Out of the Blue: Reed Security: Book Two

by Robin Leaf

  Smirking, I raise my eyebrow. “Fine. I just won’t wear them again if they bother you that much.”

  “You fucking better wear them,” she scoffs, placing her hands on my waist and leaning into me, “but just for me, please.”

  God, I love this. It’s the kind of banter I’ve always wanted.

  “You got it.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “As long as you wear nothing but my t-shirt when I’m wearing them.”

  She pulls away, lowering her head and looking up at me innocently.

  “Deal.”

  “I came in to tell you I just got a text from Noah. Ned Shaughnessy looks like he could be a possibility for your stalker.”

  “Whoa, I so got his name wrong.”

  “It was close enough,” I assure her. “A woman filed a restraining order against him in 2012 for stalker-like behavior. Scotty is investigating the circumstances, and someone is going to talk to him today at the hospital.”

  “Please tell them to be covert, Douglass,” she says, smoothing her pinky over her lips in the mirror. “I don’t want anyone to accuse him if he’s not guilty and possibly ruin our working relationship.” Turning to face me, she adds, “I just don’t think he’s the guy.”

  I smile. She is so optimistic when it comes to people, well, except for that room service girl the other night. But honestly, Ember’s assessment of Brianna that night was pretty dead on. Otherwise, I could say Ember’s optimism is a bit of a flaw, but it’s one I don’t want to change about her.

  “We have about ten minutes before we have to leave. I didn’t think you would want to be late.”

  “My mother has come to expect tardiness from me. So let’s mix it up a bit and be a few minutes early.” She walks into the kitchen and grabs her purse. “C’mon. I need to prep you on the drive there.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Shit. This is the first time ever that a girl is taking me home to meet her parents. The way Ember presents it makes it sound like I’m going into battle.

  We pull in front of what is probably an average upper-middle class home. The way property values are around L.A., this house cost three times what a home of this size is worth in the rest of the country. The pristine white paint with the pale blue trim makes it look old-fashioned, but the lawn is perfectly manicured with bushes that are shaped to precision, making me guess that they probably pay a service to maintain it, which means Ember probably comes from money.

  I try to picture what might be behind the blue door and keep coming up with some fifties sitcom family, complete with a perfectly-coifed, mom in a flowered dress and a pipe-wielding, cardigan-wearing dad. Mine was more like Roseanne’s family, except without the mom or the dad. I just had the Aunt Jackie, or Tara as the case may be, but the attitude was the same. I was loved, I am sure of it, but I was shown love more in sarcasm and off-brand boxed mac and cheese than I was in Sunday brunches.

  I might be out of my league here.

  “I should have changed,” I utter, gripping the steering wheel tight.

  Her small hand finds mine, prying it away from the death grip, and she laces her fingers through mine.

  “You’re perfect, Dugger.”

  Damn, the huskily whispered use of my nickname, one she’s used twice and only when we’ve been intimate, calms me a little.

  “Just remember to avoid politics and to not curse, and everything should be fine.”

  I cast a sideways glance at her. “I don’t know anything about politics.”

  “See?” she says brightly, patting my hand with her free one. “You’re already ahead of the game. So let’s go.”

  She opens her door and pops out of the car. I take a second to breathe in deeply, slowly, steeling myself for whatever may come. I know Ember harbors a bit of bias toward her family. They are most likely not as bad as she thinks they are. But for some reason, I feel that she thinks I’m already at an unfair disadvantage since she’s the one bringing me home.

  We have something in common. She has a bit of an inferiority complex when it comes to her mom. She hasn’t ever stated it out loud, but I know it lurks.

  I follow behind her up the walk to the front door, where she knocks.

  That’s weird, right? Knocking on the door of the house she grew up in? I decide not to question her about it. Instead, I place my hand at the small of her back. She looks up at me and smiles encouragingly. When we hear the door unlocking, she moves away from me, and maybe she didn’t, but it kind of felt like she nudged my hand away from her. The disappointment is fleeting, replaced with abject terror directed at whatever’s behind the door.

  What I did not expect to see was a tall man in blue board shorts and a white t-shirt, wearing those expensive strappy sandals usually worn by people who are into hiking and water sports. He looks like an aging surfer, without all the sun-damaged skin, but he’s still pretty fit for someone who I’d guess would be approaching sixty. Eyes that match Ember’s crinkle at the edges at the sight of her.

  “There’s my Dinky-doo,” he says, throwing his arms around Ember. “I’ve missed you.”

  A muffled, “Hey, Dad,” comes from his chest.

  He looks past her to me, seeing me for the first time. His eyebrows shoot to his forehead in surprise, and he practically throws Ember aside to shove a hand my direction.

  “Martin Zills,” he offers politely, grasping my hand firmly.

  “Daddy,” she pipes up before I can say a word. “This is Douglass. Now, before you go giving him your Maltese Falcon-style interrogation, know he’s just a friend.” She turns to me. “Daddy liked to chase away all the boys who wanted to date me in high school.”

  “None of them were good enough for you, Dink.”

  “And that’s probably true, Blue,” I add. “No one is good enough for you.”

  She looks at me like she did in my bathroom earlier, the look that made me feel like a king, but it’s momentary. She sniffs the air before her line of vision returns to her father.

  “What’d she burn?”

  Martin smiles, draping his arm over her shoulders and walking her into the house.

  “The quiche. She’s in the kitchen trying to scrape off the blackened crust, but I’m afraid there’s no salvaging it.”

  Quiche. Yeah, that’s the kind of dish I expected, but her dad is not the dad I expected. Hmm. Go figure.

  “Why don’t you just buy her a new oven, Dad?”

  “I tried. She won’t have it. She just keeps calling the repair guys, but they don’t even know how to fix this old thing anymore. They just keep doing a patch job.”

  I follow them, allowing their conversation to take on a background-noise quality while I take a look around. It’s kind of what I expected and not at the same time. I imagine the white paneled walls, covered with obviously staged family photos, are painted-over versions of the wood paneling once so popular in houses forty-plus years ago. I’d like to take a minute to study the faces in those photos to see Ember growing up, but that’ll have to come later.

  What I didn’t expect was comfortable-looking, overstuffed faux suede couches, inviting people to sit and recline. They contrast nicely with the accent pieces. Now, her mother certainly likes doilies, but the vintage look rocks with the furniture, which are either modern pieces that seem to be distressed on purpose to look old or actual antiques. It’s hard to determine which.

  What’s not hard to determine is the quite pungent smell of burned egg and cheese wafting from the kitchen.

  When we round the corner, I smile. Now this is more of what I expected. It’s like walking into a seventies time warp, with old, Spanish tile and dark wood cabinets complete with the avocado green appliances. Seriously, how is that side-by-side refrigerator still working? Mabel’s duplex carried the same old-style kitchen, only hers contained those awful gold appliances before I finally convinced her to modernize. The Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman,” one of my aunt’s favorite songs, quietly plays from the corner and really accentuates the trip to the past.


  Her mother is hunched over the counter with her back to us. She is taller than her daughter, but not by much, and not as slender. She looks pleasantly soft. Her greying hair is pulled haphazardly into a clip with pieces falling out.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to eat now,” she says, a bit of humor lacing her words. “Ember, you didn’t think to bring anything, did you?”

  Ember’s shoulders slump. “You told me to do that when you are showing up as a guest in someone’s home, Mother. I didn’t realize I was a guest here.”

  Her mother turns to face us for the first time, and I’m struck by the resemblance on her indignant face. Their eyes aren’t the same color, but their other similarities are uncanny. Yeah, her mother’s face is rounder and her cheeks are fuller, which is expected with age. What’s interesting is that she has no wrinkles. Like absolutely none. I’m guessing that could be because no wrinkle wouldn’t dare mar the face of the woman who seems like the type that wouldn’t let them settle there. It would just be simply unacceptable.

  “It was a joke, Ember. Of course you’re not a guest when you come home. I just wish you did it more often.”

  I look over on the counter and see a bag full of potatoes.

  “If you’ll allow me, I can fix something,” I offer, pointing to the bag.

  Mrs. Zills sees me for the first time, and she shifts on her feet, tilting her head downward slightly. Her eyes look me up and down, and she starts to twist back and forth a little.

  Nodding, answers, “Yeah, sure,” breathily. “Ember,” she says, not taking her eyes off me, “don’t be rude, dear.” She nods toward me. “Who’s your friend?”

  Not waiting for Ember, I stick out my hand toward her mother, whose cheeks turn pink. “I’m Douglass Van Cleef, ma’am, but my friends call me Dugger.”

  “Wow, a boy with manners,” she says, slipping her fingertips into my hand for that girly, old-fashioned southern handshake women used to do way back when, like she is inviting me to kiss it. I almost expect her to curtsy. “I was beginning to think the world was absent of manners.”

  I squeeze her fingers gently and let go. “No, ma’am. I was raised that politeness is essential to keeping me out of trouble.”

  “But trouble sounds so much better,” she says, and I swear she bats her eyelashes.

  “Mo-ther,” Ember draws out, complete with rolling eyes like a little kid annoyed by a parent in public.

  “What?” her mother says, shooting Ember an innocent look. “I’m just getting to know your very handsome friend, Ember Nicole.”

  Ember’s eyes widen comically, and she glances at me before staring at her mom again.

  She returns her attention to me and grabs my forearm. “So, just what do you need to create this dish, Dugger?” She says my nickname all husky, rolling her lips over her teeth as she does.

  “Oh my God, Mom,” Ember shouts sharply. “What is wrong with you?”

  I get a good look and see that Ember’s mother’s eyes are glazed, half-lidded, and a little glassy, almost as if she’s drunk. However, since Ember made it a point to tell me her mom is against all things alcoholic because her parents were killed by a drunk driver when she was in her early twenties, I highly doubt she would have something alcoholic, especially before eleven on a Sunday morning.

  Which can only mean one other option: this woman is high as fuck.

  Twenty Three

  Ember

  Dad chuckles as he grabs Mom around the waist, pulling her gently away from Douglass.

  “That’s quite enough, Lizzy. Ember, show Douglass where everything is.”

  I stand frozen, unsure what the hell is going on.

  “But I’m hungry, Marty. Let me help him. Ember doesn’t know where everything is anymore.”

  “Nope, in the state your in, you’ll probably grope him.” He chuckles, like the thought of my mother putting her hands on what is essentially my boyfriend is funny to him. “I’m saving you from yourself.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’d never –” The doorbell rings, and she stills, eyes wide. “Who’s that?”

  Dad smiles. “It could be Danny or Emory.”

  “Danny?” she screeches. “You invited the police to my brunch?”

  “No, you invited your brother to brunch.”

  “But isn’t he duty bound to arrest people who are…” she trails off, looking quickly at me, smiling nervously.

  Standing taller, she gains a little bit of whatever dignity she has left and brushes her hands down her shirt. “I’ll get it.”

  Dad smiles quickly at me before following her out of the room.

  I turn to Doug, who’s also smiling.

  “What?”

  “Well, I could be wrong, but I think your mother is high.”

  I shake my head so hard, I threaten to give myself shaken-Ember syndrome. “No. No way.”

  “Well, it’s either that, or she’s drunk.”

  I raise my eyebrow at him. “She’d never drink.”

  Then it hits me. Yesterday, when she called, she said something about unconventional pain management. Could that include medical marijuana? And would my mother actually try that shit out?

  I look around the kitchen counters, searching for I don’t know what, when a baggie with red gummies catches my eye. I leap to grab it, inspecting the contents, noticing a little label on the other side.

  Mom enters the kitchen, so I shove the bag in her face.

  “What are these?” I ask, hearing the accusatory tone in my voice.

  “Shhh.” She snatches the bag out of my hands and pushes past me, securing the baggie in the cabinet where she keeps the over the counter medications. “That is none of your business.” She turns to Doug. “What do you need, Dugger? I’m starving.”

  “Yeah, she’s got a killer case of the munchies, Douglass. We mustn’t keep Ganja Mom waiting.”

  She turns her head to me and blink. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  I smile. “So your unconventional treatment is medical marijuana? That’s really not that unconventional, Mom.”

  She nods. “Well, it was either this or that hippy-dippy acupuncture. I’m not letting any guy named Skippy dressed in a singlet poke me with needles.”

  I giggle. “Oh my God, it’s not like that.”

  “Yes, it is. I watched it on one of those reality shows your father is hooked on with the crazy wives. I swear those shows are like watching a train wreck. I sat through one and hated it, but I watched the next week because I had to know what happened with LaDonna and that cheating butthead.”

  Douglass choke laughs.

  “Anyway, I didn’t feel comfortable going to one of the places that sells it. They seem a little… sketchy, so your father asked one of his clients to get us some.”

  “Mom, you know he’s probably a dealer.”

  “No,” she scoffs. “There’s no way your father would do business with a dealer, Ember dear. This guy owns a legit chain of dispensaries that sells the primo med-grade shit, at least that’s what your father told me.”

  We’ll stick a pin in the fact that my mother just said shit in normal conversation. I mean she is high and all. There’s so much more to be disturbed by in the rest of the sentence she just said other than that one little word. While I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that my mother uttered the phrase “primo med-grade shit,” she and Douglass are moving about the kitchen, peeling and grating potatoes together.

  “So what’s this dish called again?”

  “Kartupelu Pankukas. My friend’s mom taught me how to make it in high school.”

  “And you said it’s Latvian? I’ve never had Latvian food before, but I do love to go ethnic every once in a while.”

  Wow, now they’re all chummy. It’s hella weird. But at least she’s not flirting with him anymore. Jeez, that’s a good way to kill an appetite, watching my high mother throw herself at my potential boyfriend.

  “So tell me, Dugger, are you sleep
ing with my daughter?”

  “Mom!”

  “Yes, ma’am –”

  “Douglass!”

  “—but only in the sense that we are actually sleeping. We haven’t had sex.” He shoots a glance at me. “Yet.”

  “Oh, God.”

  I’ve lost control. I mean is everyone high? Can you get a contact high from an edible? What the fuck?

  “So are you gay like the last one?”

  He chuckles. “No, ma’am. I’m not gay.” He leans closer to her. “In fact, I’d like very much to date your daughter.”

  “I would think that if you’re sleeping together, you would have already been out on at least a few dates, but, alas, your generation is different than mine, so I don’t judge.”

  Uh, yeah you do, more than Judge Judy.

  “Have you even asked her out on a date yet?” she asks, like she’s talking to one of her girlfriends on the phone. “Because I bet she’d say yes.”

  “I have not,” Doug answers, casually continuing his peeling. “Because I, unlike you, am afraid she’ll turn me down.”

  “God, if she does, that’d be dumber than falling in love with a gay man. You know,” she says, pointing her half-peeled potato at Doug, “we all knew it when we met him. I didn’t want to tell her what I suspected though. It’s just not right to assume things about a person without proof.” She returns to peeling. “But besides the big gay neon sign he might as well have been wearing, he was never right for her. But telling her that just made her more determined to ignore us and forge through with the mistake.”

  “God, Mom, you know I’m still in the room, right?”

  She ignores me and wipes her nose on her sleeve, which is so not like my mother. Douglass continues to concentrate on grating the potatoes. His smirky smile gives him away though.

  “I’m honestly surprised they lasted as long as they did,” she continues like I’m not even here. “I may be against divorce, but there’s two acceptable reasons to divorce, it's because your spouse abuses you, which thankfully, she never experienced, or if he is unfaithful. Unfortunately, that she did get to experience, live and in living color.” She looks at me and smiles. “I’m just happy that she got out.”