Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

I snagged empties and walked inside. I hadn’t even realized Judge followed until the door slid closed behind me. After petting Dumpster, he leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms and ankles. “She’s nice.” “Seems it,” I agreed as I grabbed ice and tossed it in my blender with the margarita mix. Once it was done, Judge said, “Should still tread lightly. Old lady Anderson—” “Was a stranger to her. And I’m not gonna be a dick to her just ’cause her aunt was a raging cunt to me. She’s pregnant, her man is dead, and like you said, she’s still nice even with all that. I’m not spilling Mayhem secrets over potato salad. I’m just making sure she feels like she has someone friendly around.” Judge lifted his hands. “Fair enough. Just don’t want your ass getting hauled off to jail ’cause she doesn’t like the way you mow your lawn.” “It was the way I watered it,” I corrected. Months may have passed, but my anger stoked at the memory of Mrs. Anderson gleefully watching my place get searched by hazmat and cops for the chemical warfare she’d sworn I had. Judge moved to grab the vodka. After a long moment, he asked, “Her man’s dead?” I lifted my chin, thinking about the haunted look in her eyes the day before. “Shit, that sucks.” Judge usually went heavy-handed on O’s drinks while he milked a beer or two. Instead, he went light before filling the rest with soda. O was tipsy, but she wasn’t drunk. Definitely not sloppy drunk. I was drunker than she was. At my raised brow, he smirked...