Got the Life (A Nicki Sosebee Novel) Read online

  “Maybe. But what’s weird is the victim’s house was in Colorado Springs. So I’m wondering why the cops here even care. Why not let El Paso County deal with it?”

  “Isn’t it your job to find out, investigative reporter?”

  Chapter Three

  NICKI FINALLY LEFT Sean’s garage. She revved her beat-up decade-old red Volkswagen Jetta and heard Korn playing on the radio. The station was playing one of her favorite Korn songs, “Got the Life,” so she cranked the radio, then shifted into drive. She had to head over to the newspaper to talk with her editor.

  Why had it been so hard to be around Sean today? Why? She knew why. She’d just broken up with her latest “boyfriend” last week and so all her thoughts came back to focus on Sean again, like a lion’s intense gaze on the zebra across the plain. Her thoughts always snapped back to Sean when she wasn’t distracted by a boyfriend du jour. And sometimes even the boy toys weren’t enough.

  But this whole Kayla thing had Nicki unnerved. Sean had never been this serious about a girl before. This could be really serious.

  Which meant that Nicki had to finally find a way to get over him once and for all.

  That was easier said than done. They’d become friends in high school while doing theatre together. Sean was the sound guy, while Nicki loved the limelight. So many hours spent together, especially at cast parties and impromptu gatherings, led them to discover that they had a lot in common. They both loved the same music, the same TV shows, the same books (although Sean wouldn’t have admitted to his other friends that he liked to read), even the same classes, and they both liked playing paintball and snowboarding. They found themselves spending more and more time together, but they were just friends. Nicki had been dating the same boy all through high school up until he left for college in California anyway, and so she hadn’t thought of Sean like that back then.

  After graduation, they attended Winchester Community College together. Sean was taking classes for Automotive Science, while Nicki—unsure of what she wanted to do with her life—worked on an Associate of Arts. Her advisor told her she could then transfer to a four-year university and maybe by that time Nicki would figure out what she wanted to do. No such luck. She finished school, all right, but was still clueless about where she wanted to go after that. So she figured she’d take a few years off from school and come back when she had a clue.

  Eight years later, she was still clueless.

  Sean never finished getting his degree. After a year of classes, especially ones like Basic Algebra, Composition, and Biology, he decided he was done. He figured he knew enough about motorcycles (one of his passions) to open up a repair shop already, and what he didn’t know, he could teach himself. The first two years, his mom let him work out of her garage until he’d earned enough money to rent a place of his own. Since then, his business (and reputation) had grown enough that he’d had to move his business one more time for a bigger place.

  But it was during that time that something transpired between Nicki and Sean, The Night That Must Never Be Mentioned Again. Easy to avoid talking about, maybe, but Nicki would never forget it.

  Her two-year college plan turned out to last three years, and sometime during the first year she’d fallen for a guy she met in one of her classes. Brent was a few years older than she and good looking. They dated for a year and a half, and Nicki had begun to think of him the way she suspected Kayla was now thinking about Sean. Nicki had thought maybe Brent could be the one. She’d been thinking about it for a few months. Her parents liked him, and he had a bright future. He was planning to attend a university in either Denver, Colorado Springs, or Pueblo once he graduated a semester later, and Nicki had begun thinking about following him to whatever school he decided on. That was until the night she’d been on the WCC campus studying for the Abnormal Psych midterm in the library with a group of friends. It was late, probably close to ten, and the work study student manning the desk had warned them that the campus was closing up soon. Nicki excused herself from the group to use the restroom before picking up her books. But the three stalls in the little restroom across the hall from the library were already being used, and she didn’t want to wait. So she walked down the hall to the other end of the building. Even though most of the lights were already turned off down there in preparation of closing, she figured security wouldn’t care if she used the restroom anyway. The bathrooms on campus had motion-sensor lights, so she knew the lights in there would switch on as soon as she entered. That particular restroom was the biggest one in the building, with seven stalls, including one large handicapped-access one. She wouldn’t have to wait in there.

  Except the lights were already on, and someone was using the large handicapped stall, and that someone wasn’t taking a piss. That someone was getting fucked. So she was in a dilemma—now that I’ve prolonged it and I really need to go, do I just go for it or do I go back down the hall and use that one? She really had to go and, she figured, having people hear your business was a risk the fucking couple should have known they were taking when they decided to copulate in a public place.

  She chose the stall next to the door leading outside, so she was several yards away from the large stall at the end of the room. If the couple heard her, she could pretend like she didn’t know what was going on. With all the grunting and groaning, maybe someone was just constipated, right? Okay, stupid. So she couldn’t play dumb, but her hope was to just pee as quickly as possible and leave before she had to face the horny couple down the way.

  There was no way to disguise the steady stream of urine splashing into the bowl. But the couple didn’t seem to mind; Nicki could tell because the rhythmic pounding into the metal wall of the stall down the way didn’t ease up. Nicki felt embarrassed but smiled just thinking of the story she could tell her study group when they packed up their books for the night. The girl was squealing with delight, and Nicki still didn’t register that there was a problem, even when the girl yelled, “Oh, yes, Brent!” Nicki finished up and walked to the sink to wash her hands and that was when she heard the man grunt through gritted teeth, “I’m close, baby.” She paused, the water streaming through her fingers, as she realized the man in the stall was her Brent. She knew because, for some stupid reason, he’d always felt the need to announce during sex that he was getting ready to ejaculate: “I’m close.” She finally managed to swallow the buildup of saliva in her mouth and shut off the water, but she felt as though a robot had taken over her body. In slow motion, she grabbed a paper towel to wipe off her hands and started walking toward the door to the hall. But then she felt an unexpected fury well up inside her and she stomped back to the other side of the bathroom. She pounded on the door to the stall three times and then said, “I hope she squeezes your dick off!” She spun around, heading back to the hallway door, her eyes already clouding with salty tears. As she opened the door and began walking out the hall, she thought she might have heard her name.

  And she would never remember exactly what she said to her study mates when she returned to their table in the library; she just knew that she gathered up her belongings and darted out the door before she turned into a blubbery mess, promising to see her peers on test day.

  She didn’t want to go home; she didn’t want to have to talk to her parents about it. And she didn’t want to talk to her girlfriends either, who would have told her he was a loser and then would have proceeded to tell Nicki that they’d warned her about what a creep Brent was.

  She decided that she wanted to get drunk.

  She was legal now, so she had no qualms about it. But she didn’t want to drink alone, so she called Sean, her willing partner in crime. He wasn’t in bed yet, so he invited her over to his apartment. She promised to bring a twelve-pack.

  Brent called her cell phone several times. She never answered and she finally shut it off. When she got to Sean’s house, she tried to plaster on a smile, but he asked her what was wrong. Her face must have been streaked with tears. So she told him
why she’d been crying. And instead of drinking, he held her close while she sobbed in his arms. After she was able to let the tears go, she continued to rest her head against Sean’s chest. “Thank you,” she said.

  He stroked her hair. “For what?”

  “For being here.”

  “God, of course.” They were quiet again for a while until Sean finally said, “Brent’s a dumb motherfucker, you know that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He can’t keep his dick in his pants when he’s got you. That makes him a dumb motherfucker.”

  Nicki half laughed, the after-crying-jag endorphins kicking in. “That’s so sweet.” Smiling, she looked up at Sean, only Sean wasn’t smiling back. His mouth was on hers before she could register what was happening. And even though Nicki had relived that night in her mind at least a thousand times since, she couldn’t quite remember every detail like she’d wanted to. She remembered his lips on her nipple, causing her to arch her back and sigh. She remembered the easy delectable orgasm she’d had at the touch of his expert fingers. She remembered the swell of his penis as he slid in and out of her and how she had moaned his name as she came again.

  Only she hadn’t moaned Sean’s name. It was that fucker’s name, Brent, that had escaped her betraying lips.

  She hadn’t been thinking about Brent, had in fact been shocked at how awesome Sean was in bed and wondering why the two of them had never done this before. It was like he had The Nicki Handbook and knew exactly how to drive her crazy, knew all the right places to touch her, how to make her melt at his touch, how to just breathe on her to make her come. And she’d never been the same since. She really had meant to say Sean’s name but for some stupid-ass reason her mouth had decided to say Brent. Un-fucking-believable.

  So she’d apologized right after. She couldn’t even blame drinking for her gaffe because she’d been stone-cold sober. He said it was fine, that he understood, but she knew better. And when she had to leave a little later (didn’t want mom and dad asking where she’d been all night long—that’s what happened when you decided to save money by living with the parental units), she knew she’d fucked up their friendship royally.

  She left the beer on his table. He might want it later.

  So things were stiff and uncomfortable for a while, and there was a silent agreement between the two of them. But they stopped spending time together, stopped calling each other, stopped hanging around. Nicki grew tired of it and she went to Sean’s garage at his mom’s house in between classes one day. She told him, “Look, Sean, I can’t take back what I said, and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. But I miss having you as my friend. I can’t stand this.”

  Sean had been adding up some receipts at a desk in a corner. He looked up from the papers. “Can’t stand what?”

  “We don’t hang around together anymore. Can’t we just go back to the way we were before?”

  And they agreed. And with that handshake, followed by pizza and a beer and nothing else, they had decided without saying a word that they would never again talk about The Night That Must Never Be Mentioned Again. And after several uncomfortable months, they’d finally eased back into the friendship they’d once had. Except that it was never the same for Nicki.

  It was far easier getting over Brent.

  Chapter Four

  NICKI PARKED HER car in the Tribune’s employee parking lot behind the building and walked toward the hulking brick structure. The heat outside was climbing, probably in the mid-nineties by now. She was glad she’d chosen the miniskirt topped with a light white cotton short-sleeve blouse and white sandals that showed off her pink toenails. Her long, light brown hair, though, was starting to feel a little smothering, and she was deciding if she wanted to pull it up in a ponytail or just suffer.

  She walked in the backdoor through the press area. Normally loud and unbearable, the press was off for now. It wouldn’t get revved up until much later in the day. For now, though, the room was an empty shell, quiet and oppressively hot.

  She walked toward the doors that led to the main offices of the paper. Once she opened the doors, she felt the air-conditioned breeze blowing down on her arms. The little hairs on them stood at attention while goose bumps formed. Oh, yeah…our imitation of the North Pole. Someday she would remember to bring a sweater. She knew she’d be ready to go back outside again after three or four minutes in the cold air. But she needed to talk to her editor first.

  Neal Black was a decent guy, probably in his late thirties, if Nicki’s judgment was right. She knew this was his first full-fledged editor job, so she suspected that was why he was sometimes a hard ass. He had full, thick, brown hair and brown eyes, with a medium build. And Nicki suspected he wore contact lenses, because when he looked tired, he blinked a lot. She walked through the back hallway, avoiding the pool of reporters and copy editors to the left, instead heading straight for Neal’s office.

  She saw through the glass on the door that he was on the phone, but he saw her and waved her in. Like an old-time editor, he had the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder and was shuffling papers around on his desk while talking. Nicki wondered why he didn’t utilize the speaker phone feature; his office had a door, so it’s not like he would be letting confidential information out. Or, at the very least, he could have used the earpiece instead. It would have been a lot more comfortable than what Neal was doing now.

  But she supposed that was what he liked to do. She knew from the times she’d spoken to him on the phone that he didn’t like being on it and ended conversations as quickly as possible. Maybe if he used the speaker, he wouldn’t feel that way.

  She entered the office, careful not to make noise with the door, and sat across from Neal in one of the cushioned chairs that faced his desk. Finally, Neal said in his booming voice, “Yeah. Get on that and call me back.” He hung up the phone and gave Nicki a weak smile. “Whatcha got for me, rookie?”

  If Neal hadn’t been such a likeable guy, she would’ve been pissed that he called her rookie all the time. In all fairness, though, Neal had given her a chance that a lot of other people never would have. When Nicki approached him one year ago, she was working three different jobs—one as a waitress in a pizzeria, one selling makeup door to door, and another answering phones for a used car lot. Working the three jobs kept her busy and kept the bills paid; they also kept her in shape and she got a lot of makeup on the cheap, but she had no social life. Worse yet, she had no future and the pay wasn’t great. She knew she liked writing, had always dreamed of being the next Poet Laureate of Colorado or winning the Nobel Prize for Literature but was squandering those skills on things like sending emails to her faithful makeup customers, jotting down phone messages, and writing down customer orders. Enough was enough. So she made an appointment with Neal and begged him for a writing job. He couldn’t do that, he said. She had no experience and no degree. He suggested that she shadow one of his reporters, though, to see if she still liked the job after. So she did. She shadowed Diane Glick, the Features reporter, for two weeks.

  Neal had probably thought she would have given up, but instead she was more excited, especially when she saw how bored Diane looked by the job. Nicki watched the woman, all the time wondering why she wasn’t having more fun. When Nicki met with Neal again, she told him she was just as excited as ever. And she suspected he could use the help.

  “Look,” she said, “I’ll write for free. You can look over my articles and tell me what I need to do to improve. I just want the chance to do this.” She loved that—for the most part—Diane had been her own boss, in charge of organizing her own day. She got to meet new people and share with the community her insights on the goings on of the town. Neal relented and told Nicki she could give a court report once or twice a week, summarizing the various little things that happened. It wasn’t long before she realized that he had all that information already, as the court’s docket was available online. So she instead began adding more information, a
little here and there, to the more interesting stories, facts not included on the docket. He began spending a good hour a week with her, coaching her about how to write a solid news story. If she again heard him say, “Who, what, where, when, how, and why,” she thought she’d puke. But she started asking herself those questions as she sat to write her articles, and she finally had her first article published three months ago. Two months ago, Neal said he couldn’t keep publishing her work…unless he paid her. So she was now published as a freelance journalist, getting paid by the article, and Neal continued coaching her. Since she’d grown tired of writing articles that wouldn’t get published because they weren’t what Neal was looking for, she’d started running her big ideas past him before spending the time writing. And because she knew Neal hated the phone, she tried to do that in person at least twice a week.

  In Neal’s office, Nicki glanced at the lined light green sheet in her steno pad to report what she’d learned but looked up before speaking. “Well, here’s what I’m thinking might turn out to be a pretty interesting story: Jason Edwards pleaded not guilty to one count of criminal mischief and four counts of arson. I don’t have all the details yet, but I want to follow this one. He’s accused of setting fire to a guy’s house in Colorado Springs last week.” She looked back at her notes. “A guy named Charles Baker. All I know right now is apparently the Baker guy was sleeping with Edwards’s brother’s ex.” Neal nodded. “I want to know how the cops figured it out and why they’re accusing Edwards and not his brother.” Neal smiled but said nothing. “What? What am I missing?”

  “The police have an APB out on Edwards’s brother too…a guy by the name of Michael Sterne.”

  How did Neal already know this stuff? “Sterne?”

  “Half brothers.”

  “Oh.” Nicki wrote this new information in her pad. God, sometimes Neal made her feel so stupid. But that’s why he was mentoring her, she reminded herself. She was learning. “So they suspect Sterne was involved too?”