Marital Bitch (Men with Badges) - By Jc Emery Page 0,37
it.”
“So, let me get this straight—,” Vicky chuckles, “your wife is being nice to you and it’s freaking you out?”
“Yeah?” I exclaim, happy that she’s getting it. “It’s like… I wanted Colleen for so long and now that I’ve kind of trapped her… and she’s being nice to me… it feels wrong. Like, unless she’s bitching at me, it doesn’t feel real.” I take a deep breath in an attempt to stop the verbal diarrhea that I’m spewing, but it doesn’t work.
“It’s just wrong. She isn’t doing it for me, you know? She’s just happy to play house and it’s really screwing with my head,” I say. I wait for Vicky’s response for a few moments before opening my eye to find her silently laughing her ass off.
“Go ahead and laugh. Do you know how many times I listened to you bitch about Joanne?” I remember back when Vicky had just met Joanne and it was all this girly bullshit of ‘do you think she likes me?’ and ‘what if she has a girlfriend?’ God, if I ever sound like that, I’ll ask James to shoot me with my own damn gun.
“Yeah, but at least I have a vagina—you, Sir, just sound like one.” She sticks her tongue out and waves me off. Disgruntled, I head back to the squad room. I have to talk to the Chief and my dad about the case, anyway.
MY STOMACH IS grumbling and all I want to do is to fall asleep eating a chicken wing. I know it sounds gross, but you just gotta have a plate nearby so you don’t get grease in the bed. I learned that the hard way.
“We should break for lunch,” James says, putting an end to my thoughts of a chicken wing nap. I nod and look to the Chief and my dad who are flanking us, as we brief them on the dead Pro down on East Broadway.
When I look up, I see Colleen standing before me. She’s beautiful. Absolutely stunning. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and an old Red Sox t-shirt. Her long blonde hair is down. It’s wavy—not straightened as she usually does it for work—but I like it better this way. She’s not wearing any make-up with the exception of a colored chap stick that makes her lips look really pink.
The weight of the day hangs on my shoulders and I can’t muster much of a smile. I do the only thing that I can bring myself to in this moment. I walk across the desk and hug her for dear life. Sometimes this job gets to me. It freaks me the hell out. I have nephews and nieces and sisters, a mom, and now… a wife. My wife has always been my pretty girl, but this is much more official. It’s more real. I’m responsible for her as much as I have always been. But this is different.
I don’t always sleep well—knowing what’s out there. I’ve busted enough people that someone is bound to be out there, aching for revenge. The thought sickens me, so I hold onto my pretty girl even tighter. I just need to know that she’s here and she’s safe.
“What’re you doing here, pretty girl?” I ask, hoping everything is okay. She pulls away from me and for the first time I see that she brought a basket with her. It looks like something Yogi took on a picnic or some junk. I wouldn’t know, I don’t picnic.
“I made you cookies,” she says. I kiss her forehead and look to the ceiling to buy myself a moment. My girl can’t cook and she sure as hell don’t bake, either; but it’s damn cute of her to try. “You should look in the basket,” she whispers.
I start reach in and pull out an old Tupperware container. It looks beaten up from much use, but I don’t own anything like it and neither does she. I packed up all her kitchen shit personally. So, now I know she didn’t bake these cookies. On the plus side, that means they’re probably safe to eat.
James’s big hands grab for the container of cookies as I pull out a DVD copy of “The Notebook,” before quickly sticking it back in the basket and at the bottom is a box of tissues. And suddenly, the past week makes sense—I think. I don’t want to think Colleen’s such a bitch that she would try to tell everyone about ‘The Notebook Incident of 2004’,