Chapter 24

George Gets Nervous

George realized he’d made a critical error. He wasn’t quite sure when or how or why, but something was definitely off. His head felt thick and fuzzy, and a severe bout of paranoia had kicked in. He should have laid off the pot and stuck to bourbon. Now he was playing video games with his drug dealer. His drug dealer who knew Lisa and everything that had happened last night.

George heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Sue.

Oh god, he thought. He stood up quickly—hoping to usher Patrick out the backdoor before she found them—but in his haste, he knocked over his glass of bourbon. Startled, he dropped his lit joint. Smoke rose from where the joint’s embers ignited the alcohol and started a tiny fire on the white rug. Frantically he snatched the joint up and stomped the flames out.

Sue walked into the room holding her phone and scanning messages. George stood back up awkwardly, hiding the stained carpet with his stockinged feet. He glanced around. With a couple strategic shoves, he could reposition the furniture and hide the evidence. He sighed with relief.

“George, how many times do I need to tell you, no food in here. And could you please use coasters? You are such a child.”

She was dressed in her yoga gear again. A thousand pieces of designer clothing in her walk-in closet, and all she ever wore were stretchy black pants and ridiculous exercise tops. Not that he wasn’t proud of how well his wife took care of herself. Couldn’t she just once wear something soft and loose, something that left a little to the imagination? George glanced over at Patrick and noticed that he didn’t seem to mind Sue’s apparel.

“Hey,” said Patrick. He remained seated on the sofa, a joint in one hand, his other wrapped around a beer, looking very much at home. “How’re you doing.” It wasn’t a question so much as a way of expressing his obvious appreciation for her shapely form.

George didn’t like how Patrick was ogling his wife.

“Who are you?” Sue asked Patrick, looking both irritated by the defilement of her pristine living room and pleased at the young man’s attention.

“I’m your husband’s drug dealer,” Patrick said with a smile.

“Lovely,” she said, her eyes leaving Patrick’s and scanning the room as though looking for damage.

George spoke impulsively, “Sue, there’s something up with this kid.”

Sue walked to her husband, plucked the joint from George’s hand, and sniffed it.

“He knows about last night,” continued George.

“You get so paranoid when you smoke pot.” She took a hit. “Good stuff.”

“No, Sue, really, I can hear him talking to . . . someone. And it’s not me.”

“He’s probably just talking to the voices coming from his drug-addled brain. You know how kids are these days. Anyway, I’m going to yoga. What are you two idiots going to do all day? Play video games?”

Patrick smiled. “Video games are just the warmup.” He waved the Die Hard DVD case at her. “Next up is the greatest action film of all time. Blow off your yoga class and join us.”

“Die Hard in August? It’s a Christmas movie,” she said with disgust. She handed the joint back to George and looked pointedly at him. “You better have moved into the guest bedroom by the time I get back. I will burn anything you leave behind.”

George collapsed in on himself a little bit and mumbled, “Yes, dear.”

Sue shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m letting you stay. And I’m taking your car. At least I know how to drive the damn thing.” She turned and walked out of the room, and moments later Patrick heard a door slam shut.

“Your old lady is hot.”

George glared at Patrick. Who was this kid, anyway? Sitting on his sofa. Eating his chips. Drinking his beer.

The front door bell rang. Then rang again. Now what? “Stay here, and don’t touch anything,” he said.

“Sure, whatever.”

George smashed the remnants of his joint out in the crystal bowl and walked down the hall and through the kitchen. He noticed the packets of cocaine still sitting on the counter and shrugged. He’d simply turn away whomever was at the door. Two forms were visible through the glass, obviously a man and a woman.

Probably missionaries, he thought, come to haggle for his soul. He opened the door narrowly, prepared to slam it shut.

“Hello, George,” said Ellen.