Marital Bitch

by Jc Emery

  I take the DVD out of the case and flip it around. It’s covered in scratches, both deep and shallow. It’s so beat up that I doubt it’ll even play. And I have an idea! I know just how to show Brad that I want to try to make this work.

  I rush to the kitchen and look for baking supplies. Of which, there are none. I can’t bring him homemade cookies at the station if I don’t have anything to make them. So, I improvise. If there’s one thing I learned from Darla, it’s how to fake being a domestic goddess. To this day, James still doesn’t know that Darla’s famous lemon squares come from the corner bakery.

  THREE HOURS, ONE shower and four stores later, I’m walking into the station with a wicker basket in my hands, looking for my husband. I am so proud of myself for my forethought. I was lucky—the corner bakery had some reject chocolate chip cookies they gave to me. Old Mrs. Neilson even had an old Tupperware container for me to put them in. She wasn’t very helpful at first; that is until she found out the rumors about me marrying “The Patrick Boy” are all true. Everybody loves both Brad and James and if I didn’t love them both so much, it’d be sickening.

  Love?

  Um…

  Yeah. Yeah, love. You know, like best-friend-love. Like first-kiss-love. Like I-might-get-some-love.

  “Miss, this area is restricted!“ the woman at the front desk calls out to me as I pass. She has pale skin and beautiful strawberry blonde hair with lovely grey eyes. I have never seen any woman look this good in her dress blues. She is stunning. I sort of want to s her already.

  “Pardon me,” I say in a faux nice voice. I look at her badge and try not to sneer. I have an irrational hatred of her name. “Vicky,” I say, drawing it out. “My name is Colleen Frasier Patrick. That means my daddy is the Chief, my brother is Detective James Frasier, my godfather and father-in-law is John Patrick, who is the Assistant Chief, and my husband is Detective Bradley Patrick. Please remember that.” My tone is snotty and I know it, but this “Barbie in Blue” needs to know who she is dealing with. I grew up in this station.

  I breeze past Vicky, ignoring her muttering about policy and waltz into the squad room. Brad is seated at his desk with James hunched over him. My dad and John are flanking them on both sides. They look so serious.

  I walk over to them and offer a timid, “Hello,” so as not to startle them. They each look at me with sad eyes. Each of their hellos is something akin to a gruff bark. I don’t even want to know what they’re working on. I’ve spent years blocking myself off from the gruesome world they work in, never asking many questions and always respecting their boundaries when it comes to what they’ll share about their work—and this is why—all too often they’re working on a case where someone has lost someone dear to them.

  Brad stands, crosses the desk and hugs me tight. His body is rigid and he’s burrowing his nose into my hair. I set the wicker basket down on his desk and curl into him. I know this hug. Brad needs this hug. When he’s working on a really bad case, he needs a hug. It grounds him, lets him know that he’s still here, with us. I’m more than happy to be able to be that for him.

  “What’re you doing here, pretty girl?” he asks and we pull apart. My dad has collected all of the papers they were looking at and has them safely in a manila folder far from my line of sight.

  “I made you cookies,” I beam up at him. Brad smiles and kisses my forehead. I lean up and kiss his cheek, shocking him. “You should look in the basket,” I whisper. Brad turns and starts to rifle through the basket, pulling out the cookie container first, his eyes dancing with amusement. I’m so excited and proud of myself that I don’t even see it happening—it being the chaos that is about to happen.

  The moment that James hears there are cookies, he grabs the container and opens it. Sure, they’re discarded bakery cookies, but they don’t look half bad as homemade cookies. Brad pulls out the Special Edition DVD of “The Notebook” that I’ve bought him to replace his deeply scratched copy; and quickly shoves in back in, his cheeks turning pink. He spies the box of tissues and doesn’t even move to pick them up.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, embarrassed because he knows the meaning behind the DVD.

  “There’s a note,” I say, prodding him to read it. I need to see his reaction when he reads the note. I spent a lot of time thinking about that note. I’m not quiet about it and my voice carries to James’s big old honking ears. Before I can stop him, James finds the note in the basket and starts reading it. Brad tries to snatch it from my stupid brother but he dodges him in time.

  The entire squad room watches the budding show as James begins to read the note aloud. I put my head down, nearing tears. This was private and was never meant to be shared with anyone—especially not the entire squad room.

  “Bradley—,” James recites in a feminine voice. “—I wanted to replace your worn, but well-loved copy of “The Notebook—,” James pauses to laugh. This is so bad. I hear feet shuffle and chuckling from all around. “And the tissues are because I know that you can never make it through Noah and Ally’s reunion without tearing up—,” there’s more, but James stops reading, thank God.

  One of the rookies whose name I’ve forgotten takes the opportunity to rag on Brad. “I want all of you, forever!” he shouts to Brad. James is still laughing his ass off, though he won’t be for long—not after I tell Mama and Darla about this.

  Big brother, you’re going down.

  John claps his son on the shoulder, trying to withhold his laughter. “You know, son,” he clears his throat, “There’s no shame in liking those girly movies.” Brad pulls away from him, his back to me.

  My dad takes the opportunity to chime in. “John’s right, kid,” he rubs his mustache thoughtfully. “Those movies keep Louise’s engine going strong, even with the on-set of menopause.” I cringe and James verbally protests. I can hear John in the background agreeing. If I wasn’t so mortified and sorry for embarrassing Brad like this, I would be thoroughly disgusted by our fathers’ topic of conversation—our mothers’ libidos.

  Brad leans in close, his voice icy. “So that’s your game, Frasier?” he snaps. I gulp. This is not how you go about impressing your husband. Not at all.

  “Patrick,” I correct him, nose firmly in the air. He knows damn well what my last name is.

  “Okay, then,” he smiles in the most unfriendly way imaginable. “Game on, Patrick.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  (Brad)

  My wife just declared war on me.

  I WAKE UP to the buzzing of my Blackberry. The alarm clock says it’s four in the fucking morning. I twist around and grab it off the nightstand before it can wake up Colleen—not that much wakes her up—she snores as loud as a semi-truck coming down the turnpike.

  “Patrick,” I mumble into the phone, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

  “I hate to wake you up, Sugar, but you gotta get down here,” the soft voice on the other end says, sounding as beat as I am. I stretch and kiss the back of Colleen’s head before crawling out of bed.

  “What’s going on, Vicky, you back?” I ask. If Vicky’s calling that likely means she’s off suspension and back on the streets. It’s about damn time.

  “I wish, Sugar. They got me on dispatch. Listen, a lady called in a 41-C on the 600 block of East Broadway around midnight, but then disappeared before our guys could get there. I just got a report of a D.B. at the same location. Caller thinks the vic was a pro. Could be the same vic. James is already on his way.”

  “Shit. Good morning to you, too, Vicky,” I bitch into the phone. I hate getting a call like this. When I joined the academy, I never thought I’d be dealing with rape victims and dead bodies, but somebody has to do it. “10-4, L-30,” I say letting her know it’s going to be a good half an hour before I get to the scene.

  “No time for a good morning wank, eh?” she laughs, knowing how hard my morning problem had been since Colleen moved in.

  “Shut up, Vic,” I grumble and hang up on her. Goddamn women.

  I
WALK INTO the lobby from the squad room, finding Vicky at the front desk. I yawn and plop down on the free chair beside her.

  “I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go, okay? I’m gonna sit down here and play with the phones all day and you can go work the 10-16 I woke up to this morning,” I say. I let my head fall back and close my eyes.

  “Nice try, Detective,” Vicky laughs. “Now, get to why you’re really here. You only come to talk to me for one reason… so out with it—what’s your girl done now?” Now I’m laughing, because this chick doesn’t mess around. She gets straight to the point. Always.

  “Nothing,” I say and let out a heavy sigh.

  “Bullshit. You two are always fighting.”

  “That’s just it. She hasn’t done anything and it’s making me edgy,” I admit.

  “So, it’s all marital bliss at home, then?”

  “Yeah,” I whine in probably the least manly way possible. “And the messed up thing is that she’s playing June Cleaver or something. She’s always trying to help. And she makes me dinner; and even when it tastes like crap, it’s great, ya know? Or—she orders pizza that she knows I like; and if I’m not home for dinner, she puts it in the microwave for me to heat up. She’s being so damn nice and I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “So, let me get this straight—,” Vicky chuckles, “your wife is being nice to you and it’s freaking you out?”

  “Yeah?” I exclaim, happy that she’s getting it. “It’s like… I wanted Colleen for so long and now that I’ve kind of trapped her… and she’s being nice to me… it feels wrong. Like, unless she’s bitching at me, it doesn’t feel real.” I take a deep breath in an attempt to stop the verbal diarrhea that I’m spewing, but it doesn’t work.

  “It’s just wrong. She isn’t doing it for me, you know? She’s just happy to play house and it’s really screwing with my head,” I say. I wait for Vicky’s response for a few moments before opening my eye to find her silently laughing her ass off.

  “Go ahead and laugh. Do you know how many times I listened to you bitch about Joanne?” I remember back when Vicky had just met Joanne and it was all this girly bullshit of ‘do you think she likes me?’ and ‘what if she has a girlfriend?’ God, if I ever sound like that, I’ll ask James to shoot me with my own damn gun.

  “Yeah, but at least I have a vagina—you, Sir, just sound like one.” She sticks her tongue out and waves me off. Disgruntled, I head back to the squad room. I have to talk to the Chief and my dad about the case, anyway.

  MY STOMACH IS grumbling and all I want to do is to fall asleep eating a chicken wing. I know it sounds gross, but you just gotta have a plate nearby so you don’t get grease in the bed. I learned that the hard way.

  “We should break for lunch,” James says, putting an end to my thoughts of a chicken wing nap. I nod and look to the Chief and my dad who are flanking us, as we brief them on the dead Pro down on East Broadway.

  When I look up, I see Colleen standing before me. She’s beautiful. Absolutely stunning. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and an old Red Sox t-shirt. Her long blonde hair is down. It’s wavy—not straightened as she usually does it for work—but I like it better this way. She’s not wearing any make-up with the exception of a colored chap stick that makes her lips look really pink.

  The weight of the day hangs on my shoulders and I can’t muster much of a smile. I do the only thing that I can bring myself to in this moment. I walk across the desk and hug her for dear life. Sometimes this job gets to me. It freaks me the hell out. I have nephews and nieces and sisters, a mom, and now… a wife. My wife has always been my pretty girl, but this is much more official. It’s more real. I’m responsible for her as much as I have always been. But this is different.

  I don’t always sleep well—knowing what’s out there. I’ve busted enough people that someone is bound to be out there, aching for revenge. The thought sickens me, so I hold onto my pretty girl even tighter. I just need to know that she’s here and she’s safe.

  “What’re you doing here, pretty girl?” I ask, hoping everything is okay. She pulls away from me and for the first time I see that she brought a basket with her. It looks like something Yogi took on a picnic or some junk. I wouldn’t know, I don’t picnic.

  “I made you cookies,” she says. I kiss her forehead and look to the ceiling to buy myself a moment. My girl can’t cook and she sure as hell don’t bake, either; but it’s damn cute of her to try. “You should look in the basket,” she whispers.

  I start reach in and pull out an old Tupperware container. It looks beaten up from much use, but I don’t own anything like it and neither does she. I packed up all her kitchen shit personally. So, now I know she didn’t bake these cookies. On the plus side, that means they’re probably safe to eat.

  James’s big hands grab for the container of cookies as I pull out a DVD copy of “The Notebook,” before quickly sticking it back in the basket and at the bottom is a box of tissues. And suddenly, the past week makes sense—I think. I don’t want to think Colleen’s such a bitch that she would try to tell everyone about ‘The Notebook Incident of 2004’, but then—I also never thought she’d mess with my girlfriend and she did that, too.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, embarrassed and agitated, but trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “There’s a note,” she says, her smile about the split her face in two. She’s way too eager about this. Something smells fishy. James hears her and grabs the note before I can.

  “Bradley—,” James begins, trying to imitate Colleen. “—I wanted to replace your worn, but well-loved copy of “The Notebook—,” I reach for the note but the fucking hyena evades me. “—and the tissues are because I know that you can never make it through Noah and Ally’s reunion without tearing up—,” James trails off, hopefully realizing that I’m going to have to beat him senseless later on.

  I glare at Colleen who is playing the part of the poor, embarrassed little wife. Oh, she’s good, but not good enough. All week, Colleen Frasier has been acting like she’s got a thing for me… feeding me and shit. I should have known she was working on some kind of master plan. She must be pissed about me packing up her apartment or telling her how stupid she is for signing that goddamn performance policy thing.

  Well played, but baby, you don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with. My dad puts his hand on my shoulder and giggles like a fucking girl. “You know, son,” he clears his throat, “there’s no shame in liking those girly movies.” I turn away from my traitorous fucking wife and stare at the wall. It isn’t bad enough I’ve got a dead hooker on my hands, now I have to put up with this, too?

  “John’s right, kid,” the Chief says, “those movies keep Louise’s engine going strong, even with the on-set of menopause.” I block them out after that. They’re actually getting laid by their wives; all I’m getting is humiliation.

  I turn to Colleen and lean in close. I am not amused by this little stunt of hers. “So that’s your game, Frasier?” I quip. She looks sorry, so I look away. I don’t want to be deterred by crocodile tears.

  “Patrick,” she retorts, sticking her nose in the air like the snob she is. Had I called her Patrick, she would have responded that her last name is Frasier. I can’t win.

  “Okay, then,” I grin, putting on my work mask—the one I use for a perp. “Game on, Patrick.”

  I walk out of the squad room, ignoring the guys as they quote “The Notebook” to me. I refrain from telling those jerks that if they can quote it to me that means they watched it, too.

  Meatheads.

  I stomp to the lobby and sit down in the same chair I occupied earlier in the day. Vicky grins at me, a little too happily.

  “I met your girl,” Vicky says. I nod. “She’s kind of a bitch.” Normally, that would piss me off and I’d have to put Vic back in her place, but I’m too pissed to even argue.

  “Yeah, she is,” I agree, because really, she is.

  “She pulled some ‘do you
even know who I am?’ crap when she blew past here. Cute though. Really cute,” Vicky says nonchalantly. I decide not to tell Vicky exactly how insecure Colleen is and just let her think she’s a royal bitch.

  Vicky is hot—no doubt—but she’s also a lesbian and according to her, I wouldn’t be her type even if she did go back to men. Whatever. Her girlfriend, Joanne, is hot too; and she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. They’re great for each other—and for my fantasies. Not that I ever think about them… naked… in the shower… washing each other. Okay. So, at least I don’t think about it often. As hot as it is in my head, the chick-on-chick thing always brings me back to Colleen and Heather and I lose it.

  “Listen,” I say, “I’ve got an idea, so hear me out until you tell me I’m an idiot and it’s a stupid idea.” I look at her seriously and she nods. Thankfully, I don’t have to explain how our marriage came to be as I’ve already filled Vicky in. “My wife just declared war on me and I need to hit her where it hurts. So, I think a little payback is in order, don’t you think?” I ask Vicky, drawing in her interest.

  “Payback, how?” Vicky asks. I smirk, reveling in the genius of my plan.

  “I’m going to hit her where it hurts. You and I are going to start dating.” Vicky looks at me like I’ve grown antlers. “Look—if there’s one thing that woman can’t stand more than anything, it’s another woman being more important in my life than she is. I need to know how she feels—and this is just the thing to draw it out of her,” I scheme proudly, my excitement replacing my earlier anger.

  “You really want to do this?” Vicky asks and I nod. I don’t even have time to ask if that means she’s willing to participate in this little game. With no warning, Vicky pulls me in and kisses me on the cheek. It’s not obnoxious or obvious as far as kisses go. But then I hear a voice clear behind me and turn to see Colleen. She looks angry and her eyes are bright red.