Tag Archives: chapter eleven

Blogging My Murder; chapter eleven

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Chapter Eleven

“Megan, can we talk?” It’s Sara, and her eyes are red. She’s wearing a fuzzy pink sweater that doesn’t fit her very well over a pair of tight black pants that show off her thick thighs.

“No, Sara, we cannot.” I keep my eyes on the monitor, finishing up the paperwork on a previous successful call.

“Please. I have something to tell you. It’s important.” Sara looks at me beseechingly, and I can’t say no to her, damn it.

“OK. I can give you ten minutes during my break. Half an hour from now.” My tone is terse because I hate being manipulated into doing something I don’t want to do. I push it to the back of my mind while I continue my work. As much as I hate this work, I’m good at it, and I want to be as professional as possible. I go to the break room when it’s time, and there’s Sara with her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. I sit down across from her and lean back. I’m sure she can sense I don’t want to be there, but I don’t care. I’m already kicking myself for agreeing to talk to her, and I wait impatiently to hear what she has to say.

“Have you ever loved someone so much you’d do anything for them?” Sara asks, her voice small. Oh god. I don’t want to be her Mother Confessor, and I don’t care about her tawdry personal problems.

“Grow up, Sara,” I say wearily. “You’re not a child any longer. That isn’t love—it’s codependency.” I stand up, suddenly tired of this conversation.

“I did something really bad!” Sara blurts out. “The person I love doesn’t even know I’m alive, so I did something to make them notice me.”

“I’m sorry you’re having such difficulties, but this is work. You need to get it together and keep this to yourself.” I stride out of the breakroom, furious at myself for falling for her bullshit again. I stop at the bathroom to avail myself of the facility and to splash water onto my face. I need to get my temper in check before I go back to work. Nobody will buy anything from an agitated, snappish bitch, so I take several minutes to get myself under control. Once I feel as if I’m OK, I walk back to the work room and slide into my seat. Sara is at her desk, and it’s clear she’s been sobbing hard. I really hope Cara fires her so I can have her out of my hair and life.

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Dogged Ma; chapter eleven

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Chapter Eleven

“Delivery for Margaret Wang.”  This was getting to be a regular occurrence.  I had just gotten home from work Monday night and had been about to check my messages when my buzzer rang.

“I’ll be right down.”  I hurried downstairs and peeked at a delivery guy who was holding yet another bouquet of flowers.  “Hold on a minute,” I said as he thrust the flowers at me.  “Will you please read the card to me?”  The delivery man gave me a strange look, but obliged my odd request.

“It says, ‘Margaret, I had a good time Friday night.  Here’s a token of my appreciation for the best night I’ve had in a some time.  Cheers, Ted.’  Look, do you want them or not?  It makes no difference to me.”

“I’ll take them,” I said, smiling at the man.  He thrust them into my outstretched hands before beating a hasty retreat.  I took the fragrant bluebells up to my apartment where I found a nice vase for them.  Not the Lucifer one, of course, as that was in the dumpster across the way.  I set the bluebells on the coffee table in my living room next to Alan’s orchids, and I felt so pampered.  I’d never had one guy send me flowers, let alone three.  Well, OK, two guys and the devil.  But still!  Three bouquets in two days.  Not bad.

Taking a deep breath, I checked my messages.  As I feared, my mother had called numerous times leaving me increasingly acerbic messages.  She couldn’t get over my deceit as she called it in not telling her that Ned was gay.  Considering how she reacted, I didn’t think it was so astonishing that I hadn’t wanted to tell her a thing.  Besides, she was the one who’d hung up on me, not the other way around.  I was tempted to erase her messages and pretend I’d never received them.  I knew, however, that the longer I ignored her, the worse it would get.  After three successive messages from her, there was one from Wind who didn’t sound at all like her usual self.  She wanted to know what happened after she left my apartment, if Lucifer had returned.  I vowed not to talk about the Morningstar with Wind until she got over her unseemly crush.  I knew she would be embarrassed by it once she came to her senses.  In the middle of my rumination, my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”  I answered absentmindedly, still thinking about Wind.

“Girl, we so have to talk!”  It was Ned, of course.  I hadn’t talked to him since he did the town with Ted.  “I have so much to tell you about my evening with your paramour.  Can you come over here to dish?”

“Why don’t you come here?”  I asked, pacing back and forth.  I preferred Ned and Wind coming to my place so I didn’t have to come home late at night.  Neither of them minded as they both liked to drive, and as I mentioned, neither had to get up before the crack of dawn.  Usually.

“I’ll be over in two shakes.  Oooh, I’ll bring some sushi.  That should be right up your alley.”  Before I could verbally smack him, he was off and running.  I took the plunge and called my mother.  At least Ned and sushi would console me after she put me through the wringer.

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Trip on This: Chapter Eleven

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 Chapter Eleven

Trip sits in her car, decked out in black.  She has come home after a long journey, her clothes signifying a return to self.  The minute she strips out of the ridiculous clothes she’s been wearing all week and slips into her black jeans, black t-shirt with long sleeves, black windbreaker, black gloves and other accoutrement, she feels alive in a way she hasn’t since the first murder occurred.  Her hair is slicked down, and she is wearing no makeup.  If she only had enough hair to pull back in a ponytail, she would be completely herself again.  As it is, she’s feeling good as she sits in the car smoking a cigarette.  She has a notebook on the seat besides her, neatly listing her points of interest.  She is on the case, even if her client is herself and she doesn’t know what she’s repossessing.  If she is to be honest, the uncertainly adds an element of spice to the job that has been missing from her last coups.  Even though the ‘Freezin’ Seamen’ case held her interest because of the sheer oddness of the contents of what she was asked to repossess, the job itself had been fairly straightforward.

Trip continues to smoke, wondering what became of Gina Lattimore, the woman who had stolen the guy’s cum and stored it in her freezer.  Trip shrugs as she dismisses the question from her mind; none of her business any more.  She has more important matters at hand which require her complete concentration.  Though every nerve in Trip’s body is screaming for her to do something, she forces herself to sit in the car and wait.  This is recon to see if there are any cops patrolling the area.  After a half hour, Trip comes to the conclusion that any patrol is sporadic enough not to be a bother.  She slips out of the car and locks it before approaching the apartment building.  As she does, she flashes back to the last time she was here, then pushes that out of her mind as well.  There’s nothing to gain by freaking herself out with memories of Angelica’s dead body.  This time, Trip is not going to be greeted by a dead body sprawled on the kitchen floor.  At least, she sincerely hopes not.

She steels her nerves and reaches for the door.  Earlier in the day, she had come to the building purporting Sto visit a friend, and despite all the shit that has happened in the building, some knob let her in.  It probably didn’t hurt that she used a high, breathy voice much like Marilyn Monroe’s without a trace of an accent.  To further help her cause, she had worn short shorts and a tight top as well as a blond wig.  She hadn’t needed the get-up as her voice was enough to get her through the door, but it never hurt to be prepared.  She had jimmied the door not to latch, and it is still that way hours later.  She looks at her watch and sees that it’s nearly one in the morning.  Time to get this show on the road.

She glances at the mailboxes to confirm Blanche’s apartment number before trotting up the stairs.  There is not much activity, but Trip still treads stealthily.  She reaches Blanche’s floor and cautiously looks around.  There is no guard or tape blocking the door, so she assumes that the cops are finished.  Even if they aren’t, it wouldn’t matter to her.  She pulls out her handy-dandy set of lock picks from her bag and is in the door in record time.  Adrenaline surges through her veins as she slips into the apartment.  She still has the juice, baby, and it feels good to get back on the horse again after being thrown off it.  She closes the door and locks it behind her.  As an afterthought, she slides a chair under the door handle—just a little protection to alert her if someone else gets the same idea.  She takes another deep breath before turning on the lights with a gloved hand.

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