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“Never thought I’d be using his face as motivation,” she replies.
I nod at her. It feels wrong to pull something positive from that man’s face, but I’ll do what I have to do to keep out of jail. The very idea shocks me — in one fell swoop, I could lose everything I care about: my chances at finishing my degree, at having a career, at being with Hunter and Charlie. Hunter may love me, but our love is so early that I doubt it’s a ‘I’ll wait out the length of your prison sentence’ kind of love.
Suddenly, I pull a deep breath and realize it’s the first time in what might be a minute that I’ve taken one; it feels like there’s a vise around my throat… or a familiar set of hands that still give me nightmares.
“Whatever keeps you out of jail,” Doberman says. “Now, my second point: your complaints are moving forward. Officer Alvarado is still willing to testify to the validity of your accusations. That gives your claims strength and also gives you two leverage, as two more claims against Officer Abrams may be enough to get him to push the DA to drop charges. Make no mistake, this is a messy situation for all parties involved, and I’ll be having many meetings with the DA and with the officer’s union rep to see what I can do to get this resolved satisfactorily for all parties involved.”
Maggie arches an eyebrow. “All parties? You work for us, Doberman. Why does it sound like you’re setting me up to bargain away my right to complain about Officer Abrams and his malignant behavior?”
“Because my primary concern is keeping you out of jail, and so I’m preparing you for the fact that you may need to sacrifice to achieve that, considering you punched a cop in broad daylight and in front of multiple witnesses. This is real life, not a TV show, and my name is Keith Doberman, not Saul Goodman. Am I clear?”
Mr. Doberman gives both of us such a steady look that Maggie and I both answer in unison. “Oh.”
I swallow hard, trying to process everything. "So, what do we do now? I mean, right this minute?"
Doberman checks his watch. "Right now, you both need to go to work and act as if nothing is wrong. We don't want to give anyone reason to suspect you're worried about potential charges. I'll be in touch later today with more details on our strategy."
Maggie nods, her face set in determination. "Alright, Emily. Let's go clock in."
As we walk towards the pharmacy entrance, I can't help but notice how different everything looks. The pristine storefront feels like a facade, hiding the turmoil beneath. It's as if the world is carrying on, oblivious to the fact that my life might be falling apart. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so small, so insignificant. I wish Hunter were here.
Mr. Dunkhauser greets us at the door, his usual stern expression softened slightly. "Good to have you both here," he says, nodding curtly. "We've got a lot of catching up to do after being closed yesterday."
I force a smile, grateful for the distraction of work. As I go to my employee locker and stash my things, I catch Maggie's eye. She gives me a smile and a nod. I don’t see in her eyes the same doubt I feel. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe things will work out, even if, right now, it all seems so chaotic and overwhelming.
All I need to do is lie low, trust Maggie and her lawyer, and keep out of trouble. It shouldn’t be too hard; I’ve had enough of trouble lately to last me a long time.
Just as I’m putting my phone away, it beeps in my hand. It’s a text from Harper.
Got a lead on that gun you want. I’ll swing by the pharmacy when your shift is over. Be ready.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hunter
Not long after I pick Charlie up from Yolanda’s, feed him, change him, and sing him a few bars of a Johnny Cash song — there’s something about the Man in Black’s bass-baritone that just lulls that little man into slumber — there’s a knock at my door. Before I even reach for my weapon, a familiar voice announces, “Hunter, no need to shit your drawers. It’s just me, Diesel.”
He’s loud. Too loud.
I throw open the door and draw my weapon, anyway. I don’t point it at him, just hold it in a grip at my side that lets him know that I’m mildly perturbed at him. “Keep your voice down.”
Diesel looks as he always does: somehow perpetually young, despite the fact that we’re the same age and have about the same mileage. It might be his hair being back in a ponytail at the moment — the damn thing always makes me want to hack through it with a fucking knife — or the light tan, or that he always seems to be smiling. With all we’ve been through together, he still somehow keeps a smile on his face.
His eyebrow raises, but his voice lowers. “That’s it? No ‘hello, Diesel, how are you?’ No ‘thanks for getting here so quickly?’ No ‘thanks for bringing all this cool stuff?’”
“What cool stuff?” I say.
He hefts his old Army Rangers rucksack off his shoulder and opens the top. There’s the usual stuff, like a spare sidearm, ammunition, some rations, and some of his sketchpads and tattooing equipment, but there’s also a few containers of baby formula, a pack of diapers, and a children’s picture book — Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
“Thought you could use a resupply. There’s a bottle of scotch at the bottom, too, underneath the diapers. And the book, well, it was my favorite when I was little. I used to wish that the sky would rain chicken pot pies; I loved chicken pot pies when I was little and my mom would hardly make it because it took a lot of work and she was always tired from her job at the bank. So I’d hope that the clouds would open up and rain down steaming hot chicken pot pie on me so I could just gobble those motherfuckers up. Nevermind that I’d probably get third-degree burns from all those hot pies cracking open on my head. I wasn’t the brightest kid. And, well, here I am, not the brightest adult, either.”
I take the diapers, the formula, the book, and the scotch. “Diesel, you're a lifesaver. You have no idea how quickly I go through diapers. Charlie’s not even twenty pounds, but he shits like an entire platoon of Marines. Come in, but keep it down. Charlie's sleeping."
Diesel nods and steps inside, his boots barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. He glances around my sparse living arrangements, his eyes lingering on the crib in the other room, visible through the open door. "How's fatherhood treating you, old man?"
I set the supplies on the kitchen counter and run a hand through my hair. "It's an adjustment. But Charlie's a good kid. Sleeps through most of the night now."
Diesel smirks. "Unlike his old man, I bet. You look like shit, Hunter."
