Page 126 of Studs Up
“Not nearly as much as I love you.”
He picked up the book again and read another page.
“This book is fucking weird,” he said.
“It’s Chuck Palahnuik, honey,” I mumbled. “You should probably put it down.” He did. Folding the book closed and tossing it on the coffee table. He wrapped his arms around me instead and we laid like that for a long time, watching the snow fall.
Nolan
I think if I ever had to work inside a building I’d jump off a bridge. There was something so unnatural about it. It was all awful. The building was void of personality; no one looked like they were happy to be there, and the harsh lights cast them all in a sickly glow.
The training center had every inch covered in Guardian colors, history, and banners.
Holden’s home was warm, intimate and calming. My place had a plant now, so at least I had that going for me.
The bland walls and thoughtless decor rubbed me the wrong way. But my thoughts on redecorating wasn’t why I was impatiently waiting in the Seattle Police Department’s lobby.
The minute I got back into cell service after a painful goodbye, I placed two calls. The first was to an old friend and my last hope at a path forward. The second call was my hope for the future.
I got looks. Some people recognized me, and others kept an eye on my surly gaze.
From behind a set of double doors, Ethen Spencer emerged.
“Wow,” Ethan grinned. “Nolan Fucking Reed.” He stuck his hand out and I shook it.
We hadn’t played together in seven years but he looked just the same. Kept his fitness and filled out a button up shirt and suit pants nicely. He had one of those short cop hair styles that made him look like he had his shit together. “Good to see you.”
Was it though? Ethan was one of the few people who put up with me in our teens, so I guess he was considered a friend. Ma always liked him and kept in touch.
“Yeah,” I played nice. “Got a private place we can talk?”
“Sure,” he waved me to follow him through the halls and into a room with a long conference table. It was just as ugly as the rest of the place.
A print of the police officer at the donut shop by Norman Rockwell hung on a wall and there was a fake wood bookcase filled with thick ugly binders labeled with numbers that meant nothing to me. The walls were beige and the florescent lights were harsh. It was all shit.
I would rather play in a thousand rain storms than work in a place like this.
He offered me the seat at the head of the table and took the one next to me.
“You’re having a fucking season,” he smiled and rested his ankle on his knee.
“Yeah,” I nodded. I was.
“Brought my boys to the Sin City game,” he grinned. We won that game three zero.
“Boys?”
“Yeah,” he got excited and pulled out his phone to show me a picture of him and his boys, four and two, at the game. They looked like miniature versions of him.
“They play?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he tucked his phone away. “I Coach. It’s not anything like us growing up. They just play for fun.”
“Good for them.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I have a hypothetical,” I said.
