LifeoftheParty Read Free Page A

reached inside it. Empty.
    The chorus sang in illumination. Son of a bitch. He
was at Carmelli’s.
    Motherfucker. He hurled his holster and shirt to the
floor and stepped into a cold shower.
    Fifteen minutes later, he walked naked into the bedroom,
toweling his spiky blond hair, his gaze falling to the chair in the corner. He
laughed, painfully. On it sat a pair of rolled-up socks, shorts still in the
package and a clean shirt. Considerations complementing the razor and
toothbrush on the sink. This was what marriage got you. Or was it just Carmelli
rubbing shit in his face? Didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t use them.
So he did, all of them, and grabbing his jacket and empty holster, left the
bedroom for the stairway down.
    He had never been inside before, had only seen the house
from the street. He remembered Carmelli telling him they had only moved in a
month earlier, still trying to get it ready before the babies came. Babies.
    “Back here,” he heard as rolled off the last step, the scent
of coffee hitting him strong. He turned toward the kitchen in the back.
Sunlight flooded her as she stood at the island, lifting a carafe of that
liquid sustenance, her eyes still clamped on her laptop. She tapped a key then
turned. Pamela Flynn, best-selling writer. Christ Almighty , Carmelli sure
scored huge with her. Even with a belly looking big enough to hold ten babies,
with that long auburn hair, those piercing eyes, she was still beautiful.
    He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. So beautiful he could
hardly stand the sight of her.
    “Good morning, Douglas,” Pam said, pouring out a mug. “So
great to see you. Thanks for scaring the shit out of me.”
    Now he was scaring women. Nice job, asshole. He took
a step back. “I’m sure I’ve won the dick of the year award. Just give me my
piece and I’ll get out of here.”
    “Sit the hell down,” she said, shoving a mug of coffee at
him. “Now tell me how you want your eggs.”
    “In the carton,” he said. “Couldn’t eat if I tried.”
    She leaned on her hip. “But you could drink, right? If I
poured a shot into that mug, tell me you wouldn’t suck it down. But a plate of
eggs is a problem?”
    Doug pulled the coffee to him. It hurt too much too argue.
“Scrambled.”
    “Thank you,” Pam said, already cracking the eggs.
    They didn’t talk while she cooked, while Roark’s home-baked
bread toasted, when she poured him a tall glass of tomato juice. Or even while
he inhaled all at a pace rivaling the land speed record. After a couple of
aspirins and one more mug of coffee. Doug marveled at how much better he felt.
If only physically.
    Because the inner part of him, the part that ached beyond
the corporeal, was still taking a beating. In that nest of domesticity and
intellect, surrounded by the scents of fresh paint and warm bread, amid NPR,
the terra-cotta herb garden and the literary journals, Doug felt stupid and
intrusive, as if he were a monkey at a symposium. If there’d been a trap door
beneath him, he surely would’ve sprung it. But on the other hand, why should he
feel that way? He hadn’t asked to be there. He’d been forced. Roark Carmelli hadn’t
intruded in his life as much as battle-axed into it.
    “Thanks, Pam,” he said, taking his plate to the sink. “I’m
sure I don’t deserve it.”
    She turned from the sink. “What you deserve is a punch in
the gut, but my aim’s off these days. I’ll leave it to Roark.”
    He slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Hey, he’s got some
explaining to do himself. Believe it or not, I had a reason for coming here
last night. Where is he anyway?”
    “At Serious Joe. Working ,” she said, crossing her
arms over her massive belly. “Like I should be.”
    “Like I would be too, if you’d give me my piece.”
    “Don’t look at me. The only pieces I handle are fictitious.
And after last night I sure as hell didn’t want someone strapped and shitfaced
in my house.”
    He leaned in and gave