Loose Screws

Loose Screws Read Free

Book: Loose Screws Read Free
Author: Karen Templeton
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let go of, to take it. A comforting, lemony smell drifts upward. Wow. Ted must’ve gone straight into the kitchen the minute he got home from the wedding.
    â€œHey, Ginger,” Nick says in this gruff-gentle voice, and the anger just goes poof along with the fear that my mother’s body parts are scattered all over 57th Street. I mean, really, like I’ve got the energy to be ticked about something that happened ten years ago when I’ve got a much juicier, more recent affront to my pride to deal with.
    My eyes narrow. “Why are you here, Nicky?”
    Nicky plants his hands on his hips—ever notice the interesting places men’s jeans tend to fade?—his eyes like blue flames under thick, dark blond hair, his mouth turned slightly down at the corners, and I think, is it me, or is this weird? That I’m standing here in a wedding dress my husband will not be tearing off my body tonight, holding consolatory, still-warm baked goods from my gay neighbors, whilst strolling down memory lane about a quickie in a church closet?
    That I’m staring up at the iron jaw of the man who ten years ago annihilated a pair of brand-new, twenty-dollar Dior bikinis and who, it pains me to admit, I would probably allow the same privilege today? That is, if I were not of the current opinion that all men should be shot.
    â€œLook,” the Virginator says, “this is sort of…unofficial. I’m not even on duty, in fact, but…” He grimaces. “Mind if I come in?”
    I wobble out of the way, let him pass.
    All available air in the apartment has just been effectively displaced. Nicky doesn’t seem to notice, probably because he’s too busy taking in my crushed-moth look, my frizzled hair, the fact that I am slightly swaying, as though to music only I can hear. He then crosses his arms and dons a troubled expression, which I decide he practices in front of his mirror at night. I also decide we are both going to pretend ten years ago didn’t happen.
    â€œI’m really sorry,” he says, “but I gotta ask you this…the guy you were gonna marry, Greg Munson? When’d you last see him?”
    I hug the bottle, tears cresting on my lower lashes. Oh, God, no. Please don’t tell me I’m a maudlin drunk. “Th-thursday night.”
    â€œYou sure about that?”
    â€œI’m d-drunk,” I say, indignantly, still swaying, still clutching the empty bottle to my stomach. “Not lobotomized. Of course I’m sure about that.”
    Nicky gently removes the bottle from my grasp, as if it’s a loaded gun, and glowers at it. “Christ. You drink this whole thing by yourself?”
    â€œEvery stinkin’ d-drop.” He suddenly tilts off to onesside, just before I feel him clasp my shoulders and turn me around, steering me toward my sofa.
    â€œSit,” he says when we get there.
    Not that he has to ask. I drop like a stone, the dress whooshing up around me. I also feel like giggling, which, since a policeman is questioning me about my fiancé’s whereabouts, is probably an inappropriate reaction. I look up to see Nicky and his twin doing that glowering thing again, his—their—arms crossed. I will a sober expression—as it were—to my face.
    â€œSeems nobody else has seen Munson since then, either,” he says. “His parents just filed a missing persons report. Tried to, anyway.”
    I feel my eyebrows try to take flight. “Already?”
    â€œI know, it’s premature. And probably a huge waste of time, since instinct tells me—excuse me for saying this—nothin’s happened to this guy except he got cold feet. But people like Bob Munson are very good at making waves.” Nicky glances around the studio apartment, which takes maybe three seconds. “So how come, if you were gettin’ married, all your stuff’s still here?” He looks back at me, eyes narrowed.

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