1 Who, What, Where, When, Die Read online

  I yelped and fell backward on the couch, my heart pounding. My phone was in my hand and I was about to hit Jake's number when I realized I recognized the face -- and it wasn't necessarily one that filled me with terror.

  I slowly got off the couch and threw open the door in anger. Lando Skywalker was standing sheepishly outside. I noticed he was wearing parachute pants and a blue cape. Guess he was getting ready to go to Bespin.

  "Dude, what's your deal!"

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I saw through your window that you were watching Empire and I didn't want to disturb you until after Han was encased in carbonite." Well, that was considerate.

  "That doesn't explain what you're doing here."

  "Oh, um, I just wanted to apologize for the toilet paper thing and then the scaring you so you had to bash my head in thing, so I thought I'd bring you a present." He handed me a large Star Wars birthday bag.

  I took it warily. As I glanced inside I couldn't help but be thrilled. It was the cutest stuffed Yoda I'd ever seen in my life.

  Lando saw my smile. "You like him."

  Do I like him? He's only the best Jedi Knight ever. "He's okay."

  "Good, I was worried you were too old for stuffed toys." Never.

  "Seriously, you didn't have to do this for me."

  "No, it's okay. I wanted you to have him." Lando was quiet for a second. "We're all even now right? You're not going to whack me with anything?" Maybe just a rolled up newspaper. Lando reminded me of a chastised puppy for some reason.

  "No, we're good."

  That night, after Lando left and I'd settled down to sleep with Yoda, I couldn't help but smile. Lando really wasn't such a bad guy, despite the fact that only a complete loser would change his name to Lando.

  The next morning I woke up with a smile for the first time in at least a week. I silently thanked Yoda and got ready for work. In an attempt to not infuriate my boss for a change, I put on a plain white shirt and sensible black Capris. I topped them off with my loud Star Wars shoes (they light up). Hey, Fish wouldn't be looking at my feet.

  When I arrived at work, I was surprised to see Marvin in early.

  "What's up bonehead?"

  He shook his head when he saw my shoes. "Are you trying to give Fish an aneurysm?" No. Well, maybe.

  "Why are you in so early?"

  "I'm only working half a day. I'm going to an AA meeting tonight."

  This surprised me. Marvin had the alcohol tolerance of a 100-pound woman. I mean, the guy drinks two amarettos on the rocks and he's toasted. I raised my eyebrow in a silent question.

  "It's a good place to meet women."

  Ah, well that explains it. Marvin is one of those guys who likes to swoop in and rescue women. If anyone needed rescuing, it was these women.

  "What happened to that waitress you were seeing?" Marvin also likes women in the service industry. He's a complicated guy.

  "Her husband came home."

  "That's never stopped you before." Well, it hadn't.

  "He was Albanian." Yikes.

  "And you still have your head?"

  "Barely."

  Seemed reasonable enough to me. "So, what's going on?"

  "I've been thinking about the guy that tried to hit you."

  "What about him?" It was sweet Marvin was concerned.

  "I don't think he was trying to actually hit you."

  "Why?"

  "I think it was probably just an Asian." Oh, he's going somewhere with this.

  "An Asian?"

  "Yeah, everyone knows that Asian people can't drive."

  "That's an urban legend, you know."

  "No it's not. I've seen it. Asian people, black people, old people and women shouldn't be allowed to drive."

  "And this is because?"

  "They can't."

  Arguing with Marvin is pretty circular at times -- and it gets you nowhere. I decided not to point out the three accidents he'd already had this year. It would just lead to a big blow up, and I really wasn't in the mood.

  "Where's Fish?"

  "He's out for the day," Marvin replied. He'd already lost interest in his misogynistic driving rant. Sometimes I think he has ADD. "He left you a feature story about some woman who's losing her house, though."

  Ugh. A sad sack story. Another shot to the heart.

  I picked up the note that Fish had left me and grimaced. He'd already set up the interview for an hour from now. I guess he knew, if left to my own devices, I would have found just about any story -- even if I had to run someone over myself -- to avoid another tearjerker.

  The woman's named was Kathy Harrison and she lived in Eastpointe. She was a single mother with two kids and she was losing her house in a week. I could only hope that the children wouldn't be home. Nothing derails an interview faster than kids.

  When I arrived at the Harrison home, I noted that it was about three blocks away from where the barricaded gunman had been last week. Another rundown neighborhood on a rundown street. From the looks of the outside of the house, with its sagging front porch and falling gutters, I wasn't going to be any more comfortable on the inside of it.

  Better get it over with.

  I walked to the front door and knocked with a purpose. If I kept things on track I could be out of here in about forty-five minutes.

  I saw the door open a crack, and a small woman with sad brown eyes and huge bags under them opened the door. This must be Kathy Harrison.

  I introduced myself and the woman let me in. I took note that the few meager possessions housed in the building were mostly boxed up.

  Kathy Harrison looked at me with an expression that seemed beyond her thirty years. She looked like an old woman.

  "So, Ms. Harrison, tell me about yourself." I'd gotten as comfortable as I could on the lumpy futon, which I had a sneaking suspicion was also her bed.

  She seemed nervous. "I don't know what to tell. This was actually my brother's idea. He thought if we put pressure on the bank they wouldn't take the house." Fat chance. "You know, public pressure and all."

  "Well, why don't you tell me what happened."

  Seems Kathy Harrison lost her job at an area supermarket. Then her husband lost his job at the county -- and apparently his mind. Last week, after moving to an apartment complex a few streets over, he'd handled his job loss by barricading himself in his apartment naked.

  Crap.

  "You wrote the story, I think." Kathy Harrison's voice was sad and small. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her, especially when I pictured that huge hairy man lying on top of her.

  I didn't really know what to say.

  "I keep asking the bank if they can just give me an extension until I can get a job," she explained. "I don't think it's too much to ask. I just don't want my children to be homeless."

  Looking around at the bleak surroundings, I couldn't help but wonder how much worse a homeless shelter would be.

  After listening to the woes of Kathy Harrison for another half an hour, and they were many, I was pretty much done with the interview. That's when the front door opened behind me. I turned around, expecting to see one or two filthy children. Instead, I saw Rob Jones.

  "Mr. Jones." What was he doing here?

  "Oh, you two know each other?" Kathy seemed relieved. "Rob is my brother. He's been helping me pack up."

  Small world.

  "Yeah, I met Rob the other day at the county building." No sense in telling her he'd thrown water all over me.

  "Rob is very upset about all of this. He's been a lifesaver. I don't know what I'd do without him."

  "Good luck getting Ms. Shaw here to care," Rob fired back. "Maybe if you were wearing Ed Hardy shoes."

  Asshat.

  I stood up, extended my hand to Kathy Harrison, and promised her the story would run in the next few days. With a feature, you never give a hard deadline because they're the first thing to get bumped when something breaks.

  "I'm sure you'll research this story with as much dilige
nce as you did the water story and my brother-in-law's legal troubles."

  I was pretty sure he was being sarcastic. The problem is, sarcasm is often wasted on me. "You can bet I will," I replied brightly.

  Kathy saw me out of the house and seemed genuinely hopeful I could do something for her. I decided that I really wanted to. It wasn't her fault her husband was a nudist and her brother was a jerk.

  Nineteen

  After filing my story, which I spent a good two hours on, I was depressed. I see a lot of hardship in this line of work -- don't get me wrong, I see a lot of hilarious stuff, too -- but Kathy Harrison's plight had made me feel bad.

  Here was this woman, raising two kids on her own, with an estranged husband who liked to run around naked with a gun.

  All I had was a stalker.

  The one thing I thought would make me feel better was a movie. I drove to the local Cineplex and checked the show times. Good news, the new zombie flick started in twenty minutes. Perfect timing.

  Most single women would never go to a movie by themselves. I didn't have this problem. I actually prefer to go to movies by myself. Plus, I didn't know anyone that liked horror and slasher films as much as I did.

  I stopped by the concession stand on my way in. I'm not a popcorn eater, but I do love my candy, even when it costs five bucks for a small bag. I'd decided on the Sour Patch Kids and a diet pop (hey, I don't want to get fat) when I felt someone move in behind me. I hate it when people invade my personal space.

  I turned and came face to face with Eliot.

  "What, do you have me lojacked or something?"

  Eliot didn't seem deterred. "No, I didn't know you'd be here. I was just coming to see a movie."

  I looked behind him, almost dreading to see whatever bimbo he'd brought to paw in the dark. There was no one there.

  "Who did you come with?"

  "Myself. And you?"

  I don't mind going to the movies by myself. I wasn't sure I wanted to admit that to Eliot, though. He seemed to already know the answer.

  "What are you seeing?"

  I told him and he merely nodded. "That's what I'm seeing, too. I'm sure it won't be as good as Romero's stuff, but I'll watch it anyway."

  Okay, in addition to being hot, he was a fan of George Romero. Could he be any more perfect?

  I watched Eliot get a bottle of water and waited for him to order a snack. He didn't.

  "Aren't you getting anything to eat?"

  "Do you know how much fat is in movie popcorn?" Oh, he's one of those people.

  "No, and I don't care." I subtlety tried to hide my Sour Patch Kids in my purse. He noticed.

  We made our way into the theater. I wasn't sure if we were sitting together, or just going to the same place. Apparently we were sitting together. He led me to the middle of the theater and sat down and opened his bottle of water.

  Since he'd already seen the snack, there was no way I wasn't going to eat it. I started munching on the sour-filled greatness.

  "So what did you do today? Any big stories?"

  I told him about Kathy Harrison. He didn't seem all that sympathetic. "Sounds rough."

  "Yeah, you look real broken up about it."

  "There's a lot of human suffering in the world. I can only get worked up about my own."

  Something told me that Eliot didn't suffer a lot.

  We avoided heavy talk after that, mostly chatting about the recent spate of horror remakes and how awful they truly were. We both agreed that Halloween, Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street were the absolute worst while Dawn of the Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre were the best before the movie started.

  As I sat in the dark theater next to Eliot, I couldn’t help but wonder if he'd try to make a move on me. When I found myself wishing that he would, I silently cursed myself. It was like I was in heat or something.

  I tried to focus on the movie and not on Eliot's bulging biceps, but I wasn't having a lot of luck. There were zombies eating people's brains on the screen and all I could think about was Eliot's arms and what they'd feel like around me.

  Finally my mind began to wander. Unfortunately, it was to what Eliot looked like naked. The movie seemed to last for ten years. When it was finally over, I was relieved.

  Eliot walked me out to my car and we both stood there awkwardly for a minute. I found myself trying to prolong our time together.

  "So, that was crap."

  "Yeah, it really was."

  "And not good crap like People Under the Stairs."

  Eliot laughed. "I hated that movie."

  "Yeah, but that's one of those movies that's so bad it's good."

  Eliot conceded the point. "Like Black Xmas," he said with a laugh. "There's something hilariously wrong -- but in a good way -- about a little yellow guy climbing between the walls."

  We both paused in an uncomfortable silence.

  Eliot broke the silence first. "Do you want me to follow you home?" Yes.

  "No, I'll be fine."

  "Well, I'll feel better making sure you get there in one piece." I knew something that would make us both feel better.

  "Well, sure."

  We both got in our cars and drove to my house. The whole way there I was mentally cracking my knuckles -- and sweating my ass off. Why did he have to be so fricking hot?

  When we got to the house, Eliot angled out of his pickup truck and walked with me to the front door. This was it.

  I unlocked the door and turned around. I fully intended to shake his hand and send him on his merry way. No, really I did. He leaned forward and pushed the door open behind me and walked into my house.

  Uh-oh.

  I turned on the light and saw Eliot look around with just a hint of an amused grin. I guess you could say I'm something of a theme decorator. The living room is pretty basic, with nature scene paintings and a huge entertainment center that housed four video game systems and my DVR.

  The dining room, on the other hand, features a dark wood table with Little House on the Prairie-like benches and a matching hutch with bright rooster dishes -- which I never ate off of. The walls were decorated in colorful New Orleans themed decor -- including a Mardi Gras mask.

  "I like this art."

  I liked his butt.

  Eliot moved on to the kitchen, which is decorated in Disney. Floor to ceiling Disney. I even have a Mickey Mouse spoon ladle on the stove and a toaster that burns Mickey's head into the bread while spewing the "It's A Small World" theme song when the toast pos up.

  Eliot didn't seem impressed. Instead, he moved back through the dining room and took a gander at my office.

  This brought a smile to his face.

  As something of a pack rat and book lover, I'd converted one whole wall into a bookcase by stacking wooden crates at odd angles and putting all of my Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter and Incredible Hulk (Bixby, not Bana or Norton) memorabilia in the crates. I'd also covered the overhead light with a large Star Wars flag that had a skull and crossbones on them -- only the skull was actually a stormtrooper helmet.

  "This is . . . "

  "Cool," I supplied.

  "I was going to say the strangest thing I've ever seen in my life, but sure, I'll go with cool." I saw him staring at in the corner, where my leg lamp from A Christmas Story was proudly displayed.

  "It looks like a movie theater threw up in here."

  Eliot moved back out of the office and towards the hallway that housed my bathroom and bedroom. I unconsciously licked my lips. He was going to go in my bedroom.

  He went in the bathroom first and laughed at the turtle decor. He stopped momentarily in the hallway and looked at the framed playbill from the Buffy The Vampire Slayer: The Musical that was on the wall. At that, he just shook his head.

  The only room left was my bedroom -- and he was heading for it.

  He flicked on the light as he walked in. He seemed surprised at the mundaneness of the room. I'd really never got around to decorating it. After al
l, the only thing I did in here was sleep.

  He turned back towards me and I was practically on his heels. My only instinct was to yelp and jump away. This seemed to amuse him.

  "You're not nervous are you?" Yes.

  "No," I scoffed. "Why would I be nervous?"

  With one stride Eliot was across the room and his tongue was in my mouth. I didn't even have time to think. Maybe I didn't want to think. I responded the way any red-blooded woman would with a hot man in her bedroom. I think I actually started panting.

  I splayed my fingers across his chest -- his very impressive chest -- and as if possessed my hands started making their way down towards his pants.

  His hands were roaming, too. Somehow, without my knowledge, they'd found their way under my shirt. I couldn't seem to muster up the effort to be surprised.

  Eliot moved me towards the bed, pushing me to a sitting position. He stripped off his shirt as he came towards me. God, he looked even better shirtless than I imagined. His chest was decorated with a smattering of hair. Good, no manscaping, but he also wasn't an ape.

  Before I knew it his tongue was in my mouth again. I found I'd missed it.

  "Where are your condoms?" His voice was ragged. It took me a minute to register that he was talking to me.

  "I don't have any."

  He stopped and looked at me with frustration.

  "Don't you have one in your wallet?" I never thought I could sound so pathetic.

  "I'm not in high school, I don't generally carry them around. I keep them in the bathroom, like a normal grown-up."

  "There's a Wallgreens across the road," I offered helpfully.

  Eliot stood up and regarded me silently. In that moment, we both knew that by the time he got back I'd have locked the door and barricaded myself in. I think we'd both come to our senses.

  Eliot pulled his shirt back over his head, defeated.

  I walked him back to the front door. Part of me was relieved. The other part of me was still ridiculously turned on. I wanted to ask him to stay. Instead, I lamely said goodbye.

  Eliot seemed amused again. That wasn't the reaction I was secretly hoping for.