The Divorcee Murder Club

Cuarenta Y Ocho ~ 48

             There's always a mix of anxiety and excitement when tailing someone, like static electricity in the air that sends sparks across my skin and makes my heart pitter faster. However, tonight, there’s the amplified anxiety thumping in my ears like obnoxious shitty bass from a strip club. So the thrill of the hunt is gone since I'm worried Kay might be aware we're following him.

And as much as I hate to admit it, the man is like a damn ninja—constantly popping up places and scaring the shit out of me. 

But I’d like to think that with Sammy’s help, we’ve managed to one-up Kay this time. The old mafioso placed a tracker on Kay’s SUV, allowing us to maintain a distance while still keeping tabs on him. I don't know how he did it, but I'm guessing he had to sneak into the Abramovitz mansion to accomplish the task. So far, Kay has done a little shopping at the posh grocery store only people with disposable incomes can afford, but then he stopped at an art gallery a bit ago, so we’re waiting for his next move.

Judging by the people through the art gallery’s windows, this must be an upscale event as they parade around in cocktail attire and sip champagne. They’re either oblivious to the junkies passing out from fentanyl around the corner, or they don’t care as long as they don’t have to see it. My phone buzzes, so I glance down and smirk.

Angie: Your mom’s dog takes massive shits. 

Me: Don’t forget to pick it up and toss it into a trash bin.

Angie: Cha Cha or the shit?

I facepalm myself and groan, but then tap out a reply. 

Me: The shit!

Angie: You’re lucky this mongrel is cute. Bring me back a cheeseburger and a shake.

Me: No.

Angie: YES.

Me: No.

Angie: Did you forget that I was shot? With a bullet. From a gun.

Me: Fine.

Wiping the smile off my face, I slide the phone back into my pocket, but Jackson is staring at me.

“Update on Alma?” Jackson asks.

“No. Just Angie being Angie.”

Sammy takes a sip of his coffee and glances at me. “That explains the shit-eating grin.”

“I wasn’t grinning.”

“You were, too,” Jackson and Sammy say in unison.

“Fuck off. She’s a pain in my ass.”

“Aren’t they all?” Sammy points at the windshield. “Look alive. Guess who just left the gallery.”

“Oh, well, look at that!” I grunt.

The long cascade of blonde locks is unmistakable as Kay rests his hand on Jocelyn’s lower back while escorting her to the SUV. After what Augusta told me, their body language has taken on a different meaning. If they are having an affair, then Kay’s hand above Jocelyn’s ass is more than him just assisting her into the car. It’s a possessive, this-is-my-boo gesture. Her legs shift under her wine-red silk dress, and I’d love to break them.

The woman is a snake.

But the question is, which one is worse? Her or Augusta?

After the latest events, I can’t trust either of them, and the people I can trust are becoming less these days. 

“Here we go…” Sammy starts the engine of the soccer mom van he rented, and we snail away from the curb, keeping our distance as Kay maneuvers through the streets.