Read Online Poison Shy by Stacey Madden - Free Book Online

wrapper. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I’d feel like an asshole if I didn’t.”
    â€œOh?” I thought he might be joking. He was almost always joking.
    He took a deep breath. “Dick asked me to keep an eye on you.”
    Dick was our boss, the head honcho at Kill ’Em All. The guy who’d hired me on a whim. I kept quiet and fidgeted with my sandwich wrapper, tore it into smaller and smaller bits.
    â€œHe said he’s worried you might be involved in some kind of funny business, calling in sick a lot lately and stuff. He thinks your life outside the company might be interfering with your work. I told him not to worry. I said, Brandon’s a good worker. A no-bullshit kind of guy.”
    â€œThanks, Bill. I appreciate it.” I held up my sandwich to him in salute.
    â€œYou got it.”
    We sat in silence for a moment, then Bill said, “Everything
is
okay with you, though, right? No problems at home? I don’t mean to be a jerk but I gotta ask.”
    â€œNo, everything’s fine.” I mustered a thin smile. It seemed to satisfy him.
    â€œGreat.” He clapped his hands together and grunted as he wobbled to his feet. “Now, give me ten minutes to empty my guts and we can get back to work.”
    Bill wheezed on his way to the porta-potty. I tossed my half-eaten sandwich into a nearby garbage can and watched as a halo of flies claimed it for their own.
    The days came and went. When I got home from work on Thursday, I checked myself out in the mirror. My skin was yellow-grey, almost translucent. I looked like a fucking zombie. What did I expect? I probably inhaled more poison in a single day than most people are exposed to in a year.
    I got in the shower and scrubbed my whole body twice over. Shaved my face and coated it with aloe. Dug the dirt out from under my nails and trimmed my pubes with a stubby pair of Ninja Turtles scissors I’d had since childhood.
    I lay down for a nap and dreamed I was digging a grave that kept refilling itself. I had to double my efforts if I wanted to make any progress with the ditch. At one point my shovel struck something hard. I jabbed at the thing, hoping to break through whatever it was. When I scraped the dirt away I saw that what I’d struck was a face — Melanie’s — pulped and lacerated from my shovel thrusts. I woke with a ringing in my ears, my heart beating fast.
    I nuked a frozen Salisbury steak and ate it slowly, choking it down.
    After my meal I put on my best pair of jeans and a green and black argyle sweater, then sat down on my pullout and stared at the red glow of my alarm clock. 9:13.
    I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Opened them. 9:13.
    I poured myself a glass of red wine, some inexpensive merlot a client had sent to Kill ’Em All as a thank-you gift. Somehow I’d ended up with the bottle. I bounced my knee anxiously up and down and waited for the clock to change. The wine whirlpooled in the glass. How the hell was it still 9:13?
    My hands were slimy with sweat. I stood up and wiped them on the ass pockets of my jeans. Looked at myself in the mirror.
    â€œRelax, pussy,” I said. “What’s your problem? Chill . . . the fuck . . . out.”
    I wanted my reflection to open its mouth and speak, or psychically burn words of wisdom into my brain. Instead I noticed a nose hair curling sharply out of my left nostril.
    I went to the bathroom and plucked the bad boy out. When I checked the time again it was 9:20. If I walked slowly to The Bloody Paw I’d arrive just before ten, with enough time to down a shot of liquid courage before Melanie showed up.
    The night was breezy. The wind whispered through the trees like a scheming god. Discarded food wrappers cackled along the pavement. Cab drivers prowled the streets and hollered at girls in skirts too short for the weather and heels too high for the uneven sidewalk. A bus zoomed past as I stood waiting to