Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

wanted him to leave. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with Jeremy, it’s that the morning had actually been almost okay when I thought about it. He’d come over to comfort me and then we’d had some really good sex. I wanted him to leave because the longer he stayed the more likely he was to screw the whole thing up.

Jeremy came back to the sofa and said, “You know, I miss this place.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

“I miss you, too. That’s just more complicated.” He gave me a look and bit his lip. “Matt, I’ve been thinking about something.”

Here it comes, I thought. He wants to get back together. The sex had been hot, and despite the number of times he’d talked to me about dissolving our domestic partnership, he hadn’t done much to actually make that happen. I didn’t want to get back with him, though. Too much had happened.

“Maybe you shouldn’t--”

“I’ve been thinking you and I should have a three-way with Skye.”

And there it was. He’d manage to screw up the whole thing before he got out the door. “I think you should leave,” I said.

Chapter Eight

I slammed the door behind Jeremy, thrilled he was gone, and saw something I hadn’t noticed before. On the table next to the front door sat a stack of take-out menus. They’d been there since last night; I’d seen them but hadn’t seen them.

The table by the door was teak, about three feet wide and a foot deep. It had two small drawers that opened with wrought iron pulls and a shelf at the bottom where I kept a blown glass vase I’d bought in Pasadena. The table was roughhewn and had cost thirty-five dollars at a garage sale. I threw my change in a Chinese bowl on top and kept take-out menus in the drawers.

The fact that the menus now sat on top of the table meant that Eddie had looked around for them, found them in the drawers, and left them out so we could decide what to order when I got home. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. Something was obviously wrong.

My landline rang. I found the cordless phone and clicked the talk button. It was Tiffany. “Is it true?” she asked.

At first, I thought she was asking about Eddie, but then I had no idea what she was talking about. “Is what true?”

“Charles says you’re applying for jobs…for yourself. I thought you were helping me.” She sounded like a petulant child. I wanted to slap her.

“I did put myself in for a job at Monumental. It’s a VP position, I don’t think they’d consider you, and if I leave then there’s room for you to stay.” I didn’t like being made to feel guilty for thinking about myself and it was making me pissy. “How the hell did Charles find out?”

“Merilee is a wiz with fax machine.”

“Shit.” I should have gone to Kinko’s. “Look, Tiffany, I have to go, all right?”

“Is the interview today? Is that why you’re at home?”

“No, I’m at home because a friend of mine hung himself in my garage,” I said rather meanly.

“Oh crud,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m really losing it over this job thing. Look, don’t worry about me, okay? Do you need anything? Can I do something?”

“No, I’ll be okay.”

After I hung up, I hunted up the coffee Jeremy had brought me. It was in the kitchen, on the butcher’s block next to the microwave where I’d put it down when we started making out. It was also ice cold. I considered nuking it, but reheated coffee always tasted like reheated coffee. I decided to grab a quick shower, pick up a cup of coffee, and head over to the police station. I also promised myself to never have sex with my ex again. It had been a shitty, emotional twenty-four hours, and fucking Jeremy, while undeniable fun in a nasty way, hadn’t helped.

When I was clean again, I grabbed my sunglasses, keys, and wallet, and left the house.

There’s a Coffee Shack on Sunset, but finding a parking place was insane, so I went to the one on Santa Monica that had a drive-through even though it took me out of my way by about a half a mile. Once I’d gotten a very large cup of dark roast, I slipped it into my cup holder and drove over to Wilcox Avenue.

Taking up most of the block, Hollywood Station is housed in a low-slung, brick building with a concrete cap and an enormous parking lot next to it. Out front there’s a standing plastic sign that says POLICE that lights up at night surrounded by rows of freshly planted, spiky, drought-resistant succulents.

The parking lot didn’t look like it was meant for visitors, and even if it was, I didn’t want to wander around a police station looking for a parking validation. It took a couple spins around the block, but I eventually found a spot two blocks away on DeLongpre. The morning was cool and beautiful, the sky a brilliant blue.

At the Wilcox entrance there’s a mini-walk of fame inlaid in the sidewalk. It’s exactly like the one on Hollywood Boulevard, but instead of movie stars the names are cops who died in the line of duty. There’s a plaque on the wall near the front door explaining that.

I asked for Detective Tripp at the reception desk. An officer made a call, and Tripp came out a few minutes later. He wore the same well-tailored suit he had the night before. It was now creased and rumpled. Patchy stubble covered his cheeks, and his eyes were a bit bloodshot. It wasn’t hard to figure out he’d been up all night.

He led me down a corridor to a large room in the back corner of the building. It was a little like the squad rooms on TV, except instead of desks pushed up against each other, it was crammed with too many cubicles. I