Page 6

6

Pig Skirt

A cool breeze blows through the sea glass windchime hanging from the banister of my porch. There’s no sea glass in Dayton. I got it on my trip to the Keys in high school. It’s a subtle reminder that there’s more out there than Dayton. I’ve left this place and could do it again. Right now, I want to pack up my car and hit the road, abandoning my problems and not having to compose this email. It’s just an email. I’ve killed people before, but this task seems more daunting than ripping out a throat.

I sigh, throwing my head back against the porch swing, staring up at the Douglas fir branches shading the front of my single-story craftsman home. I love my place. It’s small but just enough room for a single person. When I bought it five years ago, it could have been a shit hole inside. The porch sold me before even stepping through the door. The inside did actually need a ton of work, but I had help from my pack to clean it up.

Whenever one of the Weres gets close to me or stops by my house, they risk their safety. My identity has never been hidden, while most of them spent their lives hiding their true selves. Sometimes, I pity myself for growing up in so much danger while simultaneously hiding in my brother's shadow, but I always know there’s a threat. I’m never wondering if people will discover me. They have to live, stepping around caution, and yet still, some of them get murdered or kidnapped. It’s a guilt I don’t think will ever leave me, but I hope one day it does, maybe if I can save these girls.

My focus sharpens, and I look back down at my phone. I’ve spent the last half hour just staring at the white block in my email app—the to line already filled out. Fuck it. I type quickly, not rereading before hitting send. Once it’s too late to second-guess myself, I reread.

Brick, can we meet? -Carmen

Perfect. Short, sweet, to the point, and will leave him with a dose of intrigue. Now, I just have to wait until he replies. It’s a Sunday, and it’s his work email I got from the county website, so I mentally prepare myself not to receive anything today. I vow not to continue glancing at my phone and actually get a handle on the clean laundry piles overtaking my room.

My phone dings. It's from him. I click the new notification. His response is even shorter but a lot less sweet. No.

I nearly throw my phone into my front yard. That asshole. Before thinking my fingers move furiously, composing a response. Why? Send.

I expect a quick response this time, but honestly, he’ll probably ghost me. That seems more like him, but the email comes through just a few minutes later.

What is this in relation to? Avoiding my question. Nice.

Don’t think it’s a good idea to disclose through an email that’s public record.

Send someone else.

There is no one else. It seems against the laws of emailing that we’re responding this fast to each other.

I know that’s not true. I think for a moment. He’s right. We could send Grimm, Kilo, or even my brother, but they don’t have tits to distract him with. A thought pops into my head. Why am I so certain that he’d be distracted by tits? Honestly, I pray he’s gay. Then, the task can disappear from my consciousness, and I can throw up my hands and say I tried my best, at least in this aspect. But I have a feeling he isn’t gay. The way he assesses me always leaves me feeling bare. He hates me too much to fuck me, at least as of right now, but I know he’s thought about it. I could get him. Maybe it’s overconfidence. Maybe I’m just intrigued by the challenge. I’m not sure, but I must see this through. So far, I’ve done nothing to help, and this feels like something I can handle—maybe.

I breathe out. If I’m going to get anywhere with this man, I need to smooth things over. He’s never going to fall for my seduction if I continue to reveal my quills.

Okay. You’re right. There are others, but I don’t like how we left things. I want to make amends. My stomach clenches. God, does it feel horrible being even remotely nice to this man.

His response isn’t as fast this time, and my nerves tighten even more. Did someone hack your email?

No, this is Carmen Badson.

Hmm, that sounds like something a hacker would say. Is he being funny? Or does he honestly think my email has been hacked? I reread our messages. No, he’s just being a dick. What’s new?

Well, if I am a hacker, you can arrest me at the police station tomorrow when we meet. Weak response, but he’s not giving me much to work with.

You really want to be put in handcuffs twice this week?

So am I a hacker or Carmen?

Regardless, I could predict the meeting will end up with one of us detained.

My heart races, and an intrusive thought pops into my mind. I type it, hit send, and throw my phone. I stare at the screen on the ground from my porch swing, my knees brought up to my chest, and my fingers clamped by my lips.

It takes a while—forever in fact, but the screen lights up again. I scramble off the bench and grab the phone. Reading the response to my email, which said, Do you like that sort of thing?

This is why we can’t meet. Shit. Time to backpedal. What did I expect him to say? Humor and him are like water and oil.

Oh, God. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, do you enjoy your job? Lie.

Sure. Is that why you want to meet? To ask me about my job satisfaction. That can be an emailed response.

No, that’s not why I want to meet. I’m just trying to be friendly.

I’m starting to actually think you’ve been hacked.

I groan. He’s so annoying, but I can’t deny the tremble in my fingers as I type my response. Why would someone hack me to get to you?

Don’t ask me to explain the logic of a criminal. Ironic, since he’s more than likely behind the disappearance and murders of multiple women. I don’t say this, obviously.

Listen, we can keep going back and forth, or you can agree to meet with me tomorrow afternoon at the station. All I want to do is apologize and explain the reason for my… I can barely type it, unkind behavior.

Idk, this is fun.

I smile unknowingly, shaking my head when I realize. Okay, I’m going to take that as a “Yes, Carmen. I’ll meet with you tomorrow at 4 p.m.”???

He takes a while to respond. I don’t move, staring at my phone. Fine, but no skirts. I reread the message five times. What the fuck is he talking about? No skirts?

I just send back question marks.

Wear pants.

No fucking way is he telling me what to wear. Is that the problem? He hates me because I show up in my little skirts. What a fucking dick?

Why? Because I want to hear this.

I don’t want you distracting anyone from their job.

Why does every cop in this town forget who I am? Does he know what I could do with this email? I want to tell him just that, curse at him, and never speak to him again, but obviously, I can’t do that. Instead, I send, Fine, I’ll come at six p.m. so it’s just you and me, and there’s no one else to distract. I hit send and turn on my away button. I might get a reply, but I want him to know that’s the end of this conversation from me.

My plan will probably work better this way, considering I’m trying to seduce him. I must be careful, though. If I lay it on too thick, he’ll suspect something. One thing is for certain, I’m wearing the fucking shortest skirt I own.