Page 6 of Airhead

She was not that kind of woman. Not even close.

She was the loud mouth who scared off potential dates with—of all the scary things—her own opinions. The nerd who’d stayed home reading Princess Daisy on New Year’s Eve while everyone else danced the night away in Harbor City. The woman who’d left working class Waterbury to see the world, only to come home a year later with her tail tucked between her legs.

Frank had never left. He probably never would. And he liked it that way. He was Waterbury itself.

She hated Waterbury, but had accepted that she’d never get out.

Wow. Wasn’t that a cheery fucking thought to have on a Saturday morning while standing in the tiny galley kitchen of her apartment mixing the Madigan Hangover Cure for Connie.

Her sister sat bleary eyed on the couch in their living room, with the Afghan blanket Granny had made pulled around her like bubble wrap.

“Hey Katie,” Connie said, wincing at the volume of her voice even though it was barely above a croak. “A man is breaking into your car.”

Now that news was a record scratch.

Someone was breaking into her car?

Who in the world would break into a 1971 Ford Pinto that leaked more oil than she put in (don’t ask, she didn’t know that was possible either) and made weird noises when she got it up over fifty on the Harbor City Bridge?

Hurrying into the living room, Katie shoved the family hangover cure concoction (two raw eggs, a scoop of frozen orange juice concentrate, and a Coke) into Connie’s hands and then rushed to the front window.

Their apartment had the breathtaking view of the complex’s asphalt parking lot and, if she leaned to the left and squinted hard enough at the sliver of space between two buildings, a glimpse of the Harbor City skyline. Usually, the most exciting thing she spotted when she looked out the window was the neighborhood stray cat tormenting Mrs. Murati’s mutt while they took their Sunday morning stroll. However, this time the cat wasn’t hissing at Rover. Instead, it was on the roof of her car, calmly watching as a man opened up the passenger door.

A giant of a man.

A redheaded giant of a man.

A redheaded giant of a man in a Waterbury Fire Department T-shirt and acid washed jeans.

Her heart sped up and her insides felt like they’d been filled with fizz. “Frank Hartigan.”

Clutching the blanket around her with one hand and the drink with the other, Connie looked toward the window. “Why would he break into your car?”

“He’s not, he’s…” Katie looked closer as Frank pulled a blue can out of a Hazel’s Auto Parts bag, shook it, and took aim at the hinge, “spraying something on it.”

Connie shot back half the drink, her face turning appropriately green, and then asked, “Why would he do that?”

“Do I look like an encyclopedia?” she asked her sister because she was too distracted by Frank’s ass in those jeans to formulate any kind of guess.

“You look like someone who stole my banana clip.”

Katie’s hand went up to the bright yellow plastic hair accessory she’d snagged out of Connie’s drawer in the bathroom. “Borrowed it.”

Connie shrugged and said, “Whatever,” before downing the rest of the hangover cure and leaning back.

Ignoring the totally grody belch her sister let out, Katie watched as Frank shut the passenger door, opened it, shut it again, and then repeated the process three more times. “What is he doing?”

Connie snuggled more deeply into the Afghan and closed her eyes. “There’s one way to find out.”

Yeah, she could open up the window and holler down. But the landlord had painted it shut like an asshole. The only other option was⁠—

Katie flinched, her hand going to her stomach that was suddenly swishing its contents like she’d just ingested the Madigan Hangover Cure. She whirled around to glare at her sister. “I’m not going down there.”

“So you’re just going to let Frank Hartigan steal your car?” Connie didn’t even bother to open her eyes. “Interesting way to keep yourself away from him. Because he’ll be in jail, or worse, if I tell our brothers.”

“I am not keeping myself away from him and you better not tell our brothers anything.” She glanced back out the window at the man in question. He’d shut the passenger door and was now repeating the squirt, open, shut process with the driver’s side door. “Our paths just don’t cross.”

Connie cracked one eye open and managed to shoot a Katie a you’re-full-of-shit look. “Because you make sure of it. Except last night.”