Love Me Again (Stonewall Investigations Blue Creek 1)

Ugh. Fuck.

I knew I shouldn’t have stayed up late playing the newest Ultimate Fantasy game.

I opened the bathroom door and let all the steam float out into the hall. Upbeat chatter from the kitchen drifted toward me; my roommates (all of them obnoxiously cheery morning people) were having their usual meetup, where they’d gossip over the previous night’s events over sunny-side-up eggs and greasy bacon.

Normally I joined them, even if I stayed quiet through most of the breakfast until my body was warmed up enough to function properly. Today was not one of those days. I tossed on my pastel green workshirt and my lightly stained khaki pants, falling back on my unmade bed in the process. An unmatched pair of gray and black socks were next. My shoes were by the door, underneath a whiteboard that reminded me of any crucial thing I might be forgetting:

Check for wallet

Don’t forget keys

Call Mom

You know, all the important shit.

I pulled on my scuffed Vans and went for the uniform’s crowning touch: a navy blue cap with a paw print on the front and the name of the pet store, Barks, Birds, and Booze, written across it in a font that was one tiny swirl away from being swiftly attacked by a mouse-eared copyright lawyer.

With the look complete, I ran out of my bedroom, going down the stairs three steps at a time, hurrying through the hall before barreling into the messy living room. I tossed a wave over my shoulder at the gang congregated around the long dining table.

“Whoa, Char, you’re not even having coffee?” Amira said with an exaggerated gasp.

Amira Torrez, the spunky, curly-haired, tattooed bisexual of the group, who threw compliments out like darts. She also had the biggest damn heart, offering to drive me to therapy every single day when it was clear I kept getting lost on my own.

She was the fucking tits.

Also, for the record, getting lost in our small town with its three main roads and seven offshoots really was an impressive feat, but, well, no one else saw it that way.

“I’m already three minutes late,” I said, hand on the doorknob.

Eli stood and bolted toward the kitchen. A clatter of cups and a refrigerator door slam later, he was back, travel mug of iced coffee in his hand and a smile on his damn morning-person face.

How could anyone be that happy before eleven?

Elijah Remmy-Jones Roberts was a childhood friend who lived next door to me until his parents split and moved to opposite ends of town, popping that perfect little bubble of childhood innocence we had formed through years of playing video games and exploring the town together. We had grown apart, from what he told me, during our first few years at the community college nearby but had drawn back together after graduation.

He was a great friend and made the best iced coffees, which made this one extra appreciated. He was also one of Blue Creek’s premiere drag queens, which meant constantly being entertained while finding an unhealthy amount of ‘tuck’ tape and glitter around the house.

“Thanks, Eli,” I said. He gave me a nod and a bright smile that matched his bright blue eyes, which were shaded with a deep purple eyeshadow.

I’ll just never understand morning people.

One foot out the door and I was stopped by Alex shouting a “Don’t forget your keys!”

I patted my empty pocket. Fuck. I ran back inside and grabbed my keys from Alex’s outstretched hand.

Alex Maddison, the last of the trio, our resident straight guy who handled the stereotypical (and very useful) things like changing out my tire after I had driven over what appeared to be an orgy of nails. He was also being down to watch campy movie marathons, going as far as dressing up for the events and learning all the callouts so that he could throw plastic spoons at the TV screen like the pros.

Plus, he was great at remembering things, something that I clearly wasn’t.

“Thank you.” I offered him a smile I’d given about a thousand times before. The purse-lipped smile that said “sorry, it won’t happen again, except it probably will, so let’s just move on for now.”

He offered me a matching smile and lifted his steaming coffee mug in a cheers. His bed-head mop of brown hair fell across his forehead, framing the still-tired brown eyes. “Have a good one, Char.”

Alex was one of the good ones.

One of the morning-averse people.

“I’m sure I will,” I said, hurrying back toward the door. “There’s someone moving into the space above the pet store, so at least there’ll be some excitement.”

Amira pulled her seat out. She was still wearing her oversized Tweety Bird shirt, the yellow bird appearing edgier than usual with full-sleeve (full-wing?) tattoos and a leather jacket. “If you want some extra excitement,” she said as she sat, “I can send over the guy who kept me up all last week. He’s got one of those ant-eater—”