Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,3
back in the seat, arms across his chest.
“We have the same job,” I said.
“You have a savings account.”
“Twenty-seven dollars,” I said, “before I had to buy you lunch last week.”
“You have a checking account.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Mason stopped, his jaw hanging open, but then he recovered and waved that aside. “And, as a sheriff’s deputy, you have a pension.”
“We have the same pension.”
“You are, by any legal standard, an adult.”
“I’m going to repeat the fact that you are one year older than me.” I brushed at my temple. “And you’ve got a little, you know, gray. It’s just coming in. You’re blond, so it doesn’t matter that much. But just so you know.”
“Look who’s talking,” Mason said. “And presumably one day, some nice guy is going to put a baby inside you.”
“I think that might be homophobic.”
“It’s not, because I fully support you one day having a baby inside you.”
“I still think—”
“And all of this is my way of saying, why are you not a fucking adult yet? You’ve got mustard on your face, and you’ve got an iPod from nineteen-fucking-ninety-seven and a car from nineteen-fucking-nineteen.”
“Ah,” I said, catching the mustard on the corner of my mouth with a thumb. “Bad day.”
I hit Play on the iPod, and whale songs filled the car again as I eased away from the curb.
“No,” Mason said.
I turned up the whale songs. Just a little.
“No, do not dismiss this as a bad day.”
“A little quieter, please. I’m listening to this.”
“Do not ignore what I’m saying just because I had a bad day.”
“So you did have a bad day.”
Mason rolled down the window, and hot, steamy Louisiana-even-in-October air whipped through the car. It smelled like the lake, like wet vegetation, and diesel exhaust. There was also a little of Mason’s cologne, which was probably called something like Bro or Douche, but with an accent mark so it looked French.
“So,” I said. “How was the meeting?”
“I don’t want to talk about the meeting.”
I bumped up the volume of the whale songs.
After we drove another two blocks, Mason punched the radio off.
“I’m an asshole,” he announced.
“You have your moments.”
“I’m a fucking dick munch.”
“You brought me coffee on Friday. That wasn’t a dick munch move.”
“No, I’m a total dick munch. It’s those meetings.” Mason scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That’s a lie; it’s not those meetings. There’s this guy. Elien.” He said the name with playground-level disgust. “He’s such a . . .”
“Dick munch?”
“Yes.” Mason threw his head back, and it bounced off the cloth-covered headrest. “He’s the absolute worst. You should have seen him today.”
Bragg, LA, wasn’t exactly hopping even during rush hour; it was a quiet city, the parish seat of a quiet parish. If you wanted small-city excitement, you could drive over to Covington, in St. Tammany Parish. And if you wanted big-city excitement, you could drive across Lake Pontchartrain and head into New Orleans. Although, in that case, you’d have a high chance of having to deal with tourists, which was kind of like saying you’d have a high chance of having to scrape the shit crust out of a toilet, so it was kind of a toss-up. Traffic was starting to pick up, Cadillacs and Mercedes mixed with Chevys and Pontiacs, some of them almost as old as my Ford Escort. When we got to the next light, the smell of butter and Tony Chachere and shrimp came in from the fry shop on the corner.
“What’d he do?”
“It’s not so much what he did.”
“What’d he say?”
“It wasn’t even what he said.”
“So, what? The way he said it?”
“Never mind. He’s just an asshole, ok? That’s my point.”
“Got it. Asshole. I’ll hate him on sight.”
“Please. You’ll probably fall in love with him. That’s your problem, just so you know. You’re way too desperate. All those pretty gay boys can sense it, and that’s why you’re alone and single and sad.”
I let the car drift right as I rolled my eyes.
“Jesus,” Mason laughed, grabbing the wheel.
“Sorry,” I said. “Stroked out for a minute.”
“This is why I need a new partner.”
“You can’t get a new partner because nobody wants to deal with you.”
“Martinez would work with me.”
“Martinez would eat you alive before lunch.”
“Hey,” Mason said. “Martinez and I get along great.”
“Uh huh.”
“We do.”
“That’s why you begged me to go to his bachelor party.”
“I didn’t beg you.”
“When the absolute last thing I need is to see lady parts bouncing in my face.”
“Lady parts?”
I mimed in front of my chest. “Not interested in any part of that package. Just