He gave me his signature shit-eating grin and his brown hair slunked over his brow when he hoisted himself up onto the metal table behind me. “I take it the hot date was about as sad as Mrs. Herschel’s funeral?”
I made myself busy, turning my back on him and shrugging again. “Eh…I’ve had worse. He split the check, at least.”
“Seriously?”
“Splitonit. Went to the bathroom. Never came back to the table. Left me with a ninety-dollar tab.” I heard him sigh over my shoulder and it made me cringe. “I don’t need your pity, Greg. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
“You need to get off the dating apps.”
Call it a coping mechanism, but when I feel cornered…I almost always resort to dark humor. It’s like I can’t help myself. I’m not wired the way normal people are. Again…probably another reason I’ll die an old cat lady and not have the luxury of anyone givingmethe full spa treatment before my big sleep. They’ll have to pick through whatever’s left of the kitty buffet two months after I’m well and truly rotten.
“Maybe I should start going for older men. Mr. Layton could have seriously made a lady happy. I can’t believe he wasn’t married.” I stepped to the side so Greg could see anotherstiffpart of the good professor’s body perking up the white sheet. It happens sometimes. I usually don’t make it weird as I’m pretty much the only one that has to see them without clothes, but…I saw my opportunity and my brother is way too easy.
There was an audible gag, and I heard Greg scooch off of the table. “I’m gonna barf. This is why I stick to schedules and casket orders.”
“Still wanna go to lunch?”
“You did that on purpose.”
I totally did. I don’t wanna follow up my sad date bullshit with Greg filling the entire hour at the cafe with his list of single dad friends. I don’t fit in with that crowd.
I don’t fit in withanycrowd.
“Just bring me back a sandwich. Miss Desiree has chicken salad on Tuesdays. And get one of those oatmeal mud pie things.”
He huffed and pressed a kiss to my cheek before turning to make haste up the stairs. I made him uncomfortable. Scoreone for me.Har-har. “Just so you know…there’s not a damn thing wrong with who you are. That’s not pity, Sev. That’s the truth. And somebody out there will be lucky to have you one of these days. You just gotta keep puttin’ yourself out there.”
I gnawed on my lower lip, realizing all too late that the only one more uncomfortable than the guy with formaldehyde pumping through his body…was me. “Putyourselfup those stairs and in the car to get my sandwich, wretch.”
“On it, Satan.” I heard him snort and it echoed up the little staircase up to the door before it clicked shut and I was left by myself. About time, too…I saw the inside of my bag light up with the burner phone and Greg will never know that it was my real reason for not going to ravage Desiree’s vat of chickeny goodness.
I’ve got a cleanup.
Maybe this was the A+ Mr. Layton meant to give me years ago, and this is my reward for praising his cold dead chub. There’s even a ten grand bonus for the short notice.
Eat that, Mr. Shortnecksplitcheckneedledickbigbackfuckstick.
I’ll definitely be treating myself to some ink therapy this weekend. Who needs a date when I have me, myself and Death? He’s the only one that truly gets me, anyway. This is turning out to be a swell week.
Now if my precious big brother would just hurry up with that sandwich.
Well…Ithoughtit was turning out to be a swell week.
I waited until after dark to borrow the old 80’s era hearse that doesn’t get used anymore. I don’t drive my personal vehicleto jobs, and what better way to transport bodies wrapped in dollar store shower curtains and cellophane than a shag wagon especially made for this kind of transport? But…I forgot to fill it back up the last time I used it, had to stop for gas, nearly broke my foot on the uneven pavement at the dodgy station on 166 and halfway to my destination, I realized I was wearing the wrong damn shoes.
No good deed, I suppose.
It took me forever to get to Belfast, and I realized pretty quickly that the clients I’m handling tonight were apparently staying true to their nature, because this extremely swanky, gated manor I just pulled up at…looksawfullyIrish. I make it a point not to speak on these jobs, and if I’m left with no choice, I go for short responses and lower my tone to make sure my voice isn’t easily recognized anywhere else. My rules are…black jumpsuit gets put on before I walk through the door, shoes covered in cable-guy sockies, hair gets wrapped and pulled back in a black head scarf, no makeup, latex gloves and most importantly…no fucking eye contact. I’m hired for one thing. I don’t need a reason for anybody to consider me a liability and make me the next body someone else has to clean up. Get in, get high on ammonia, load up, move out. Quick and dirty.
I was specifically told to park at the west wing of the house and shut my car off and have my hands fully visible on the steering wheel until somebody comes out to allow me inside. All my gear has to be checked and approved before it’s brought in. Everything was detailed and…honestly a little intimidating…and texted to me a couple hours ago. It’s fine. I should expect some clients to be a little less sloppy every once in a while. If anything, it’s refreshing, because I’m anythingbutsloppy.
I didn’t wait too long. Barely two minutes. I counted.
A pretty lean dude, clad in nothing but black, helped himself without any warning to my driver’s side door andopened it. I kept my eyes low when he turned himself to the side in a gesture that I assumed meant I needed to get my ass outta the car. Two others went around to the back of the hearse, opened the hatch and started going through all my shit while Mr. Nightshade lifted my arms to the side and started patting me down without a word.
No drinks first? Geez.
“She’s clean. I’m takin’ her in. Hurry up.”
