and Tallus pinned me with a look of contempt. “Fine. For now. You’re a big bully, you know that.”
“A big bully who is trying to keep you from being someone’s prison girlfriend.”
“Whatever.”
Without another word, I started the Jeep and took us home.
5
Tallus
Under the word stubborn in the encyclopedia was a picture of my surly boyfriend. Over the following days, Diem refused to leave the card unprotected, announcing he didn’t trust me not to run off and beg my cousin’s help in pawning it illegally. I didn’t know what his issue was. We had a gold mine on our hands, and my diva wish list grew by the second.
Instead, we browsed local lost and found listings on the internet, seeking information about a missing or recently stolen ornate playing card. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
So far, we’d had no luck locating the owner, but with an item worth this much, Diem wasn’t surprised. He pointed out several times that when people came into possession of valuable items that didn’t belong to them, they usually handed them over to the police. It was a not-so-subtle hint that we should do the same. I refused to allow it and might have stamped my foot to get my point across.
Diem snarled. I sassed.
We were at an impasse.
To determine if a report had been filed, we needed to contact the police directly. Most divisions documented stolen items and those turned over asfound.None of it was broadcast to the public. No official website existed that we could browse for answers. Since Diem had burned all his connections with the police department and the mere idea of talking nicely to old colleagues made his skin crawl, the job of inquiring deeper into those supposed lists fell on me.
Five days after our discovery, I raced from the apartment, late for my shift. The records department wasn’t exactly a happening place on a good day—it was especially dull on Monday mornings—so I wasn’t worried anyone would notice my tardiness. My single-minded goal for the day was to uncover what I could about a missing playing card that wasn’t a playing card at all but more of a trophy item that represented one. It beat the heck out of my usual routine of nothingness.
Since I slept in, and Diem wasn’t around to rouse me after I snoozed the alarm six times—he hit the gym daily at an ungodly hour—I barely had time to shower and dress, let alone make anything resembling coffee or breakfast.
Unable to function without a solid hit of caffeine, I made a pit stop at my favorite café a few blocks from work. Waiting in the long line, I opened a recent message from Memphis that had come through as I’d been rushing to get out of the house.
I saw Josh Sat. night. He mentioned you.
I frowned. Had the jeweler mentioned me specifically or the item we’d brought him? Diem wouldn’t be pleased with either.
I typed out a quick response.I am pretty memorable. Was it my eyes? My shirt? What did he say?
His reply didn’t surprise me. Memphis could be self-centered.Aren’t you going to askwhyI saw Josh?
Wrinkling my nose, I typed,No. Obviously for sex, and your sex life doesn’t interest me.
I could practically hear his frustration through the phone.You’re just jealous because you’re tied down now. The adventure is over.
I wasn’t jealous, but there was no convincing Memphis that I was happy in my relationship. Commitment wasn’t his thing, and he couldn’t see beyond Diem’s surly façade. In all fairness, Diem hadn’t exactly been welcoming to Memphis either. The two were a bad mix.
I texted,What did sweet Joshy Woshy say about me?
Knowing my best friend, my indifference to his uncommitted and constantly changing sex life would drive him crazy. He loved sharing details. When he sent an eye roll emoji, I was not surprised. I sent several question marks, begging for a response.
It took a minute, then my phone pinged. He asked if I’d talked to you and wanted to know what you’d done with your “piece?” and if you’re okay. I don’t know what that means, and he wouldn’t elaborate, but he told me to check up on you, so I am. Piece? Doll, is that a euphemism? What exactly did you show him? I know it’s been a while, but if memory serves, your “piece” isn’t anything to write home about.
“Fuck you, bitch.” The guy in front of me in line glanced over his shoulder. “Not you.” I waved my phone. “My friend. He’s being mean. I don’t have a small penis. It’s average, but trust me, I make it work.”
