The Seven Pieces of a Feuilleton

Chapter 19

She counted seven pens lying haphazardly across a desk. An eighth twirled in the fingers of the woman who sat scrutinizing the man before her with repulsion.

"Hey, Walsh twins, explain something to me. Why the fuck are we suddenly hanging out with him?" Her finger stretched towards the subject of her inquiry. Her stunning eyes flashed with bewilderment and irritation.

"I have a name, Malone," Dylan glared.

"Oh, sorry. I can call you Cheating Ass, if you'd prefer that. Or maybe Guy-Who-Fucked-Up-Brenda's-Life. He-Who-Left-His-Knocked-Up-Wife-for-a-Slu -"

"Valerie!"

"I was gonna say Slug, Brenda; relax. Or how about The-Moron-Who -"

"Valerie," Brandon sighed. "Leave it alone."

"Fuck no. You and Brenda come to ask me for help, bring her ex-baby daddy along with you and I'm not allowed to question why we suddenly don't hate the guy who backstabbed you both? I don't care if he is fucking gorgeous; he's still a giant asshole," Valerie snapped, crossing her arms.

"I told you it was a bad idea for me to come," Dylan muttered, his hand slackening in Brenda's.

She shook her head, squeezing his limp hand in reassurance.

"Val, look, it's fucking complicated and I don't know where to begin, but basically, we need to break into someone's house and -"

"And you came to me, the only person you know who can successfully pick a lock," Valerie finished.

"Undetected," Brenda noted.

"Without setting off a security alarm," Brandon added.

"Easy peasy," said Valerie, who had turned her history of lockpicking into a steady career as an FBI agent in the Bureau's LA offices. "Who's the poor victim? I can try to draw something up, but I'll need a reason."

The twins and Dylan looked at each other before speaking, in unison, the name of Stuart Carson.

Valerie's features immediately contorted into repugnance.

"Stuart Carson? I fucking hate that guy. Bureau's been trying to get something concrete on him for years."

"Join the club," Dylan murmured.

"You aren't off the hook either, McKay. Don't think I'm gonna forget what you did to Brenda just because these two are willing to forget. I swear, Walshes forgive way too damn easily."

"Val," Brenda scolded.

"Okay, so McKay aside, you want to break into the - mansion, I'm guessing - of the guy who yelled at my Brenda in the fucking desert and then had the nerve to show up at her wedding?"

"Our wedding," Dylan whispered to his wife before cuddling her against him.

Brenda wondered if he felt half as fatigued as she did after their long night together. They had watched the Anaheim Angels score a massive defeat over the Kansas City Royals, first from the dugout with the team members and then through the view in his dugout suite.

He had told Brenda that rumors had swirled two years previously of a man called Moreno, intent on buying the Anaheim Angels with the plan to rename the team to the Los Angeles Angels in the future. Effectively nixing Moreno's plans, Dylan had put an offer on the team in an amount which would have been unwise to refuse.

The Anaheim Angels, he said, would never be called the Los Angeles Angels, if he had any say in the matter.

They had curled up together on the suite's sofa during the seventh inning stretch, then spent the rest of the game as the only two people in the seats reserved specifically for owners of the dugout suites. He had dropped into Blockbuster on the way back to the apartment to pick up a couple of DVD's for them to watch. Brenda had been the first to fall asleep, he told her when they awoke; Dylan had heard her soft sounds as he watched two people dance across an expansive log. He had then followed suit shortly afterwards.