Killer Fate

By Sonnjea Blackwell

Fate? Or Murphy's Law? Turning 30 is traumatic enough without a hitman on your trail.

Facing the Big Three-Oh has Destiny DeGraff pondering her choices and wondering if life has more to offer than a cheating husband, boring job and meddlesome family. But change feels a lot like effort, and Destiny isn't quite uncomfortable enough with the status quo to do anything about it.

Until she gets shot on the way to her own birthday party.

Suddenly on the run from an assassin hired by her husband, Destiny becomes a magnet for disaster when she innocently interrupts a bank heist and not-so-innocently gets involved with the two most eligible bachelors in town.

As the dead bodies pile up and it becomes clear that Destiny holds the key to unraveling a mystery that has haunted the small town of Hope Springs for over a decade, the odds of seeing another birthday seem less than promising. But never one to believe in fate, Destiny determines to get out of her rut - if only she can live long enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sonnjea Blackwell
• Release date: Oct 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301516469

Sonnjea Blackwell

I grew up thinking I'd be a writer someday. I spent a lot of time not being a writer while I waited for someday to arrive. Finally, on the plane ride home from New York after my sister’s wedding, I decided it was time to start writing. I waited till we landed, then went to work as a “real” writer.Turns out, being a real writer comes with petty annoyances like real writer’s block and a perpetual lack of real financial security. So I started writing web content to deal with the financial security issue. And I discovered improv comedy as a means of alleviating the writer’s block.Luckily, I live in southern California, where everybody and their grandma wants to be an actor, so improv classes are easy to come by. I studied with Held2gether, Groundlings, Upright Citizens Brigade and The Second City. Pretty soon I was performing, and then I started teaching improv to anyone who would sit still long enough to let me. I’ve also written for, performed with and directed the sketch comedy troupes 3 Square: the series and Held2gether - the Series.Now it’s hard to say which is more important to me, writing or improv, but it doesn’t matter anymore because in my world one can’t exist without the other. My world is pretty awesome.

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KILLER FATE

By Sonnjea Blackwell

Copyright 2013 Sonnjea Blackwell

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Dedication:

To Scott Keller, of course

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Destiny DeGraff. DeGraff is Dutch. Destiny is evidently the result of recreational marijuana use and existential thought. It’s not a bad name, especially since my parents once told me if I’d been a boy, they would have named me Thor. Sometimes I still wonder what it would be like to be a male porn star. Nevertheless, I’m not really a Destiny kind of girl. I don’t buy into the idea of fate and all that crap. If I had to define my philosophy about life, I’d say I’m one part free-will and about six parts Murphy’s Law. If something can go wrong, it will, often at the worst possible time. My younger sister’s name is Avonleigh, no doubt the result of recreational marijuana use and romance-novel-reading. Fortunately, I couldn’t pronounce Avonleigh when I was little, and I shortened it to A.V. She didn’t like the initials, so when she learned to write, she made it Avie. She calls me Destiny unless she’s feeling bitchy. Then she calls me Thor.

...happy birthday, dear Destiny, happy birthday to you! Avie sang into the phone, off-key and flat, at seven a.m. I didn’t wake you, did I?

I yawned and stretched as I walked down the hall with the cordless, ignoring the pissed-off, thrashing lump in the guestroom who was muttering assorted colorful swear words, bitching about the phone ringing at the crack of dawn and complaining about the daylight as if he were a vampire about to burst into flames. Now that would be a birthday present.

Nope, I said. But I think you interrupted Dickhead’s beauty rest. I wondered if the other metrosexuals would kick him out of the club if he had puffy eyes from not getting the requisite eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Probably he’d have to go for a manicure to draw attention away from the bags.

Avie snorted. Dickhead’s beautiful enough. He doesn’t need beauty rest. What he needs is personality rest. Anyway, I’ll pick you up at two. We’ll have a late lunch.

This would be her attempt to distract me while the not-such-a-surprise-after-all party got underway. I agreeably played along, then I hung up and shuffled into the bathroom in my flannel Scooby-Doo pj’s, checking for wrinkles and gray hairs while I waited for the water in the shower to heat up. I’m not as vain as Dickhead, which is a good thing since I don’t have as much to be vain about, but turning thirty had me in a bit of a state. I was okay in the hair department, lots of long brown curls with nary a gray in the bunch. But the black circles under my brown eyes were a frightening development. I could’ve sworn I didn’t have black circles when I was twenty-nine. I gave serious thought to squeezing in a manicure.

Goddammit, Destiny, hurry up! Dickhead hollered from the other side of the locked bathroom door twenty minutes later. We lived in a 1920s two-bedroom Spanish-style, which I realize isn’t that old if you’re from the East Coast, but for California we’re talking ancient. The architectural details included closets smaller than porta-potties, creaky floors, drafty windows and a single bathroom nearly large enough for one adult. But it also had beautiful arched windows, mahogany crown moulding and real copper plumbing. And the dinky bathroom gave me an opportunity to annoy Dickhead on a daily basis. It was a good trade.

I’m almost done, I chirped, giving up on Dickhead’s eye-bag-concealer and doing the hair thing instead. Then I threw on clothes and dashed outside to trim the deadheads off the rosebushes, rake the debris from under the lavender and fill the birdfeeder hanging from the birch tree before heading to work.

Futzing around with the concealer had put me behind schedule, and I sped into the parking lot of Diedrich’s Coffeehouse, not because I cared about being late to the office, but because if I didn’t get in line by eight-fourteen, all of the cranberry muffins would be gone. I hate it when that happens. I jumped out of my imported gray SUV, beeped it locked and speed-walked inside with thirty-eight seconds to spare.

A tall guy in a khaki policeman’s uniform was in line ahead of me. Definitely not a regular. He had a really nice ass and great biceps and he smelled good, like the woods or something, and I didn’t mind waiting behind him. I usually ended up behind a fat bald guy who always ordered the exact same thing and never had a clue how much it was going to cost. Officer Biceps was a nice change of pace, and I was thinking turning thirty didn’t seem so bad after all.

The cop paid and stepped aside with his little white Diedrich’s bag to wait for his drink while I placed my usual order, a large mocha and a cranberry muffin.

Sorry, Destiny, that dude just got, like, the last cranberry muffin, Tobey the order-taker told me.

Well, crap, I muttered. I really wanted that stupid muffin. It’s my birthday, for crying out loud.

You always throw a hissy fit when you don’t get a cranberry muffin, he pointed out with a lopsided grin. If it wasn’t your birthday, you’d be like, ‘I really wanted that muffin. It’s, like, Flag Day, for crying out loud.’ He said it real nasally and whiny, not like me at all. Really. I sneered. Hey, dude! Tobey hollered over the hiss of the milk steamer. Officer!

The cop looked over. He was gorgeous from the front as well. I tried to make myself disappear before Tobey could embarrass us all.

Shut up, I snarled at Tobey, who cheerfully ignored me.

It’s her birthday, bro, and she was really jonesing for a cranberry muffin, and you got, like, the last one. I’ll give you a refund and any pastry you want if you give her the muffin so I don’t have to listen to her bitch about it every day for, like, the next month.

The cop looked at me and smiled, which made him even more attractive, and I focused on willing the ground to swallow me up. What if it’s my birthday, and I really want the muffin? the cop asked Tobey.

Oh, please, I thought. But Tobey seemed to buy it. Good thing he wasn’t a girl. He’d probably fall for the of course that outfit doesn’t make your ass look fat line.

Wow, that’s some wild coincidence, dude! Maybe you should split the muffin. He thought a moment. You ordered the same coffee drinks, too. Triple-shot mochas. Yeah, you should definitely split the muffin.

The cop shrugged. Works for me, he said, still smiling.

Can I get my half to go? I grumbled.

No way, dude, Tobey chimed in, bringing our drinks to a table and pulling out two chairs. It’s, like, fate.

Half a cranberry muffin was definitely better than no cranberry muffin, so I sighed and sat down across from Officer Biceps, who was carefully splitting the muffin.

Happy birthday, he said, casually glancing at my hands. I looked down, too, realizing I’d left my damn wedding ring somewhere again. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen the stupid thing, but I drew a blank. Maybe the silverware drawer? Oh well. He wasn’t wearing a ring either, though obviously that didn’t mean much.

Thanks, I said, inhaling half of my half of the muffin and washing it down with a less than dainty gulp of mocha. Happy birthday to you, too, I added politely, although I seriously doubted it was his birthday.

Thanks. I’m thirty-two. Something else we have in common, I guess. He smirked.

Jackass, I thought, mentally making a note to stop at the mall for some heavy-duty concealer after the manicure. I’m not thirty-two, I snarled.

This got me a genuine smile, and as much as I didn’t want to, I smiled back. Jeez, he was smokin’. His uniform was crisp and neatly pressed, but he was attractive in an easy, completely casual way, not in the trying-too-hard way that Dickhead favored. His espresso-colored hair was in need of a trim and fell in careless waves, framing a square-jawed face. His eyes were a cool gray, but warm when the sexy smile reached them. Then there were the biceps. He was wearing a badge, and there was some sort of insignia on his sleeve, but the blood had left my brain and I couldn’t make out the words. I focused on my muffin and tried not to drool.

I’m Jake. I’m here on business. He was dunking his muffin in his coffee, which seemed like an extra step to me. I popped in a bite of muffin, then added some coffee and smushed it all together in my mouth. This way, I wouldn’t drop soggy muffin in my lap along the way.

I’m Destiny, I mumbled. I work over there. I gestured in the general direction of the office, flinging some crumbs in the process. At least they weren’t soggy.

Destiny? That’s an interesting name.

It’s better than Thor. Is it really your birthday?

Thor? Never mind, forget I asked. And yes, it’s really my birthday. Want to see my ID?

That’s not what I’d like to see most, I thought, feeling a little warm. I’ll pass. What kind of cop are you?

What are my choices?

You know, vice, homicide, traffic, truant officer...

That’s it, I’m a truant officer.

I sighed and swallowed the last bite of muffin. You’re a smartass, and I’m late for work. Thanks for the muffin. Enjoy your stay in Long Beach. I stood and methodically gathered my things, giving myself an extra couple seconds to look at him so I’d have a good mental image. You know, for later. Jake watched with an amused expression.

Six-one, he said, gray eyes gleaming.

I’d guessed an even six feet. Excuse me? I snapped, embarrassed that I was so obvious and annoyed that he was so cocky. Mostly annoyed.

You were thinking six feet. I’m actually six-one.

I gave him a bored expression. That’s fascinating, but I was thinking it looks like rain and I forgot my umbrella.

He grinned. Liar.

I rolled my eyes and turned to leave.

You’re leaving? Tobey wailed from behind the counter. What about fate?

I don’t believe in fate, I said.

Me, neither, Jake added.

See? Tobey pleaded. That’s, like, something else you dudes have in common.

I wanted to listen to Doctor Cavannaugh’s whiny complaints about the IRS for the umpteenth time about as much as I wanted to have a root canal or take up knitting. Maybe slightly more than the root canal and slightly less than the knitting, but it was really too close to call. Besides, she was interrupting my somewhat pornographic Jake fantasy. Probably just as well. If I kept it up, I’d have to go for a run to work off the lust, and I hadn’t brought any exercise clothes to the office with me today. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to take the call.

Transfer her to Evangeline. She likes sucking up, I said to the intercom on my desk, and I went back to doodling on my oversized desk blotter. I could’ve gone back to calculating allowable profit sharing plan contributions for any number of clients waiting for just that information, except that, in her unending quest to suck up, Evangeline had managed to overload the computer system, crashing it and bringing all non-doodling-related capabilities to a screeching halt. The tech wasn’t due until close to five.

When I got bored with doodling, I switched to watching Mystic Mary on some weird cable channel. Mary wore lots of long flowy gowns and new-agey crystal jewelry, and she was explaining how the universe, in its infinite wisdom, could arrange seemingly random situations – what those of us who had failed to reach enlightenment ignorantly referred to as coincidences – so that two people who were meant to be together would find each other, no matter what the odds against that might be. Some of her examples were bizarre. One couple, married for five years now, had met when the woman ran a red light in her SUV and mowed the guy down in the crosswalk. He nearly died, but when he came out of the coma ten months later, he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. I could understand that. I’d want to hunt her down, too, if she’d flattened me with her damn Hummer. He got her name off the police report, and the rest was history.

I decided Mystic Mary was a nutjob, so I flipped off the little portable television I kept in my top desk drawer and looked for a book to read instead. Nora Roberts would be good. The pornographic Jake fantasy had left me feeling a little frustrated, and I could use a good, steamy sex scene. I scrounged around in my middle drawer for a couple minutes but couldn’t find a single book. I did find my wedding ring, though. I sighed and put it on, absently twisting it and thinking about Officer Biceps’ biceps.

Jeez, get a grip, I thought as the intercom buzzed.

Destiny, Avie’s here to see you, the intercom announced. Thank god. I collected my purse and my sweater and went to greet my sister.

Finally. I’m starving, I snarked by way of a greeting, as if it were somehow Avie’s fault I was bored and frustrated. Avie rolled her eyes and held the door open with an exaggerated flourish. As we approached the glass-fronted office of the graphic design firm next door, the receptionist there nearly broke her arm flagging us down.

You have got to check this, Jodie announced when I poked my head into the lobby. Her bare and actually rather unattractive feet were propped up on her desk, and she was rolling a bottle of hot pink nail enamel between her palms.

I stepped inside and Avie followed. Your nail polish? I’d never understood how Jodie kept her job. Besides the fact that she rarely seemed to be at her desk, she was usually shoeless, her low-rise jeans had a tendency to show at least an inch of ass, and don’t even get me started on the tattoos.

Hunh-uh. Sssshhh.

I shushed, and we heard the unmistakable sounds of a romantic liaison emanating from her desk. What the hell? They let you watch porn over here? I’ve never actually seen a porn video, but I was thinking it had to be more entertaining than doodling and Mystic Mary, and I considered switching jobs.

Nope. It’s the intercom. Jodie stared at the phone with obvious delight. It’s Mignon, they must be on her desk. I guess one of them hit the intercom button with their ass. She did a wrinkly-nosed grimace. God, I hope it was their ass.

Mignon? I asked with a frown. As in filet mignon? That’s a name?

You’re going to criticize somebody’s name? Really? Avie mocked. Then to Jodie she whispered, Can they hear us?

Jodie grinned. I muted it. We can hear them, but they can’t hear us hearing them. Pretty cool, hunh?

The grunting and heavy breathing was escalating. I made a valiant if unsuccessful attempt to resist blushing. Avie and Jodie listened casually, Avie peeking at the nail polish bottle.

What does that mean, Summer Blush? Looks like fuschia.

Fuschia has more blue in it, Jodie said, matter-of-fact, and began dabbing color on her toenails. They were all normal-sized toes but they pointed every which way, and now I understood why she opted to forego footwear. Coercing those feet into shoes would be a major undertaking. I tried not to stare, but I felt my lip curl and I couldn’t pull my eyes away. The grunting had reached a fevered pitch, and Jodie giggled. Man, that didn’t take long.

Well, should we go to lunch? I asked, embarrassed and fidgety.

Now Avie giggled, ignoring me and unzipping the black zip-front hoodie she had on over her pink, or possibly fuschia, leotard. Who’s the guy? she asked Jodie.

Don’t know. I didn’t see anybody, so he must’ve come in while I was on my coffee break. Or on the phone, or in the bathroom, or down the hall talking to the cute guy at the mortgage company, I thought. It’s weird ’cause I didn’t even know Mignon was seeing anybody.

The cooing lovey-dovey sounds were even more uncomfortable to listen to than the grunting they replaced, but we all continued to stare at Jodie’s telephone. Personally, I was relieved it wasn’t a video phone.

Oh, pookie, Mignon breathed. Pookie? Good gravy, was she twelve? I wish we could always be together.

We will, I promise, the male voice answered, and I groaned and gave thanks that I hadn’t already eaten. Of course, now I never would again. I’m going to get rid of her. Permanently, so we can be together all the time.

Avie stood motionless for a minute, then looked at me, her green eyes huge. Holy shit, is that --

I nodded abruptly. Come on. Lunch. Please?

Jodie fixed her gaze on me. You know him? Who is he?

He’s, uh, the landlord, I explained truthfully, if evasively.

It’s Destiny’s husband, Avie offered.

No, I won’t ask you to give up everything to be with me. I love you too much, Mignon was saying in martyred tones.

Your husband? Jodie more or less shrieked. You just heard your husband doing the nasty with some skank, who calls him pookie, by the way, and all you can say is, ‘Let’s do lunch?’ What’s your damage, DeGraff?

No damage. It’s just not the first time, is all, I replied flatly.

It’s okay. I figured out a way so I won’t have to give up anything, Dickhead told his floozy of the week. I’ll be free. And we’ll be together forever. Yeah, I thought cynically, or at least until the trapeze lady comes back to town.

First time you stood around listening to it, Avie filled in helpfully. And I think it’s gotta be the first time for pookie. Course, if there’s a poodle in there, it wouldn’t be the first time for that.

You’re remedial, Jodie announced over slurping kissing sounds. I’m not married, but I can tell you if I ever caught my husband knocking boots, I so wouldn’t stand around discussing nail polish colors. She considered for a moment. First I’d Bobbitt him. Then I’d divorce his ass. And there sure as hell wouldn’t be any second time, poodle or not.

It’s complicated, I told Jodie before turning to my sister. Seriously, Av, I’m going to lunch. Now. You can come with, or you can stay and listen to the freak show.

Ssshhh, she hissed, and I glared and headed for the door.

How complicated could it be? Jodie asked.

Soon? the floozy whined. Will you be free soon?

Is tonight soon enough for you, honeybear?

Oh, pookie! Mignon gushed, and the heavy breathing started up again in earnest.

How complicated could it possibly be? Jodie demanded again. He bangs the ho, you get the butter knife and a lawyer. Voila.

Amen, sister, Avie said, giving me a look.

I rolled my eyes and forcibly took Avie’s arm, steering her outside. It was unseasonably cool in the middle of October in Long Beach, a brisk breeze blowing in off the Pacific. The office was on Ocean Boulevard, a couple blocks from the beach, and that’s where we were headed. I buttoned my sweater and marched Avie towards the boardwalk.

I tossed the menu on the table without a glance and looked out at the horizon. We had a partial view of the marina, and I tried to pick out my dad’s boat, but from this distance they all looked alike. Ominous clouds were rolling in, and I was feeling a little chilly in the outdoor seating area of Sal’s, the only decent pizza place in a twelve-mile radius. We ordered a large veggie gourmet and two iced teas.

I thought about it all the way here, and I don’t think that sounded good, back there, Avie said when the waiter had dropped off our drinks and left.

I tried not to gag. You had to mull it over to come to that conclusion? I think you’re the one who’s remedial.

Not that part, stupid. Although that part was pretty pathetic. I meant the part about getting rid of you. And all that talk about permanently and forever and tonight. Sounded, I don’t know... threatening. I think we should call the cops.

I think you should watch something besides Law & Order. Dickhead talks to his lawyer fourteen times a day, trying to find a way out of the pre-nup. Obviously, they finally came up with something.

Jeez, Thor, will you pull your head out of your ass for just a second? If there was any way to divorce you without paying you a bazillion dollars, his lawyer would’ve figured it out long before now. And we both know he’d sooner part with his dick than sell any of his precious property to come up with a couple mil for the settlement. So if I’ve done the math right, there are exactly two ways he can ‘get rid of you.’ One, make you so miserable that you divorce him. She gave me a pointed look. Sadly, your misery threshold seems to know no bounds.

I ignored the editorial comment. And the other way?

Put you out of your misery. Permanently.

I sighed. I know it’s hard to imagine, but once upon a time, I was actually in love with Dickhead. He was funny and charming and, today’s display with the floozy notwithstanding, not too shabby in bed. And he loved me, too, as much as a narcissist with the attention span of a gnat could, I suppose. I had no interest in the fortune in commercial real estate his parents had left him, so when he sheepishly approached me with a pre-nup, I wasn’t offended. His attorney wrote it to protect Dickhead in the event I turned out to be a gold-digging whore. I took it to my dad, a boat mechanic and retired Navy intelligence officer, for his opinion. He thought there should be a clause to protect me in the event Dickhead turned out to be a trophy-hunting... well, dickhead. Dad revised the agreement, leading to a barrage of name-calling that left the attorney’s ears bleeding. Nobody can really swear like a sailor except a sailor. The final agreement basically stated that if I divorced Dickhead for any reason, I’d leave the union with exactly what I came into it with: zilch. But if Dickhead filed, California’s community property laws would apply. He’d keep his entire inheritance, of course, but we’d split everything acquired during the marriage fifty-fifty. Even though the real estate market in Southern California had taken a beating in the economic downtown, Dickhead had turned buying foreclosed properties and reselling them at a profit into quite an artform, and my half of what we’d acquired contained an awful lot of zeroes.

The waiter brought our pizza, and I took the biggest slice, partly because it was my birthday and partly because Avie was annoying the hell out of me. Look, if you have enough time and throw enough money at a problem, you can usually find a way to solve it, I said with a shrug. Dickhead’s ‘job’ consists of sitting at a desk and owning stuff, which doesn’t really take up much time. So he has plenty left over to work on the pre-nup.

Well, he has to go for all those manicures and massages and shopping expeditions. That’s awfully time consuming, Avie reminded me.

Right. And he has to look at internet porn and whack off, too, and the poor guy’s gotta eat, so I guess his days are actually pretty full. But since his lawyer’s on retainer, he can make that poor schmuck work on the pre-nup problem twenty-four/seven if he wants to. Eventually, even a retarded monkey with a typewriter can write a play, or something.

His lawyer’s a retarded monkey?

He’ll probably make a big production of presenting me with divorce papers and a whopping two dollar settlement and call it a birthday present. I had an ugly thought. He’s not coming to my party, is he?

You know about the party?

Crap, I’d forgotten it was a ‘surprise.’ No, not really. I just guessed. There’s a party?

Jesus, you’re the worst liar in the universe. Of course he’s not coming to your party.

Great. He can spring his surprise on me in private. Now, are we done with the putting-me-out-of-my-misery talk?

Avie shrugged, plucking onions off her pizza. Fine. But I told you you should’ve left him after the car lady, she said, referring to the BMW leasing agent I found naked under Dickhead’s desk a week after we got home from our honeymoon.

Yes, I seem to recall you mentioning that. Hard to forget, considering she brought it up on a weekly basis. If she inadvertently missed a week, my mom eagerly took up the slack.

Or after the grieving widows’ ‘support group’ meeting, or definitely after the neighbor, her poodle and your stilettos.

After the car lady, I rationalized that everyone was entitled to one mistake. Dickhead was contrite, and I accepted his apology and the charming house he bought me as a token of his love and sincerity. But there’s no rationalizing away a Poodle Incident. I tried to kick him out, but it turned out the bastard had only put half the house in my name. So much for his sincerity. Since neither of us could evict the other, I banished him to the guestroom, burned the stilettos and called a lawyer. I didn’t give a damn about his stupid money; I just wanted to be rid of him. The sooner, the better.

There’s no point in rehashing this yet again, I moaned.

Avie munched on crust, looking thoughtful, and switched to a new strategy. Des, I know a divorce was too much to deal with when Dad had the stroke. I’m not criticizing you for not filing while he was so sick. It was a kinder, gentler strategy, probably in honor of my birthday, but still I had the distinct impression I was about to be criticized. Again. But he’s been gone for over two years. Not divorcing Dickhead won’t bring Dad back.

Duh.

The kinder, gentler strategy was abandoned. Goddammit, Thor, you’re thirty. Plenty young enough to find a guy and have a nice life together. Or find a guy and wantonly use him for sex. Or a girl, you know, whatever floats your boat. Or live alone with a dozen cats. But you’re not getting any younger, and you’re wasting time with a guy you can’t stand because you’re so friggin’ stubborn. Pretty soon, you’ll be forty. Then fifty. How much of your life are you going to give him?

He cheated on me, he humiliated me, and I was willing to file and not take a dime. But he didn’t even have the decency to stop his fooling around while Dad was dying, and when I found him in the bathtub with the twins after the funeral --

Jesus, I know all that. And I don’t blame you for wanting to get even with him. But not this way. You don’t care about the money, and this is hurting you at least as much as it’s hurting him. More, probably, since you’re actually human.

I sighed. I know you’re worried about me, Avie, but don’t be. I’m fine. I really was. Avie was right about me wanting to get even with Dickhead for all the lousy things he’d done, but that was only part of the reason I hadn’t divorced him. The part I was too embarrassed to admit to her was that I had simply gotten comfortable with the routine of it all. I loved my house and my garden and I really couldn’t imagine living anyplace else. Besides, most of my time was taken up with my job, Avie, my friends. Maybe my life wasn’t exciting, but I liked most of it most of the time, and it wasn’t that hard to ignore the rest. Anyway, it’s not like my life had ever been all that exciting.

I guess you could say I was in a rut.

Unfortunately, between Dickhead’s stubbornness and greed