Okay, so I know this is posted under my user name, but my mom, Sherpherd, as her pen name is, isn't very good at computers, so I'm posting for her. Plz be nice, as she's just getting back into the loop. Haters, if you hate on my mommy I'll flame all your stories. Criticism is welcome, but no trolls or incredibly rude peeps. Enjoy!
Frank
My cell phone rings. I spill hot coffee down my shirt when I grab my phone.
"Hardy," I growl.
"Car's dead," Joe says. "Need a ride."
I take a deep breath and count to ten.
"Ten minutes," I growl and hang up.
I change my shirt, grab my keys and get in my black BMW. Jetlag isn't pretty. Joe and I got in at 1 am after a nonstop flight from Europe.
Dad wants us at the office in twenty minutes, which is definitely not happening.
I pull into traffic lost in thought. Joe and I haven't been getting along. Have we outgrown our partnership?
Joe's been off this past year. Forgetful. Distant. Unorganized. If he wasn't my brother, I'd have found a new partner. I've read Joe the riot act a couple of times. I pull into Joe's apartment complex. I hate being late.
Joe leans against his 1968 black Mustang. My brother has spent the last year restoring this car. If the Mustang and I were trapped in a burning building, I'd pretty sure Joe would rescue the car first.
Joe wears jeans, sun glasses and a plain white t-shirt. Office wear for Joe.
"We're late," I say. "Dad wants us at a meeting in 10 minutes and we're 25 minutes away from the office."
"Sorry," Joe mumbles as he climbs in the passenger seat. "Forgot."
"You forgot a lot of stuff lately," I say. "Like packing for our trip."
On our trip to Europe Joe borrowed everything I packed – pants, shirts, socks – you name it – he borrowed it.
Instead of Joe's usual witty comeback, heavy silence fills my car. I drive down the main road.
"You had three hours to pack before we left for Europe," I say.
"Saw a friend," Joe says and looks out the window.
"A female friend?"
Joe ignores me. I turn on National Public Radio to get back at Joe. He hates it. Five long minutes pass with no complaints. When I look over, Joe is asleep. His head is slumped against the passenger window. Incredible. He really can sleep anywhere.
Thirty minutes later I pull into the office. A car drives away as I open my door. We missed the meeting.
I hate doing sloppy work. And lately working with Joe is sloppy.
"Wake up, we're here," I say and slam the car door. "Late, but here."
"Frank, are you ok?" Edward asks. "You never miss a meeting."
I pretend I don't hear Edward.
Edward is my age. Last year Dad went to a detective seminar. Some people come home with t-shirts. Dad came home with Edward. And for no logical reason, I hate the guy.
I pour myself a cup of strong, black coffee.
"I've got to take some papers to police headquarters for your dad," Edward says.
When Edward leaves, Joe comes in the office. Joe does that a lot. Like somehow ignoring Edward will make him go away. I wish.
"You missed the client meeting," Sam says. "Joe, your dad wants the Hampton file."
"I put it on his desk before we left for Europe," Joe says. "He couldn't find it anywhere," Sam says. "Been driving me crazy about it ever since you guys left two weeks ago. Frank, your dad wants to see you."
"Give me a minute," I say and turn on my computer.
I push my chair back just as Joe walks in with a glass of Mountain Dew – his go to source of caffeine. Joe trips over my chair. His soda lands on my computer keyboard. My computer fizzes and the screen goes dead.
"Frank, I- I'm sorry," Joe stammers. "I'll buy you whatever you want from the computer store."
"I want a new partner," I say, louder than intended.
Joe's face goes white.
"Joe, could you run these papers down to the post office?" Dad asks. "Take Frank's car. He's parked behind me."
"I'll go," I say.
"No, Joe needs a break," Dad says. He hands Joe my car keys. "Frank, I'll see you in my office."
Dad puts his arm around Joe's shoulders and walks him to the door.
Joe leaves without saying goodbye.
I sit in one of Dad's leather office chairs. Why do I feel like a criminal about to be cross examined?
"Trip go OK?" Dad asks and closes the door. He sits behind his desk.
"Yes. We shut down the gun smuggling ring," I say. "I filled out paperwork for Scotland Yard. I filed our office report electronically last night before our plane landed. I'm ready for another case."
"No, you're not," Dad says. "Frank, you're angry with the wrong blond."
"What?"
"Last year Joe and I disagreed," Dad says. "I didn't want you distracted by Callie's engagement to some doctor in New York City. Joe didn't want you blindsided if someone mentioned it. He won."
I swallow hard and stare at the floor. When Joe told me Callie was engaged, I got drunk. Really drunk. Joe drove me home. He also held my head while I puked my guts out the next morning. Somehow Joe kept the whole episode from Dad.
Callie will be honeymooning in the Bahamas with someone else in two short months.
The news shouldn't shock me. Callie and I broke up last year. She moved to New York City and became a TV news reporter.
But how did Callie replace me so quickly? Did I mean anything to her? Is she the one?
"Dad," I say. "I keep my work separate from my personal life."
"So you want a new partner?"
"No, I…." I stop and feel my cheeks turn red.
"Frank, I know you're hurting," Dad says. "We've tried to give you space this past year."
I stare at him.
"That's why Joe restored the Mustang," Dad says. "He needed something to keep busy when you weren't working a case."
I'm too stunned to talk.
"If you're mad at Callie, call her or write her a note," Dad says. "I won't let you use Joe for a punching bag."
Dad's right. I've taken out my anger on the one person I never wanted to hurt…Joe.
"Speaking of how we're treating Joe, what's the story on Edward?" I ask.
"He wants to learn the business," Dad says.
"Did you notice Joe makes himself scarce when Edward's around?" I ask.
"No," Dad says.
"Treating Edward like the son you always wanted isn't helping your relationship with Joe," I say.
"I didn't realize," Dad says.
"Think Joe tolerates Edward like you tolerate Biker," I say.
"Joe's motorcycle friend who's had a few brushes with the law?" Dad asks.
"Yes," I say. "You put up with Biker, but can't wait until Joe outgrows him."
"I messed up," Dad says with a heavy sigh. "Always bad, but inexcusable now."
"Now?" I ask.
"What's the date?" Dad asks.
"May 20," I say.
I close my eyes as nausea hits. Iola died ten years ago today.
