Valentine's Day Is Killing Me by Mary Janice Davidson, Susanna Carr, Leslie Esdaile Page B
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shall have roses…to show them heifers on the job the next day,” she added with a wink, and then changed her voice to the around-the-way patois designed to make them all hoot with laughter. “’Cause we ain’t all metaphysical, now—sometimes ya gotta pull your blade, ladies.”
Laughter rang out as the plan became manifest. High-fives passed as high-calorie dessert was ordered to seal the pact.
“Who’s in?” Jocelyn asked, not needing to. Four friends simply giggled at their own mischief and hugged each other hard.
Chapter Two
This was precisely why he didn’t do Valentine’s Day. Drama. People were crazy.
Detective Mayfield cast a disgusted glance around The Round House. Police headquarters was bustling with a spike in the number of arrests. It was already starting, and it was only the day before what he called “the night of insanity.” He knew that Valentine’s Day eve drew out the crazies just like a full moon did. Domestic violence would be up, as spouses accused each other of infidelity. Stabbings, murders, jilted lovers putting bodies in ditches, bar fights, street brawls when two suitors came knocking at the same door.
Ladies’ room incidents would be at an all-time high, cat fights in clubs, babies’ mommas rolling up on their ex-men, firing off rounds. Hostages taken by ex-husbands suddenly wanting their families back—and ready to die trying, suicide watches, students walking on the ledges of building, unable to deal with failing exams and losing the loves of their lives on this night of all nights. Cars left running in sealed garages as midlife crises made normally reasonable men snap and inhale fumes. Illegal pharmacists would be working overtime to supply Ecstasy, barbs, or whatever people needed to get on, to stanch the pain.
The working girls would be serving single males all night long, and college frats would employ them at group rates rather than individually buy a bunch of freakin’ roses for some co-ed. Go figure.
See, this is why he’d told his boys he’d work the overtime, and would rather get paid than get laid, if it had to be all of that. This pending Valentine’s Day was killing him.
Raymond Mayfield kept walking through the station, just shaking his head. He didn’t do romance, for this very reason. It was ludicrous. In fact, he’d sworn off the whole enterprise since last year. Women were treacherous; he’d seen enough on the vice beat to know that. Had personal experience in getting burned—and burned badly, too. All he’d needed to see was what he saw—his old girlfriend hugged up at a movie when she’d claimed having the flu. He was done. That was it. Real estate was a better option.
So, he’d just keep on buying buildings to rehab, creating a nice sideline income. This was just a job. How he’d made detective was a sheer case of being in the right place at the right time, he was so sure. He was next in line, had a stellar record, never missed a day at work—sometimes it was better to be lucky than good. He hadn’t done bad for himself at thirty-five, being all by himself; no wife, no kids, no drama. One day he might even be able to quit the day gig and focus on watching economic trends and his paper moving on the stock market. But, for now, he’d committed to a double shift tomorrow night when temporary insanity would rock the city.
When his cell phone vibrated on his hip, he already had a pretty good idea of who it might be. He stared at the number and just sighed.
“Yo, Mayfield,” his buddy Marcus said, laughing. “Listen, I met this chick, and she has a sister—”
“Nope. I’m working.”
“Ray, man, she’s fine.”
“All of the women you tell me about are always fine, dude. I’m working. Unlike you attorneys, my schedule ain’t that flexible.”
“They have you working vice tomorrow night ? Aw, man,” Marcus argued. “That is the night when even your surly ass can get—”
“Man, I told you,” Ray said, becoming
Laughter rang out as the plan became manifest. High-fives passed as high-calorie dessert was ordered to seal the pact.
“Who’s in?” Jocelyn asked, not needing to. Four friends simply giggled at their own mischief and hugged each other hard.
Chapter Two
This was precisely why he didn’t do Valentine’s Day. Drama. People were crazy.
Detective Mayfield cast a disgusted glance around The Round House. Police headquarters was bustling with a spike in the number of arrests. It was already starting, and it was only the day before what he called “the night of insanity.” He knew that Valentine’s Day eve drew out the crazies just like a full moon did. Domestic violence would be up, as spouses accused each other of infidelity. Stabbings, murders, jilted lovers putting bodies in ditches, bar fights, street brawls when two suitors came knocking at the same door.
Ladies’ room incidents would be at an all-time high, cat fights in clubs, babies’ mommas rolling up on their ex-men, firing off rounds. Hostages taken by ex-husbands suddenly wanting their families back—and ready to die trying, suicide watches, students walking on the ledges of building, unable to deal with failing exams and losing the loves of their lives on this night of all nights. Cars left running in sealed garages as midlife crises made normally reasonable men snap and inhale fumes. Illegal pharmacists would be working overtime to supply Ecstasy, barbs, or whatever people needed to get on, to stanch the pain.
The working girls would be serving single males all night long, and college frats would employ them at group rates rather than individually buy a bunch of freakin’ roses for some co-ed. Go figure.
See, this is why he’d told his boys he’d work the overtime, and would rather get paid than get laid, if it had to be all of that. This pending Valentine’s Day was killing him.
Raymond Mayfield kept walking through the station, just shaking his head. He didn’t do romance, for this very reason. It was ludicrous. In fact, he’d sworn off the whole enterprise since last year. Women were treacherous; he’d seen enough on the vice beat to know that. Had personal experience in getting burned—and burned badly, too. All he’d needed to see was what he saw—his old girlfriend hugged up at a movie when she’d claimed having the flu. He was done. That was it. Real estate was a better option.
So, he’d just keep on buying buildings to rehab, creating a nice sideline income. This was just a job. How he’d made detective was a sheer case of being in the right place at the right time, he was so sure. He was next in line, had a stellar record, never missed a day at work—sometimes it was better to be lucky than good. He hadn’t done bad for himself at thirty-five, being all by himself; no wife, no kids, no drama. One day he might even be able to quit the day gig and focus on watching economic trends and his paper moving on the stock market. But, for now, he’d committed to a double shift tomorrow night when temporary insanity would rock the city.
When his cell phone vibrated on his hip, he already had a pretty good idea of who it might be. He stared at the number and just sighed.
“Yo, Mayfield,” his buddy Marcus said, laughing. “Listen, I met this chick, and she has a sister—”
“Nope. I’m working.”
“Ray, man, she’s fine.”
“All of the women you tell me about are always fine, dude. I’m working. Unlike you attorneys, my schedule ain’t that flexible.”
“They have you working vice tomorrow night ? Aw, man,” Marcus argued. “That is the night when even your surly ass can get—”
“Man, I told you,” Ray said, becoming
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