Page 20 of The B!tch is Bad

We relished that a few more moments, chuckling, then I asked the logical question. “What brings you here?”

“Well, I did happen to go to Wine on Main this morning—”

“Oh, God. I’m sorry I didn’t go with you.”

“—and I couldn’t find some of my ’08 Pinot. I even went looking in your Bay 15—”

“How’d you get in?”

“The manager Grace opened the door for me. And of course I didn’t find it there either. I thought maybe Oliver stashed it in there before Creed hired you to organize all that.”

Now I felt worse than ever about not taking a trip to Wine on Main. Sean and I should’ve gone together, so we could witness the discrepancies for each other. “Oh. Of course, that’s fine. Grace is the manager? I guess I talked to her once.” I should’ve talked to her more often than that. I should’ve met her in person.

I knew Sean would blame me for not taking better inventory, and I forced myself to keep my jaw shut. I had a way of blurting hideous things during uncomfortable silences. Some of my disorders made my thinking crooked. As a kid I’d called my teacher “mom” during a studious silence. Another time waiting for a photographer to focus, I’d cried, “Bugs are dirty—they live on the ground!” But we live on the ground.

“Are banks open on bank holidays?” was one I recall babbling.

And “How many quarters are in a football game?”

Sean said, “I’m starting to wonder if Oliver is up to something, not sure what. He owes me like 500K for this failed brewery thing we went in on last year. Keeps making excuses for not giving it back. His latest one is that you took over his job and he makes less money now.”

I frowned. “No he doesn’t. Why would Creed pay him less? I do the payroll, so I know. Well, he did kick him out of this cottage and into a smaller one farther out in the field.”

Sean sliced the table with the edge of his hand. “What was weird, in front of where the ’08 should’ve been there was like a barrier of wine cases stacked up. Like whoever didn’t want me to notice it was gone.”

I cleared my throat. “Well. I have to say. He has a lot of side gigs too. He’s always talking about his wine cellars in Cottonwood, how he stores other people’s wines there. He’s constantly driving up there to check on it, and sometimes it pisses Creed off if he needs his help.”

“Right. Wine on Main has cameras, of course, but nothing directed at Bay 15.”

“We should ask them to set them up. You know, Sean, you’re a real active guy.” I knew flattery would get me everywhere.

Sean leaned forward on his elbow, waiting for the punch line. “Yes?”

“You’re always slacklining or wind surfing.”

“Arrow tag,” he informed me. “That’s the new thing.”

“I was thinking about shooting guns.”

Sean lifted his eyebrows. “Guns? Like, at the rifle range?”

“Exactly. For personal protection. I’ve heard a couple of these Bare Boners are experts—”

He slapped the table. “Exactly! They have a bow range in town, but guns would be so much more protective.”

I’d been wanting to get someone on board with me for awhile. Shooting was just something I was interested in. Riddled with paranoia as I was that my husband had sent someone after me, it was just wise, especially nowadays, to pack a gun. I’d seen many Bare Boners looking frightening and macho manning hip holsters, or those even cooler ones around the shoulder. They had inventive ways of hiding pieces down their jeans, but I wouldn’t go that far. I already hid cash in my panties. “Which Bare Boner would you say would be the best teacher?”

“Well, actually, Santiago Slayer would be—”

We both jumped in our chairs and gasped when a sudden rap came at the front door. My brain had been more of an assmuncher than usual, so I took the cape buffalo by the horns and strode for the door. “Who’s there?” I demanded.

“Lytton!” he shouted. “Are you busy?”

My heart melted from its steely enclosure. Lytton was Creed’s silent partner, so he came around a lot. I’d known him as the main supplier of weed when I worked at Smoky Mountain High, a blunt guy who always laid it on the line. I swung the door wide. “What’s up?”

He strode inside, caramel and buff under his “cut,” their club vest emblazoned with patches. Each one had symbolic meaning, or perhaps blatant meaning in the case of the patch that declared, “DILLIGAF.” Does it look like I give a fuck?

He raised a hand in greeting to us. “Hey, Patience, Wildstar. I’m looking for that cockbite Oliver Klozov.”