Read Online Antiques Roadkill by Barbara Allan - Free Book Online Page B

and … well, not speechless, of course.
    “That was
you?”
I asked. “Behind those sunglasses?”
    Brian nodded, grinning.
    I could feel my cheeks burning—and not from embarrassment.
    Fists on hips, I said, “You didn’t have to make me walk a line—right there by the highway, with all those cars going by, honking.”
    He shrugged. “I thought you might be drunk, way you were weaving all over the road.”
    “Well, I
wasn’t,”
I snapped. “And after
that,
you gave me a
Breathalyzer
test! Was
that
really necessary? You wouldn’t have done that to a truck driver!”
    Another shrug. “I would have if he threw his bra out his window.”
    I was gathering steam. “And then …
then!
… you wrote me out a friggin’
ticket!”
    Brian’s smile faded. He went on the defensive. “Hey, you
were
driving recklessly, after all. ‘I was driving with my knees’ is not the best explanation I ever heard for reckless driving.”
    I folded my arms across my chest. “So what was wrongwith giving me just a warning citation? Or did you have some quota to make?”
    “Look, lady, I was just doing my job.”
    Lady?
    I smirked. “Oh, I bet I made some kind of story round the ol’ state trooper watercooler. Bet that bra size just got bigger and bigger every time you—”
    He turned abruptly and went down the porch steps. A moment later the squad car door slammed in response.
    Grumbling, I went inside the house.
    Sushi was waiting for me, whimpering a little. I scooped her up and buried my face in her soft fur.
“You
love me, don’t you, girl—no matter what.”
    Maybe I’d been bullheaded. Some things I can never let go. Considering the pickle Mother and I were in, we certainly didn’t need to make an enemy out of Officer Brian Lawson. He’d been kind to us tonight, cut us a heck of a break, and I’d gotten all witchy with him. With a “b.”
    Sighing, I carted Sushi through the kitchen, to put her out back … but then saw that she’d already peed by the door. The whimper had been Sushi’s confession—every female in this house had confessed tonight.
    Anyway, it wasn’t her fault; we’d been gone too long for a diabetic drinks-a-lot dog to hold it in.
    I put her out, anyway, and wiped up the mess, as if this were the punishment for tonight’s crimes.
    Of course, cleaning pet pee-pee on bare floors is easy, but what about carpet?
    Here’s what you do:
    Cover the spot with paper towels, and with your shoes on (I know a guy who did this in just his socks!) (don’t!) jump up and down on it—you can take your anger at your pet out, this way. Repeat the process until no more moisture appears on the towels. Then pour a pan of lukewarm not-too-sudsy water on the same spot, and do the papertowel routine again. (P.S., keep
lots
of paper towels on hand. Particularly if
your
dog is diabetic, too.)
    My legs ached as I trudged upstairs with Sushi. I could hear Mother snoring, and slipped into her bedroom to check on her. She was on top of the covers, still in her clothes. By all rights I should have woken her, confronted her, gotten to the bottom of all this.
    But instead I got an extra blanket, drew it over her, then tiptoed back out. Just didn’t have the heart, and anyway, I was beyond beat myself.
    I collapsed onto my own bed, also not bothering to get undressed, and pulled Sushi close to me, like a living hot water bottle.
    Next thing I knew, Mother was shaking me.
    “Brandy, Brandy, that policeman’s here again … wake up!”
    I felt like a tranquilized animal coming around. “What … what
time
is it?”
    “Almost nine. Get up!”
    I groaned. “So early?”
    But Mother was gone.
    Anyway, once Sushi stirred, that was the end of sleeping, so I might as well get up.
    I frowned to myself.
What was that dream I had?
It lingered, just out of reach, an almost memory taunting, a mood that held on, ambiguously.
    And while we’re on the subject of dreams, remember this:
no one wants to hear your stupid dreams
(except