The Helena Diaries - Trouble in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law Series Novellas) by Jana DeLeon Page A
Authors: Jana DeLeon
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tired of being relegated to the back of vehicles and the outside of buildings. I know I’m invisible, but everyone doesn’t have to treat me as such.
I didn’t even bother changing clothes until I got inside the fleabag motel. I figured it would be a whole other argument, and that exorcist comment still lingered in the back of my mind. As soon as I stepped into the lobby of the motel, however, it was on!
I concentrated on Rambo, and the jeans, T-shirt, and Nikes disappeared and were replaced by camo pants and shirt, and hiking boots. I attempted black lines on my face, but as I couldn’t see my reflection, I had no way of knowing if I’d accomplished them. Either way—I looked good!
The desk clerk was face-first on the desk, sleeping off a hangover from the smell of him. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have been any use to me awake, so I stepped behind him and checked the board for Harold’s name. Sure enough, the loser was in one of the second-floor units.
I headed upstairs, feeling slightly nauseous about what I might see when I walked into Harold’s room. God knows, I’d seen things this week that had disgusted me, and a couple that I hadn’t even known could be done, but that was all other people.
Harold was my husband.
No, I didn’t love him. Was certain I never had, but he was still the single biggest embarrassment of my life. Hank was second. I’d been a stellar businesswoman, but had made a horrible choice for a husband and had raised a son who took more after his father than me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so rigid over the money. All those years ago, I should have written Harold a check and gotten rid of him when I was still young enough to start over.
That option was long gone now.
I paused in front of Harold’s room and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever might be on the other side. Then I clenched my eyes shut and walked through the door.
I stood there for several seconds, listening for the sounds that might indicate a sight I didn’t want to see, but all I heard was the television. I opened one eye and there he was—Harold in all his glory.
He looked like Al Bundy, sitting on the bed in his underwear, one hand clutching the remote and the other scratching his balls. I blanched. Thank God I’d kicked him out of the master bedroom decades ago. Who the hell could get a decent night’s sleep looking at that before bedtime?
I checked the clock on the nightstand, and realized I’d only entered the motel two minutes before. I hoped Maryse didn’t wait too long to prompt Wheeler. I had no desire to stand around watching Harold and his ball-scratching adventures for any longer than necessary.
I glanced at a chair in the corner, thinking I could take a load off, but the thing was covered with stains so questionable that I didn’t even think it was safe for a dead person to sit on. I moved to the middle of the room, trying not to pass through anything as I went.
It seemed like forever before the phone rang. Harold leaned over to reach for it and parts of him I never wanted to see again fell out of the boxers. I’ll just go ahead and admit it—I screamed like a little girl.
Harold grumbled on the phone and I could see his smile getting wider by the second. Maryse’s plan was working. He slammed the phone down and immediately lifted it again and dialed. He barked out Hank’s name and told him they had to meet right away, then he jumped up from the bed.
And his boxers ripped right in two and fell to the floor.
I screamed again and ran for the exterior wall, diving for the ground below as if I were jumping into the ocean. I hit the ground with a thud, but managed to remember to tuck and roll. I think Rambo would have been proud. Unfortunately, I had too much momentum—and not enough coordination—to bounce up and keep running like they do in the movies. Instead, I kept rolling across the dirt lawn like a tumbleweed until I finally
I didn’t even bother changing clothes until I got inside the fleabag motel. I figured it would be a whole other argument, and that exorcist comment still lingered in the back of my mind. As soon as I stepped into the lobby of the motel, however, it was on!
I concentrated on Rambo, and the jeans, T-shirt, and Nikes disappeared and were replaced by camo pants and shirt, and hiking boots. I attempted black lines on my face, but as I couldn’t see my reflection, I had no way of knowing if I’d accomplished them. Either way—I looked good!
The desk clerk was face-first on the desk, sleeping off a hangover from the smell of him. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have been any use to me awake, so I stepped behind him and checked the board for Harold’s name. Sure enough, the loser was in one of the second-floor units.
I headed upstairs, feeling slightly nauseous about what I might see when I walked into Harold’s room. God knows, I’d seen things this week that had disgusted me, and a couple that I hadn’t even known could be done, but that was all other people.
Harold was my husband.
No, I didn’t love him. Was certain I never had, but he was still the single biggest embarrassment of my life. Hank was second. I’d been a stellar businesswoman, but had made a horrible choice for a husband and had raised a son who took more after his father than me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so rigid over the money. All those years ago, I should have written Harold a check and gotten rid of him when I was still young enough to start over.
That option was long gone now.
I paused in front of Harold’s room and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever might be on the other side. Then I clenched my eyes shut and walked through the door.
I stood there for several seconds, listening for the sounds that might indicate a sight I didn’t want to see, but all I heard was the television. I opened one eye and there he was—Harold in all his glory.
He looked like Al Bundy, sitting on the bed in his underwear, one hand clutching the remote and the other scratching his balls. I blanched. Thank God I’d kicked him out of the master bedroom decades ago. Who the hell could get a decent night’s sleep looking at that before bedtime?
I checked the clock on the nightstand, and realized I’d only entered the motel two minutes before. I hoped Maryse didn’t wait too long to prompt Wheeler. I had no desire to stand around watching Harold and his ball-scratching adventures for any longer than necessary.
I glanced at a chair in the corner, thinking I could take a load off, but the thing was covered with stains so questionable that I didn’t even think it was safe for a dead person to sit on. I moved to the middle of the room, trying not to pass through anything as I went.
It seemed like forever before the phone rang. Harold leaned over to reach for it and parts of him I never wanted to see again fell out of the boxers. I’ll just go ahead and admit it—I screamed like a little girl.
Harold grumbled on the phone and I could see his smile getting wider by the second. Maryse’s plan was working. He slammed the phone down and immediately lifted it again and dialed. He barked out Hank’s name and told him they had to meet right away, then he jumped up from the bed.
And his boxers ripped right in two and fell to the floor.
I screamed again and ran for the exterior wall, diving for the ground below as if I were jumping into the ocean. I hit the ground with a thud, but managed to remember to tuck and roll. I think Rambo would have been proud. Unfortunately, I had too much momentum—and not enough coordination—to bounce up and keep running like they do in the movies. Instead, I kept rolling across the dirt lawn like a tumbleweed until I finally
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