Until Merri: Happily Ever Alpha World

by Suzanne Halliday

  “Um, sure. You can tell me what’s up with Bradley Patterson. Starting with the rumor that he’s secretly an FBI agent.”

  Man, he was going to kick Brad’s ass. In what universe was it reasonable to hide a secret with juicy lie bait of equal interest? His business partner read minds. Not literally, but damn close. His unique skillset kept him tethered to the intelligence community—whether he liked it or not. The government was funny about some of their assets. People like Tom, they cut loose with no problem. Done with the Army? Bye!

  But Brad was a keeper. A minute after he was officially discharged, the goblin squads from every well-known—plus a few ultra-secret—agencies came calling. Luckily, his buddy wasn’t a total fuck-shit and was ready for them. For an astronomical sum, access to off-market technology, and the written backup guarantee that he was only a consultant, he signed on as a part-time agent for a bunch of off-radar folks with serious cojones.

  The FBI agent bullshit was the result of too much Jack Daniels and a weekend in Reno that included a questionable evening spent with two ladies.

  In this case, what happened in Reno did not stay in Reno. The drunken boast grabbed a seat on the gossip train because that was how this shit went.

  Merri catapulted over the sofa. She insisted it took too much time to walk around it. Marching into the kitchen, she remarked, “Might as well open the wine and start pouring.”

  He watched her ass sway as she walked. There was a reason he called her sweet cheeks. With a sigh sounding a lot like frustration, he pulled it together and got busy with the wine.

  “Okay, you got this,” Merri murmured to herself. “It’s just dinner. We’ve done just dinner a million times.”

  She winced. Even when she was at maximum denial, it was never about just dinner for her. Not since the summer she was eleven.

  Two thousand and one started off great, and by the summer, things at the Merriweather home on Shepherd Avenue were hopping. Her older sister Agie, Agatha if you wanted to be formal, was one of the popular girls. She and her friends were typical excitable teens waiting for their shot to rule the school as seniors.

  Agie’s best friend since grade school was a snotty bitch named Laurel Sharpe, and Tom joined the social crew as Laurel’s boyfriend.

  Since the Merriweather home had a pool, Agie and her friends spent a lot of time hanging out in the backyard. In her role as the annoying little sister, Merri plus her partner in crime, Cyndi Latour, did nothing but giggle over the boys. For Merri, it was one boy in particular. Thomas Stephen Franklin.

  Tom wasn’t just cute; he was nice too. When Agie was a bitch about taking Merri and Cyndi to the movies—after promising their parents she’d be the summer taxi if they let her drive the Camry—Tom not only gave them a ride, but he also bought their tickets and sat through Spy Kids without complaining.

  Right around the same time, she began practicing her handwriting by scribbling Mrs. Franklin or Tom and Merri Franklin. Sometimes, she’d draw red hearts and love birds circling their names. Other times, she experimented with block letters and calligraphy.

  Sitting down with Tom for a meal in her home went way beyond just dinner a long time ago.

  She might be a shit housekeeper, but one thing she had command of was the kitchen. Grandma Merriweather had a zero-tolerance policy with the grandkids. Merri, her sister Agie, and all of their cousins grew up pitching in, and by pitching in, she didn’t mean just setting the table. Watching Food TV and worshipping at the feet of the entertaining queen, Martha Stewart, was written into the Merriweather DNA.

  Merri eyed the shiny Instant Pot on the counter. The clever gadget was capable of turning out great food, but Tom was right. It minimized the wonderful aromas coming out of a kitchen.

  “We need new wine glasses,” Tom called out from the living room. “These little ones look nice and all, but they hold less than a few gulps.”

  “Beer is for gulping. Wine is for sipping,” she yelled.

  He turned up in the kitchen a minute later with an open bottle of wine tucked under one arm and two half-filled glasses. His eyes flickered with amusement. “My mom has a box of wine sippy cups. Maybe I should take a few.”

  Adjusting the flame beneath a pot of water, she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and gave him a doubting look. “Why would Grace have a supply of wine sippys? Oh, wait,” Merri drawled when she answered her question. “It’s because of the vinyl machine your dad gave her, isn’t it?”

  Chuckling, Tom nodded and rolled his eyes. “She’s a vinyl demon. You should check out her Instagram. She posts project pictures. I think the sippy cups were for her bowling league. In any case, she has a ton of ’em.”

  He handed off a glass of wine and placed the bottle on the door in her fridge next to a gigantic jar of banana pepper rings. She choked on the damn things, but Tom put them on every sandwich except peanut butter. He even liked them chopped up and added to a grilled cheese. It was a semi-disgusting preference he’d picked up when he was doing war zone shit. He told her once that some guys put ketchup on everything. Others went for hot sauce, and some went the maple syrup route. He chose savory as his go-to—hence, the tangy banana peppers. Whatever. He was entitled to his weirdness just like she was.

  “Set the table,” she told him. “And this time, use the cloth napkins in the drawer.”

  “Why can’t we work through the supply of fast food napkins you hang onto like a squirrel gathering nuts?”

  “Because, Mr. Has An Opinion On Everything, I use them for icky messes. Not for everyday. Think of the enviro …”

  “Environment,” Tom quipped in unison with her. “Yeah, I got the memo.”

  Smiling at his faux grumpiness, she held her glass up. “To kids and how they see the world,” she jested.

  He responded in a cool tone. “I guess you have to deal with both ends of the spectrum.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. What did he mean? She didn’t have to wait but a few seconds for him to elaborate.

  “You’ve got the Maplewood students and their responsible citizen habits along with old fuckheads like me who see the world for what it is.”

  She sighed. The military screwed with Tom’s head and exposed him to things she could barely imagine. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t the Army’s fault he dabbled in dark thoughts and occasional bouts of melancholy. 9/11 did that. Their summer of fun ended when Tom went off to be a high school senior, and she had her first taste of middle school. The future seemed awesome. She was going to try out for the cheerleading squad, and he was going to pitch on the school’s varsity ball team.

  Tom Franklin also had plans. All of Agie’s friends that fateful summer were all about the plans. Plans for college, plans for travel, plans for going after their hopes and dreams. Tom was looking forward to applying at Georgia Tech. He wanted to pursue a computer science degree.

  And then a week into the fall term, the whole world changed, and things like college took a back seat. After September 11th, the only thing that seemed to matter was patriotism.

  A shiver of memory crawled along her spine. In the blink of an eye, the country was at war. Her twelfth birthday was on a Monday in December—the same day a beloved teacher who was in the National Guard left to fulfill his military commitment. There was a school assembly dressed up in red, white, and blue and lots of flag-waving.

  This particular memory came back to her over the years because it was so entwined with what happened to Tom. Filled with eighteen-year-old fervor, he started talking about joining the fight against the forces determined to destroy America. The pumped-up rhetoric of the time was shared by many of his friends. Showing the terrorists we weren’t amused by their shit was a constant conversation topic.

  Part of her hoped he’d change his mind—the idea of Tom in a war wasn’t something her preteen heart and mind could handle—but in the end, it wasn’t about what Tom wanted. He was a major tech nerd—thanks to his dad—and had earned an amateur radio license while barely a teen. His
name was on an Army recruiter’s list, and from there, well, there wasn’t much discussion after that.

  “You are not a fuckhead although you are old,” she jested in an attempt to detour around his glum vibe. “And if we didn’t have enthusiastic kids shaking things up, things would really suck.”

  “To environmental responsibility,” Tom quipped with his glass held high. “And cloth napkins.”

  The pot of water started bubbling. She took a hefty swallow of wine, put the glass on the counter, and hurried to the stove.

  Tom’s phone rang. He growled at it. Merri didn’t need to turn around to know he was scowling at the thing. They were quite a pair when it came to cell phones. She never knew where hers was, and he hated being tethered to his.

  “Oh,” he muttered. “It’s my dad. I have to take this.”

  “Tell Henry I said hi,” she said as he strolled past her and out the kitchen door to her mini backyard.

  She watched him from the window while tearing around the kitchen. He was laughing, so at least the call wasn’t something serious. By the time he came back, there was a vintage soup tureen she swiped from her mom’s kitchen filled with the homemade chicken soup on the table. A bowl of noodles sprinkled with croutons sat next to it. Bread cubes pan seared with brown butter were a Merriweather family classic. There was something about way too much butter, slippery noodles, and nuggets of buttery delight. A comfort food topper at its best.

  He helped at the last second by pulling the pan of warming biscuits from the oven. As usual, he sniffed the biscuits and gave her a smile. Guys and biscuits were a real thing. She and Cyndi remained convinced that a man would eat a plate of baby vomit if it came with a basket of warm rolls.

  Their meal behavior was the kind of stuff that guaranteed banishment to the bad kids’ table. Reaching across and over each other, they left their restaurant manners at the door. In a way, it reminded her of eating in the school cafeteria. Arms swung in every direction, food was snatched off plates, and bargains entered into over the fate of the last roll.

  “So,” she said with dry emphasis. Blowing on a spoonful of soup, she dropped it in her mouth, chewed, wiped her mouth, and fixed her dinner companion with a look. “About the FBI. You’re not messing with the Feds, are you?”

  Tom chortled and nearly choked on a noddle. “It’s the other way around,” he drawled with a good deal of snark. “The Feds mess with us.”

  “I’m referring to your business partner. Tell me the truth. Is Brad undercover?”

  He guffawed and had to put his spoon down. Reaching for a napkin to wipe his mouth, Tom looked at her with an incredulous expression.

  Uh-huh. She wasn’t stupid.

  “Sweetie, I fucking swear, the FBI isn’t Brad’s deal.”

  “Seriously,” she muttered. “Really? My dad is an insurance investigator, and if there’s one thing he taught Agie and me, it was how to deflect. If the Bureau isn’t Bradley’s deal, then who or what is? Don’t bother with the skirt sunshine. I’ve had enough blown up mine to last a lifetime.”

  “Don’t worry. Whatever movie is playing in your head, I assure you it’s not that. Brad has special talents. Talents the intelligence agencies vie for.” He shrugged although in no way was this explanation in the no big deal category.

  She went fishing because a lot of nuance and information could be picked up with very little bait.

  “I watched a movie the other night. Wild story with international intrigue. British MI6, the CIA. You know—the usual good guys chasing bad guys.”

  He watched her and listened while continuing to work through a ginormous bowl of soup.

  “In one scene, there was a big room full of agents on computers. It was freaky because the way it came off was that with technology, an agent in West Virginia can eavesdrop on what some dude is eating in an outdoor café in Vienna and share it in real time with a counterpart in another country’s intelligence service. That kind of stuff falls under communications, right?”

  His eyes drifted away. Bingo. She stifled a sigh. Just as she had suspected, his and Bradley’s business venture, Enigma Communications, was on the government’s radar.

  “Phones to drones,” he muttered. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

  “What?”

  “Aaand,” she jested, “just like that, I changed my mind.”

  Luckily, he snorted a laugh and smiled. “What the fuck would I do without you?”

  “Watch bad cop movies, eat far too many barbecued ribs, never change your underwear, and maybe probably date that chick at Tommy’s. The one behind the bar who giggles when you sit down.”

  “Does not,” he retorted.

  “She does too.”

  A noodle lodged in her throat when he held her eyes with his, and boldly asked, “Would it bother you if I dated?”

  Would it bother her? Holy Hannah. Bother wasn’t the right word. Enrage, piss off, and destroy were what came to mind.

  “Hold up, mister. I’ve told you—if you need a date, ask me.” She said the words with assurance.

  She groaned when he took out his wallet and fished around till he withdrew a scrap of paper with her handwriting. “Yeah.” He laughed. “I think I have that in writing.”

  Way, way back in February, right around his birthday, she begged, pleaded, and cajoled until he gave in and signed on to be her plus one for Maplewood’s annual charity dinner. There was never any doubt of him being there for her, but for some ridiculous reason, she turned the request into a quid pro quo, complete with a hastily scribbled promise to reciprocate joyfully should he ever call in the favor.

  QPQ was scrawled on the paper along with her rock star autograph. He carried it in his wallet? She grinned because she couldn’t help it.

  Thinking the reminder was all he had, Merri took a last bite of a buttery biscuit and had to reach for her wine glass when he surprised her with his next comment.

  “Did you mean it, sweet cheeks? Do I have clearance to call in a dating quid pro quo?”

  Cabernet was the wrong choice for a throat cleanser, but she took several mouthfuls anyway. Just enough to trigger a wine buzz.

  He wanted a dating quid pro quo? What the hell did that mean?

  A scuffle broke out in her head. Her practical side tried to brush off the request as harmless and of no consequence. At the same time, her inner wild child started salivating over the word dating.

  She needed to use one of her lifelines but now didn’t seem like the right moment to call a friend for advice. Besides, Cyndi would just tell her to fuck the guy and get it over with. Her BFF wasn’t a fan of subtlety.

  “What do you need?” she asked with the slightest edge of suspicion in her voice.

  Why suspicion? Because let’s be honest—Tom knew damn well she’d help him out in any situation, so him pulling the scrap of paper out of his wallet suggested she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

  “Oh god,” she groaned when a glimmer of amusement twinkled in his eyes. “Oh, please, no,” she wailed when a possible reason for the tactic sprang to life in her mind.

  “Hey, be nice. Those guys love you.”

  With the dramatic flair of a cartoon character, she slithered off her chair and sprawled on the kitchen floor. Toddler-like foot kicking and arms-spread-wide snarling ensued.

  Tom barked with laughter at her antics. He offered a hand to help her off the floor. She dropped back into her seat with a grumpy, “Harrumph,” and mumbled, “Fuck.”

  There were a handful of things in life she’d rather avoid. Near the top of this list was the amateur radio club Tom and his dad belonged to. HAM radio operators were a special brand of nerd. Nerds who took exception to being lumped in with CB radio enthusiasts.

  “Now, come on.” Tom chuckled. “It won’t be that bad.”

  “What won’t be?” she snapped. “What am I signing on for?”

  “Well, you see, there’s a banquet comin
g up and …”

  She dropped her head to the table and smacked her forehead a few times. A banquet? Shit, shit, shit.

  “I wouldn’t go at all, but my dad is being recognized for the coordination he managed last year with the Red Cross when the flooding happened. Disaster assistance is a major part of being a radio operator.”

  Oh, wait. This had something to do with Henry Franklin? Well, she-it. That changed everything. Her head snapped up.

  “Henry is getting an award?”

  “Yep, and it’s a big deal too. My whole family will turn up. Even my cousins if a free meal is involved.”

  “Oh my god, seriously? Are you trying to kill me? Janet will be there, won’t she? Aw, come on, Tom. Goddammit!”

  What did he do as she ranted and raved? Sat there and smiled. The dick. He knew she’d never walk away from a big deal involving his folks. But Janet was a deal breaker—under normal circumstances.

  “It’s not my fault she wants to lure you to the other side.” He sniggered with way too much merriment.

  “Yeah, well, after my Shumpler disaster, I have to draw the line somewhere, and that line doesn’t include exploring lesbian sexy times. No offense to your cousin, but I’m a committed dick lover.”

  Tom scowled at the mention of her former fiancé. “It’s a miracle Bill Shumpler didn’t turn you off men. The smarmy fucker needed an ass kicking for what he did.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Merri thought she owned the last laugh when she terminated their engagement in a very public way, but unfortunately, there remained the matter of the lemon disguised as a car that Bill sold her just weeks before they broke up. She’d agreed to buy the damn thing so he’d make salesman of the year even though a car payment was the last thing she needed. Then right on schedule, the piece of shit broke down one week to the day after the nasty end of their relationship. In the almost three years since, she’d spent more on bullshit repairs than she did on vacation.

  Feeling peevish and annoyed, she sniffed. “Okay, enough. Whatever, Tom. Cut me some slack and spell out what you want and what I can expect.”