Chapter 4

FOUR

ELLIOT

I had no idea what the look Vivian was giving me was supposed to mean. It was all teeth and gums and wide eyes, a little like a rabid chihuahua.

But I was far more interested in what Maeve was thinking.

Her cheeks turned pink. “Viv’s ridiculous, don’t mind her.”

“I don’t mind her at all. She throws a mean poker party.”

Maeve twisted her lips and smiled up at me. I liked her smile, and the two tiny buns she’d made below her ears with her hair. They looked like soft little lightbulbs.

“Happy plotting, you two,” Vivian said.

“Don’t die in the snowy mountains,” Maeve told her.

With a salute, Vivian left.

Vivian and Maeve seemed like the kind of friends who’d known each other for half their lives. It was sweet. I didn’t have anyone like that. I’d gone to college with two high school friends, but that hadn’t lasted. The girls they’d dated the longest—Rachel and Tatianna—were the ones who’d stuck around.

“Are you two close?” I asked.

“Me and Viv? I’m as close to her as I am to anyone who isn’t twice my age, a third my age, or related to me.”

“That’s an interesting list,” I said.

She nodded. “Viv makes friends everywhere she goes. She picked me up a few years ago when I happened upon her family’s stall at the farmer’s market. They were fighting about whether or not she could sell her brownies. I agreed to buy one.”

“Oh no. Did you die?”

She barked a laugh. “Yes.”

“Is that why I’ve never seen you at one of her apartment social gatherings?”

“Yeah, being dead makes it hard to go places. Also I don’t like people too much. Also I don’t want to risk another brownie incident.”

“I only go when the event’s catered.”

“Smart.”

I could talk to Maeve for hours and it would feel like no time at all. I wanted to know everything about her. I didn’t want this night to end.

But that was dangerous, so I veered the conversation back on track. “You didn’t seem convinced about the vanity plot.”

“Vanity is a weakness for Bradford, sure,” she said. “But I don’t feel comfortable with physical harm.”

A little Nair in the shampoo didn’t count as physical harm in my book. But, that was fine.

Maeve dated Armstrong for years. That kind of attachment left a mark even after it was over. The wound was still fresh, and I couldn’t judge her for wanting to protect someone she’d loved for so long.

I wouldn’t push for anything she wasn’t comfortable with. And I wouldn’t risk seeing our arrangement as anything more than what it was. It didn’t matter how cute she looked when she wrinkled her nose, or that talking to her sent an electric current of curiosity and discovery down my spine.

“What harmless acts would irritate him the most?” I asked.

“Messes.”

“What kind of messes?”

“A little dot on his collar. It could wash off later, so no permanent damage, but it would drive him crazy all day knowing it was there.”

That reminded me of a town hall meeting last year where Armstrong argued in favor of rezoning the Oldbridge District as commercial. At the end of the meeting, he walked past a mirror, spotted a smudge on his tie, and flipped out.

I’d figured the reaction was over losing the rezoning vote, but now I wasn’t so sure.

“That’s good,” I said. “What else?”

“He hates cilantro.”

“So we switch out all of his food for Mexican when he’s not looking.”

Maeve leaned forward. “Also, he expects everything and everyone around him to be perfect all the time. Otherwise he thinks it reflects poorly on him.”

Her tone and the way she pressed her lips together made this tidbit sound personal. Had Armstrong said something to Maeve about him being disappointed in her? I couldn’t fathom what fault he found in her, but then again, I had a hard time understanding a lot of choices he made.

“I don’t know how we exploit that,” Maeve said. “But it’s ridiculous, because Bradford’s far from perfect.”

“Agreed.”

“He acts like he’s earned everything, even though his daddy paid for his college, his swanky apartment, and every one of his failed start-ups.”

She turned red for a minute as she looked at me. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and waited, like somehow that might offend me. It didn’t. I had no idea why she’d think it would.

When I didn’t say anything, she continued, “You know he still has every single trophy he’s ever earned. He keeps them in glass cases like his apartment is a high school hallway.”

“Sounds like he’s won a lot of trophies. Did he used to play competitive sports?”

“Won is not a word I would use. And no. There are trophies for things like Kindergarten’s Smartest Dresser.”

I barked a laugh. Basically, he kept the world’s saddest collection of participation trophies.

“Not even one is for sports,” she said.

This was getting good. “It’d be a shame if someone left streaks of grease across those trophy cabinets.”

“Yes.” Maeve cackled and wrinkled her nose again.

I could spend hours adoring that wrinkle and her laughter. My chest felt lighter and my body thrummed with energy. “Or changed Kindergarten’s Smartest Dresser to Kindergarten’s Fartest Dresser.”

She put her hands over her mouth. “It’s perfect.”

“I don’t know… fartest? Sure, it rhymes with smartest, and I know I was the one who suggested it, but shouldn’t it be fartiest? Either way, I think we can do better. Too bad he’d never allow his enemies close to his prized possessions.”

She shifted in her seat, and the humor in her expression dissipated. “About that…he doesn’t think of me as his enemy. Just today, he told me to come over.”

I had mixed feelings about this. I wanted her away from him, for her sake, obviously. But also, it would be much easier to get revenge if we had an in. “What did you tell him?”

“That I never wanted to see him again.”

Good. I flexed my fingers, sore from sudden tenseness.

“But he didn’t listen. He doesn’t ever listen.” Maeve sighed. “I’m seeing that now. I used to make excuses, like he’s so busy and whatever.”

She waved it off like it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing. That had to hurt. I wanted to punch him for her, directly in the nuts. Better, I’d help her do it herself, metaphorically.

“Why’d you stay with him for so long?” I had no right to ask. I felt guilty about asking as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Inertia.” She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s easier to stay in place after being stuck in place for so long, you know?”

“Fear of quicksand. The more you fight the deeper you sink.”

“That sounds horrible. But yeah, I guess.”

And again, knowing I shouldn’t ask, I said, “How does it feel to be free now?”

“Not nearly as free as I’d like. Time will help. So will vengeance.” She tipped back the rest of her hot chocolate then clapped the mug onto the tabletop. “Tell me something I don’t know about you and Bradford’s relationship.”

“It sounds so official when you say it like that.”

Her lips quirked up on one side. “You know what I mean.”

“The other day, he slapped a package of chocolate covered pretzels out of my hands.”

Her jaw dropped. “What a waste of perfectly good snacks.”

“I know. I bought them for an elderly client, too.”

“He ruined a sweet granny’s treat?”

“She’s not that sweet, and I don’t think she has kids or grandkids, but yes.”

Maeve chuckled.

“And he tricked her into hating me with internet lies.”

A wrinkle formed between her brows. That was cute too. “What do you mean?”

“He posted a bunch of fake reviews. It’s all lies, but it paints me as some sort of villain. I have no idea how to fix it.”

“Can I see?”

And if she read the lies, she could believe it and turn on me, too.

“Maybe I can help.” She smiled, small and tentative, and earnest.

I sighed, pulled up my listing, and handed over my phone.

She narrowed her eyes as she scanned the text. “Bradford did this? Are you sure?”

“I never forced anyone to live in a swamp, if that’s what you mean.”

She shook her head. “It’s just that Bradford is incapable of doing anything electronic. He must have paid a service. Do you mind?”

Whatever she was asking, if it had even a slim chance of helping, I was all in. “Please.”

She clicked around on my phone a few times then handed it back. “It’ll take a few days, but the lies will be scrubbed.”

“Just like that?” It seemed too easy.

“Just like that.”

“You’re amazing.”

“It’s nothing really.”

It wasn’t nothing. It was huge. She’d saved me, and my business, or at least given me the chance to save it myself. I owed her.

“Call us even. You rescued me at the wedding, remember?”

“All right.”

I noticed a touch of color on her wrist.

She noticed me noticing.

She pulled up her sleeve, revealing three pixel art hearts. One was empty, one was full, and the one in the middle was half and half. “I’m a gamer. I work at an arcade. Any comment you may have about how my life is meant left for twelve-year-old boys—you should keep it to yourself.”

“Why would I say something like that?”

“Because everyone does.”

“Sounds like you’re talking to the wrong people. Present company excluded, obviously.”

“Is that so?”

“Gatekeeping is for those without confidence. Everyone is entitled to like what they like without shame or judgment.”

“All right, then what’s something you like that I could judge you for but won’t?”

“Instant photography.”

“Isn’t all photography instantaneous?”

“Sure, but I’m talking about old-school cameras that print the photo when you take it.”

“So…you don’t edit your photos? Or save them on your phone to look at them later?”

“Right. No filters. No searching through dozens of takes for the right one. Accepting the reality of the moment as it is, and preserving that.”

“Interesting.” She drummed her fingers on the table and knitted her brows together.

“You’re judging my hobby. After you promised not to.”

She blinked rapidly and sat up straighter. “I’m not.”

She was.

“Okay, maybe I am a little, but not in a bad way,” she admitted. “I’m just considering it, wondering if you’re an all-around old-fashioned type because that wasn’t the vibe I’ve gotten from you so far.”

“And what’s the consensus?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Give me your phone again.”

I handed it over.

She typed in her number along with her full name. “You need to know where to send those royal nudes.”

I chuckled.

“This has been interesting, but it’s way later than I thought. I should go. Oh, and here.” She handed me a key. “It’s to Bradford’s place. And I don’t think I can stand going in myself. But I’d love pictures of the non-damaging damage you cause.”

I wished I could convince her to join me, but I wouldn’t push. “Naked pictures of queens and chaotic destruction. Got it. I look forward to working with you, Maeve Katz.”

“Samesies. Elliot….”

She wrinkled her nose and extended her hand.

“Barlowe.” The zing I felt when I enclosed her small palm in mine was dangerously electric.

I surveyed the papers spread across my countertop, tapped my heel against the rung of my stool, and took a long drag of my morning coffee.

X’s dotted the map of Oldbridge District. Each mark represented a building Armstrong had stolen out from under me. The way things were going, I didn’t know if I could still save the neighborhood.

Thoughts of Armstrong usually led nowhere good. Except this time, they were inexplicably tied to the petite blonde whose hatred for Armstrong rivaled my own.

To be honest, I hadn’t stopped thinking about Maeve since the coffee shop last night.

After we’d parted, I’d swung by the store for cilantro. Then, after I’d gotten home, I’d placed an expedited order with a local trophy shop.

I’d spent the rest of the night trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head. There’s no such thing as coincidence. The voice belonged to my gram.

If I’d told Gram that I’d met a woman who made my chest feel light as a balloon, she’d have said fate set us in each other’s paths. If I’d told her I’d run into that same woman again, two weeks later, she would have slapped me upside the head for not making a move.

But there was no move to make. Maeve was at best in need of time to heal after having her heart broken. At worst, she still had feelings for Armstrong.

My stomach clenched at the thought.

A text came in.

It was from none other than Bradford Armstrong, because if there was one thing I knew about fate, she had a cruel sense of humor.

I opened the message.

It was a selfie of Armstrong flipping me the bird from Mrs. Clifton’s living room, in front of her bookshelf filled with ceramic birds.

Armstrong: Enjoying this lush seating before I turn the building into a parking garage.

Armstrong: Jealous?

Jealous? No. Frustrated? Yes.

The fact that he cared only about lining his own pockets at the expense of others infuriated me. Plus, we both knew that couch was not lush. It was crunchy.

But if Armstrong was at Mrs. Clifton’s place, he was not currently at his own. That meant I could be.

I grabbed my keys and my bag of cilantro, then swung by the trophy shop on my way to Armstrong’s house. For a moment, as I approached the door, my nerves got the better of me. He could have an attack dog or an alarm system.

Then again, Maeve would have warned me about any of that. And if he had his own dog, it probably hated him.

I opened the door, nerves buzzing, and headed straight for the kitchen, all set to cilantro up his every meal.

Except when I opened the fridge, there was nothing inside, not even a bottle of ketchup. What kind of monster didn’t keep a single condiment? The kitchen cabinets were also bare.

I gave the bag of cilantro in my hand a shake. “Well, you’re useless.”

That meant all I had was the trophy plot.

I headed back the way I came, this time paying attention to the living room and hallways. Maeve wasn’t kidding when she said there were a lot of trophies. They were everywhere.

I opened up one of the cabinets and checked out the first one I found. On the top was a figure with open arms. The plaque read World’s Best Hugger.

Uhh…was this some kind of joke? It felt more personal than Kindergarten’s Snazziest Dresser. It felt like…a gift from a girlfriend.

A picture of Maeve filled my head.

That made my stomach clench again.

I pushed the thought away and moved on to the next trophy. This one looked weirdly phallic.

World’s Biggest Dick.

I recoiled like the golden schlong might inadvertently be carrying the world’s largest batch of STIs.

I pulled out my phone, snapped a pic, and sent it to Maeve, along with the only question I could think to ask.

Me: WTF

A moment later, three dots filled the screen.

Maeve: Hahahahaha

I couldn’t help but smile, practically hearing her voice in my head, and imagining her gray eyes glittering with humor.

Me: Seriously, WTF???

Maeve: I don’t know how big the world’s biggest dick really is, but I can assure you, Bradford is NOT in the running

Me: Where did he find a contest to award something like this?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I also couldn’t not know.

Maeve: There’s only like two trophies in there that he actually won

Me: …and this isn’t one of them?

Maeve: Nope

Me: Did you give it to him?

I hoped not.

Maeve: No way. How little do you think of me?

Maeve: I’m gravely offended

A small sense of relief washed over me.

Me: It’s next to one about hugging. Seems like gifts of love

Maeve: First, gross

Maeve: Second, he gave them to himself

That was even stranger.

Me: Why?

Maeve: Daddy issues

Me: I’m afraid to ask

Maeve: Not the dick trophy specifically. Even Bradford isn’t that messed up

Maeve: He started buying himself trophies when he was a kid, pretending that he’d earned them to try and get praise from his dad

Maeve: It didn’t work

Maeve: But he kept buying them for the ego boost

Me: That’s sad

Maeve: What’s sad is how long he’s gotten away with treating people like garbage and never having to pay the consequences of his actions

Still, I felt a little sorry for him, even if he was the world’s biggest dick. Not having a strong emotional support system as a child could mess people up for life.

A pang of guilt left me standing there like an idiot. If these trophies were his support, maybe messing with them was too cruel. And here I’d worried Maeve would be the one hesitating over our plans.

A ding told me the next message had come through.

That light feeling in my chest hit me all over again. I opened it.

It was an image of a crater.

Confused, I stared at the puckered earth.

It was not a crater.

It was not the earth.

It was a hairy butthole.

The phone slipped from my hands and hit the floor.

Why would Maeve send that to me? When I closed my eyes, the image was still there, a furry volcano that I could never unsee.

As I reached for my phone, I tried to rationalize the horror that had seared itself into my retinas.

Then I saw who sent it.

It wasn’t Maeve. It was Armstrong. I should have known.

Armstrong: Put your nose right up in here. You still lose.

Any sympathy I had for the man immediately evaporated. I went straight to work putting temporary plaques over top of the originals. No permanent damage would be done to the trophies, but he would suffer mild anguish.

Served him right.

I snapped some pics, then wandered around, tearing clothes from drawers and putting every picture frame askew. If a spot on his tie bothered him, the crooked pictures would drive him nuts.

In the bathroom I found a bottle of cologne.

I remembered him once saying something about a man’s scent being his signature. It was meant to be a dig at me for not buying overpriced cologne.

Clearly, this was the perfect use of the cilantro.

I used Armstrong’s nose-hair scissors to cut a tiny hole in the end of the cilantro bag, then emptied most of the contents into his cologne, holding onto a bit in case I found another use.

As I headed back out, I noticed a drawer on the little table by the couch. Curious, I decided to check what else I could find to toss around.

Inside I found a tub of chocolate icing with a note on top written in swirly handwriting. Break in case of emergency. Like it was glass in front of a fire ax.

This had to be Maeve’s icing.

And this was exactly the kind of emergency that chocolate frosting should be used for.

I smeared brown smudges all across the glass cases.

Then I washed my hands and took the note with me.

On my way out the door, I received another text.

This time I checked who it was from before opening it.

Maeve.

It was a photo of a bee.

Maeve: Look at this naked queen

Me: Positively scandalous

Maeve: You love it

Me: I do

Maeve: You’re not feeling sorry for Bradford, are you? You shouldn’t

Me: I’m not

Maeve: Don’t get soft on me. I need vengeance

Me: Don’t worry. I’m always hard

Maeve: Hahaha