I take a few steps into the bathroom, spit out the foam, and rinse my mouth out. “It’s too early.”
She yawns, sneaking a peek at me. “But you’re up.”
“I’m not up. This is an ill—”
“Illusion Leith is about to get his ass kicked by Sleepy Momma.” She reaches for my pillow, hurling it at me. The darn thing tumbles to the ground too soon, landing a yard off course. “Remember last night when we discussed overused jokes?”
“Och, that hurt.” I cock a smile, noting that although Chevelle’s eyes are closed, she has hidden a smile of her own.
“I’ve heard enough from you, Illusion Leith. However, you are permitted to use that term when coming home from work early.”
Now, I’m dodging her pillow. “Ye gotta have principles, hen. Somebampotcomes to the door in the wee hours of the morning—”
“It’s probably past eleven. Please stop being so infuriating, baby.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.” She rolls over, face down,arsein the air. Now, I’m wide awake. I reach for one of her fluffy missiles and slaughter thatarsereal quick.
“Hey!” Chevelle gasps on air.
“Just giving ye back yer pillow, hen.”
“I’ll remember that,” I can hear her saying as I exit the bedroom. Out of the windows to the west, I can see colorful dots along the choppy surf. Surfers catch the morning waves. The doorbell rings again, just as I near it.
Upon pulling the door open, I glare at the lad in a courier suit and cap. He asks for my signature, and I’m astonished when he says for me to sign for the car.
“What the bloody . . .” I stalk past theeejitacross the fragmented stone. On the street is a sixteen-wheeler, with dream cars, mine included. My custom paint job, my rims, my precious!
“Can you sign here?”
I sign for the car. The courier goes to the truck's cab, does a few tricks, and the ramp lowers. A few minutes later, my car is on the street.
“Oh, and Mr. MacKenzie, Mr. Yates said to give you one quick message.” He pulls an envelope from a clipboard and hands it over.
“I’m not tipping ye.” I flick my wrist, shooing him away. Upon opening the paper, I see a short statement scrawled across the page.
Thank me.
The cockyfeckereven included a cellphone number. In the house, I head to the kitchen and into the pantry, where my lassie goes to sneak fruit loops. Crumbs on the otherwise spotless marble floor indicate how she’s been here recently. I pull my cell phone out to ring Yates. Presuming the phone number I’m calling is his—and not smoke and mirrors as it had been—I decide that I should use a burner app. It’s a little handier than blocking my cellphone number. I’ll leave a vague message. The bastard’ll know it’s me.
This time my voice grows steely as I snarl, “Ye’re not gonna bloodyfeckin’answer me. What’s the meaning of these moves? Huh? Show how big yerbawsare? My wife didna—” I clamp my mouth, fuming.
Okay, Leith, why would ye mention Chevelle? Aye, to show yerbawsare clipped!
Sounding more professional, I continue. “We both know what ye’re up to. I’m not recruitable. Ifeckin’quit!”
Stepping out of the pantry, I roll my taut shoulders around. I quit, and he’s bloodyfeckin’deid! Exhaling deep, I smile revitalized. I can’t go around saying he’s deid, so my new mantra is I quit.
I move around the kitchen. I put sausages in the oven and start cutting tatties for hash browns. As I mix pancake batter, I mumble, “I quit,” ever so often. Theshitefeels good.
“My husband’s not a quitter,” Chevelle says. When I turn around, she’s leaning against the wall. “You were seventeen when you butt dialed me—”
“I didna butt dial ye.”
“Okay, called me drunk during my shift at Taco Bell, harping about how ‘I’m nae quitter’ as you and Brody drank each other under the table with whiskey from the throes of the all-powerful, great loch—”
I cut in and correct her about the auld drinking fable.