Page 9 of Bulletproof

He was speechless as I turned away, squinting at the walls.

“Wait.”

I returned my focus to him.

“You—”

“Hold that thought,” I ordered, leaving his bedroom, wrinkling my nose like something smelled.

“What?”

I scowled at him. “We talked about that word.”

His frustrated huff of breath was loud. “Just—why do you appear so disappointed?”

“Again, all this,” I said absently, taking in for the second time now the giant spool being used as a coffee table. I’d thought maybe the first time I was just seeing things. But it was there, big as life, smack-dab in the middle of his living room. “Who knew you could still even get one of those?”

“I—”

“I need a picture,” I said, snapping the photo, framing it so Wade could see all the wasted space in the room. “Wade’s gonna pull something, laughing.”

“Mr. Har⁠—”

“Jory,” I reminded him for what felt like the tenth time, leaving him alone so I could check one of the four unused bedrooms.

It was full of sports equipment and athletic shoes. It smelled like wet dog.

The second bedroom was the one for guests. If you were a parolee, and missing prison, you might feel right at home. Stark was an understatement. The third bedroom was being used as an office, and in there, horribly, there were mirrors on the closet doors that didn’t fit and were cut in sort of squiggle shapes. I could not articulate my disgust.

I took a picture for Wade so he could experience the travesty himself.

I went to the kitchen, pulled out my laptop, and started uploading all the pictures I had taken. I sent them all to Wade and got a call back in five minutes. It was a new record.

“Hello, devil,” he greeted me. “I didn’t know they had reception in hell.”

I chuckled at the cool, cultured voice giving me sarcasm. “Oh, but they do.”

“Seriously,” he said, coughing, “I thought you were screwing with me with the plant hanger, trying to get me to laugh because I’m stuck here, working on a Saturday, instead of antique shopping with my man, but now I gotta ask … am I actually looking at a beanbag chair?”

“You’re fulla shit. Antique shopping, my ass. Whaddya really shop for?”

Beats of silence went by.

“Wade.”

“So, I’m in the market for a motorcycle. So what?”

I scoffed.

“Don’t tell anyone. All I’ll hear about is a fuckin’ midlife crisis that I’m not having.”

“Okay,” I assured him, “not a word.”

He grunted. “Now, seriously … is that really a beanbag chair?”

“His friend’s kids like it,” I said cheerfully.

“Super. Let’s get something cool for them, like a trampoline with netting for the backyard. The kids will love it, and it won’t be an eyesore in the man’s house. God, it’s lime green too.”