by A. J. Aalto
“Yes,” Batten said into his phone. “Hedley Stonecoat. Fairly rare. Endangered species of boggle. I took care of it.” He paused to listen then made an affirmative noise. “Yes. Dropping her home. Just pulling in the driveway, now. Right, see you in a minute.”
He took care of it? He did? I almost got churned into Marnie-butter by boggle fist, got carried around by the hair, spit on, and shit on, but he took care of it? Batten turned off the SUV, relaxed for a moment as the engine ticked in the new silence, and then did a double-take at my scowl.
“We good?” he asked, and then held up one big hand to stop me from answering. “Let me rephrase; I’m good, how are you?”
I tried to call him a cock, but I was so angry that I could barely squeak the word on a tight inhale.
He laughed, an exhausted, stress-busting laugh from the belly. “What’s the problem, Baranuik? We’re a team.”
“You preening, self-impressed boxjockey.”
“Sensing some hostility.”
“May your crotchal region be infested with knobgoblins.” I struggled with my seatbelt, fuming, and launched out of the SUV, forgetting how steep the step down was, especially barefoot. I jumped back to my feet when I hit ground. At least I rolled correctly, to avoid adding more than grass stains to my litany of complaints.
“Hobgoblins?”
“No, knobgoblins!” I flailed my hands at the SUV as he threw his door open. “And yes, they are a real thing, and they’re exactly what they sound like.”
Batten pointed out, “Thinking ‘crotchal region’ is not the term you’re looking for.”
“Bloodstained my shirt,” I listed, showing him my fingers as I counted, “cut my leg, popped my emergency condom, lube shower, Hood anxiety-chewed all my Juicy Fruit, can’t find my pocket knife or my gloves, busted my watch, goober in my hair, and boggle doody on my Keds. And you take credit for my relocation job.”
“Hey, this was no joyride for me, either. Who got baby monster vomit in his face?” he asked. “Don’t go away all butthurt, Snickerdoodle. I’ll set things right.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ll alert the media.” He wrestled away what might have become a teasing grin if he let it spread. “Great White Shark saves multimillionaire from big dirt monster.”
I pointed hard at him. “Impossible!”
“What do you want?”
“I want to see other people,” I announced with a royal wave of my hand as if to say be off with you, moving to flop on the porch between two jack o’ lanterns and a sheaf of decorative dried corn stalks.
“Are we dating?”
“Not anymore!”
“But we were?” he clarified.
I showed him a faux-offended gape, and covered one jack o’ lantern’s pretend ears. “I tried to share a breakfast taco with you then we almost had sex. If that’s not a date, I don’t know what is.”
“Your definition of a date is sad,” he said, “but not surprising.”
“In my kook-pie imagination, you’re very nearly smitten with me,” I joked, “for obvious reasons.”
“Smitten, huh?”
I brushed imaginary dust off the pumpkin. “Yep.”
I felt his hand land in my hair; he tousled it like I was his sister or his kid. My scalp was still tender and I insisted “Owww!” When I reached up to swat at him, I caught the playful glint in his eye.
“Sure. ‘Very nearly smitten,’” he repeated, nodding like he was more than happy to go along with my decision to play make-believe. He kicked the bottom stair riser once, twice, and I felt the thud of his standard issue boots hit the sun-warmed plank as a vibration under my butt. Then he withdrew. On his way to the SUV, he raised a hand to wave goodbye and called into the insect choir in my yard, “Good work today, Baranuik.”
“Hey, wait.” I stood in a rush, knocking over the cornstalks, swatting the dry leaves out of my face. “You never compliment my work,” I called after him.
He swung the car door open, hovered for a minute, and showed me a genuine Mark Batten smile, laugh lines and all. My brain melted and murmured mmmmswoon at me. I was too tired to do much about it, and even if he’d stripped in my driveway, I probably couldn’t have worked up the energy to tackle him, but my libido reported it wouldn’t mind the show.
“In your kook-pie imagination,” he said, “sometimes I think you’re pretty fucking great, Snickerdoodle.”
I was suddenly far too aware of Chapel’s shadow in my peripheral vision, lingering at the window to my office; that window was open, and though I doubted Gary was spying intentionally, I chose my words carefully.
“Is that what you’re gonna write in your report, Agent Batten?” I called, amazed at the steadiness of my own voice. “That on the quarry job, I was a professional team player, and pretty fucking great?”
Batten snort-laughed. “You ain’t a professional anything,” he said, “and my compliments are an off-the-record deal.”
He stuck one leg in the car then decided he had more to say. His mouth worked around it for a good ten seconds; it was so startling to see the blend of sincerity and insecurity cross Kill-Notch Batten’s face that my knees turned to jelly. He’s going to admit to being very nearly smitten. My heart lurched into my throat. Or not entirely exhausted by me. Or something less-than-insulting. I made an attempt at looking casual by propping my hip on the porch post and smiling expectantly, brows lifted. For good measure, I uncrossed my arms, and mentally thanked the Dark Lady that I’d be watching Chapel’s body language lessons.
After jawing the air ineffectually, he looked exasperated and baffled at his own inability to speak, and jabbed a thick, indicting finger through the air at me.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “In my imagination, you just called me a superhero!”
He closed his eyes and shook his head tiredly. Getting into the truck, he pulled away without his usual grit-spitting peel-out. I watched the SUV disappear behind the trees.
Not my imagination. Not my imagination at all. “Well, that’s not good,” I murmured under my breath, feeling that it was good, really good, but only in that secret place where this swell of excitement could do no harm.
Chapel poked his head out the door. The Blue Sense stirred to report that my boss was pleased and not at all surprised to see me alive and in one piece. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, I said, “That was my monster relocation job, not Batten’s. He assisted me.”
Chapel blinked at me from behind tortoiseshell glasses. “Okay,” he said, giving an easygoing smile that said he was content to believe my version of it.
His acceptance made my mouth work around all the other complaints I had, which one by one disappeared unspoken, no longer needed. Now that he’d calmly popped my rage-balloon, I felt like a dumbass. Chapel lifted his eyebrows and waited to see if I had anything else to say on the matter. When I didn’t, he tipped his phone at me.
“I just had a call from Mr. Le Pique’s lawyers, claiming you caused the destruction of an excavator? Le Pique Consolidated is wondering who’s going to pay for it.”
That bloated motherfucker! “The stonecoat did that before I even got there,” I said. “He’d have done a lot worse if I hadn’t risked my neck to get him out of the quarry and into a new den.”
“Right.” Chapel nodded once, as if that was final.
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked. “I hate lawyers. Wait. I wasn’t in charge, remember? Batten was in charge, just like he said. Also, didn’t I quit yesterday? I quit every day, so probably I don’t even work for you anymore.”
Chapel smiled benevolently, as if to say, “Nice try,” and went back inside.
I swept the yard with my gaze, looking for suggestions on what to do next. The aspens were silent on the subject, and the birds squawked lecherously. Ajax, Harry’s debt vulture, stirred in the dark green boughs of a pine, feathers ruffled. The steadfast company of the sun would keep my closest adviser pinned dow
n in his casket until dusk. The quiet expectations of my boss, once again a blur behind window glass, suggested I should carry on, one foot in front of the other, exactly as I had done the day before. I would promise to do my best. At the very least, I could promise not to do my worst.
I stretched my weary bones, felt my tender scalp with tentative fingers, and winced. Three hours in jail. Bumps, bruises, a near-admission of affection, credit for a job well done, and a possible lawsuit. In other words, an average Thursday.
“No good deed goes unpunished, Ajax,” I said with a rueful smile, straightening Harry’s dried cornstalks, fiddling until they looked straight. “Which would be less aggravating? Hiring a lawyer, or buying Le Pique a new excavator?”
Ajax kept his opinions to himself. I went inside, and called to order a pizza.