Treasure [h.s]

| 43 - Family |

It took a day and a half to figure out who Colette Harper is.

Or, more so, what Colette Harper wants.

Actually, that was clear the second I figured out who the beat-up, ratty-haired, shaking junkie with no front tooth on my doorstep was. Clean my fucking ass. She might have been off whatever her drug of choice was, but it certainly wasn't on purpose.

I learned firsthand that I don't want a housewife, so when my wife's estranged mother started doddling in my kitchen and house, I paid extra close attention.

That's not entirely true, I paid attention to her sticky fingers.

It was little things at first, like the silverware that came with Brinna's fine China set. Something she certainly wouldn't ever notice, given the expensive set was bought out of spite. And then a few missing decorations, like small glass figurines. Nothing crazy.

But then I noticed the sticky fingers were moving farther up. Upstairs, to the bedroom. In what world is it normal for a mother-in-law to wash, fold, and put away her son-in-law's underwear? None, which is why the laundry has been sitting in the washer and my wallet is a few hundred's lighter.

That was fine too. In fact, I was going to pay the woman off to leave forever. I had made the call minutes after she came here. I set up a hotel room, I set aside funding for her disappearance, and I even made sure the basement was ready to accommodate her just in case.

I'm a smart man. I run a fucking cartel, for Christ's sake. I like to think I have a good tolerance for thieves and rats. And I do, when it doesn't affect me. There's arguably one thing on this entire planet that I don't tolerate, and that happens to be anything that could possibly hurt the small woman who I snuggle like a teddy bear every night.

And the teddy bear's womb chamber has crossed that line.

I can deal with a missing fork and fake money. I can deal with one more person in my space. What I can't deal with is my wife's missing diamond hoops, or the missing cross chain on my wife's stuffed animal, or the fact that my closet, where I keep the treasure chest containing everything that will belong to said wife, has been rummaged through and lazily thrown back together.

I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was hungry, for more than my fridge could provide. Perhaps she needed new clothes, more than I had sent to her room. Maybe she needed somewhere more permanent to stay, even though the room was taken care of indefinitely.

I'm not stupid. It takes an addict to know an addict, and I can sniff that shit out like the coke that used to line up on my coffee table. I can deal with one junkie, what I can't deal with is the package deal that is Mikey and Coco.

I, begrudgingly, had to work today. I would have loved to stay in the penthouse with Brinna and Colette to thoroughly assess the situation and protect my woman's heart through it all, but alas, a different fucked up old woman needs me to get shit done.