Fearsome Foursome

by Pierce, Nicolette

  She cocked her head to the side. “I just told you. Are you dumb or something?”

  “To be having this conversation, I must be.”

  Mrs. Janowski chose that moment to walk in. “Did you find the box—” She halted just inside the door. “Oh!” She looked at the woman with flowing locks tossed over her shoulder. “Did they start a brothel?”

  “Apparently,” I muttered.

  “Do we throw her out?” Mrs. Janowski sounded very keen on the idea, and I wished with all my heart that we could.

  “No, apparently, she’s a guest.”

  Mrs. Janowski studied me for a moment, then nodded. “I have an extra bed at headquarters if you want it.”

  No, I didn’t want to stay at headquarters. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to throw the little stripper out the door on her powdered butt. I wanted to change the locks on my door and stomp on my phone so that I didn’t have to hear an explanation. I wanted . . .

  I sighed. “Yeah, maybe I could crash at your place tonight.”

  But tomorrow there’d be hell to pay!

  * * *

  The bedroom Mrs. Janowski stationed me in faced my house. I didn’t sleep at all. Every ten minutes I’d flip then flop then go peek out the window. It was a little after five in the morning when Brett came home. He stayed for a few minutes, switching lights on and off as he moved through the house. He then texted me. When I didn’t reply, he then called.

  I didn’t answer.

  He left.

  I didn’t want to think about where he was going, but the thought was there anyway. I tried to reason that keeping a stripper in your office could be completely innocent, just part of the job. Yet, it didn’t seem like something a person should do unless there was full communication.

  I stewed for hours.

  It was a little past seven when I got a call from Rand. “Where the fuck are you?” The growled curse took me by surprise, especially so early in the morning.

  “I’m at Mrs. Janowski’s house. Why?” I asked. “Is everything okay at the Hog?”

  “The Hog is doing a lot better than I am.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was attacked in my own bed.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I was attacked! Do you really think I’m okay?”

  I ignored his snappishness. I didn’t see how this was my fault. “What can I do?”

  “You can tell Brett I’m suing his ass and slapping a restraining order on him!”

  “Brett?” Oh no. “He wouldn’t think—”

  “That I was fucking your brains out? Yeah, he did!”

  “But why? I wasn’t there.”

  “He saw what he expected to see.”

  “How could he see me there when you were alone. Unless . . . oh. I see. I’m sorry. Did he figure it out?”

  “For the love of God, Mars! Yes, he figured it out, but not until after he got in several punches.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  While I felt bad for Rand, I was also relieved Brett came to find me instead of going to the office to meet up with the stripper. Then I began wondering why he’d go to Rand’s house to find me at this time in the morning. And why did he think I’d be in bed with him?

  “Is that all you have to say, Mars? Sorry?”

  Brett had the nerve to think I’d cheat on him when he was storing a doxy in his office? The more I thought about it, the more I fumed. How dare he! “Do you have a number to that alarm company we hired for the Hog?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Send them over to my place today. I’ll need you to pay for same-day installation.”

  “That’ll cost a fortune.”

  “It’ll piss off Brett.”

  “I’ll have them over in an hour.”

  Chapter 14

  Both Emmy and I sat stewing in Mrs. Janowski’s living room while the ladies sat at the dining room table hashing out Ida’s situation. Honestly, I didn’t know how to help them. Ida clearly didn’t want anyone to poke around in the past. We still didn’t know the daughter’s name. And, Ida confessed. Where do you go from there?

  Yet, even if I wanted to contribute, I couldn’t. I was consumed. How dare Brett assume I cheated on him! It was the thought I clung onto when another text from him came in.

  Pls tell me if ur ok.

  Delete.

  My finger hovered over the block sender option. I stared at it for a hesitant moment. But I couldn’t do it. Instead, I set the phone on the walnut end table and took a mint from the crystal bowl. I popped it into my mouth and let my head fall back against the wingback chair. I tried to calm myself and regain composure. However, within a few seconds, I chomped into the hard candy, grinding the sugar shards into dust.

  “Am I overreacting?” Emmy asked. Her arms were wrapped around a throw pillow, hugging it to her.

  “Am I?”

  “Not really, but you probably didn’t need to install an alarm.”

  “Yeah, maybe that was over the top. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re overreacting. T hasn’t listened to your concerns. We should be at home, and they should be sleeping on the couch.”

  I stopped.

  Just saying the word “couch” brought a slideshow with audio. I knew exactly how Brett moved, how his hands lingered, slowly and temptingly. How his low murmurs vibrated through skin already sensitive from his touch. And I could see it all on the couch with Cinnamon. It wasn’t a far stretch of the imagination since I had already seen her on stage.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Janowski knocked the images away when she pounded a fist on the table. I looked over to see what the fuss was about.

  “We’re spinning our wheels,” she stated. “It’s time we do something.”

  “What do you suggest?” Edna asked.

  “We’ve talked to everyone we can,” Sylvia added.

  Mrs. Janowski straightened. “No more talking. Don your uniforms, ladies. We’re going to war!”

  Emmy glanced nervously at me. “Do I have to go?”

  “Mrs. J, Emmy and I will sit this one out,” I said, not sure exactly what she meant by war, but knowing I didn’t want to find out.

  “Go get your uniform,” she insisted.

  “But Emmy doesn’t have one.”

  “I’ll find her an outfit. You go.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to argue, but a part of me itched to go to “war.” I just hoped she wasn’t being literal.

  Heaving myself out of the chair, I resigned myself to whatever fate had in store. I would not stew in self-pity . . . until I was alone. Then I planned to wallow in it and drown myself in a wine bottle.

  After a quick peek out the front window to make sure no cars were in my driveway, I proceeded to leave the safety of Mrs. Janowski’s house and jogged over to mine. The alarm crew was long gone, having finished a couple of hours before.

  Opening the door, I heard the warning beeps and quickly entered the alarm code, one that Brett would never figure out even with his sneaky cop ways.

  Without the beeping, the house fell silent. Suddenly, it felt lonely. Not even Emily was here to annoy me.

  Briefly, I wondered where she was. But I was too thankful she was out of my hair to give it much thought. I promptly forgot her as I hurried upstairs to retrieve the Fearsome Foursome shirt. My phone rang just as I reached the landing. I glanced at the caller ID, wary it might be Brett, but it was an unknown phone number. Thinking it could be a Hog contractor, I took the risk and answered.

  “This is Detective Spooner with the Madison PD. We got a report that you recovered a necklace from the crime scene. Is this true?”

  “Yes, I found one. It belonged to the prior owner’s daughter.”

  “I’ll need you to bring me the necklace.”

  “But why? It’s just a woman’s necklace.”

  “Bring it to me and I’ll pretend you didn’t steal evidence.”

  “Evidence? But it was outside of the taped perimeter.”

 
“I’m not going to argue with you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

  I didn’t want trouble over a necklace. “Easy way.”

  “Good. Meet me at seven tonight at the corner of Parker and Graves.”

  “Why not at the police department?”

  “I’m in the middle of a case right now and I don’t have time.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll be there.”

  After we hung up, I hurried back over to Mrs. Janowski’s house, putting Detective Spooner on the backburner. I didn’t want trouble from the police, but how could I ask Hank to return the necklace?

  * * *

  “This is war, soldiers!” Mrs. Janowski shouted as she paced in front of us. “Do you see the enemy over there, cowering in the face of our strength?”

  No.

  What I saw was a pack of men in camouflage, armed with paintball rifles. They were not cowering. However, several of us were. Edna’s face shield rattled on her quaking head.

  Mrs. Janowski jabbed her fully automatic assault rifle in the air. “They’ll know the sting of defeat. We’ll know the taste of victory, and it’ll be sweet!”

  “As long as it’ll be as sweet as that man’s backside over there.” Sylvia winked at one of the men.

  The enemy watched Mrs. Janowski with a mix of entertainment and confusion. I doubted many senior groups came here, especially ones that had their battle speech prepared.

  Personally, I was just thankful I had my Fearsome Foursome shirt. Poor Emmy was stuck wearing a dishcloth as a cape. Mrs. Janowski said that since Emmy made us into a group of five instead of four, she could be a sidekick, thereby preserving the original four. Apparently, that meant pinning a dishcloth to her back. With Emmy’s small frame, the red cloth with purple plums made a unique cape.

  “I feel stupid,” Emmy muttered as Mrs. Janowski continued.

  “Nobody knows you,” I said. “We’re at a fake Waterloo with paintball guns. Just pretend the guys over there are T and shoot them so we can go.”

  “No one else is wearing a dishtowel.”

  “The sooner you shoot them, the sooner you can take it off.”

  Emmy looked at her rifle, holding it like a doll. “I can’t shoot anyone.”

  “It’s just paint.”

  “But I don’t know how.”

  “Didn’t T take you to the range?”

  “No, he was afraid the kickback would be too much.”

  I could see his point if it were a real gun. But this was different.

  “We go to war!” Mrs. Janowski cried out.

  “This better not mess up my hair,” Sylvia said. “I just went to the salon yesterday.”

  “Then don’t get hit,” Mrs. Janowski said. “We’ve got a tournament to win!”

  “Tournament?” we all questioned.

  Emmy and Edna lost a shade of color.

  A deep voice over the loud speaker said, “Prepare for battle. Round one.”

  An alarm rang, starting the round.

  “Emmy, stay behind me,” I said.

  She didn’t hesitate, adding a layer of pressure on me. It wasn’t like I knew what I was doing.

  The enemy scattered, taking refuge behind pillars, trees, horse statues, and giant foam rocks formed like Stonehenge. Whoever designed this had obviously never studied their history book.

  I raced over to a stone monolith splattered with an array of paint from prior battles. Emmy stayed with me, clinging to my side. Scanning for possible enemy attacks, I found Mrs. Janowski and Edna just ahead of us.

  Mrs. Janowski gave Edna a signal, but what the signal meant was beyond my comprehension. Edna didn’t seem to understand either. In her confusion, an orange bullet whizzed by, winging her.

  “Fearsome Foursome, one man down,” the announcer said.

  “She’s not down!” Mrs. Janowski yelled. “The bullet barely grazed her.”

  “It counts as a hit,” he replied.

  “What kind of Waterloo is this?” she yelled into the air since she had no idea where the voice originated from. “This is war, not preschool. My soldier can still fight.”

  “The rules are simple,” he said. “If you get paint on you, it means you’re dead.”

  “What sissy made those rules? I contest them!”

  “You can’t,” he stated simply. “It’s tournament rules. Either play by them or forfeit.”

  “Edna, take off your shirt.”

  “What?” she squeaked, clutching her collar.

  “If you take off your shirt then you won’t have paint on you.”

  “Keep your shirt on,” the voice commanded. “It’s against the rules to take off clothes.”

  “Where are these rules?”

  “Online.”

  “That’s senior discrimination!”

  “How?”

  “We don’t have Internet.”

  “You digitally signed the waiver and agreed to terms when you signed up.”

  “I think he got you on that one,” Sylvia said.

  “Damn online waiver,” Mrs. Janowski muttered.

  Edna bustled off to the side where onlookers and the next combatants watched. “I’ll just sit this one out.”

  Mrs. Janowski glared at the opposing team. “Don’t get too comfy over there. I got my eye on you.”

  They took their positions as the announcer resumed the game.

  “Emmy, try your gun to get a feel for it,” I said, watching as Mrs. Janowski unleashed paintballs at the opposing side. They returned fire.

  Emmy squeezed the trigger, shooting in rapid succession.

  “Ack!” Sylvia screamed.

  Oh.

  “Emmy, I didn’t mean shoot Sylvia,” I said, grimacing as Sylvia marched over, covered in purple splatter.

  “You’re supposed to aim for the enemy,” she squawked.

  “Fearsome Foursome. Two men down,” the announcer said.

  “That doesn’t count,” Mrs. Janowski argued. “She was accidentally hit from our own team.”

  “It’s still a hit.”

  “Then we should receive credit for that hit since it was our shooter.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  Mrs. Janowski threw her fist into the air, shaking it.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We can still win this.”

  “Yes, but we’ll need a strategy.” Mrs. Janowski looked up. “I’m calling a time-out.”

  “There are no time-outs,” the voice said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s—”

  “Against the rules,” Mrs. Janowski finished then stuck out her tongue. “That guy better watch it. If I find him, I’ll paintball him.”

  “It’s against the rules to threaten the staff,” the voice said. “You are disqualified for this round.”

  Mrs. Janowski had turned sheepish for all of two seconds before she said, “I wasn’t even talking about you.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I wasn’t!”

  “Yes, you were!”

  Mrs. Janowski stomped her foot. “No, I wasn’t! But I’m about to change my mind.”

  “Either clear the floor or the game will be forfeited.”

  Mrs. Janowski looked to Emmy and me. “It looks like you girls will need to win this battle.” She looked up, searching for the voice. “But I will win the war!”

  “Players, prepare to resume battle.”

  Emmy choked. “I can’t do this.”

  “I can’t either,” I said.

  “What? If you can’t and I can’t, then what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll wing it until we get shot.”

  “I don’t want to get shot!”

  “You did realize that by coming here, you’d end up splattered in paint.”

  “Not really. I just wanted to shoot at a ta
rget to feel better.”

  “Well, you have five targets coming at you now.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Keep your finger on the trigger and aim.” That useless information could have had serious repercussions had she been facing me when she squeezed the trigger, letting paintballs fly. Instead, she hit a wall, tree, stone, ceiling, onlookers, floor, and . . . “Hey, you got one!”

  Emmy stopped, stunned. She stared at her gun with round eyes.

  Before I could congratulate her, the voice overhead boomed, “The girl wearing the dishtowel is disqualified.”

  This time it was me shouting, “Why?”

  “I didn’t ring the bell. The play doesn’t count, and the hit player may remain in the game.”

  It was me against five guys?

  Emmy frowned. “Sorry, Mars.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be right behind you.” There was no possible way I could win. I’d be head-to-toe orange as soon as the round officially started.

  I did not want to be orange.

  Looking to Mrs. Janowski, I asked, “Can I quit?”

  “We don’t quit.”

  “This should be interesting,” the voice commented.

  “Oh, shut up,” Sylvia barked.

  “Techno Bots and Gun Guys, prepare to battle next,” the voice continued.

  Two groups moved to the front of the observation area.

  The bell rang.

  The enemy didn’t wait. They took their chance and ran for the last man standing.

  Me.

  Being chased down by five armed men had me running for the nearest shelter. A paintball whizzed past my ear. Two more splattered near my feet. Thankfully, the enemy didn’t have accurate aim while running. Unfortunately, I was out of hiding spots. The one place I thought would be safe turned out to be nothing more than a stone cave. A death trap in my current situation.

  For a moment, I wished I was Brett or T. At least they’d know what to do. I had no idea. I barely remembered something from my self-defense class. Something about fighting them one-on-one for a better chance. And zigzag. Or was zigzagging bad?

  Well, since I had no option of getting them one-on-one, I began to run back and forth, zigzagging like a kid at an Easter egg hunt.