Tower: A Novel by Ken Bruen, Reed Farrel Coleman Page B

glow. I brought the glasses over and she had a quilt, covered us and we lay sipping the hooch, drinking the beer and imagining the world was a fine place. She asked
    “What are you thinking about?”
    The answer is always
    “You, hon.”
    I was thinking if Jeff shot me because I took his ex to dinner, what the hell would he do if he knew I’d fucked her?

“He’d never met a cat that could tolerate him. For all he knew, his armpits gave off an unpleasant odour that only those little fuckers could smell.”
    —Allan Guthrie, Two-Way Split
    I WISH I COULD say that after making love, sharing intimacy, we shared a depth, touching each other’s souls and Shannon, she was a woman, she wanted to talk and I did the guy thing.
    I slept.
    Dreamt a beast was stalking me, could feel its breath on my face and came to with a shudder to find a cat, a fucking cat, staring into my eyes. I screamed. The thing took off like, well, I guess, a scalded cat. Shannon was standing at the door, mugs of steaming coffee in her hands, trying not to laugh, said
    “You’ll have met Byron.”
    I tried for some macho poise, not too easy to pull off when you’ve just wailed like a banshee. I blustered
    “The fuck is Byron?”
    She moved over, my Red Sox T-shirt emphasizing her breasts, the logo turned out. Handing me a mug, she said
    “That’s my other darling.”
    My chest hurt, my head ached and the coffee burned my tongue. I said
    “I’m not fond of cats.”
    She wasn’t fazed, said
    “You’re not fond of a lot of stuff, especially your own self.”
    Just a little too deep for me first thing on waking. I asked if I could use the shower, maybe borrow a shirt, Jeff had probably left a pile. She indicated the bathroom, said
    “I ran you a bath, get you all mellowed out.”
    Take more than a freaking tub of hot water but I didn’t share that. The bath was good and if not relaxing, it eased me down a notch. I was going to ask her about Jeff and was stalling. Checked my wound, it was raw, inflamed. My face was puffy, and I badly needed a shave. Came out, wrapped in a towel. Shannon indicated jeans, and an almost-black blue sweat shirt, said
    “The jeans belonged to Jeff and the shirt is my own. And don’t panic, it’s the Yankees.”
    It was.
    Tight fit but snug. Dressed, I felt marginally better and grabbed a cig, fired up, she said
    “Those things will kill you.”
    Seemed an opening so I said
    “Not if Jeff gets there first.”
    Her face took the direct hit, like a serious lash. She moved to the sofa, curled her feet up under her, and focused. That position, I mean, is it comfortable? I always think it’s related to that yoga crap and expect a chant to walk point. She said
    “Jeff has A.M.I.”
    All these abbreviations we have now, to skirt calling anything what it is. It’s like some relation of P.M.S. I stayed standing, smoke curling above my head, like a bad omen, a useless prayer. I asked
    “And that is?”
    “Anger management issues.”
    Was she serious?
    I didn’t ask her but went with
    “Shooting people, seems he’s taking it to the next level.”
    A flash of anger crossed her eyes. Maybe she had some issues herself and she said
    “Don’t be flippant. He’s the father of my child.”
    Gee, like I’d forgotten. I said
    “How about you give me his address? I’ll help him resolve some of his issues.”
    She took a deep breath, said
    “Nicky, I like you, I like you a lot and I think I’m falling for you. But if you go after Jeff, we are done. He’s the father of my child. You hurt him, where does that leave us?”
    Maybe it wasn’t the time to get into it, I said
    “You won’t tell me where he lives. I don’t know what he looks like, so how am I going to do anything?”
    We both let that scenario dance a little then she stood up, said
    “I have to go, pick up Sean. Let me drop you at your apartment.”
    I said no, I’d some stuff to do and we did an awkward hug, Jeff right in there with us.
    Outside, I checked