Deconstructed(35)

Truer words never spoken.

And I may have said them with a little bit of bitchiness and a whole lot of confidence that I normally didn’t have but could fake pretty effectively.

“So you want to get out of here?” Ty asked, pulling on his traditional aw-shucks attitude. He reached over and took the hand I had resting on the bar and gave it a squeeze. An apology, no doubt. It sort of worked. He was a nice guy and trying, for heaven’s sake.

“Sure.”

But as I said that word, I realized that there was part of me that wanted to stay and talk to Dak. To see how his knee was healing. To ask about the house he’d bought on Caddo Lake, the same one my friends had raved about—a three-bedroom bungalow with a wall of windows that overlooked the sunset in the west. To remind him about the catalpa worms. The best fishing spot. To bemoan that the Bait and Burger had closed, ending double-meat Fridays. To watch the way his brown eyes sparked when he laughed, to see that flash of dimple. To regret forever that I had just thrown away what we’d been like the stupid girl I was.

But I wasn’t going to do that because I had vowed that I would not be that stupid girl. That’s why I had enrolled in college, moved across town, and found a boss like Cricket to mentor me in more than just the difference between an American tea table and a French one. I refused to chase a rabbit down a trail to nowhere. I wanted to be someone worthwhile.

So I left the Bullpen with Ty, stopping by Printemps to drop off Juke’s paperwork to Cricket before going to some coffee slash cocktail bar and pretending I was the hip, rebellious girl he seemed to want me to be.

It hadn’t been a bad date. We found some commonalities—The White Stripes, Abita Andygator, and an abhorrence of cilantro. He hadn’t tried to stick his tongue down my throat and seemed genuinely interested when we talked about horror films and my diverse taste in music. He’d dropped me back at my car at Printemps with a smile and a quick kiss on my cheek. So here I stood, debating on whether to pretend I hadn’t seen Cricket looking so tragic.

“Well, hell,” I said, relocking my car door and hurrying up the drive and around back where I usually parked. Cricket had already climbed out and was stomping up to the back door.

When she heard the crunch of gravel beneath my half boots, she turned, alarmed. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” I said, rather dumbly. “Why are you back?”

“No reason. I’m fine,” she snapped.

“Yeah, you seem like it.”

Cricket made a face like she knew she wasn’t fine and knew that I knew she wasn’t fine but was giving me an out. For a moment we regarded each other like two pups in a dog park. Should we? Shouldn’t we?

Finally, Cricket’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, so I’m not okay. I’m pissed. And frustrated. And pissed.”

I moved closer to her perch on the back stoop. “You deserve to feel really angry and betrayed.”

She seemed surprised. Like I was supposed to tell her that she should put on her big-girl britches and stop moping. I could have said that, but sometimes a person didn’t need to be the hammer, especially when the nail looked awfully wobbly.

“You’re right. I deserve to be furious. And you want to know why I’m so mad?”

I said nothing because I was fairly certain this was a rhetorical question.

“That private eye I hired? The one that was so highly recommended? Well, Scott just moseyed outside the harlot’s house to my investigator’s car and paid him off!”

I blinked, trying to register her words fully. “Wait. What?”

“I drove down her street. Okay, I know that was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it. But Scott said that he was going to pray with Jeff Reagan, and I knew he was lying. And, I don’t know, I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. I couldn’t help myself. But then I told myself that I was just checking to see if Pat Vitt—that’s the PI—was there and not distinguishable, you know? And I had only sat there for a minute or two when I saw Scott, plain as day, walking out of her house and pulling a bunch of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. Well, I’m assuming they were hundreds. But he totally paid my guy off!” Cricket had started pacing on the stoop as she told me this tale, her hands punctuating where it was needed. “And I just couldn’t go home. So I came back here. And I don’t know why.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out the form I had taken from my cousin’s desk. I held it out to her. “Here. Juke’s my cousin, and I can vouch that though he has his flaws, being a greedy douchebag is not one of them. Call him, fill this out, and then get him to nail Scott.”

Cricket took the crumpled form. “But what do I do about Scott? Now he knows I’m onto him. He’s going to be more careful. It’s going to be impossible now.”

I nodded. “Maybe so, but maybe not.”

Cricket bit her upper lip and stared off into space. “You think I should play this off? Act like I know nothing? Or should I be proactive and start packing his bags?”

“Depends on what he says. Depends on if your dick of a dick told him anything. I think you better call Patrick Whoever and find out what’s going on. Then you can see what Scott does or says. Don’t show your hand yet.”

Of course, all this was easy for me to say. I didn’t have a husband slapping the salami to his daughter’s coach. And I didn’t have a life about to fall apart. I really had no business telling Cricket what to do . . . other than an instinct for how dirty dogs like Scott handled themselves. Guys like him thought they were untouchable. He wouldn’t stop doing the tennis pro, and he likely thought Cricket as bothersome as a fly. Hardly anyone took her seriously even though she was a sharp businesswoman. She looked too harmless, too sweet, too darn nice to play unfairly.