Free Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) by Shawn Harper

trophy wife to a shoe sale.
    I leap to the top of the gate, forgetting in my exhaustion that I haven’t evolved enough as a member of the human species to have suddenly sprouted a third arm. Or a kangaroo-style fanny pack, although of the two I’d prefer the arm. The box slips from my grasp, bouncing off the gate with a dull ring and landing on the street.
    Goddamn it.
    Momentum carries me to the top of the gate, my body reserving enough energy to kick and scramble and haul my way over it, falling like a lead-ass balloon to the other side. I hunch over, gasping for air, my hands braced against my knees to keep me in the general vicinity of vertical, staring at the box separated from my possession by that fucking Judas of a gate.
    You know what? Hell with this. My lungs will never work the same again. All I hear about is this supposed runner’s high, but that’s fucking bollocks. I don’t feel euphoric; I feel nauseous. I want a fucking cigarette, and I don’t even smoke. Who in their right mind thinks this running garbage is even remotely entertaining?
    Not the golden-god cop sprawled out in the middle of Clubhouse Avenue, I’ll tell you that much. I mutter a useless apology to him as I squeeze an arm and shoulder through the bar to grab Sandecker’s box. It’s far enough away that my adventure in exercise is temporarily extended, but I finally get enough of a hold to drag it closer, pulling it through the bars and stepping further into the street.
    The Mustang roars as Tully swings back around to pick me up, spinning the car in a boner-inducing one-eighty of smoke and squealing tires that stops five feet from where I’m trying not to throw up.
    Between you and me, I never knew she could drive like that.
    Still doesn’t justify her painting that work of art such a shitty color though.
    And I plan on telling her, soon as I remember how to form words again.

 
    13
    H eard you were causing trouble again,” Tully says as we drive off, pointing to the police scanner mounted under her dash like I didn’t help her install the damn thing. The floral print sun dress from earlier has been traded in for jeans, T-shirt, and a snakeskin jacket.
    I’m still fighting for air, fresh or otherwise, but my need to get my next words out far exceeds my current ability to perform basic human functions like breathing and swearing.
    “You’ve been out here the whole time, haven’t you?”
    I lean to my side, tugging Sandecker’s pilfered book from my back pocket and tossing it in the well between my feet. It may look intriguing, but it makes for a terrible butt pillow.
    Tully makes a concerted effort to look straight out the windshield, a dead giveaway that she’s about to lie. “I don’t know what you’re—”
    “Don’t.” I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing.
    I’ve seen her look a thousand times, given to a thousand different people from all walks of life. Never thought I’d see the day she used it on me.
    It’s a small lie, really, a white lie that doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of our relationship. But we’ve never lied to each other before, not once, and I’m not in the mood for her to start now, regardless of how innocuous.
    I’m not even angry with her, for the record. Truth is, she never promised to not come. She simply nodded and said okay a bunch of times with increasing huffiness until I dropped the matter. So technically, she never lied until now. And I can’t blame her for wanting to be here. I’d have done the same thing. But really, be a man about it.
    Or a woman.
    Whichever. Just, you know, take ownership.
    She looks over, then quickly turns back to watching the road. “Of course I have. How else would I know where to send you?”
    I speak before thinking. “The truth?” That almost pisses her off, and I realize I’m close to losing any high ground I have.
    “Are you going to hurry up and open that box?” she asks. “Or did you want to pass out first?”
    What kind of