Page 3 of Everything You Hate
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck me sideways,” it repeats, and then adds, “Son of a bitch. Abort, abort!”
I stare at it. The parrot stares back unblinkingly.
“Your owner is an asshole,” I inform it.
The parrot considers this, head cocked. “Not dead yet,” it says, then lets out a sound very much like the ferry’s horn.
I exhale a slow breath and drag my suitcase back outside. He’s still there, leaning against a piling now, watching me with that same infuriating smirk.
“Dockside Doug,” I say when I reach him. “Very funny.”
“You wanted the harbormaster. He’s the harbormaster.”
“He’s a dog.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s unconscious.”
“It’s how he prefers to spend his working hours.” He pushes off the piling and stands to his full height, which is considerable. The way he scans me makes me feel like he’s taking inventory, and the slight curl to his lip tells me he’s found the tally wanting. “You’re the reporter the Merricks invited. Scarlett Crawford.”
Not a question. His tone makes it sound like a disgusting diagnosis.
“That’s me.” I keep the smile in place. “And you are...?”
“Nobody you need to worry about.” He steps closer, and I catch the scent of salt water and diesel on his still-wet clothes. “This is a new low for Malcolm Merrick. Bringing a disgraced morning show personality with eight million Instagram followers to spread his version of history.”
Disgraced.
So he’s seen it.
Of course he has.
Everyone has.
The clip has eighteen million views and counting, and not one of those people knows that the woman screaming into a camera wasn’t actually an entitled bitch losing it over a coffee order.
No, she was a woman drowning, and nobody bothered to throw her a life vest. Instead, they filmed it and plastered it all over social media.
But I don’t say that. I keep smiling. I’ve gotten very fucking good at smiling through the hard things. “You’ve done your research.”
“I watch the news.” His gaze stays on my face. “We do have Wi-Fi out here. Sometimes.”
Behind him, the parrot has apparently decided to follow us outside. It swoops down from the office roof and lands on a nearby piling with a flutter of green wings.
“Fuck me sideways,” it announces to the harbor at large.
He turns and points at the bird. “Cap. Inside.”
“Abort, abort, son of a bitch!” the parrot replies cheerfully.
“Inside. Now.”
The parrot gives me a long, considering look, then launches itself back toward the office with what I can only describe as avian sarcasm.
“Your bird has a mouth on him,” I say.
