Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (18 page)

“Strike one!” called the umpire.

We got it, dude
. Did he really have to shout so loud? He was likely to blow out a lung.

The second pitch looked outside to me, so I stood my ground and didn’t swing.

“Strike two!” shouted the ump.

Sheesh.
No point in arguing the call. What was done, was done.

I needed to hit the next ball. I wiped my sweaty palms on my sleeves and took a deep breath to ready myself. The pitcher released the ball, which came right at my bat.
Ha!
What an easy hit this would be!

I swung with all my might. When I met with no resistance, momentum carried me around in a circle. I nearly hit the umpire and the catcher had to duck to avoid being whacked upside the head with the bat.

“I’m so sorry!” I cried.

The men cast me annoyed looks, but shrugged it off.

“Strike three!” the ump called.

Shoulders slumped, face boiling red, I returned to the bench.

My teammates were less encouraging now, their mumbles of “you’ll get ’em next time” sounding weak and insincere and even a little hostile. Clearly Tara Holloway was a poor replacement for the athletic fireplug that was Hana Kim.

The innings went on, our teams neck and neck. The score went from 1 to 1, to 2 to 2, to 3 to 3. I managed to get on base with my next at-bat, but only because I was walked. I was quickly tagged out at second. Better than my first go, but still nothing to brag about.

It was the final inning and the score was tied 9 to 9. The bases were loaded. And—
dammit!—
I was up to bat.

I hadn’t hit a single ball all night. Nick’s lucky bat had done nothing for me. Maybe I should’ve worn his protective cup, after all. Maybe that curved piece of flexible plastic was where he got his mojo. Of course it was more likely his mojo came from the sizable testosterone-producing organ the cup was designed to protect.

I stepped into place, blinking against the setting sun on the horizon. These black-and-white-striped sunglasses were cute, but they did a poor job. I could hardly see the pitcher. He was mostly just a dark shadow outlined by sunlight, what Jesus might look like if he played softball.

I missed the first pitch.
Dang it!

“Strike one!” called the umpire.

On the second pitch, my poor eyesight confused me and I leaned much too far into the swing, inadvertently aiming for the ball’s shadow rather than the ball itself. The ball grazed my face, taking my new sunglasses with it.

The umpire rushed forward. “Are you okay?”

There was a definitive crunch as the man’s foot ground my sunglasses into the dirt.

“I’m fine.” The same could not be said for my sunglasses, which were in three separate pieces. “My bad.”

I picked up my sunglasses, trotted over to toss them in a trash can, and returned to home plate. As I stood there, shifting anxiously on my feet while I waited for the pitch, I realized something. By letting El Cuchillo into my head, allowing him to affect my performance tonight, I was letting that bald-headed, scar-faced, blood-licker win.

Screw that.

My resolve having returned, I squinted against the sun and readied myself.

From the Peace Corps dugout came, “Hey, batter-batter! Hey, batter-batter!”

The pitcher gave me a smug smile.

A smug smile I will wipe right off his face.

He wound up and sent a curveball at me.

CRACK!

The ball flew up and out, over the head of the pitcher, over the heads of the basemen, and over the heads of the outfielders madly running to catch it.

Neener-neener.

As I dropped Nick’s bat and took off for first base, my teammates erupted in chants of “Ta-ra! Ta-ra! Ta-ra!” There was no hidden hostility in their voices this time.

I passed second and third base, pumping my fists in victory as I headed home. The IRS team flooded the field, picking me up on their shoulders.

God, this felt good!

I’d needed a win.

chapter seventeen

F
resh as a Daisy

My coworkers took me to a sports bar for celebratory drinks after the game. They insisted on paying for my margaritas. Hey, who was I to complain?

When I finally arrived back home that evening, I walked down the block to Nick’s place. After collecting his mail from the box, I went inside.

The place seemed eerily quiet, especially after all the noise at the softball game and the sports bar. Grabbing his television remote, I clicked the set on. It was tuned to ESPN, of course. I didn’t give a rat’s ass which team won which game, but Nick’s TV, Nick’s station, right? Who was I to change it? Besides, though I knew it was only silly superstition, I felt like changing the channel would somehow jinx things. Nick’s place should remain exactly how he’d left it until he came home.

Wandering into his kitchen, I tossed his junk mail into his recycling bin and gathered the rest in a rubber band to take to his mother. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that two margaritas, no matter how refreshing and delicious, do not constitute a meal. I opened his fridge to take a peek.
Score!
A takeout box with two slices of slightly dry, slightly curved-up-on-the-ends cheese pizza sat on the middle shelf. No sense letting good pizza go to waste, right? Or even bad pizza, for that matter.

I took the box out of the fridge, slid the slices onto a plate, and popped them into the microwave for sixty seconds. While they were heating, I wandered upstairs. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but something compelled me. I stepped into Nick’s bedroom and flipped on the light. His bed was unmade, still rumpled from our lovemaking the night before he disappeared into the underground.

I flopped down on the bed and grabbed the sheets, turning over a couple of times to wrap myself up in them like a protective cocoon. Nick’s scent remained on the bedding, a crisp, cedarlike smell from his soap and shampoo, with a hint of boot leather. My heart twisted as if wrung by unseen hands. Would Nick and I ever spend another night together in this bed?

When I could take it no longer, I wriggled out of the sheets and went downstairs. I grabbed my pizza from the microwave along with a soda from the fridge and flopped down on Nick’s couch. Three bites in I could no longer stomach the bombardment of male-targeted commercials. Viagra. Athlete’s foot spray. Beer and more beer. I snatched the remote from the coffee table and dialed up a
Walking Dead
episode saved on his DVR. It promised to be a good one. Michonne, the badass chick with the sword, was out in the Georgia woods, ready to give any zombie who dared approach her what for. Though our weapons of choice were different, hers being a sword and mine being a gun, she was as good with her weapon as I was with mine. Yep, like Michonne, I would totally rule in a zombie apocalypse.

Most people would’ve likely been so disgusted by the show’s gore they would have lost their appetite for pizza, but not me. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and was starving. Besides, I had a strong stomach, developed from nearly three decades’ exposure to my father’s killer chili. Never mind that zombies tore into people on screen, that blood spewed from ragged bite wounds while the zombies chowed down on their victims’ intestines, I dug right in.

When the pizza and soda were gone and at least three zombies had been decapitated, I turned off the TV, washed my plate in Nick’s sink, and rinsed the soda can, adding it to the mail in the recycle bin. As I headed to the front door, something caught my eye. The samurai sword Nick had brought back from a recent investigation in Japan. He’d hung it, still enclosed in its engraved sheath, on the side wall of his entryway. Quick and easy access should a door-to-door solicitor become a little too pushy.

The sword seemed to be speaking to me.
El Cuchillo might have his sissy little knife,
it said,
but I’m a real blade, made for a real warrior.

I’m not sure what drove me to take the sword down from the wall. Perhaps it was the overwhelming sense of vulnerability I felt with Nick gone. Or perhaps I just wanted to play zombie slayer. But, whatever the reason, the sword came home with me when I left Nick’s place. For safety’s sake, I stuck it in my bedroom closet, leaning it up against the custom red gun cabinet Nick had bought me for Valentine’s Day.

*   *   *

Bright and early Saturday morning, I heard Alicia taking a shower in my guest bath, getting ready to head off to Martin & McGee. At least tax season was almost over. In two weeks April 15 would be here and she’d finally get to catch her breath. It was a good thing, too. She and her fianc
é
, Daniel, had a June wedding date and it was time for Alicia and me to start planning her bridal shower and bachelorette party.

My first impulse was to put my pillow over my head and try to go back to sleep, but Henry would have none of that. He climbed up onto my chest and gave me a couple of bitch slaps with his paw. The cat could be a real ass sometimes. Simba, the lion at Paradise Park, had less attitude.

“All right, all right,” I told the darn cat, finally opening my eyes to glare at him. “I’ll get up and feed you.”

He stepped down from my chest, hopped off the bed, and took two steps toward my bedroom door before glancing back to make sure I was following. He twitched his bushy tail a couple of times as if to admonish me to hurry up, then traipsed into the hall. After a quick trip to my bathroom, I scooped up Anne and gave her a kiss on the head. “Time for breakfast, girl.”

We headed downstairs to find Henry in the kitchen, standing in front of his bowl, scowling and swishing his tail back and forth. As I passed him, he reached out and swiped his claws across my bare ankle, drawing three thin strips of blood. Forget the zombie apocalypse. Housecats were far more dangerous than any undead human.
Domesticated, my ass.

I stopped and pointed a finger down at Henry. “You are an ungrateful, spoiled brat.”

He gave me a look that said,
No shit. Now quit bitching and get my breakfast.

I sat Annie on the counter. Unsanitary, I know, but frankly I find people germs far more disgusting. Opening the pantry, I retrieved a can of gourmet cat food and scooped a cup of dry kibble from their bag. I divided the food between Henry’s bowl and Anne’s.

“Here you go, Henry. Bon app
é
tit.” Since he was nearly twice Anne’s size, I gave him the lion’s share. Of course thinking of lions made me think again of poor Simba, stuck back at that godforsaken hellhole of an animal sanctuary. I could only hope that my efforts to expose Paradise Park for the fraud it was would lead to better digs for the animals.

Henry dug in with gusto, eating noisily, while Anne slid down the cabinet to the floor, tiptoed over to her bowl, and began taking dainty little nibbles. With my cats now occupied with their breakfast, I set about preparing my own. Step one, coffee. Once the pot was brewing, I set the oven to preheat and pulled a roll of refrigerated cinnamon rolls and a bottle of hazelnut creamer out of the fridge. After I got the rolls into the oven, I sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of flavored coffee, my laptop, and my W-2 to prepare my tax return. Yep, I’m a procrastinator. What can I say? Preparing tax returns isn’t nearly as much fun as chasing down tax evaders.

Twenty minutes later, my return was complete. I’d be receiving a $67 refund. Not a windfall, but nearly enough to cover a pair of designer sunglasses. I was getting damn tired of the cheap ones. They never seemed to last more than a day or two.

As I double-checked the return to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I found myself wondering how much longer my filing status would remain single. Would the day come when Nick and I would file a joint return together? Hear the pitter-patter of the little feet of our dependents as they ran up the hall to mommy and daddy’s bedroom in the morning?

Beep-beep.

The timer went off on my oven, pulling me out of my reverie. I clicked the button to e-file my return and stood to tend to the breakfast.

Alicia strolled in as I was taking the cinnamon rolls out of the oven.

“Hey, stranger,” I said. We’d hardly seen each other in days. I was glad we’d have a chance to catch up this morning.

“Those rolls smell divine.”

Though Alicia normally set trends when it came to style and fashion, this morning she wore a simple pair of jeans and a Texas Longhorns sweatshirt. Her platinum-blond hair hadn’t been straightened, either, a sure sign she was running out of steam. But who could blame her? She’d been working twelve-hour days nonstop for the past two months. A person had only so much energy.

She aimed straight for the coffeepot and poured herself a steaming mug. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I told her. Despite the margaritas, I’d slept fitfully, my thoughts alternating between Nick and Christina, the softball victory, and my stack of pending cases.

“You wouldn’t know it to look at you,” she said, her gaze taking in my face. “Your skin looks amazing.”

“I had a facial the other day. Glycolics or something.”

She opened the fridge and pulled out the creamer. “So, hard time sleeping. Still worried about Nick?”

“Yes, and I will be until he’s back home, safe and sound.”

She slid into a seat at the table while I set the rolls on a plate and frosted them. I carried the plate to the table and set it between us to share. We each grabbed a roll and dug in.

I swallowed my bite. “Guess who I ran into the other day?” Before even giving her a chance to respond, I answered my own question. “Brett.”

“Oh.” She eyed me as if trying to gauge how I felt about the situation.

“And Fiona.”

Now she cringed. “Awkward.”

“It gets better.” I ripped another frosted piece from the roll. “She was wearing an engagement ring.”

Alicia’s brows rose in surprise. “That was awfully quick, wasn’t it?”

I held up a hand. “Wait. It gets
even
better.” I shoved the bite of roll into my mouth and spoke around it. “She’s
pregnant
.”