Good evening!

Hello!

2019-11-09T02:44:16Z

If you need to contact me, you can do it here, via PM, or via Discord (Milesy#2335). I am generally not even looking at Discord or my email between the hours of 7pm-3am Pacific, unless it's my day off.

I'm pretty much always open for plot shenanigans and mayhem, however. If you need something, let me know.

[OOC]

Backtagging: Usually fine, but it's probably best to ask. I can be a chronic thread dropper myself.
Threadhopping: Yes
Fourthwalling: Absolutely
Offensive subjects: Will is an absolute depraved psychopath. He does hard drugs, attends orgies, and will sleep with your wife.

[IC]

Hugging this character: Read the room. For the most part, he'll be a bit annoyed. On a bad day, he'll hate it.
Kissing this character: Again, mostly fine. Unless he's having a bad day, then it probably isn't wise.
Flirting with this character: Will can be a massive flirt.
Fighting with this character: The dude's a tank. Have fun with that!
Injuring this character: Go for it. He'll get better.
Killing this character: Do it. It never sticks. Canon can't even kill this guy off, and it's tried several times.

comments

Ron Otterman has lost his fucking mind

2019-07-24T06:26:43Z

The crew walked out at noon, and by one o’clock, Wilford was in the conference room listening to someone act like his entire life was over because he’d refused to raise wages. Wilford was done. He was barely listening, even as the insults began to fly his way. Nichola fielded every last one of them, baffling the men on the screen as she took the union’s side on the matter.

“We did try to warn you,” she said. “Multiple times. This has been coming for a long time, but you looked the other way. This could have been prevented before the idea even formed.”

Then, something exploded outside. Without even thinking, Wilford got up. Explosions were more interesting than this crap.

“Does he ever stay for these?” one of the men on the TV asked.

Wilford left the room just in time to hear Nichola say no. She wasn’t exactly lying, and it shouldn’t have been new information.

Several people were already crowded at the front door, craning to look out toward the street. Joining them, Wilford could just make out a large plume of black smoke down the road. His curiosity fully getting the better of him, Wilford stepped through the crowd and walked outside. As he neared the sidewalk, he could see a big, black WEZL van crashed into a fire hydrant about twenty feet away from a burning car, while a man ran in circles and jumped up and down with a jerry can.

“Madness! The entire city!” he shouted. “You can’t escape it! We all need to form a new society before this one crumbles!”

Wilford recognised that voice. It was impossible not to. He walked up to a small crowd that had formed closer by in the middle of the intersection, where two old men on a scooter watched. The older man in front shouted at Ron Otterman to make sense, while his friend behind him casually and lazily lined up a shot with his pistol.

“What is going on?” Wilford asked.

“Ron Otterman has lost his fucking mind,” the man with the gun said. “Think I should shoot it?”

His older friend turned back to see what was happening. “No, you fucking idiot! We’re too close!” He immediately started to back up his scooter away from the taco truck that had been left abandoned in the intersection, pools of gasoline spreading out from under it.

Otterman raged and threw the empty jerry can, replacing it with his lighter. Some of the vehicular crowd began to speed off, but Otterman didn’t light the gasoline. Instead, he looked up in his rantings.

“You know all about it, Warfstache! I know you do! You wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t!”

He threw his lighter into the gasoline on the street and ran, disappearing behind the exploding taco truck. The old men followed Otterman, taking a wide arc around the explosion, but he was already gone. As the smoke settled into another tall column, Wilford could see the van had disappeared as well. Wherever Otterman had gone, he was sure to crop back up again shortly. The freelancers on the internet would be following him in no time.

This location wasn’t an accident. WEZL wasn’t based in Vinewood. Otterman had come out here to make a point, and Wilford had a good idea about what. Otterman followed Wilford’s school of journalism, reporting on the more sinister topics while making them outlandish and stupid enough for people to watch and spread like fringe fake news. He wasn’t a stupid man. He knew something, and he wanted Wilford to know about it. The ball was in his court now, but he had to be careful. Alliances were still being drawn, and Otterman could have been on anyone’s side.

For now, Wilford put it on the back burner and returned to the studio. The crowd at the front door had already broken up and got back to work, leaving Wilford with little excuse to continue to linger. He returned to the meeting, sitting back down as if nothing had happened.

“What was that?” Nichola asked.

“Ron Otterman has lost his fucking mind,” Wilford said, going right on along with the narrative that had already been painted.

Nichola looked surprised for a moment, and then took advantage of the TV men’s wrong-footedness at the situation and barreled ahead with her demands for the future.

“Otterman?” one of the TV men said, cutting her off and ignoring her completely.

WEZL was a CBN syndicate. Sure enough, a phone somewhere on the other side of the TV screen rang, and the conference was cut short. Wilford picked up the remote to turn off the TV, and nodded for Nichola to follow him out of the building. She did, both of them getting into Wilford’s car. He had no particular destination in mind, pulling out into traffic and giving Otterman’s disaster a wide berth.

“He knows something,” Wilford said. “I don’t know what, but something.”

Nichola nodded, turning in her seat to look at the burning taco truck as it fell into the distance. “You sure it’s not just Ron being… Ron?” she asked.

Wilford thought about it for a few seconds. “No, he knows something,” he decided. His phone rang as he drove, and he spared a second to glance at his watch to see who it was. Unsurprisingly, it was Mark for the eighth time that day. “Fuck you,” he said as he cancelled the call by tapping his watch.

“The… ex again?” Nichola guessed.

Wilford answered by rolling his eyes. “I still owe him a couple of black eyes,” he said. Fighting other people’s battles wasn’t normally something he went out of his way to do, but this one felt necessary. But this was not the time. He sighed and shook his head. “So, the network’s clearly pissed. How’s your stuff going?”

“I was hoping to have a little more time,” Nichola said. “We have the space, but it’s not ready for anything. I didn’t want to launch to coincide with the strike, but I thought it would have been better if we could launch just before. If we also took a hit, it would deflect attention from us.”

Wilford nodded. He’d tried to stay as ignorant of the strike as possible, just to cover his own ass, but now it was all out in the open. “When are you looking at?” he asked.

“Mid-August, I think,” Nichola said. “What about you? Any progress?”

“I need to follow up with Ramon, but he’s never around, and between her and the kid and I don’t even have time to take a piss, much less wait around for him to show back up.” He didn’t want to complain, but he hadn’t had a moment’s peace since Celine and Mark had their explosive breakup.

“Maybe Ron losing his mind will get the press looking elsewhere,” Nichola said. Wilford hoped she was right, and suspected she was. Otterman had made an absolute spectacle, even if it was obvious bait, but the idiot had mentioned Wilford by name and opened up the chance for it to backfire.

Wilford’s phone rang again, and again he cancelled the call. Mark did not deserve his attention, and he wasn’t going to get it and live to tell about it.

“We’ll see,” he said.

After about an hour of driving around and discussing their plan in private, Wilford swung back by the studio to drop Nichola off at her car. With Vinewood closed for business indefinitely, he had no reason at all to stay there. He had other business to attend to from home, where nobody who mattered could overhear.

After chasing a couple of suspicious cars away from his gate, Wilford debated replacing it with a more obstructive option as he pulled into the garage. Inside, he found Michael and Celine downstairs playing with the enormous dollhouse, but he spared only the briefest greetings before heading upstairs. He walked into his office and closed the door behind him, hoping to convey that his business was private, and not to be disturbed. He didn’t think he had Otterman’s number, but he picked up his phone book and started looking through it anyway as he sat down. A few moments later, he surprised himself to find a number for Ron Otterman near the back, under W.

With WEZL being the CBN local syndicate, they’d crossed paths a dozen times or more since Wilford had moved to the west coast. He didn’t remember ever swapping numbers, but there was a lot he didn’t remember. Showing up to events high on three different things tended to have that effect.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the number, surprised again when he got an answer from a live human being.

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” Otterman barked on the other end.

“You mind telling me why you felt the need to blow up my sidewalk today?” Wilford asked in turn.

“Warfstache. Good. I knew you were smart. And I know you’re up to something. I want to know what it is.” Wilford could hear the rumble of a diesel engine in the background. Otterman was probably still cruising around in his van somewhere.

“Nope,” Wilford said. “What makes you think I’m the kind of idiot to tell the press anything?” He leaned back in his seat, watching the dogs run around outside through the glass doors.

“Most people are. Never hurts to try,” Otterman said, a moment before he leaned on his horn. “I heard you adopted a kid. What the hell possessed you to do a thing like that?”

“Not for the press to know. You could ask me what I had for breakfast and get the same answer.” Wilford knew Otterman’s tactics worked, because he used them himself sometimes. He’d have probably tried the same thing if the situation was reversed.

“Damn, Warfstache. You’re doing something shady with the unions. You’re fucking another man’s wife. You’ve adopted a kid for some nefarious reason. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re a dangerous man.”

“Good thing you know better.” Otterman was, of course, right. But as long as he didn’t know what he was right about, Wilford was safe.

“So, what’d you have for breakfast?” Otterman asked.

Wilford shook his head. “Call me back when you lose your job,” he said, and hung up. He took a moment to just enjoy the silence of a room all to himself. With Vinewood ground to a halt, he no longer had an excuse to leave the house when he needed to. He already hated it. He got a few glorious minutes of solitude before it was all interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Yeah,” he called.

A moment later, Celine opened the door and stepped inside. As she neared the desk, Wilford sat up in his seat and swiveled the chair to face her. He hadn’t exactly intended to invite her into his lap, but she took it as an invitation all the same. He liked it, and he was annoyed that he liked it, and he was annoyed that he was annoyed. He wanted two things at once, and both were mutually exclusive.

“The news said they went ahead with the strike,” Celine said. She ran her fingers through his hair in a hopeless attempt to get it to do anything but stick in every direction at once.

“That they did,” Wilford said. He let his hand fall onto her thigh and linger there. “If the writers were anything to go off, I am unemployed for the next few months.”

Celine frowned. “I’ve invited Damien over tonight,” she said, taking the conversation down a new path. “He’s been wanting to talk for a while, and I can’t deal with him alone right now.”

This whole mess had put him into too many awkward situations at once. “All right,” Wilford said. There was no point in fighting it. A conversation with Damien had been in the cards for a while, and needed to happen. Wilford would have just rather it not happed the same day as everything else. “Do you know what time?” he asked.

“I think around seven,” Celine said. She continued to try to fix his hair. “And I’ve told him that we’ve been trapped inside, so he’s bringing dinner.”

Good. One less thing to worry about. Wilford decided to put an end to her fiddling, and wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer. This, he liked. It wasn’t even scary anymore. He just liked it.

“When was the last time you managed to get out?” he asked.

“I’ve snuck out to see a few clients here and there,” Celine said. “I went with Andy a few days ago to take Mikey to the zoo.”

“You two spoil that kid,” Wilford said. It was starting to become a problem, and one they’d have to address soon.

“Well, he’s napping right now,” Celine said. She kissed him and slid off his lap, holding onto his hand. Wilford did not miss the hint and got up to follow her to the bedroom. She hadn’t been so blatant in weeks, and he was curious to see what she had planned. It probably wouldn’t be anything he could handle, but he was curious all the same.

She walked into the bedroom and fell back onto the bed in a lazy sprawl, leaving plenty of room for Wilford to join her. He chose not to sprawl, but went down on his side, leaning on one elbow so he could look at Celine. She was clearly up to something, and he had a pretty good idea of what. But they’d done this dance before. He knew the steps, but he still could not bring himself to act. He could see Celine turning something over in her mind, but she held onto her secrets.

When she put a hand on the back of his neck to get him to kiss her, he did. This much, he had learned to do without completely freezing up. But it couldn’t last. He sat back up again, long enough to unhook his rubber bands and toss them vaguely toward the night stand.

Much better.

This time Celine sat up to meet him, and he thought he was good to go until she was on top of him, straddling his hips.

He didn’t panic. He’d been getting better at that too. But it was like he’d suddenly forgotten what he was supposed to do. And she was going to stop what she was doing if he didn’t figure it out. Then her hands were on the sides of his neck and she was kissing him again and that was good. He wasn’t really sure where to put his own hands, but they awkwardly landed on Celine’s hips. Then she was moving on top of him, and any grip on reality he’d managed to regain disappeared again. He didn’t know and couldn’t see what she was doing, and didn’t even notice that one of her hands had disappeared from his neck until he felt her messing with his belt. He froze again, and she stopped again. He didn’t want her to stop but he didn’t know what he did want either. He tried moving one hand down from her hip to her thigh, trying to regain some semblance of control. It didn’t last long. Everything happened so quickly after that, and he could barely keep up. And then a line was crossed that couldn’t be uncrossed, and at once he wanted to flee, and couldn’t understand why he ever wanted to. The way she moved on top of him, and he couldn’t tell if she was trying to be quiet for his sake, or to not wake the kid, and he was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Everything was over entirely too fast, and Wilford was starting to fully comprehend what exactly had just happened as she was still taking her time. Then she stilled and gave him a shaky smile, and kissed him again before he could decide if he should flee or not.

Part of him thought he should, but he didn’t want to. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and just stayed there for as long as he could. It wasn’t long enough. Everything felt too hot and too close, and it was only a few moments before he needed to do something.

He shook his head and Celine moved off of him, sliding over to sit on the bed beside him.

“Will?” she said carefully.

He took a moment to just breathe. He wanted to say something. Felt he should say something, but had no idea what to say.

“Why don’t you go take a shower,” Celine suggested. “And I’ll clean up for Damien.”

Wilford nodded. A shower sounded like an excellent idea.

Wilford should not have had to get the security company to chase away trespassers before letting a guest onto his property, and yet here he was, doing exactly that. Damien seemed hesitant to make his way up to the house, even after being given the all clear, but he made it up eventually.

He’d even made good on his promise to bring dinner. Or at least he brought things that could be turned into dinner. And then he pulled the beer out of one of the bags and offered to help, and any lingering tension that was still hanging over the visit vanished. At first, Damien didn’t seem to be there to talk about anything at all. Instead, Wilford and Damien hung out by the pool, drinking beer and cooking burgers on the grill. Whether Celine wanted to give them time to talk, or didn’t want to deal with Damien, she spent most of her time playing with Michael inside, and then playing with Michael in the pool.

“She seems happier,” Damien said abruptly.

Wilford glanced up from his beer, realising Damien was watching the other two splash around at the shallow end of the pool.

“Between you and me, I think we’re all going a little stir-crazy,” Wilford said.

“I bet. She hasn’t spent a full day at home in years,” Damien said. He turned back to look at Wilford, suddenly serious. “How long has this been going on?”

Wilford thought about it. He wasn’t sure at first how he should answer, or if he even should, but there really was no point in lying about any of it. It was all out in the open for everyone to see. All the relevant parties knew about it, even if they couldn’t accept it. Which meant he had to think about the correct answer.

“Not long. Some time around the end of February I think,” he said. Maybe not long, but a hell of a lot longer than Wilford was used to.

He didn’t like the look on Damien’s face. It was something deep in thought, and surprised all at once. “While she was seeing the other guy?” he asked.

“Other guy?” Wilford asked. How had Celine possibly had the time?

Damien hesitated for a moment. “Someone else had started paying her bills in April,” he said, keeping his voice low so only Wilford could hear.

This was a surprise to him, until he put the details together. “Oh, no. No, no. Only an idiot would do something like that under his own name. Not for him to know, by the way. Let him think whatever he wants. I don’t care. If it comes out in court, it comes out in court. But I’d like to avoid it getting out at all.” He knew he could trust Damien on this, because this scandal had a good way of getting back to him.

“You?” Damien asked. He nodded, slowly taking it in. “I’ll be honest, I’m glad to hear it. I thought…” He shook his head, obviously not wanting to voice what he thought.

“You thought your sister was testing out her options?” Wilford asked plainly. Damien actually looked ashamed. “Would you blame her if she was? I don’t know how much I believe that was the first time she got smacked around like that. I’d sure as hell be looking for money and security if it were me.”

Damien looked even more ashamed. “She wouldn’t have… I’d have known.”

“Would you?” Wilford asked. His watch started to vibrate, and it only took a glance to look at it and decide to decline the call.

Damien didn’t have an answer. Instead he picked up the spatula and opened the grill, suddenly busying himself with preparing dinner. Wilford stepped back and let him.

“All right,” Damien said after a moment, arranging the buns on the top rack to toast. “I obviously didn’t know my sister’s husband as well as I thought I did. I might as well get to know her boyfriend a little better. Call my office, and we’ll arrange to go out for lunch.” He looked back over at Celine and Michael, now joining forces to splash the dogs.

Damien obviously wanted to talk a little more freely, without Celine overhearing directly. She’d been avoiding him, and probably for a good reason.

“All right,” Wilford agreed easily. “Not like I got anything else to do for the next few months.”

The tension between them eased a little. With nothing between them left to say, Wilford decided to get a plate ready for himself and Michael, and start the grueling task of getting the kid out of the water.

Ramon still hadn’t shown back up, and it was making Wilford antsy. He didn’t need to follow up, necessarily, but habit dictated that he should. Even if it was to make sure he hadn’t gone and got bitten by any bugs or caught a cold while he was in town.

His speedster friend wasn’t exactly ideal, but when Barry showed up in the bar, Wilford hoped to get him to at least confirm that Ramon was still breathing somewhere. Which he did, in a backwards sort of way. Right before he superhero sucker punched Wilford right in the face, undoing over a year pain and tedium. Celine, of course, went into hysterics again, but this time there was no arguing about going to the ER. Wilford went, when he knew damn well he could have reset and be done with it.

He sat through being poked and prodded and X-rayed. He insisted everything that could be done at the moment be done. Wilford knew his insurance would cover a considerable deal, so he went out of his way to request specialists, duplicate tests, second opinions, and anything else he could think of. Then, he collected the bill and all his follow-up information, slipped off to the first door he could find that would allow him into Milliways, and left his note for Barry. As soon as he walked back through the door to his side, he opened his journal and opened his save from that morning.

He was not going to allow himself to go through the humiliation of a year of stuffing rubber bands into his mouth for nothing. Especially when he was less than a month away from getting all the hardware out finally.

The second time around, he chose to stay the hell home. He knew time didn’t repeat in the bar, but he still didn’t want to risk an encore. For all he knew, the bastard was stalking around for round two.

Instead, he stayed home with Michael while Celine managed to escape out to Blaine County for the day. Wilford hated how much he enjoyed a quiet day at home, with the dogs snoring and drooling all over the couch, and the kid happily colouring away on the table. He seemed to like to make up his own pictures, so along with his book, he had a small stack of paper from the printer spread out over the coffee table as well, while Wilford flipped through the news and cat napped.

When his phone rang, it startled him. He hadn’t remembered getting any calls the first time around. Then again, he’d spent most of his day without signal the first time around. He took his time fishing his phone from his pocket, and answered at once when he saw Tiffany’s name on his screen.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked. They hadn’t spoken since he handed her a cheque in a hotel lobby. She was getting on with her life, and he was quietly paying for it, and nothing ever needed to be said.

“I fucked up. I’m so sorry.” She sounded like she was about to cry.

Wilford sat up, not exactly sure he understood what was being said. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“I’m so sorry,” Tiffany repeated. “He was asking questions, and he had a badge.”

“Slow down and start over,” Wilford said. Something serious had happened. And he already knew it wasn’t good. “Who had a badge?”

He could hear Tiffany put the phone down, and make a noise that definitely sounded like she was crying, followed by several muffled voices in the background. When the phone was picked up again, it wasn’t Tiffany.

“Is this Wilfred? You’re the grandfather?” a strange woman on the other end asked.

Wilford shook his head. God, he hated that name even more than he hated his own. “Sure,” he said. “Do you know what’s going on?”

The woman sighed. “A man came by today. He told us that Tiffany’s daughter had escaped from prison, and he needed information. He had a badge. It looked real.”

Wilford already didn’t like where this was going. “What was said?” he asked.

“Tiffany told him about the little boy. She told him where he was, and that he was safe. He wanted specifics. We thought so they could, I don’t know. Investigate. She told him everything she knew. She even had a business card.”

The business card led to the studio. But it still had his name on it.

“About a half hour later, someone else came by, asking the same exact questions. We got confused, because, we’d just answered them. This guy said the other one wasn’t a cop, but they don’t know who he was.”

The only thing Tiffany didn’t know was the kid’s new name, but that hardly mattered when everything else had been handed over on a silver platter. Wilford took a long moment to just process everything, while Tiffany continued to cry and apologise in the background.

“When was this?” he asked.

“About an hour ago,” the woman said. “We were still trying to figure out if we needed to call you or not when the real cop showed up. The first one said not to. We thought that was weird, but maybe it was normal?”

“No. It’s not,” Wilford said. “Christ.” He tried to figure out what in the hell he was supposed to do now. “Call me immediately as soon as you hear anything else.”

“Absolutely,” the woman said. “I’m sorry. We both are.”

Wilford almost hung up, but thought better of it. “Leave the city. Tell the real cop you talked to. Don’t tell anyone else,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Do it. Now.”

“Yeah. All right.”

Wilford hung up, and had to restrain himself from throwing the phone. It would not have been a productive activity.

“Michael. Come here,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm.

Michael looked up, and after a moment, got to his feet to head over. Wilford pulled him into his lap, automatically taking the crayon that was offered to him.

“Hey, you want to go do some running around with me?” he asked.

Michael thought about this proposal, and finally nodded. “Where?” he asked.

“I don’t know where, pal. We’ll figure that out.” Wilford said. “Go get your shoes.”

He let Michael slide down onto the floor, and unlocked his phone again, bringing up the number for the local security company. While Wilford helped Michael put on his shoes, he tried to iterate the importance of clearing the street of lurkers, permanently. With that taken care of, he took Michael down to the car so they could go visit the police station.

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Tess

2019-07-08T01:02:52Z

The door does not open up to the condo, unfortunately. Because Wilford has not been to the condo since the last time he brought someone through the door. It opens up from his office, into an area nebulously defined as a dining room.

At least, there is a table there, which someone has taken a passing effort to keep clear. The stack of mail, hastily picked up toys, and a couple of coats on the table suggest nobody does any eating at the table.

The house is what passes as small in the neighbourhood. Windows look out on the sloping hills and sprawling city in the distance. Inside, brushed steel kitchen, slate grey walls, and leather furniture are betrayed by tiny hand smudges on the windows, peanut butter stains in the carpet, crayon scribbles in places that nobody seems to have the energy to deal with.

The house is also unusually quiet. How interesting.

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Michael was absolutely transfixed by a leopard playing with a giant cardboard box

2019-05-27T04:09:54Z

Wilford opened the door slowly, making sure they weren’t about to get tackled and make a bunch of noise as soon as they stepped inside. The coast was clear. The house was silent. Andy was asleep on the sofa, while some infomercial played endlessly on the television. Wilford had said by midnight. It was a little past that. Whoops.

He tapped on the wall, just loud enough to wake Andy. He sat with a start, slowing down when he spotted Wilford and Celine.

“Everything good?” Wilford asked, watching as Celine disappeared into the bedroom.

Andy nodded, already picking up his shoes from the front door. “Yeah. He went to bed real easy tonight. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Wilford nodded, letting Andy see himself out as he made his way to the bedroom. Celine stood in front of the dresser, taking her earrings out and dropping them into the bowl where Wilford kept his various important trinkets. Watching her, he sat down on the bed and kicked off his shoes. He had no idea what came next. He thought he knew what he wanted to come next, but after the disaster that was last time, Celine had kept her distance. She gave him time to work through his new medication and figure out what he wanted. He hated it. He hated the waiting and the pretending, and the complete inability to just be normal again, even if only in this one aspect.

He was done waiting. As soon as Celine turned around, Wilford reached forward and pulled her to the bed by her hips. She fell between his legs, laughing again and trying to muffle it. But it was too late. The door to the hall opened slowly and Michael shuffled inside.

“Daddy,” he said, with the most pathetically small voice Wilford had ever heard from him.

Billy had joked about this. Many times. Obviously, that made this his fault, and Wilford was going to have to punch him in the face at the next opportunity.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Wilford asked, trying very hard to keep his voice calm.

“Tummy hurts,” Michael said.

The entire world paused for a moment. Then Celine awkwardly rolled over to the side so Wilford could sit up to deal with the issue. “Where?” he asked.

Michael pointed right at the middle of his belly. Trying not to sigh, Wilford got to his feet and picked the kid up. “You gonna puke?” he asked.

Michael shrugged. Super great. Wilford took him out to the kitchen. “How about some fizz? Think that’ll make it feel better?” he asked.

Michael shrugged again, and then nodded. Wilford opened the fridge to pull a can of ginger ale from the door, and paused to peek around the shelves. Little plastic cups with foil lids and single-wrapped cheese sticks were tucked away on the back of one of the shelves. Great. He let the door swing shut and grabbed a glass from one of the cupboards.

“You been eating something you shouldn’t?” he asked as he poured a small amount of soda into the glass.

“No,” Michael said quietly.

It wasn’t worth pressing the issue. He wasn’t going to learn not to without facing the consequences on his own. Wilford handed him the glass and let him drink. Just to be sure, he held his free hand against Michael’s head, but he didn’t feel warm. The odds were very strongly in favour of Michael discovering yoghurt and hiding the cup somewhere.

Once Michael was done sipping on his drink, Wilford put the soda can into the cup and picked both up. As he turned around, he found Celine watching curiously from the hall.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

Wilford rolled his eyes. “I think we’re in for a long night,” he said. “Looks like Mr Hot Shot found the snacks Andy keeps in the fridge.”

He watched Celine’s change from confused to understanding in a manner of seconds. “Oh,” she said.

Wilford stepped close to her, putting his hand on her waist and trying to decide what the hell he should do next. “I hate to ask for another rain cheque, but…” But what. He should have rented a hotel and made overnight arrangements.

Celine smiled and shook her head. “Do what you need to do,” she said. She lingered just a moment longer before stepping back into the bedroom. Assuming that meant she was heading home, Wilford turned his attention back to Michael.

“I think you need some overnight pants, don’t you?” he said. Michael grumbled, but he didn’t get a say in the matter. If he was going to sneak something out of the fridge, he got to deal with all of the consequences, uncomfortable puffy underwear included. He took Michael into the bathroom to swap his underwear out for a pair of the chunky overnight ones left over from when he was wetting the bed every night. Wilford wasn’t sure what good they’d do now, but it was better than nothing.

“Big bed,” Michael said as soon as Wilford picked him back up again.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Still, Wilford indulged him. If he was sick enough to be talking to Wilford again, he was sick enough to sleep in the big bed. Wilford pushed the bedroom door open enough to make sure Celine was decent before barging in, and found her not dressed to go home, but in a pair of his pyjamas and an old baseball shirt, lounging on the bed. A reflexive command to take it off was at sudden war with wanting to comment on how she looked in it, and he found himself saying nothing at all for far too long.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

Wilford quickly shook the fuzz out of his brain. “Yeah. He’s being needy tonight,” he said, stepping into the room and putting Michael down on the bed. He expected Michael to just roll right over and go to sleep, but he immediately crawled over to cuddle with Celine.

“Stealing my woman now too. Okay,” Wilford said, putting the rest of the soda down on the night stand.

Celine laughed and let Michael cuddle. “He’s going to break a lot of hearts,” she said.

“The absolute nerve,” Wilford said. He took his jacket off and tossed it vaguely toward the closet to be dealt with later, and walked into the en suite. He took a few moments to pull the rubber bands out of his mouth and take his teeth out so he could clean them in the morning. A blast of mouthwash for the ones that didn’t come out, and he was ready to figure out what to do with the rest of his night. Except he’d done it again, and now the pace of the evening had slowed enough to make him aware of everything he was doing. He had not brought a change of clothes in with him. He’d just have to man it up and be an adult about it.

He stepped back out, stopping in the doorway to watch as Celine showed Michael something on her phone. Whatever it was, the sound was vague and tinny, like it had been filmed in public somewhere. Either way, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Wilford wasn’t going to sleep in his clothes. That was certain, and he’d spent enough time stalling. He grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of pyjamas from his dresser and quickly changed, focusing on the act and ignoring the very real possibility that he was being watched. In the end, the world kept right on spinning and he was still breathing, so he joined the other two in bed. As he got settled, he craned to see what Celine was showing the kid. Michael was absolutely transfixed by a leopard playing with a giant cardboard box.

While Celine entertained Michael with animal videos, Wilford took the opportunity to check his messages. A few forwards from Nichola, scheduling reminders about guests. The ones he was most interested in were from Rosa. She had got the YouTube account set up, apparently circumventing some rules Wilford didn’t entirely understand to get it ready to go sooner. She and Jess had done all sorts of work on figuring out what specific rights the network held, and what rights Black Light held. Based on what he was reading, he owned more of his show than he realised, which meant he could fly the webcasting under his own banner sooner than he’d hoped. He sent back responses with instructions on how to go forward and locked down his phone. Michael was snoring quietly between the two of them, which made for a good escape opportunity. Nodding toward the door, Wilford slowly got up, careful not to jostle anything too much. Celine followed carefully, leaving Michael asleep in the big bed while they snuck out to the living room. Wilford sat down on the sofa, pulling Celine down next to him. As soon as she got cosied up beside him, Michael started crying from the other room.

Wilford was up early, having barely slept during the night. He was surprised Celine hadn’t given up and gone home, but now he left her in bed with Michael while he got up to cook for the dogs and get everything ready for the day. It was going to be a rough day. Nothing but irritating, out of touch old fuckers who only gave No for an answer.

Andy let himself through the front door as Wilford set the dogs’ chicken on the counter to cool.

“We had a pretty rough night,” Wilford warned. “He’s either picked up some stomach bug or got into your snacks. I’m not sure.”

Andy paused, looking vaguely around the room. “I haven’t noticed anything missing, but I’ll keep an eye out,” he said.

Wilford nodded. “Celine’s back there with him. She’ll probably take off as soon as she gets up though.” He checked his watch and put the dogs’ plates down on the floor on his way to pick up a folder from the kitchen table. “I’m in meetings all day, but I should be at the studio. If I’m not, I’ll let you know.”

“Is he running a fever?” Andy asked.

“Maybe. It didn’t seem like it last time I checked.”

Andy nodded again. “All right. Do you want me to bring him into town if it gets worse?”

Wilford thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I should be able to get away to take him in if I need to.”

He was already running late. Wilford made sure he had everything and headed toward the door.

He hated meetings. Meetings were the worst. But at least this time Nichola had managed to make it a virtual meeting, so nobody had to waste their day driving all the way downtown. Instead, it meant the meeting had more time to drone on and on. When the door opened and the HR girl poked her head in, Wilford was glad for the interruption. He got up and slipped out of the room, hoping whatever she had for him to deal with would take a long time.

“There’s someone outside that wants to talk to you,” she said, clearly exasperated with something.

“Someone?” Wilford asked. “Not Andy?” Andy had a badge and everything. He shouldn’t have had a problem getting into the building.

“No,” she said slowly. “He says he’s your dad.”

Wilford wasn’t sure he heard correctly. “He what?”

“That’s what he says, but I was told your parents passed away. Do you want me to call the police?”

“Fuck,” Wilford hissed, shaking his head. This was Walter’s doing somehow. What the hell was he up to now. “No, I’ll deal with it,” he said, already walking toward the front of the building. Walter was going to be missing a face by the end of the day.

Everything Wilford had to say to him died on his tongue as he stepped into the lobby. Walter was not standing on the other side of the glass door. Because that would be too easy. No, it had to be his father, standing out there and roasting in the heat.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Wilford muttered. He could turn around and leave, continue the narrative he’d kept up since he was 18 years old. Make a point that would look fucking fantastic on the news when the old man died of heat stroke.

Wilford opened the door. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Jun-su moved like he didn’t know what to do. Wilford stepped away before he could figure it out, waving him inside and out of the sun. He sure picked a hell of a day to show up, when Wilford had to absolutely be on his A-game. He wondered what the statue of limitations on abandonment was, but now was not the time to bring it up. Besides, he wanted to get some answers out of the old man before he chased him away.

He opened the door to his dressing room and walked in, assuming Jun-su would follow.

“You must be friends with the director,” Jun-su said as he stepped into the room. He looked around, gawking like a tourist.

“She’s all right,” Wilford said. He shut the door and started walking to his desk. “What are you doing here? I didn’t invite you.”

Jun-su stopped gawking and got serious. “I got your letter around Christmas time. Your mother doesn’t know about it. I thought it was a joke. Someone looking for money.”

Money. It’s what was on Wilford’s mind too. “Is that so?” With his back to his father, Wilford pulled his chequebook out of his inventory and started writing one out for $1000.

“I asked your brother if he knew anything. He told me you have a son?” Jun-su said, not quite asking, but not really stating either.

Wilford tore the cheque out of the the book and handed it over. “Michael. He’s three,” he said.

Jun-su took the cheque, but didn’t look at it. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asked.

Wilford couldn’t do this right now. It was too much stress, and he needed to be doing his job. “Did you?” he asked.

Jun-su didn’t have an answer. He looked down at the cheque instead. “What is this?” he asked.

“Repaying a debt.” Wilford didn’t know what to do with him. He just wanted to run screaming.

“You should use this on your son,” Jun-su said, trying to hand it back.

Did he somehow not know? Did Walter tell him nothing useful or relevant? Could he not fucking read? Wilford opened the door back to the hall. “We’ll survive,” he said. “I have to get back to my meeting. Stay… here. Whatever. I don’t care.”

Wilford left him there, gawping like a fish as the door closed between them. He wasn’t exactly eager to get back to the meeting, but anything was better than dealing with a man who thought he could just walk back into everything without a second of thought. As he opened the door, Nichola was continuing on as strongly as she’d been before he left.

“Currently CBN’s budget covers all operating costs, while Black Light covers the cost of production. Black Light would like to absorb all costs, as well as all employment rights currently covered by CBN, including the ability to subcontract employees and set our own wages.”

Wilford sat back and let Nichola do all the talking. The talk had been going nowhere for an hour straight, but it would have gone less than nowhere with with Wilford’s ‘fuck you’ negotiation tactics, and they both knew it. He was only there because it was his name on all the paperwork and his signature on the payroll cheques.

“CBN would still retain their market share and all distro rights. We just want better control over who’s on our set, and how they’re paid,” Nichola said, reiterating her point for the fifth time.

“Ms Stevens,” one of the men on the television said. There were three of them, with their $1000 suits and spray-on tans looking worn down, but not in the right way. “If we do this for you, we have to do this for everybody, and that’s bad for the network.

Nichola sighed and glanced up at the other side of the table, behind the camera. “Then let’s go back to the pay scheme we talked about,” she said. “Our average single subcontracted employee has three hundred dollars left at the end of the month. These people work in Vinewood, and they still—”

“Ms Stevens,” the exec said again. “You’re not hearing us. If we raise your salaries, we have to raise them for everybody, and that hurts the network.”

Wilford couldn’t remain silent any longer. “You’re telling me Centennial Broadcasting — worth sixty billion — can’t afford salary adjustments for cost of living?” he asked.

“If your employees can’t pay their bills, then maybe they need to learn to budget,” the irritating man on the television said.

The execs weren’t aware of the other three in the room with Wilford and Nichola. They sat quietly, taking notes on everything being said. Billy was amongst the three, along with two reps from his union. Wilford was done with small dreams for the network. They were all complicit. Every single one of them. This was no longer about Jay Norris. It was about an evilness that had been allowed to run unchecked for far too long. He was going to take down the entire industry, and that started with letting these people sit in on their argument so they heard firsthand what was happening.

While Nichola launched into a tirade at them, the door behind Wilford opened again. He turned around, seeing one of the girls from HR beckoning him out to the hall. Without a word of excuse, he got up to see what he was needed for this time. Along with the girl, Andy was out in the hall, holding onto a very fussy Michael. Wilford checked his watch. It was only noon.

“What’s up?” he asked, taking Michael. As soon as Michael was in Wilford’s arms, he quieted down and buried his face in Wilford’s shirt.

“He hasn’t stopped crying all day,” Andy said. He looked exhausted. “He didn’t eat breakfast, and he threw up as soon as I gave him lunch, so I figured I’d bring him in.”

Wilford nodded. “All right.” He craned to look down at Michael, but he couldn’t see much from the awkward angle. “He probably picked something up around here. I’ll try stay home tomorrow.”

Andy nodded. “All right. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that’s the case.”

Wilford hoisted Michael up a little higher and took him back into the conference room. Nichola was still ranting at their employers, not giving them any time at all to even try to speak. Wilford ignored the one-sided argument and tried to get Michael settled. He was already whining again, and didn’t seem to want to be calmed down. Hoping it might help, Wilford pulled a box of animal crackers from his inventory and tried to convince Michael to take it.

“Come on, man. What’s the deal?” he asked as Michael shook his head.

“Is this necessary?” one of the men on the TV asked over Nichola.

Wilford ignored him, letting Nichola continue on her tirade. He got Michael to take the cracker, and take a bite, which seemed like an abnormally large victory.

For about twenty seconds. That feeling went away as soon as his shirt was covered in child puke.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Wilford said, getting up awkwardly as Michael’s fussing turned to full-blown crying again. Damn the meeting. Wilford took Michael to the men’s room, struggling to figure out how to juggle the kid and get cleaned up at the same moment. His dilemma was a short one though, thanks to Billy following him in. Wilford immediately handed the kid over and took off his shirt and threw it into the sink under running water.

“He’s burning up,” Billy said.

Wilford shook the water off his hands and felt Michael’s forehead. He hadn’t been that warm the night before, but it was definitely a problem now.

“Where’s the nearest urgent care?” he asked.

“Uh. Mount Zonah?” Billy guessed.

Wilford looked at his shirt in the sink. It wasn’t going home with him in that state. “Get that to laundry,” he said, taking Michael back. “Tell Nick I had to get out of here.”

Billy nodded. “Yeah. Go. I’m on it.”

Wilford rushed back to his dressing room, having forgotten all about Jun-su until he stepped inside and found the man sitting awkwardly on the sofa still holding the cheque in both hands. Michael was still crying, and Wilford didn’t want to put him down and risk making it worse somehow. Unfortunately there was only one option left.

“Here. Hold him,” he said, dropping the kid in Jun-su’s lap. He let his father continue to do an impression of a goldfish while he pulled a wardrobe shirt off the rack in the corner and put it on.

“Are they going to be angry about that?” Jun-su asked.

Wilford was done playing this game. “It’s my fucking show,” he said, all the patience for this stupid situation evaporated. He buttoned enough of the shirt to be decent and picked Michael up again. “Fuck, you might as well come with. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

He could go the the moon for all Wilford cared. But he wasn’t exactly surprised when Jun-su awkwardly got up to follow him out of the building and to the parking lot. Whether or not he heard, Jun-su didn’t quite seem to grasp exactly what Wilford had said on their way out until he got to his car and unlocked it. He just stood there, still gawping as Wilford strapped the kid into his seat. Michael fussed the entire time, not wanting to be tied up in all those straps. Wilford couldn’t blame him.

“Get in the damn car,” Wilford said as he closed the back door and opened the front. Finally Jun-su reacted and opened the door as well. He looked around the car, holding himself like he was afraid to touch anything, lest he break it.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, turning to look at Michael in the back.

“Don’t know. I’m not a doctor,” Wilford said. He might have been able to cope with the situation better if he hadn’t been risking his entire company all day. He might have been able to cope with the situation better if Jun-su hadn’t picked that exact day to show up in Los Santos. He tried to ignore all of it and pulled out of his spot and headed toward the street.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, feeling like he never really got an answer.

“I told you. I got your letter,” Jun-su said.

“That’s not an answer. You didn’t have to come here, five months later.” Walter was still going to lose his face over this, if it meant Wilford had to hunt him down to do it.

Jun-su didn’t answer right away. For a long moment, the only sound in the car was Michael’s low whining from the back seat. “Your brother was worried about the boy,” he said finally.

Wilford squeezed the steering wheel, if only to keep from throwing a punch. “My brother, the pathological shit-stirrer, was worried?” he asked. He breathed very slowly, keeping his glare on the road ahead of him. He could see his father squirm awkwardly in his seat, but he didn’t care. Let him be scared. He was never scared before, when he was bigger than Wilford. It was a different story now. Wilford wished he could enjoy it. Instead, he tilted his rear view mirror to see into the back seat. He was worried Michael might puke again in his seat, but it didn’t seem like he was going to, but he was clearly uncomfortable.

“Shout about it, pal,” Wilford said. “Tell me all about it.”

Michael didn’t shout. He just kept right on whining quietly to himself. Wilford ignored his father for the rest of the drive, focusing instead on getting to Mt Zonah, and trying to distract Michael from himself. Once they were there, he found a spot near the urgent car building and parked as quickly as he could, barely paying attention to the lines on the pavement.

“Come on, pal,” Wilford said as he freed Michael from his seat. He looked up to see Jun-su awkwardly getting out of the car, still looking like a lost goldfish. “Let’s go see what’s wrong.” Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t yoghurt. He threw a glare at his father as he walked past, into the reception.

Still having nothing better to do, Jun-su followed him in, saying nothing as Wilford got them checked in. Apparently the way to beat the waiting list was to come in with a screaming toddler who was running a fever and reeking of vomit. Wilford had barely given his insurance information before a nurse rushed out to see them to an exam room. Again, Jun-su followed, and Wilford didn’t have the energy to tell him to leave.

“When did this start?” the nurse asked, sitting Wilford down in a chair so he could hold Michael while she checked him.

Wilford shrugged and shook his head. “Last night,” he said. “I didn’t get home until after midnight.” He remembered something suddenly. Something Andy had said. “The nanny said he went to bed easier than normal. We try to get him to bed between nine and ten, so before then I guess.”

The nurse was already taking his temperature and giving him a quick check. “What other symptoms?” she asked.

“He got up right after I got home, with a stomach ache,” Wilford said, watching whatever she was doing. “He can’t have dairy. I thought he’d got into something from the fridge, so I gave him a little bit of ginger ale and took him back to my room. Don’t know when the fever started. Nanny said he puked after lunch, and then I tried to feed him some crackers and he did it again.”

The nurse nodded and typed something into the computer. “A doctor will be right in,” she said, rushing out.

With Michael still fussing in his lap, Wilford bounced him up and down, hoping it might calm him. It didn’t.

“You’re a fucking jinx,” he said stiffly.

Jun-su had nothing to say.

The nurse wasn’t wrong about about the doctor. The door opened again, and an older woman stepped in, crouching down in front of Wilford.

“Hey, Michael. How are we feeling?” she asked, pulling her stethoscope from around her neck.

Michael’s only response was more fussing. Wilford shook his head. “He’s got a delay,” he said. “Talking’s not his thing.”

The doctor nodded and pulled the computer cart closer so she could read it. “This started last night?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Wilford said. He watched as the doctor checked over Michael as well. When she pressed her fingers against his stomach, his whining turned into screaming. She frowned and checked the notes again. “Let’s get him into an ultrasound,” she said slowly.

“Why?” Wilford asked. He thought it was some kind of awful flu. He’d never had an ultrasound for a flu.

The doctor looked straight at him, and he did not like the look on her face. “To rule out appendicitis.”

“He’s three!” Wilford said.

The doctor nodded and stood up. “It’s rare, but it can happen this young,” she said. “We’ll get him in right away.”

Twenty minutes later, Wilford was in the parking lot inhaling his second cigarette and trying to get Nichola to answer her phone. She was probably still in that damn meeting. He gave up, angry that he couldn’t slap his phone shut, instead having to angrily tap a button on the screen to end the call. Jun-su stood awkwardly against a wall in the shade, watching the whole thing. He hadn’t said anything since they’d first walked into the building. He needed to leave. Wilford pulled up Google and tried to look up Walter, but he couldn’t find a single search result. No matter how many pages deep he went, he couldn’t find a single page that actually had to do with his brother, and not himself.

Suddenly, he remembered something. Abe had said something weird months earlier, when Wilford was trying to find anyone else who’d want to talk the kid. He tried searching for Walter Jung, and found his brother on the first result. He owned a farm out in Flint County, and had a public phone number listed right on his site. For some reason, Wilford was still surprised when Walter answered.

“Come get this fucking jinx out of my face,” he demanded. He threw his cigarette butt onto the pavement, and pulled a third one out of the pack. It was almost empty.

“What?” Walter asked, sounding just as uselessly confused as ever.

“Mount Zonah. You sent him here. You come pick him up,” Wilford said.

He could hear Walter demanding more information as he hung up. Maybe if he was in enough of a panic, he’d actually do what he was told. Wilford took a deep drag from his cigarette, trying to just calm down. It wasn’t working, but he tried to pretend it was.

When he finished with that cigarette, he held his phone up again and scrolled through his contacts to find Celine’s number. He wasn’t supposed to call. It was too dangerous, but he didn’t want to text. It didn’t feel right.

He called her. He half expected the phone to ring out to voice mail, but she picked up right away.

“You’re lucky. I’m not home,” Celine said. “How’s Mikey?”

Now that Wilford had her on the line, he couldn’t think of a single word to say. He looked back at his father and shook his head. “In the fucking ER,” he said. “We’re at Mount Zonah.”

“Oh my god, what? What’s wrong?”

Wilford didn’t even know where to start.

Wilford didn’t know why he was so nervous when he saw the doctor walk outside. He stood up quickly, throwing his cigarette to the ground.

“Good news,” the doctor said in a tone that didn’t sound fake. “Everything went well. They’re just starting to bring him around, and will take him back up to your room in a few minutes.”

Wilford nodded. He didn’t know what the procedure for this was. “Can we go up there?” he asked.

“Of course,” the doctor said. “You’ll probably beat him up there.”

“Good. Uh. Thank you,” Wilford said, still feeling lost. He turned to Celine, vaguely aware of the doctor going back inside. He leaned his head against her shoulder, just taking a moment to breathe for the first time all day. After a moment, he stood up straight and started to head back inside.

“Don’t fucking come near me again,” he said to Jun-su. “Don’t ever come back here.”

He shouldn’t have listened to Walter. He should never have sent that letter.

Celine tugged on his hand, and Wilford followed. As they walked through the halls, Celine pulled out her phone and frowned at the screen. “God, he’s already calling me,” she said. She stuffed her phone back into her purse and kept walking.

“Should you go home?” Wilford asked. He didn’t want her to, but she was spending a dangerous amount of time with him as it was.

“Probably,” she said. “But I don’t want to.”

They walked together to the elevator, taking it up to the sixth floor. Wilford could barely remember the way, even with all the signs on the walls, but they eventually found the right room and slipped inside. It was still empty, so they both sat down on the bench beneath the window.

“Babe, I hate to say it,” Celine said. “But you reek.”

Wilford laughed weakly. “Like you’ve never been puked on,” he said.

Celine took both his hands in her and smiled at him. “I don’t think I want to be.”

“I got some bad news for you if you plan on hanging around,” Wilford said.

The door opened and a couple of nurses angled a bed into the room. Wilford watched, not sure if he was meant to get up or not.

“He’ll probably be out for a little bit,” one of the nurses said. “The surgeon will be up soon to talk to you.”

Wilford nodded. “Right,” he said. He didn’t know why he was still nervous, but he hated it.

They wanted to keep him overnight, which meant Wilford was staying overnight. Nichola had come and gone, bringing him and Celine dinner along with his medication. She didn’t stay long, giving Wilford the feeling she didn’t want to be in the way. He let her leave without saying as much, still trying to figure out why he couldn’t get his head on straight.

Celine stayed with him. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t question it. When Michael was awake for brief moments, he wasn’t fussy. That was good. That finally made Wilford start to feel better. The kid obviously wasn’t feeling well, even with whatever drugs they were giving him, but not constantly crying was a definite improvement. He still didn’t want to eat anything, but Wilford didn’t remember having much of an appetite after the last time he’d been in the hospital either.

By mid morning, everyone seemed happy enough with how things had gone that they were sending him home. As soon as Celine heard that, she started to put herself together.

“I’m going to go home and pick some things up,” she said. “I’ll meet you at your place.” She kissed him on the forehead and left, giving Wilford some time alone he hadn’t realised he’d wanted.

comments

Maybe the place out in Idlewood would be fun. He’d have to find a good pair of shoes for it, though

2019-05-16T07:15:09Z

He was surprised at how many people had signed up for this league. Even more surprised that most of them showed up. The team was made up of people from their lot, and the lot to their south, so Wilford recognised most of the people there. Recognised, but didn’t know. A few folks from his studio were there, and a small handful from Jackson’s studio. They grouped together, lazily sprawling on the bleachers while more people slowly wandered in. Wilford half-listened to the conversation happening around him while he watched the college kids that would be running their team try to figure out what they were doing. Not for the first time, Wilford wondered if he had better ways to spend his time. He’d signed up on an impulse born out of boredom, but had been convinced that it had been a good idea. Being active in leisure activities within the network might make him seem less like he was about to do something to destroy it.

And it would probably be more fun than soloing at the cages. And after his practise session with Klaus, maybe amateurs were going to be more his speed anyway.

He had other things on his mind though. Wilford pulled out his phone and went to Google, looking up local restaurants and clubs. Google had picked up an annoying habit of recommending his own restaurant every time he searched, but that was out of the question - barely a step above fast food, for his purposes. Something with a dress code seemed more like his speed for once.

He had a few idea by the time their intern coaches figured out what they were doing and started calling everyone to attention. Wilford put his phone away and sat back to listen to an awkward explanation of how the league worked and what they could expect.

“We’re here for fun,” one of the intern coaches said. “We aren’t trying out for talent. We’re just looking for what might be the best place for everybody. I’m guessing most of you probably played little league or pick-up games at some point, but we don’t expect anyone to be pro-level.”

“That’s you out, then,” Billy said quietly, nudging Wilford in the ribs. Wilford swatted him away.

“What?” the second intern coach asked. “Someone was pro?”

Wilford shook his head. “Pitched four seasons for Georgetown,” he said. “But I didn’t go to school to play sports.”

Both of their coaches looked at each other, suddenly lost. “Oh. Well. Anyone… else?” he asked.

Signing up had been a bad idea. Wilford regretted it already. Most of the people who signed up were at least coordinated enough to throw a ball roughly where they wanted it to go, and some could even hit a ball that was thrown at them. And thanks to Billy’s big fat mouth, it was only inevitable that Wilford wound up on the mound, lobbing ball after ball to help rank their team with consistent throws.

But it was actually kind of fun after a while. Until it was his turn at the plate, and he forgot he was there to have fun and completely misjudged the size of their field. All it took was one broken window, and suddenly nobody wanted to stick around.

Signing up had been a bad idea.

Wilford was home late enough that Andy was halfway through trying to convince Michael to eat dinner. Apparently they were going through that hell again. Wilford suspected he knew why. He’d been working too many hours, and was out of the house too often. Too many hours at the studio, too many hours at the restaurant. Too many nights out with Celine, or afternoons trying to just fucking enjoy himself without stress. Any balance the kid had found had been taken away again, and he was trying to find something he could control. It was probably the reason the kid had stopped talking again. Wilford dropped his gear at the door and walked into the kitchen, waving for Andy to follow him.

“Start bringing him into town again,” he said. “I don’t think he likes being cooped up all day.”

Andy nodded. “What about this thing you’re doing now?” he asked.

Wilford didn’t know. “I’m thinking it’s too much. I’ll probably quit.” He didn’t want to quit. Despite it being a disaster already, he liked having something to do that wasn’t work related. He’d had a fun challenge turning the restaurant around, but now he’d done that and it was turning a regular profit, so he needed something else.

“I think you were right. He’s definitely not ready for preschool,” Andy said. There was more he wasn’t saying, but Wilford didn’t need to hear it. He already knew. The kid could barely handle spending the day with a nanny.

“His shrink wants to evaluate him again in October.” He watched Michael pick at his plate, one grain of rice at a time, dropping it all onto the coffee table. “I’m starting to think he might have been wrong.”

“I’ll leave that to him,” Andy said. “And do some reading up in the mean time.”

Wilford nodded. This was a juggling act he couldn’t even begin to figure out how to handle. There were calls that had to be made, appointments to book. None of it was fun. “It was Celine’s birthday a couple weeks back,” he said. “I was going to take her out one of these nights, but not if he’s going to have a meltdown over it.”

“We haven’t had anything like that for a while,” Andy told him. “It’s normal for them to cry when the parent leaves, but he’s started to accept that pretty well. It’s the inconsistency that’s getting to him, I think.”

Which was Wilford’s suspicion as well. “I’ll make some calls in the morning before I head out, and see what his shrink says,” he decided. He shrugged. “Fuck, maybe it’s a good thing that I don’t know my hours day to day right now.”

“All right,” Andy said. “I’ll plan on bringing him in at four unless I’m told otherwise.”

Wilford checked his watch. “Get out of here,” he said, waving Andy out. “Go home.”

Andy left, already leaving the kitchen to go fetch his things from downstairs. “See you in the morning.”

As Andy saw himself out, Wilford walked out to the living room and sat down on the floor next to Michael. The kid didn’t even look up from whatever important task he was engaged in.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Wilford asked.

Michael babbled wordlessly, keeping his attention on his rice.

“Oh, okay. I get it. You’re mad at me,” Wilford said. He watched Michael for a few moments before he reached out and plucked a piece of chicken off the kid’s plate.

“Hey!” Michael shouted angrily as he watched Wilford eat the chicken.

“You ain’t eating it,” Wilford reasoned.

With a face of pure spite, Michael picked up a single pea from his plate and put it in his mouth.

“What’d you do today?” Wilford asked.

Michael didn’t answer. He plucked another grain of rice from his plate and put it on the table.

“What did you do today?” Wilford repeated, more slowly. Michael continued to ignore him. “I’m going to keep asking until you tell me. What did you do today?”

“No,” Michael said glumly. Wilford picked up a small bit of rice from the plate and ate it. “Hey!” Michael glared at him again, and stuffed a handful of rice into his mouth. The hardest thing in the world was trying to keep a straight face, but somehow Wilford managed it. Once the kid got the rice down, Wilford picked up another piece of chicken from the plate. Before he got too far with it, Michael snatched it out of his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth. Wilford had never seen anyone eat chicken so angrily in his life. He stayed there on the floor, keeping up the act until everything that was on the plate was either eaten or thrown onto the floor. Wilford took the plate to the kitchen, waiting until he was hidden behind the refrigerator to laugh quietly to himself. When he was finally able to maintain a straight face again, he grabbed a towel to clean up the mess.

“Should we take a bath?” he asked.

“NO!” Michael shouted, getting up and running to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with all his tiny might.

Wilford had never laughed so hard at someone being so pissed off at him. He gave up trying to clean the mess up and decided to let the dogs in to devour it instead. With the kid hiding in his room, and the dogs sniffing out every grain of rice, Wilford sat down and pulled his phone out again to finish what he’d started that afternoon. Maybe the place out in Idlewood would be fun. He’d have to find a good pair of shoes for it, though.

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Meta: World Information

2019-05-16T05:25:37Z

Wilford comes from an extremely meta canon, in which he used to be a main character. It's since become a sprawling ensemble piece that grew a plot some time around 2017. Prior to that, it was a series of unconnected shorts. As characters grew more popular, they started appearing in videos together, with editing tricks to make multiple characters played by the same actor appear on screen together.

Originally, Wilford's sketches started out as a series of meta sketches about horror games being real, with Wilford reporting on the various monsters and goings on. This became the crux of my meta, before he became part of a greater continuity that dropped the game aspect and adopted its own meta. I've largely ignored the retcon that happened, except for its basic structure.

The base "game" in the meta verse I've established for Milliways is Grand Theft Auto, particularly GTA V. Los Santos is kind of in a flux state that uses the V and San Andreas maps, as well as a fan-made map that makes both more geographically and geologically cohesive. I use the maps as a backbone, treating them more as a basic guide than straight fact. Los Santos is more like Los Angeles, in that it's a sprawling hellscape that can take several hours to drive across, with hundreds of little boroughs making up the area. The area Wilford lives in is a blank spot on the GTA V map, somewhere up in the Vinewood Hills.

The day to day meta of the average person is based less on the main release, and more on the way RP servers work, with rules and protocol that make a little more logical, realistic sense, given the environment. Due to people having saves and resets, these laws are somewhat skewed, and police will often look the other way if a person who is fucking around isn't causing undue harm to others. Gangs run rampant, petty crime is normal, and getting run over and surprise stabbed is just a part of life.

The world itself is run on pixie magic. Saves first appeared in an ancient kingdom, where a hero was tasked with rescuing a lost princess. As the pixies could not interfere directly, they granted this hero the ability of extra life so he would be able to correct a path that the world should not have taken. Since then, countless generations later, it is simply how the world works. Other games and game tropes exist in the background, with monsters and mayhem just another part of life. Psychics, monster hunters, and exorcists are perfectly ordinary career paths. There's also a deep skepticism of the paranormal when it's used as an explanation for certain crimes or events, as it's seen as a convenient scapegoat. The police and other agencies will often outright reject the possibility of paranormal forces in what appear to be criminal cases unless all other avenues are exhausted.

People from this world run on typical video game mechanics. They have saves and inventory space, which can vary in size from person to person. Save logs are unique to each individual person. Journals and cell phones are common, but a person can use just about anything to access and manage their saves. Small children usually carry some form of immunity from needing saves, and traditionally kids don't start using saves until they're in high school. Some families may not present it as an option until their kids are out of high school. Saves are managed manually, although the presence of a nearby Public Respawn Point can override existing saves. This can be useful for people who are bad at logging their saves, as they won't have to re-live months just because they stepped off a curb wrong and fell in front of a truck. Nobody seems to know how Respawn Points happen, but it's generally accepted that it has something to do with the pixies. If no Respawn Points are available within a reasonable distance, and the death wasn't worthy of permanence, the person will wake up at the point they last logged a save.

Deaths are generally not worthy of permanence. It's become a cyclical process. Since people do not hold life as a fleeting thing, general attitudes tend toward more reckless behaviour. Because of this, people tend to get themselves killed in stupid ways far too often for any afterlife to keep up with. Deaths are only permanent when they are deemed 'good.' The process by which this is judged is unknown. Deaths which are unavoidable are Event Deaths. Event deaths are those which happen naturally, or where death would be the natural outcome of a series of events. Sometimes non-Event deaths are permanent, and can be avoided by another person opening a previous save and changing the course of action. Event deaths cannot be changed. No person can go back far enough to change the events. A changeable non-event death would be if someone is accidentally killed by another person, and that person opening a previous save and not taking the actions that led to the first person's death. An Event death are those where nothing could be done, or where the person who caused the death has no want or ability to go back to undo the action. Very rarely can an outside individual stop an Event.

There have been a number of temporary and permanent deaths in canon. Some have been temporary through apparent resets, while others were temporary through the use of magic. As of this point in canon, Wilford has had two confirmed deaths (much more, depending on how one of the Slenderman videos is interpreted). Celine has died once, possibly permanently.

Since most of the characters are played by a small group of actors, many of them have the same face. Wilford's PB also plays Mark and Damien, as well as countless side characters. Nichola's PB plays two unnamed characters who both seem to have very similar jobs. Celine's PB is also a makeup artist in another connected series, ironically playing against Mark, Celine's ex-husband in the main storyline. For the purposes of avoiding confusion and getting too meta, I'm choosing to ignoring the fact that three of the main characters look exactly the same. Since Mark and Damien are drawn to look differently in the 'Damien' short, I'm choosing to go with nobody sharing the same face in reality. For simplicity's sake, the District Attorney's imaginary PB for Millicanon is more or less modelled after the man who operated the camera (the character was never shown in any of the episodes, since his entire arc was filmed as the audience's perspective). The only exception to face twins are the Jims, who are canonically an army of news reporting clones.

A collection of the relevant pieces of canon can be found on Wilford's journal, in two separate playlists. Not included are characters who have so far not been included in the main continuity to a point that they impact the plot, though they do show up from time to time.

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Interview with Cisco

2019-05-01T17:18:49Z

Running into Cisco at the bar today was a stroke of luck. A guest cancellation left an enormous hole in the schedule, sending various teams out scrambling to fill it. And that leaves Wilford with absolutely nothing to do but stare at the walls or find some new way to get into trouble.

It's probably easier to just stick with the trouble he's already made.

When he opens the door from the bar, its to his dressing room. Vintage framed movie posters on blue walls, black leather sofa and a glass coffee table that are smudged and drawn all over by sticky little hands. A sleeping dog sprawled out right in the middle of the room, as if he wants to be stepped on.

Somewhere, in the distance, someone is screaming about something. It's probably not important.

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Day with Klaus

2019-04-29T06:35:46Z

"That card'll get you where you need to go, as long as you start from the bar," Wilford explains. "This thing's pretty good at knowing where you're supposed to be, far as I can tell."

On the floor, Buster practically melts into a puddle from all the attention. A person might think he never gets any attention in his life.

Before Wilford can get Klaus moving toward the door, a woman's voice calls up from the stairs. "Oh, you're home," she says. She makes it up to the landing, holding a wide-eyed toddler in her arms, pausing when she sees Wilford. "What happened to you?" she asks.

"Lost a bet," Wilford says, surprised to see her here. Still, she provides a good second set of eyes so Wilford doesn't have to leave Klaus alone, unsupervised, in a house full of easily-pinchable items. "Stay right there," he says, quickly disappearing to his bedroom to replace the teeth that are somewhere out on Milliways' lawn.

Not really sure what's going on, Celine looks at Klaus, hoping he might have something more to say. "You guys coming or going?" she asks.

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We need to have a budget meeting

2019-04-21T19:22:53Z

Wilford held an ice pack to the back of his head, barely listening to the noise in the room. Brain fuzz had given way to headaches, making getting through the day an entirely new sort of irritating. Nichola had brought Michael back home on her way in from the city, and apparently being home again zapped him full of all sorts of energy.

“No, sweetie. Daddy’s not feeling good,” she said.

Wilford barely opened his eyes to see her coaxing Michael over toward the sofa with her.

“Why?” Michael asked.

“Because,” Nichola said, obviously trying to find a few extra seconds to figure out what she was going to say. “Sometimes the medicine you need to take for one part of your body will hurt another part.”

“Why?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know,” Nichola said. “But Daddy’s medicine makes him sick right now, so we have to be nice.”

“Oh.” Wilford watched Michael wander back toward him, stopping to peer cautiously over the side of his chair.

“You sure you’re going to be all right?” Nichola asked.

Wilford nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said.

“When are you coming back?” Nichola asked.

“Aiming for tomorrow.” He wasn’t sure if he’d make it, but maybe if he started getting up and forcing himself to get things done, he’d adjust faster. Wilford glanced over at Michael and handed the ice pack to him. “Go put that in the sink,” he said.

Michael eagerly took it and trotted off toward the kitchen. He tossed the ice pack where he’d been told, and returned. Rather than waiting for an invitation, he climbed up into Wilford’s lap. As he squirmed around, Wilford watched the light from the big, bay windows play off his hair. He sat up just enough to look at a better angle, and reached out to hold a bit of michael’s sloppy, grown-out mohawk against the light.

“His hair’s blue,” he said, seeing it for the first time.

“Really?” Nichola asked. “Think he gets that from his dad?”

“Must be,” Wilford said. “Probably from being out in all that sun. Remember that guy that made me shave and dye my hair because he didn’t like the colour under the lights? Who was that?”

“Oh,” Nichola said, scrunching up her face as she tried to remember. “God, yeah. It was right after we left CBN, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, what was his name?” Wilford couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been worth enough for Wilford to bother putting his name into memory.

“Carmichael?” Nichola guessed. “No, Carlisle!”

“Yeah, him. God, I hated that douchebag.” But there was nothing like a string of awful bosses to give a person the drive to become their own boss.

“What’s douchebag?” Michael asked. Nichola tried not to laugh.

“My old boss,” Wilford said simply.

“Oh.”

“You have fun hanging out with Tim?” Wilford asked Michael, since he seemed talkative enough to actually engage.

“Yeh,” Michael said.

“What’d you do?”

Michael looked around the room. “Uhm.”

So much for engaging. “Uhm’s not an answer. What’d you do?” Wilford asked again.

Michael continued to look around the room, and Wilford shifted to pull his phone from his pocket.

“Went to… the park,” Michael said finally. “And beach.”

“Oh yeah? Did they take you to the sea lions?” Wilford asked.

“Uhm…” Michael shrugged dramatically. Wilford tried not to shake his head.

He pulled up Google on his phone and ran a few quick searches. He had no idea what the rules were for these things, or which programs were required and which ones were optional. Annoyingly, it took him several iterations of the same search, changing wording to get a straight answer.

“What’s wrong?” Nichola asked.

“I don’t think he’s going to be ready for school this year,” he said.

“Have you been looking at anywhere?” Nichola asked.

Wilford finally found his answer, buried in a recommended search. He had until the kid was six before he needed to enroll him anywhere.

“Few places,” he said. “Maybe next year. You want to stay home with me anyway, don’t you, pal?”

Michael nodded. “Yeh.”

“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Nichola said. “Bill and Sharon started Tim as soon as they could so they could get out of daycare fees. You don’t need that. There’s no reason to rush him.”

“What?” Wilford asked, trying to remember if he’d heard that. Billy was his best friend. He felt like he should have heard that, but it didn’t sound even a little bit familiar. “How much were they paying?”

“I think it was about thousand a month,” Nichola said.

It was the first Wilford had heard of it. He hadn’t been responsible for Billy’s salary at the time, but the man had another kid on the way in a few months. San Andreas’ rates couldn’t possibly be much lower than they’d been in DC. Wilford pulled up his calculator and ran a few numbers, and didn’t like what he saw. No wonder Nichola had been so strongly against taking his story public.

“We need to have a budget meeting,” he said. Technically he still didn’t have ultimate control over wages — the network still controlled that — but Wilford could twist a few arms. “I need to get my head back on straight.”

They needed to get away from the network. Wilford had the capital to do it, but they needed the infrastructure in place first. And that started with focusing on his damn blog like he was serious about it.

“Clear up Rosa’s schedule for me too. At least a week. Shuffle whoever you need to to make it happen.”

Nichola nodded. “Are you sure you’re ready to be jumping back in like this?” she asked.

“Nope,” Wilford said. “But it needs to be done.”

Wilford liked Sundays as a matter of course. Most people took it off anyway, which meant the studio was quiet enough for him to get some work done. Sundays that were also a holiday meant that only a few people ever came in. It gave Wilford time to read over everything he’d missed over the last few weeks while nursing a headache he was determined to chase off. A few aspirin and an ice pack were just about doing it.

Buried in the stack of reports was something from next door.

Looks like fun. Seems up your alley

—Jack

Wilford opened the envelope and found a proposal from ULS, with their sports division header on top and a web url printed at the bottom. Not something that had been sent out directly, but something Jackson had found, or been directed to.

He hadn’t been wrong though. Wilford was intrigued. He flipped through the pages, only skimming the program’s intentions and goals. Simple stuff that didn’t need much information — college kids looking for some work experience. The due date to sign up was at the end of the month, so why not. Wilford wrote his name and information on the top of the sheet before getting up and taking it out to the bulletin board. He didn’t think anyone else would sign up, but it was there all the same. He’d leave it up for a few days and then send it back in.

He’d have to dig his gear out of the garage. He’d kept most of it, but he didn’t think anything would fit him, and the damn dog ate his bat.

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He was stupid to think she was going to leave him

2019-04-10T00:03:30Z

The envelope arrived in the mail, just like every month. For the first time since Wilford started getting the invitation, he considered not going. It was a brief consideration though; he had few excuses to leave the house that weren’t work or the kid. Time spent away from home, in the company of other adults who had nothing to do with him except for one weekend a month was a necessary reprieve.

So he went, leaving the kid with Andy while he went to go spend the night out in the canyon. Celine was still there when Wilford arrived. Partially because he knew she’d find some artificial reason to stick around until he got there, and partially because he may have left a little early to beat ‘traffic.’ While he expected to see Celine for a moment or two, he was still surprised when Benjamin let him into the house in the middle of a screaming argument in another room.

“I apologise,” he said tensely. “I’ll let Master and Madame know you’re here.” He rushed off toward the direction of the screaming, leaving Wilford alone to awkwardly make himself at home.

“How would you even know?” Celine shouted.

“I will fucking ruin you!” Mark shouted back. “And this douchebag. Whoever he is!”

“So you’re allowed to disappear for weeks at a time, and I can’t even—”

The shouting stopped abruptly, punctuated by a door slamming. Benjamin had clearly found them and told them their guests had started to arrive. Wilford had kind of wished Benjamin had been more slow to get there, because he wanted to hear more. Even as it was, any reservations he may have had over seeing Celine had evaporated in an instant. He hadn’t made a proper attempt at dating in quite a few years, and this woman was throwing herself at him. The least he could do was get over himself long enough for her to get the hell out of this place.

Playing the role of the awkward guest, Wilford helped himself to the bar. He picked up a few bottles, examining them in turn before finally pouring himself a drink as the door slammed open again.

“I’ll be back on Monday,” Celine said curtly as she stormed across the foyer to the garage. With her Banshee still in the shop having its entire rear end rebuilt, Wilford was footing the bill on a rental car so she could come and go as she pleased. He expected it to get trashed by the end of the week after that outburst. Wilford turned to glance at her as she stormed past, but she didn’t turn to look at him as she went. For a brief moment, Wilford thought he understood what she meant about projecting. The entire house felt angry and vindictive until she disappeared through the next door. It left Wilford feeling a bit dumbstruck as Mark followed after her, as ever still not dressed for guests.

“She’s fucking some other prick,” Mark said before Wilford could even ask.

“Shit,” was all Wilford could think to say.

Mark shook his head and poured himself a drink, splashing rum over the bartop. “Some bastard called Barnum.”

Well, fuck. Wilford wasn’t expecting that. “She told you?” he asked.

“No, he’s the prick that’s paying for her new car. I found the bill in her purse.” Mark downed the entire drink in one go and slammed the glass back onto the bartop.

Wilford ignored the part about Mark snooping through Celine’s purse. He was just glad he’d thought to use an alias.

“Never heard of him,” Wilford lied. “You know what he does?”

Mark shook his head. “I’ve just got a name. I asked Abe to look into it.”

Wilford was going to have to talk to Abe. Immediately.

“Maybe you’ve got the right idea,” Mark said suddenly. “When you and Craig split, it was like twenty minutes of drama. What’d you do? Have a few rounds together after?”

His awkward split with Craig was definitely not twenty minutes of drama. “He followed me out to my place at the beach and yelled at my kid,” Wilford said. It seemed like enough to shatter whatever idyllic vision of Future Ex Husband #1 Mark had constructed pretty quickly.

“Oh,” he said. “That… that explains a lot, actually.”

“He didn’t tell you that part?” Wilford asked.

“No, he did not.” Mark poured himself another drink. “I’m going to go get dressed,” he said. “Hang out. Make yourself at home.”

As soon as he turned to leave, Wilford found himself wondering if there was anything lying around that would be worth stealing. He decided against it quickly after. The idea wasn’t for Mark to suspect Wilford right away, even if he had got a bit too close for comfort already. The idea was to draw it out, because that’s what Celine wanted. And Wilford could see why.

The garage was big enough for two cars, but it was the first time since Wilford had bought the place that it had housed two cars. Even though she was driving a rental, Celine had been smart enough to park it away from view. Wilford hadn’t put much thought into privacy when he had his gate installed, but maybe the iron security bars could use some panelling to keep people on the street from peeping in. Until then, they’d just have to be careful. All it would take is one house tourist to post the wrong picture to their Instagram and the whole thing would be out in the open.

Michael was still asleep when Wilford snuck inside. He found Celine in the bathroom, in just her underwear and a tank top, towel-drying her hair over the sink. The entire top floor of the house reeked of bleach, but it was easy to see why. The bright red highlights flashed in Celine’s hair as she did her best to dry it with what she had.

“You don’t have a hair dryer,” she said, seeming almost surprised.

“No. I pay someone else to fuck with my hair.” He stepped closer as Celine stood up straight. Even wet, the red highlights did look good. He wasn’t surprised. “You did this yourself?” he asked.

“I went to school for it,” she said. “But so did every other girl in the Valley.”

She leaned in to kiss him, but it didn’t last long. “You smell like a liquor cabinet.”

“Your psycho brother threw half of it at me.” Granted, only after Wilford threw the first half at Damien. But Damien didn’t have to retaliate like that.

Wilford watched Celine walk over and sprawl out on the bed. She looked insanely comfortable, and Wilford wanted to join her immediately. But she was right. He reeked, and even he could smell it.

“Hold that thought,” he said. He didn’t know what he was going to do if she actually did hold that thought, but he desperately needed to take a shower. He felt gross, he smelled gross, and he was pretty sure there was something with a face stuck in his hair. One thing was certain though: he needed to figure out something. The woman was driving him nuts, and he could only jerk off in the shower so many times before he died of shame.

He grabbed a pair of pyjamas from his dresser before he headed in to take the quickest shower of his life. He scrubbed all the bugs and twigs and booze from his hair, suspecting it would take at least two more showers to not smell like a frat party. Clean enough would have to do. As he pulled on his pyjamas, he realised he hadn’t grabbed a shirt. It was always a coin toss over whether that would bother him, and it seemed like at that moment, with Celine waiting for him in his bed, it bothered him immensely. He couldn’t stay locked up in the bathroom forever though. Then she’d definitely know just how fucked up and broken he was. He stalled by swapping his contacts for glasses, then rinsed out his mouth, and suddenly was out of reasons to stall. He was nearly 40. Being this nervous at this age was stupid, and he needed to get over himself. After about a year of kicking himself to open the door, he finally managed it. While Wilford was in the shower, Celine had closed the bedroom door, shutting them off from all the dogs and kids and distractions. Wilford rather liked all the dogs and kids and distractions. It occurred him him, as he stalled even more by standing against the doorway to the bathroom to look at Celine sprawled out on top of the unmade bed, that her marriage to Mark was in legality only at that point. She’d been trying to get into Wilford’s pants since the day he drove her to the beach, and even that was probably the most action she’d had in years.

“What?” Celine asked.

Wilford shook his head, finally convincing his legs to move. “Just looking,” he said as he crawled into bed next to her. The little bit of cat and mouse they’d been playing had been the most action Wilford had seen in more than years. Craig had never been in Wilford’s house, much less his bedroom. Wilford hadn’t had another person in his bed since…

… Since he’d fucked his boss’ wife and ruined everything. He’d isolated himself from other people to keep himself out of trouble for so long that he’d completely forgotten how to behave with a half-naked woman in his bed. He knew every filthy, obscene thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t seem to move a muscle to act on any of it.

Celine had no such hangups. She let him look for a few moments before she moved closer to kiss him again. Already, he could feel that rise of panic, but he tried to ignore it. It was such a pathetic thing to panic about. She wanted him, and all he had to do was let it happen. He managed to lean in and even kiss back. He thought maybe he’d let his hands wander, but Celine had that thought first. He hadn’t grabbed any underwear, so it wasn’t exactly any kind of secret that he was already hard. But as soon as her hand went there, even with his pyjamas still between them, Wilford completely froze. Every muscle in his body tensed so hard he couldn’t even get away. He couldn’t breathe, he felt ill. It was a disaster.

Celine noticed almost immediately. She pulled back, looking at him with the most concern anyone had given him in a very long time.

“Will?” she asked. She brought her hands up to his face, but it was too late. There was no going back now. “Babe?”

Wilford managed to shake his head. He needed to get away, but if he moved he thought he might puke. He could feel Celine looking not at him, but into him, and it was the most deeply uncomfortable experience of his life. But he could see that she knew. He had to get away. He shook his head again and managed to clumsily roll out of bed. His Xanax was in the sock drawer, where it always lived. He just needed to get to it. He ignored Celine as he tore through the drawer, eventually finding the bottle.

Wilford couldn’t tell if he swore out loud or just in his head when he rattled the two remaining pills around. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He couldn’t afford to hoard them at that moment, so he popped one into his mouth and slapped the bottle down on top of his dressed.

“It’s fine,” Celine said softly from behind him. “We don’t have to.”

Wilford couldn’t speak. Even if he could, he didn’t know what he’d say. Far more important was just focusing on breathing. He’d never hated himself more than he did at that moment.

Celine volunteered to feed the kid and take care of the dogs while Wilford locked himself in his office. He was so fucking humiliated he couldn’t even look at her. He had one tablet left, and an impossible task ahead of him. This time, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He wasn’t going to hang up and agree to be called back later. He was going to stay on the line and bother as many people as possible until Dr Taylor picked up the damn phone. It was Sunday, but Wilford knew the man generally took one or two sessions on weekends. Eventually, stubborn persistence pulled off, and the right man finally answered the phone.

“Wilford, I thought we agreed you needed to see someone else,” Dr Taylor said, not even hiding his annoyance with Wilford.

Wilford didn’t care that he was annoyed. “No, you decided that. I tried it, and couldn’t find anyone I liked,” he said.

“Do you want a referral?” Taylor asked.

“No, I need an appointment, and I need a refill. Everyone else I’ve talked to wrote me off, so I’ve had to hoard that shit like a fucking dragon,” Wilford said. The tablet he’d taken earlier had kept him on the ground, but he still felt like he could explode at any moment. “I asked my physician, and he keeps deferring back to you.”

Taylor sighed on the other line. “How many do you have left?”

“One,” Wilford said. “And juding by how I feel right now, it’s expired.”

“You took one today?” Taylor asked.

Wilford didn’t want to be asked questions. He wanted the man to do his damn job and help him. “Yeah, right after I flipped the fuck out on my girlfriend,” he said.

There was an odd pause from Taylor. “Is everyone all right?” he asked.

“What?” It took Wilford a moment to realise what was being asked. “Yeah, it’s fine. I think she’s making breakfast for the kid.”

Another odd pause from Taylor. “This is Wilford Warfstache, correct?” he asked.

“Yes!” Wilford said. He wondered if he should take the last tablet he had left. “Who else would it be?”

“I guess I’m a little confused,” Taylor said. Wilford could hear him shuffling around on the other end. “All right. If you can come in right now, we’ll have a talk and see what our options are,” he said.

“Uh.” Wilford tapped his watch, but it was dead. He pulled his phone away to see the time instead. It was almost dead as well. “Yeah, it’ll probably take about a half hour to get down there,” he said.

“I’m not going to promise anything,” Taylor said.

“Fine.” Wilford hung up. He got his foot in the door, which was more than he’d been able to get for a while. After a few moments to just breathe before he got up to brave whatever awaited him in the kitchen. On the other side of the door, Michael stood perched on a chair, watching Celine make pancakes at the stove. When he noticed Wilford, he climbed down and rushed over. Wilford indulged him by picking him up as he walked back over to Celine.

This was going to be awkward no matter what, but he tried to make it less awkward by not speaking from halfway across the room. He got close enough to rest his free hand on her waist, and leaned in close.

“I have to go into town for a while. Are you okay with him for a while?” he asked.

Celine turned, and he could see on her face that she’d heard enough of his conversation to know what was going on. “Of course,” she said. “He’s helping me make pancakes.”

“Pancakes, huh?” Wilford turned to Michael. “You gonna be nice?”

Michael nodded, so Wilford put him back on his chair.

“I should be back in a few hours,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he should kiss her or not, but she made that decision for him, kissing him on the side of the mouth. “We’ll be fine. I think he had a movie he wanted to show me anyway.”

Wilford nodded, knowing the hell she was in for if Michael got his way there. But it was probably better than whatever hell she had at home that made being with him preferable.

Wilford was surprised when Dr Taylor was actually in the building when he got there. He wasn’t usually the anxious sort, but until he walked through the door, he’d managed to convince himself that he’d arrive to an empty office. The pills were definitely expired. That, or Celine had done a hell of a number on him.

He was tired. He’d spent all night partying with a man who hated him, but didn’t know it yet, followed by an uncomfortable couple hours of sleep in a lawn chair. That definitely hadn’t helped the situation. And it all must have shown on his face, even behind his lame disguise of a ballcap and dark sunglasses. He had better ways of hiding his face when he did shit he didn’t want anyone else knowing about, but all he had in his car was a Nationals cap he never knew what to do with and some cheap sunglasses. Taylor’s expression changed from boredly patronising to something that looked like genuine concern almost as soon as he opened the door. Wilford took off his sunglasses, trading them the spectacles he’d hooked on his shirt collar, and let himself into Taylor’s office. He hated the couch. It felt too helpless. He sat in the chair instead.

There was a ball covered in soft, rubber hairs on the table next to him. Wilford idly picked it up and turned it around in his hands for something to do.

“Before we start,” Taylor said ominously. “Is everyone safe?”

“What?” Wilford asked. He realised a moment later what Taylor was pussyfooting around. “Yeah, no. Nothing like that. Just nearly had a fucking heart attack. Took a pill I’m pretty sure was expired.”

“Why are you taking expired pills?”

Wilford snorted. What kind of stupid question was that. “Because nobody wants to give benzos to new patients,” he said.

“It’s the same prescription I gave you?” Taylor asked. For some reason, he seemed surprised about this. “How have you managed to stretch it this long?”

“Not taking it until I need it.” Which, of course, means it doesn’t really do its job.

Wilford ignored Taylor’s disapproving look, but what was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like he could run down to the dispensary and pick up a Schedule IV refill.

“You know it doesn’t work as needed, right?” Taylor asked.

Wilford just sighed. They were already going in circles. “Yeah, no shit.”

“But you’re dating. How long has that been going on?” Taylor asked.

“About a month. So everything’s going to shit right on schedule.”

“Do you think maybe your relationships fail because you expect them to?” Taylor asked. “If you go into something convincing yourself it’s not going to work, you may be subconsciously taking actions to make sure it fails.”

He hated this. He hated being told what was going on in his own head. “What’s it mean if she tried to give me a handjob, and I almost fucking puked?” he asked.

“That is different,” Taylor conceded. Good. They were finally on the same page. While Taylor got up to fetch something from a filing cabinet on the other side of the room, Wilford looked down at the ball he’d been fiddling with. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been pulling off its spines, making a horrible mess in his lap. How the hell had he managed to drive all the way into town without killing himself?

“I don’t have a whole lot of room right now, but why don’t we try making a deal?” He brought what Wilford assumed was his file back with him and sat down, already flipping through it. “I want you here consistently. You come to your appointments, don’t cancel or reschedule. You can sit here and bitch at me if that’s what makes you feel better, but I want you here.”

Wilford thought about the offer, and what it meant. He needed to get past this bullshit. He needed some sort of normality back. “How often is consistent?” he asked. “I can’t do weekly. My kid’s already got two a week, and I need to be there for at least one of them.”

Taylor looked up sharply. “Your kid?” he asked. “Not hers?”

Wilford thought he knew that. He was certain Taylor would have heard about it. “Oh, right. You kicked me out before that. I got custody of my grandson last year.”

“Grandson?” Taylor had missed a lot, apparently.

“He’s three,” Wilford said. “I got a girl pregnant in high school.”

Taylor nodded as he scribbled down something Wilford couldn’t see. “What about first and third Wednesday, in the morning? Nine AM?” he asked.

Wilford pulled out his phone. Wednesdays were busy studio days, but the place probably wouldn’t fall apart if he showed up late. “Yeah,” he agreed, punching it in and setting a few nag alarms.

“Okay,” Taylor said. “And why don’t we try something else. Do you have any experience with SSRIs?”

“I’m not going back on Prozac,” Wilford said quickly. Fuck that shit. “Last time I tried it, I almost drove my car off a bridge.”

“Then we won’t try Prozac,” Taylor said.

Even though his meeting with Taylor was short, Wilford still took his time getting home. He found a pharmacy in Vespucci and filled the new prescription Taylor gave him, and stopped into a few shops nearby while he waited for everything to go through. He felt like a fucking moron for how he’d reacted that morning, and thought he needed to make it up to Celine somehow. Which was why he went all the way out to Vespucci to fill his prescription.

“Let me see that one,” he said, pointing through the glass case.

The clerk pulled out a pair of dangly earrings and laid the case out on the counter. They were teardrop-shaped, below a circle. They shimmered with hundreds of tiny black gemstones, with equally tiny rubies lining the edges. Wilford picked one up to get a good look at the way it sparkled in the light. They seemed a little heavy, but maybe that was normal. He’d never had his ears pierced, so he wasn’t sure.

“We also have a matching necklace,” the clerk said. She moved to another counter and fetched its box, bringing it over. The pendant on the necklace was the same shape, but about half the size, on a delicate black chain. Wilford mulled it over. Was it a bit soon for both? It was definitely risky, but that wasn’t his concern. The simple fact of it was he had no idea what was appropriate for an adult relationship. Luckily, there was an easy way to figure it out.

“If a guy gave you both after a month together, would that be a bit much?” he asked, putting the earring down to look at the necklace. He liked both.

“You could hide one away for a few months,” the clerk said.

“That’s a good idea.” Wilford knew she was trying to upsell him, but it was working. He put the necklace back and nodded. “I’ll take both.” It probably wasn’t a problem that needed money thrown at it, but it probably couldn’t hurt either.

He found Celine halfway dozing on the sofa with a book, while Michael snored in a pile of toys on the floor. Celine’s tarot cards were also on the coffee table in a neat stack. Wilford decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed. If she’d brought them with her, she’d probably intended on reading them either way.

She sat up when she noticed him taking off his shoes at the landing and smiled lazily. “You didn’t tell me he watched it on repeat,” she said.

“No, why would I give away his master plan like that?” he asked. She wasn’t in a hurry to leave. That was a good sign.

“How’d it go?” she asked. She sat up, making room for him next to her. Wilford settled in, taking a moment to just enjoy the way she leaned against him.

“He put me on something new that might actually fucking work.” He shrugged. “Or it’ll make it worse.”

He watched her work through through that, letting her draw her own conclusions. “Has that happened before?” she asked.

Wilford nodded. “Tried one a while back that made me want to blow my fucking brains out.” He’d got off that one real quick.

“Oh my god.” Wilford could feel her hesitating. Things went one of two ways. Either things ended like they had with Craig, with the other person almost exploding with sexual frustration, or they got so cautious about what they were and weren’t allowed to do that Wilford was about to explode from all the coddling. And then Celine shifted and her hand landed on his chest, tracing small circles.

“So what’s the process?” she asked.

“Appointment twice a month. Email check-ins on the weeks I don’t go in.” He hadn’t like the idea of even twice monthly until Taylor said he was changing Wilford’s prescription. With that the case, he was more than happy to bug the shit out of the man to keep anything from going horribly wrong.

“That’s not so bad,” Celine said. She made a sound like she wanted to say more, but cut herself short. Wilford wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Sit up for a second,” he said, wanting to get away from the uncomfortable topic.

Celine obliged, looking at him critically from behind her hair. It wasn’t the perfectly sculpted style she normally wore, which he realised might have had something to do with his lack of anything fancier than store-brand shampoo.

“I got something for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulled out the small, black velvet box. He wasn’t sure if there was anything special he was supposed to do, so he just handed it over. Celine looked at it suspiciously and slowly opened it, peeping inside before she let the lid snap all the way.

“Oh my god,” she said. “Will, what do you think you’re doing?”

For a moment, he thought he’d made the wrong choice. Was it too soon for gifts? “I had some time to kill,” he said.

Celine shook her head, jerking her hair away from her face while she struggled to take the earring apart. “Oh, it’s a screw,” she said, squinting down at it. Wilford didn’t know there was anything unusual about it, but apparently he needed to learn more about this stuff. He watched as she took the earrings she’d been wearing out and replaced them with the new ones. They looked even better on her than they had in the shop.

“Thank you,” she said. She leaned against him again and kissed him.

“You going to wear them home?” he asked.

Celine pulled her phone out of her inventory and looked at herself in the camera. After a few moments, she locked it again and put it down. “I think I will.”

He was stupid to think she was going to leave him. Somehow, the reminder that this had nothing to do with him at all, and had everything to do with Mark made it a lot easier to get comfortable with her on the sofa.

comments

Wilford had done this once before

2019-03-23T17:50:14Z

Wilford had done this once before. He remembered bits and pieces, but it was years ago. Back then, Wilford was running on twenty minutes of sleep a night, supplemented by caffeine and cocaine to keep him going. He’d managed to do a pretty good job at convincing himself that none of it was real, but he’d never completely forgotten it. It was one of those dark little thoughts he never liked to think about, but it always hung around all the same.

He’s always known his world is different. And there’s always been an explanation for that. He just never thought about it. He held onto that tiny bit of information because his mind refused to forget it, keeping it locked away behind everything else.

But it was there. And it needed to be dealt with. Wilford was older now; sober and better equipped to deal with earth-shattering information. He was going to do this properly. No destroyed hotel rooms, no coke-fuelled rampages. Just a cup of coffee, a nicotine patch, and a notepad. Proper journalism shit this time.

Starting was easy. Cisco had recognised the city, but nobody else at the bar had (or at least, they hadn’t admitted it, which was just important). Cisco had immediately clammed up after, suggesting others may have also recognised the city, but hadn’t said anything out of some sort of social etiquette. Wilford didn’t remember much about the last time someone had ruined his day with information he didn’t want to hear, but he was willing to bet that there was a pretty good chance that he hadn’t quite been the first person to react poorly.

His first search took him nowhere unexpected. A few glossy maps with poor detail and even worse accuracy, plots that sounded downright pedestrian (people tended to be afraid of Wilford and where he’s from; he had to keep reminding himself that squishy people probably didn’t see things the same way). As dull as most of it sounded, there were some morsels of truth. Jay Norris’ head exploding at a keynote address got a solid week of air time, but nobody ever figured out who it was. And yet, Wilford had a list of names right in front of him. He wrote them down, citing every date and detail he could get from the basic amount of text.

He hadn’t got nearly this far last time. He’d found just enough to confirm what Jim had said, and then promptly lost his damn mind. But now he was curious, because he did remember something else Jim had said. Wilford was tempted to look him up there in the bar’s library, but decided he’d rather do something else. He’d been gone for too long anyway, and wanted to try to get a shower in before the kid woke back up.

Michael De Santa didn’t exist. Not before 2013, anyway. Neither did his wife or two children. They’d all materialised out of thin air. On the surface, dates were there; birth certificates and job and school histories, but those things didn’t exist either. Signatures by people who didn’t exist, schools and businesses that didn’t exist. Shell entities run by people whose job it was to give fake references and confirmations for people sneaking their way back into society.

Hacking local databases was one thing; Wilford rarely thought twice before doing it. But only a grade A moron would try to get into FIB systems on home wifi with a personal laptop. But there were more things he could try, because the book had more names. Names like Michael Townley, and wouldn’t you know, the man died in 2013. Every single name Wilford searched gave positive hits somewhere. He sent every single page of it to his printer.

But he wasn’t done yet. There was more to deal with, because all those years ago, Jim had said something else. Something that only remained a vague idea, but which Wilford couldn’t help but search. Jim Moriarty turned up fuck all, beyond half a dozen people on LifeInvader. James Moriarty wasn’t much better. Then Wilford tried searching for Sherlock Holmes, on the basis that it was kind of a weird name that wasn’t likely to be shared by dozens of people trying to be internet-popular. Which was indeed the case. This time, he got bad blog posts and impossible-to-read news clippings of some celebrity cop or something from the 1800s. A page about cults and eldritch horrors caught Wilford’s attention. While this particular Sherlock Holmes never did cross paths with any eldritch horrors, he did seem to travel all over hell and creation to find the cultists. Including some Swiss asylum, where another familiar name finally popped up. It was a trail Wilford had to follow, and couldn’t help laughing at. He sent all this to the printer as well.

As soon as he was through the front doors, Wilford rushed down the hall and let himself into Nichola’s office. Wilford glanced around it, and then over his shoulder.

“I got something big,” he said, once he was sure nobody was close enough to hear.

“How big?” Nichola already seemed intrigued.

Wilford stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He handed Nichola a folder full of pages he’d spent most of the night highlighting and referencing. “I know who killed Jay Norris,” he said.

Nichola immediately opened the folder and started flipping through. “What? How?”

“I got a really weird tip. I looked into it, and it scans,” Wilford said. He wasn’t even sure why he was showing her this. It wasn’t their beat.

“Who’s able to keep a secret this big for that long?” Nichola asked, flipping through the pages from reference to reference. “We talking about secret government here?”

Wilford shook his head. “More like it voids the fuck our of our contracts,” he said.

It stopped Nichola in her tracks. She stared at him for a few moments before pointing up at the ceiling. Wilford only nodded in return.

“Where’d you get this tip?” Nichola demanded.

“Here’s the weird part: Fucking robot kid,” Wilford said.

“From Milliways? Nichola asked, slapping the folder shut again. “He’s not from here.”

“No,” Wilford agreed. “But he knows shit about us. Don’t fucking ask me how, because you’d hate the answer.” Wilford still hated the answer, but while reading over everything he’d printed out, all he could see was profit. He could start up his own network with this information.

“But he knew who killed Jay Norris?” Nichola asked.

Wilford nodded.

“Shit.” Nichola hissed. She looked frantically around her office for a moment before grabbing Wilford by the hand and pulling him out to the hall. Wilford immediately started following her. There were spies everywhere. Nothing ever stayed a secret once it reached the studio, so they had to find somewhere else to discuss this horrible thing Wilford had stumbled across. They didn’t even talk about it once they got into Nichola’s car. It was too heavy to deal with while trying to dodge traffic. They didn’t say a word about what was in Wilford’s folder until they were inside Nichola’s apartment, where she immediately spread everything out on the dining table.

“Can we use robot kid as a source?” Nichola asked.

“Probably not, but I can ask,” Wilford said. He’d probably have to bribe him, and even then Wilford expected Cisco to laugh in his face.

“What exactly did he say, and how much is your own work?” Nichola asked.

Wilford thought about the conversation, struggling to frame it in a way that wouldn’t crush Nichola. “He didn’t say much, actually,” he said finally. “A lot of places don’t have Los Santos on their maps, but he’d heard of it before. When he dropped a name, I figured it was worth looking into.”

Nichola paused for a moment. “Is he connected?”

Wilford quickly shook his head. “No, he’s never been here, I don’t think. He might have been involved on his own world. This was industrial assassination; not some personal vendetta.”

Nichola read over the pages silently, looking around the spread as if trying to see it all at once. “The FCC would dissolve the network,” she said breathlessly.

Wilford nodded. They could run the story and lose everything, or stay silent and miss out on the biggest scandal of the century. “Would you be able to keep this place?” he asked.

Nichola didn’t answer right away, but eventually nodded. “I could probably get by for about a year. Sharon’s due in like, three months though. They’d be eating through their savings a lot faster.”

Wilford nodded. It would be about fifty people out of a job and likely blackballed. As cutthroat as the industry was, turncoats weren’t treated kindly. Wilford would have to turn things around within the quarter if he wanted to run this story.

“Let’s build it,” Nichola said finally. “Keep working on it, but keep it close. Let Bill and Sharon get their head above water, and we’ll figure out what we’d want to do after. You can live off your savings. The rest of us can’t.”

Wilford nodded. He’d sworn to himself when he started this company that he was never going to throw the workforce under the bus. He needed loyalty more than he needed immediate gains. Loyalty here would mean not starting from zero. If he played his cards right, it wouldn’t be starting over; it would simply be moving house.

“I’ll keep digging,” he agreed. “We can’t not run this. It’s too big.”

“It’s a fucking game changer,” Nichola said. “We’re going to need all the immunity we can get, so we’re doing it right. That means sharing this.”

“Sharing is how you get scooped,” Wilford pointed out. This was his story. Like hell was he sharing.

“Not sharing is how you get killed, or go to prison,” Nichola pointed out. “That might have been an acceptable risk for you last year, but you can’t be reckless anymore. I’m not going to take that risk, and neither is Billy. We need to do it right, for everyone.”

They couldn’t ignore this story. It had to run. But it was never going to happen without everyone onboard. Wilford was alone, because Nichola was right. The best case scenario in the whole disaster was everyone losing their jobs.

“How long?” Wilford asked finally.

Nichola thought for a few seconds. “One year,” she said. “We’ll run it next year. That’ll give you at least six months to build a rock solid case before we take it to the feds.”

Wilford knew he was right, but so was Nichola, again. The dots were all connected, but there could be more evidence to solidify the narrative. Six months suddenly didn’t seem like enough time to do that without revealing the bigger truth. Destroying a network, or an industry was one thing. He wasn’t quite ready for world-wide chaos.

“A year,” he said, looking over the papers again. “I’ll need to draw up some expenses.”

“Do that,” Nichola said. “As soon as possible.”

Wilford suddenly had a lot of work to do.

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Wilford could see the relief written plainly on her face. “That helps more than you know.”

2019-03-11T21:41:22Z

Celine was right. Wilford knew Celine was right — had known that Celine was right — but still he couldn’t stop hearing her words on repeat. This kid was going to hurt him.

Which were, of course, exactly the words he didn’t need bouncing around his head on that particular day. That didn’t change what needed to be done. He couldn’t just stop this mid-stream. There was no way to step back and walk away. He had got himself here, and there was nothing for it. He tried to push all that aside as he stood in front of his dresser, trying to decide if he should wear his obnoxiously flashy watch to this thing. It wasn’t flashy because of its design. In fact, he’d gone for neutral greys to make it as un-flashy as possible. But a watch that cost $400 was going to be flashy no matter what you did to it. Maybe he wouldn’t wear the watch. He left it on its dock and started to turn toward his closet before another piece of flash caught his eye. A delicate gold chain he hadn’t thought about in years. Not since he received it and immediately tossed it into the bowl where other important things lived, like his wallet and keys. He’d never once worn the thing; just immediately wrote it off as pointless and tacky. Without thinking, Wilford snatched it up and clasped the chain around his wrist. It didn’t sit right against his skin. It was awkwardly loose, except for the engraved plate in the middle that wasn’t quite bent right for it to fit against his arm no matter what angle it sat at, and the little red badge on the outside stuck out just enough that he could already tell it was going to get caught on everything in existence.

But it would have to do. He could have a custom one made later, but it wasn’t a priority now. Heeding his psychic’s warnings while trying to protect the kid at the same time were.

“You ready, pipsqueak?” Wilford asked as he stepped over to his closet. The kid was not ready. He was still in his pyjamas, playing with Buster on the bed while Bailey tried to ignore them and sleep.

“Why?” Michael asked.

“What do you mean, why?” Wilford asked back. He pulled out a shirt, decided against it, and grabbed another one instead. The light violet would go better with the pants he’d picked. “We gotta go talk to some people.”

“No,” Michael whined.

Wilford didn’t blame him. They were always talking to people. It was probably just as tedious for the kid as it was for him.

“I’ll tell you what,” Wilford said as he buttoned his shirt. “If you go talk to these people, and you be nice about it, maybe we’ll go look at some animals when we’re done.” Wilford had never once in his life been above bribery, and that wasn’t about to change any time soon.

Michael made a garbled, grumbly kind of noise. He had an opinion on this proposal, but he didn’t have the words to voice it. He was catching up just quickly enough to start to realise that he wasn’t catching up nearly fast enough. Wilford knew that frustration. Maybe in a different context, but he knew that things would go backwards again if the kid got too frustrated.

“We’ll figure that out later,” he said. “If you’re nice.”

As dressed as he needed to be for the moment, he hauled the kid off the bed and carried him to his own room as he made more garbled noises. Despite the circumstances of the day, it seemed almost cruel to dress the kid up any nicer than usual. He didn’t understand what was going on, and it was an ordeal enough to get him to put on a t-shirt half the time. Nichola was still keeping Michael supplied with a steady stream of clothes that fit, giving Wilford plenty to choose from without dressing the kid up in a parody of professionalism. His fuzzy little mohawk was probably in bad form, but it still looked better than the alternative, so it was staying. It took about twenty minutes to wrestle the kid out of his pyjamas and into the clothes Wilford picked out, which gave Wilford about 20 seconds to find his coat and tie before they had to be out the door. He’d gotten too used to operating on his own schedule. Operating on someone else’s, while trying to convince an angry toddler to cooperate was a brand new experience.

Despite getting out of the house late, and battling LS traffic, and every other little thing that came up between point A and point B, Wilford still found himself waiting at the courthouse for his appointed time. At least it gave him a few moments to finish getting dressed. He let Michael wander around the hall while he did up his tie and preened a bit in his phone’s camera.

“Parents who just let their kids run wild,” someone said nearby.

Wilford looked up at Michael, where he crouched near the wall, sliding one of his cars back and forth against the stone floor.

“He’s fine. I’m right here,” Wilford said to the busybody standing a bit too close for comfort. He closed out his camera and pulled up his messages. He’d missed a call from Steve while he was in the car, and decided to return it in a text.

“You couldn’t have left him with his mother?” the woman asked. Wilford finally looked up at her. She looked like the kind of woman who shouted for managers when store clerks didn’t hand over free shit.

“None of your fucking business,” Wilford said gruffly. He looked down at his phone again, stepping aside idly in a way that put him between Michael and the nosy woman.

The woman just scoffed. “You’re looking at your phone. He could be doing anything. You really should have left him with someone capable.”

Wilford glanced down. “He’s fine.” He finished sending off his text and finally looked squarely at the woman. “You won’t be if you don’t back the fuck off. Don’t even look at my kid. Turn around and leave.”

“Mind yur fuckin bidnes,” Michael muttered from the floor.

The woman’s eyes went wide. “That’s what you’re teaching him?” she demanded.

“He’s three and he’s already got better manners than you,” Wilford said. He glanced back at the sound of footsteps rushing down the hall, relieved to find Steve, and an excuse to get the hell out of there before the situation got any worse.

“Wilford. Good. We’ve moved to upstairs,” he said, pointing back over his shoulder toward the stairs.

Wilford didn’t waste a second longer. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and bent to pick up Michael. “You ready to go talk to them people?” he asked.

Michael frowned and gibbered.

“Yeah, and then we’ll go see the animals,” Wilford said, following Steve to wherever it was they were going. It wasn’t talking to Karen, so it was automatically a better place than he’d been standing.

“Bribery already?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, shut up,” Wilford said. It worked, did it? He pulled out his phone again, deciding to make a quick call before he went in to go permanently change his entire life.

For being such a permanent, dramatic ordeal, it went quickly. It all happened in Judge’s chambers, while Michael babbled to himself and played with his cars. The judge didn’t seem to care about school choices and medical treatment — or at least, he didn’t ask about them. He was quick, to the point, and really only seemed to be concerned about whether or not Wilford knew the legality of what he was doing. He tried to ask the kid a few questions, but Michael only cared about seeing the animals. Wilford got the feeling the judge had seen that reaction plenty of times before, because he brushed it off with a chuckle, and then there were papers to sign. The whole thing lasted less than thirty minutes, and was far less formal or involved than Wilford had been built up to expect. If anything, it was anti-climactic. Then there was the one bit of awkwardness Steve had warned and advised him about. Wilford played the role and did as he was told. Smile, hold the kid for the picture, and get it over with. After that, he was just as eager to get out of there as the kid was. He had a few questions of his own after that, but they were easily answered and soon they were out the door, with the entire messy affair behind them. Once he was out the door, he checked his phone again. She was already waiting at the front. Good. It did, however, bring in some logistical issues, but nothing that couldn’t be dealt with later.

Celine was dressed much more sensibly for an outing than Wilford was, but he didn’t think he’d be able to get away with a trip all the way back to the hills just to put on a better shirt. He’d just have to ditch the coat and tie and make the best of it. As soon as she saw them, Celine’s face lit up as she reached for the kid.

“Mikey!” she said, taking him from Wilford. “Daddy says we’re going to look at some animals?”

“Yeh!” Michael shouted, clearly happy to finally getting onto what was obviously the most important part of the day.

“Awesome!” Celine said, before turning a more genuine smile toward Wilford. “How’d it go?” she asked.

Wilford nodded. “Paperwork’s signed. Just waiting on the new birth certificate. The original’s from DC, so apparently there’s some extra steps to void that one or something.” He didn’t entirely understand the process, but the answer he was given was enough to tell him it was over.

“So he’s all yours? His mom can’t come claiming him back?” Celine asked.

“Nope. And she’d be very stupid to try,” he said. He started leading the way back out to the parking lot before Michael got too impatient. “Where’s your car?” he asked.

“Still in the shop. I took an Uber,” Celine said.

Good. One less problem to deal with. “All right, pal,” Wilford said as he headed over to his Oracle. “What do we want? Go see some sharks, or go see some lions?”

Wilford could see that he’d misstepped. The scrunched up, confused face Michael made suggested his grasp of different animals’ names was still next to non-existent. Maybe the idea to go see some animals was a good one.

“Sha!” Michael decided abruptly. He still seemed confused, but he’d made his decision and seemed confident about that at least.

“Sharks it is,” Wilford said. He unlocked the car and started stripping off his jacket and tie while he watched Celine get the kid strapped into his seat. The rest of the back seat was a disaster, and Celine would be in the front, so Wilford popped the trunk and tossed his things back there, where he’d no doubt forget about them for the next eternity. Before he even got into the car, he consulted his phone on how to get to the aquarium from where they were. He’d lived in this city for several years, and was aware that there was an aquarium, but he’d never once even thought about its continued existence until that moment. His phone suggested taking Vespucci down, which Wilford wasn’t too sure about, but there didn’t actually seem to be freeway access to the Marina from downtown Los Santos.

“All right, pal,” he said, getting into the car and mounting his phone on the dash. “Let’s go look at them animals.”

The aquarium was not the most interesting place Wilford had ever been. The animals all either swam around doing nothing, or sat around doing nothing. But Michael was enthralled all the same. Even after he got so excited at the touch pool that he nearly fell in. Michael wasn’t very content to be carried around by either of them, seemingly much more interested in dashing back and forth to try to look at everything at once.

“Do you think he’s ever seen a fish before?” Celine asked quietly as Michael pressed his face against the glass to watch a school of bright blue fish dart around their huge, shared tank.

Wilford shook his head. “Just the goldfish at restaurants,” he said.

Michael babbled wildly to himself and anyone who would listen. He certainly had a lot to say about what was going on, but it wasn’t coming out. He pointed at the fish, looking briefly back at Wilford, before slamming his fist into the glass.

“No, no!” Celine said, rushing over quickly to stop them. “That’s loud. The fish don’t that. It hurts them.”

Michael was getting frustrated again. Keeping him from losing his lid and not giving up was quickly becoming the most intense exercise in patience Wilford had ever endured, and it was only getting started. He sighed and crouched down next to the kid, trying to see the tank form his angle.

“What do you see, pal?” he asked.

Michael looked at him, and then back at the tank, gibbering on. Wilford listened and watched, trying to decipher what the kid was getting so worked up over.

“No,” he said, picking Michael up and hoisting him onto his shoulders. “We can’t take them home. They live here.”

Michael didn’t like that answer, judging by the way he started to whine.

“We got dogs at home. They’ll get jealous,” Wilford said. He went to check his watch, forgetting he hadn’t worn it since it didn’t seem appropriate for court. He managed to keep Michael on his shoulders while fishing his phone from his pocket, and was surprised at the time. They’d spent two hours in there already. No wonder the kid was getting cranky.

“Let’s finish up and go find some lunch,” he said.

Of course, they were by the beach again, which was going to mean some sort of seafood again, unless he could convince Michael to keep it together long enough to go back into town. If he could keep his head long enough to get across the beltway, they’d at least be able to make it into Little Seoul.

Wilford glanced at Celine as they walked the path through the aquarium. It only took a few moments for Michael to forget whatever was irritating him, and soon he was enthralled once more by strange creatures floating around in the currents. Without Michael leading the way, they managed to get through the very small remainder at a much more brisk pace. Which only seemed to remind Michael how irritated he was.

“There wasn’t a single shark in that entire place,” Celine said quietly as they headed back to the car.

Wilford shushed her as he pulled out his keys. How was he supposed to know it didn’t have sharks? He got Michael settled in his seat, already re-assessing his plans. They weren’t going to make it across the beltway. Maybe they’d find some fast food instead.

“Any requests, or you fine with the first place we see?” he asked as he got into the car as well.

Celine shook her head and glanced back at the kid. “I think the first place we see,” she said.

Wilford nodded. At least she was in a better mood today, so it was a little easier to keep the kid under control, but that was only going to last so long. He started the car and pulled out of the lot, spotting a little fast food village past the next intersection, clearly intended to serve families with grumpy kids coming out of the aquarium. Wilford wasn’t going to miss that opportunity and headed there.

“Anything but pizza,” he said as he found a place in the shared parking lot.

“No pizza?” Celine sounded almost scandalised.

“Neither of us can eat it,” Wilford said.

“Really?”

Wilford shook his head and got out of the car. “Not unless we want to spend all night on the bathroom floor,” he said.

The black car seemed like a good choice on the lot, and Wilford still liked the look of it, but it was an absolute menace in the San Andreas heat. Wrestling a toddler back out of his seat only minutes after being wrestled in was tricky enough. Catching his elbow on searing hot trim while doing so only made it worse.

“They make pills for that, you know,” Celine said, getting into the back seat from the other side to grab Michael’s backpack.

“How well could they work?” Wilford asked. He’d never bothered to try them, because they always seemed a bit snake oil to him.

“Probably pretty well. Lots of people take them.”

Wilford wasn’t convinced. He finally got the kid out and locked up the car, ready to follow Celine into whichever building she picked. They’d parked near a fried chicken place, so that’s where she went, throwing Michael a strange glance on the way.

“I don’t like taking the pills I’m supposed to take. I don’t want one more.” He realised a second too late that Celine wasn’t on the list of people who knew all the ways in which he was fucked up. But if he’d said something alarming, Celine either hadn’t noticed, or tactfully pretended not to.

“Well, yeah,” she said with an odd laugh. “Nobody likes taking pills. Well, some people do, but not like that.”

Wilford conceded that point. They walked into the restaurant together and looked over the menu while they stood in line. It was about as basic as any other lowest common denominator fast food joint. But he was also hungry enough that he didn’t see the point in pretending he was above a place like this either. They ordered, got their food that came out entirely too quickly to be anywhere near fresh, and found a table in a far corner. He got Michael set up with his chicken strips and fries while Celine slid into a seat across from them.

“When do you have to be home?” Wilford asked, checking his sandwich to make sure it had at least been assembled to order. It seemed about as safe as it was possible to be, which was all he needed.

“I don’t,” Celine said. “He’s in Canada for a few weeks. And he hasn’t even texted once.”

Wilford glanced up, surprised. “Canada? He got a job?”

Celine nodded and poured her fries out onto the tray. “Yeah, some tiny little role that’ll probably pay the bills for another few months.”

“What did Steve have to say?” Obviously, Steve wasn’t going to share anything with Wilford, which didn’t seem entirely fair. But he wasn’t going to make a fuss about it.

“He says I should have a good case if I file. But it would be easier if Mark did because of the wording.” She laughed and shook his head. “I hadn’t even noticed until Steve pointed it out, but there’s no infidelity clause. I’ll probably lose money if he files and gets half, but I’d keep my business.”

Wilford thought about this while he ate his sandwich. There was a lot to consider. “And he thinks that highly of himself that he left the country and isn’t paranoid enough to keep tabs?” Wilford shook his head.

“He thinks that highly of himself that he picked a three-week role in an action movie over the lead in a rom-com,” Celine pointed out. “But that’s how he is.”

“Who’s directing?” Wilford asked.

Celine thought for a moment. “Phillips?” she said, not sounding entirely confident.

Wilford didn’t even have to Google that one. “It’s going to bomb,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be there for it. He likes to stick his dick where it doesn’t belong. What’s the contract Mark signed?”

“Upfront. We don’t have time to wait for royalties,” Celine said.

That was smart, at least. “It’s that bad?”

“The only reason we haven’t lost the house is because he bought it outright after his first big role,” Celine said. “My car’s in my name, and I make the payments from my own account.” She sighed. Wilford knew that sigh.

“What’s the bill at the garage?” he asked.

Celine looked at him and shrugged. “I’d have been better off if he’d totalled it.”

“Does he know?” Wilford asked.

Celine shook her head. If things were that bad, she probably couldn’t afford to be taking Ubers everywhere she needed to go either.

“Let me pay for it,” Wilford decided.

“No. You don’t have to do that,” Celine said.

“If he doesn’t know how bad the damage is, he won’t know where the money came from,” Wilford reasoned. “You taking Ubers to clients, or driving that stupid thing of his around?”

Celine looked again and sighed again. “Thank you,” she said. Wilford could see the relief written plainly on her face. “That helps more than you know.”

Wilford had an idea, but it didn’t seem like the sort of thing that needed to be stated. Instead, he turned his attention to Michael, finding him asleep with his face in a puddle of ketchup. Wilford had never been so conflicted about waking the kid up in his life. It was probably a good idea, but not before pulling out his phone to send a picture to Nichola.

By the time they got back to the Hills, Michael had napped all he needed to, and was back in high gear, running around the house and making noises at the dogs. Celine seemed content to just hang out somewhere that wasn’t her home while Wilford dealt with the kid, fed the dogs, and made a few calls he had to make. It was almost comfortable having her in the house like that. She wasn’t there to mess up his shit or openly judge him, which was in and of itself a refreshing change of pace. She lounged on the couch, playing small games with the kid and flipped through channels on the TV while Wilford took care of everything for the day. Taking a day off didn’t exactly mean he got the day off. Not with a production company to run, and a restaurant on the side. He hadn’t expected to have as much work as he did though, and by the time he got through everything the sun was going down and he was getting hungry again.

“All right, pal. Come help with dinner,” Wilford called as he headed to the kitchen. Michael ran out from wherever he’d been hiding, eager to get lifted onto his perch on the kitchen island. Once he was settled, Wilford filled a small ceramic bowl with a few dried out eggshells and handed it to the kid.

“Grind it up good,” he said.

Michael still wasn’t terribly coordinated with a mortal and pestle, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He very deliberately crushed the eggshells while Wilford quickly cut up a couple of carrots to go into a pan with the dogs’ chicken. While he worked, he glanced up to see Celine watching them from the archway, smiling oddly.

“Eggshells?” she asked.

“Dogs,” Wilford said. “I feed them first so they don’t beg at the table.”

Celine nodded. “I forgot you cook for your dogs.”

“I’ve read the labels on dog food. I wouldn’t want to eat it either,” Wilford said.

Once the dogs were fed and sent outside for the evening, Wilford started on dinner for the three of them. He was going to have to stay in the habit of thawing larger portions if Celine was going to be spending evenings with him, but he could improvise with what he had. Add enough rice and a few extra vegetables, and the pork he had in the fridge would go far enough to feed the three of them. Of course, he hadn’t realised until it was time to start dishing up that he’d put himself at a bit of an impasse. The table was, as ever, a disaster, and Michael had never once eaten a meal there. They’d got into the habit of eating at the coffee table, where Michael was already getting settled.

Wilford looked from Michael, and then to Celine, trying to figure out where to go from here. “Is that okay?” he asked, finding the question oddly difficult to frame.

Celine looked curiously to Michael, taking a moment to piece together what was being said. “That’s fine,” she said with a light laugh.

He’d probably have to get Michael used to the kitchen table at some point. It needed to happen eventually anyway, but it could wait another day. Wilford put that aside for the time being and dished up the plates, letting Celine sit comfortably on the sofa while Wilford sat next to Michael on the floor. It was the first routine thing they’d done all day, and Wilford was happy to let Michael take forever to pick through his dinner if that’s what it took to keep him quiet.

Somehow, they wound up in the bedroom with music playing on Wilford’s phone. Wilford hadn’t invited a date to his bedroom in years, and yet there he was, having no idea how to stop it from happening. As they lay on top of the blankets, Celine pressed up against his side, she reached over for his hand.

“This is new,” she said, fingering the chain around his wrist.

“Pretty old, actually. Just never wore it before.” Before his psychic gave him a dire warning.

But she wasn’t just his psychic anymore, was she?

Celine turned the plate over to read the engraving on the other side. Her other hand trailed down Wilford’s stomach, resting just above his belt. “What happened?” she asked.

“Story, when I was just getting started. Guy didn’t like the questions I was asking.” He watched Celine frown, feeling her fingers twitch hesitantly over his side. She wanted to see, and Wilford had never been particularly shy about his scars in the past. This was different though. Hanging out at the beach without his shirt wasn’t exactly the same as lying in bed with somebody. Still, he shifted and untucked his shirt, allowing Celine to see for herself exactly what the engraving meant.

She might have caught glimpses before, when the setting was more professional in nature and she was ritualistically drowning him to lift a curse. But she definitely hadn’t seen properly until now. Her eyes went wide as she ran her fingers first over the scar that ran from pelvis to sternum, where he’d been cut open like a tin can. She lifted his shirt up further, and Wilford obliged by rolling over onto his side, exposing further damage. The scar on his side where he’d lost a kidney, now further mangled from the glass bottle he’d taken at one of Mark’s parties. The half dozen exit wounds as bullets tore through him with the kind of accuracy that left him suffering for weeks instead of killing him.

Wilford wasn’t thinking about any of that though. This was a level of intimacy he hadn’t experienced in years — decades — and he had no idea what to do about it. His body craved this touch, but he was also terrified of it. He couldn’t properly relax, and had to force himself to remember to breathe as her fingers played over his skin.

“Oh my god,” she said finally. “How did you survive?”

Wilford rolled back over to look at her and shook his head. “Probably shouldn’t have,” he said. “I think something wanted me alive.”

Celine nodded slowly. “I’m inclined to agree with that,” she said. “Is that what you meant about not liking pills?”

Wilford shook his head. “I think you only have to take anything if they give you one, or if the other one doesn’t work,” he said.

Celine nodded, again tracing the line on Wilford’s belly. He wondered what was going through her head as she examined all his scars and ugly marks. He wondered how much longer he could keep up his charade before she found up how fucked up he was.

He didn’t have to wonder much longer though. Still, he found himself oddly annoyed when his bedroom door was pushed open and Michael waddled in, dragging his blanket behind him. Wilford sighed and sat up a bit to address the boy.

“What?” he asked.

Michael didn’t respond. Not with words. He just started hauling himself up onto the bed. It was completely normal, and something Wilford had just come to accept as normal. Suddenly, it was less than ideal. He looked at Celine, feeling a little defeated and not sure where to go from here. There was no winning here. It was going to be a long, awkward night.

comments

I want it to be messy, and I want it to hurt, and I want it to be humiliating

2019-03-01T18:36:28Z

His phone was ringing. Why was his phone ringing? Wilford realised he was still in his jeans, and is phone was in his pocket. He managed to dig his phone out without moving too much. It was his lawyer. His lawyer was calling him. Why was his lawyer calling him?

Wilford hit the green button, and then the speaker button. “Yep?” he said.

“Were you asleep?” Steve asked.

“Yep.” Wilford yawned.

Steve laughed. It must have been later than Wilford realised. “Okay, well. Everything’s been filed. Come out today so we can discuss what comes next.”

Wilford tapped his phone a few times, until he could get the clock to show up for him. It was after 9am. Not terribly late, but a lot later than he usually slept in, even since his surgery.

“Yep,” he said again. He hung up and went back to sleep.

That creepy butler was handing out his cocaine cocktails by the time Wilford stumbled out of the room he’d passed out in. He at least had everything he’d come with this time, and didn’t seem to have picked up any additional injuries along the way. Trying to avoid getting blackout drunk seemed to help with that, for some reason.

He didn’t stay to wait for everyone else to drag themselves out of bed. If Steve wanted to talk to him in person, the topic of the day was probably court dates. Wilford needed to get into Vinewood. He made sure he was put together and snuck out the front door, assuming nobody would care or notice that he’d snuck out early. Damien, it seemed, was on the same path. Or trying to be. He stood beside his car, looking at it, and then turning a baffled expression to the sky. Wilford looked up as well, and could see why Damien was baffled. Someone managed to throw a stone lion onto Damien’s car. Presumably from the roof, but it was one hell of a throw to have hit the bullseye as perfectly as it did. It looked like other stone lions on the property, so it probably hadn’t come from a random fly-over during the night. The entire roof of Damien’s car was caved in, the windshield shattered, and the crumpled hood was almost certainly hiding serious engine damage.

The two of them studied the damage in a confused silence. The more Wilford looked at it, the less sense it made.

“Hop in,” Wilford said finally. “I’m heading that way today.”

“You’re going to set on hangover day?” Damien asked, following Wilford over to his car.

“Gotta see my lawyer.” Wilford unlocked the car so they could both get in. For a moment, Damien seemed like he had a question, until he glanced into the back seat.

“Oh. About the kid?” he asked.

Wilford started the car and made his way down the winding driveway to the road. “Yeah, I need to get his name changed. Which is a whole other can of worms.”

In less than six months, he’d gone from demanding paternity tests to petitioning for adoption. What the hell had his life become?

“The whole thing, or just his last name?” Damien asked.

“Just his last name. His first name’s common enough, and there’s no point in confusing him all over again,” Wilford said. He rolled down his window a lit a cigarette.

“Yeah, that’s probably best. My mom remarried when I was about two, and I never understood why my name wasn’t the same as everyone else’s.” Damien took a cigarette as Wilford offered the pack. “But then Celine got married, and our names were all different.”

Wilford almost didn’t catch exactly what Damien had said. “She’s your sister?” he asked. “That how you know Mark?”

“No, I knew Mark first. I wasn’t exactly expecting them to start dating after he got divorced.” Damien rolled his window down as well, trading cigarette smoke for more wildfire smoke in the car.

“You’re not divorced, are you?” Wilford asked.

Damien laughed. “No, I’ve managed to dodge that bullet. And the pre-requisite.”

“I think that’s the right idea,” Wilford said. Almost everyone he knew was scrambling to get married, or trying to find a way to stop being married. It all seemed like a lot of hassle to him.

“I know she likes to keep things professional, but has Celine said anything to you?” Damien asked suddenly.

“About what?” She’d said a lot of stuff about a lot of things to him.

Damien didn’t answer right away. He took a deep breath, and shook his head. “She… They’ve both changed. You wouldn’t know that, obviously, but… I see something in both of them that wasn’t there before. It’s not my place, but I worry.”

Wilford shook his head. He almost answered that neither of them had ever said anything, but that wasn’t exactly correct. “I’ve seen her get real pissed off at him a few times. I always figured it was regular relationship shit.”

Damien nodded. “She’s not the biggest fan of Mark’s parties. That much is true.”

“You’d think with that kind of fuck-you money, he could rent a place for the weekend,” Wilford said. He may have been single, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand that it wasn’t that hard to keep your woman happy.

“He’s done two movies in the last six years. I don’t think he has as much money as he lets on.” Damien sounded like he was sharing gossip he shouldn’t have been sharing. But if Wilford had bothered to pay attention to anything that went on in the industry, he’d have probably been able to figure out as much for himself.

“I was wondering why she charged,” Wilford realised suddenly. “I thought it was a hobby until we started talking.”

“It used to be.”

There was a lot more going on in that house than Wilford had ever even considered thinking about. A lot of things started to make a little more sense. They’d probably combined assets, and now Celine needed to build herself a way out. Mark had little good to say about her, but his relationship with Damien kept him from pulling the plug and becoming the bad guy. It was up to Celine to walk out, and psychics in Vinewood were a dime a dozen. She probably couldn’t keep her head above water long enough to even think about court fees.

“What are you going to do about your car?” Wilford asked, changing the subject.

Damien sighed and rolled his eyes. “Hire a crane,” he said.

That was probably a good place to start.

He didn’t like having people in his space. First there were all the landscapers over the summer. Then the house was swarming with contractors. And now a woman with a judgemental makeup was standing in the middle of the room, watching Michael grind crackers into the carpet.

“He’s autistic?” she asked, checking the screen on her small tablet.

“They don’t think so,” Wilford said. “He’s just delayed.”

She nodded and crouched down onto the floor next to Michael. “What have you got there?” she asked.

Michael looked up at offered her a dinosaur. Its mouth was full of ground-up cracker. “Ba ba ba ba,” he said.

“Oh, he was hungry, wasn’t he?” the social worker asked. She took the dinosaur and turned it over in her hands a few times before handing it back. “He’s scary.”

Michael continued to babble on, apparently not having any more words he wanted to say. Apparently content with whatever interaction just occurred between them, the social worker stood back up and nodded.

“With situations like this, most of the process is just a formality,” she said. She checked her tablet again, and then looked around the room. “I don’t think we need to go much farther here. You’re going through your lawyer, right?”

Wilford nodded. “Yeah. Seemed the best way to do it.”

The social worker nodded. “Then someone will be in contact with him soon. You’ll hear from us through him.”

“How soon?” Wilford asked.

She shrugged. “I couldn’t say. We expedite kinship cases, but you’re not the first one in the queue.”

Wilford wasn’t even a little bit surprised. “I figured as much,” he said. “Anything else you guys need from me?”

“Not today,” the social worker said. “The next step is paperwork and your hearing. You’ll get a call when we’re ready for that.”

Wilford showed her out, glad to have her out of his space. It was a constant, never-ending stream of people in his space lately. Getting everything over and done with would be a goddamn blessing.

Finding weird things in the car was becoming just another fact of life. Usually the weird things were something one of the dogs had snuck in, or something the kid had suck in, and it all stayed more or less contained to the back seat. Finding something in the front seat that didn’t belong to him was less expected. Finding the Mayor of Los Santos’ wallet under the front seat was even less expected.

Wilford resisted the urge to snoop for about three seconds, but being a professional snoop practically made it his responsibility to see what Damien kept in it. It was surprisingly boring. Driving license, a few business cards with old area codes — numbers to his city office, then; not his personal line — cash and credit cards. No clutter or old receipts. Absolutely nothing that could be used against him. Damien was either the only politician who was clean as a whistle, or more likely, he made a habit out of losing his wallet and took precautions by keeping it as empty as possible. If nothing else, that made him the only smart politician in town.

Not having any direct way of getting in touch with Damien, Wilford was left with a few less-than-stellar choices. He could call the offices downtown, and deal with that mess, or he could take it out to Banham Canyon. Downtown traffic was always an awful idea. At least the drive out to the canyon was pleasant.

“You want to go on a drive, pal?” He asked as he pulled out his phone to check the traffic.

“Yeh.” Michael was always ready to go for a drive. Sometimes getting him into that damn car seat was a struggle and a half, but once he was strapped in with nowhere else to go, anything probably sounded good.

Wilford plugged his phone into the car’s stereo and pulled out of the parking lot. Downtown Vinewood traffic wasn't much better than downtown Los Santos, but at least this way he only had to do it once, and soon enough they were on the freeway headed out of the city. Michael had picked up a new game for himself that involved pointing out all the cars they saw on the roads, jabbing his finger against the window and shouting each time. As they left town, cars became less and less plentiful, sparking indignation as he started to run out of cars to shout at.

“Hey,” Wilford called back at him. “None of that.”

“No!” Michael shouted back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilford grumbled. Everything was becoming ’No.’ Apparently it was supposed to be a sign of progress. It was irritating was what it was.

Eventually he got off the main road and onto the winding private drive that led to Mark’s place. Damien’s crushed car was no longer parked out front, giving Wilford plenty of space to get close. The garage had been left open, with Mark’s Patriot conspicuously absent. Still, Wilford parked next to the little sports car out front and got out to free Michael before he started to mutiny. Once inside, he could let the kid run around for a few minutes before strapping him back in for the ride home. Wilford carried him to the front door, startled by it flying open before he could even reach for the bell.

“Christ,” he said, trying not to fall backwards down the steps. There was plenty of room behind him before that happened, but everything always felt more precarious when he was carrying the kid around.

Celine took a moment to look at the two of them with confusion. Cutting to the chase since he could sense something unwelcoming around the place, Wilford pulled Damien’s wallet out of his inventory and handed it over.

“He left that in my car,” he said.

Celine looked at it and sighed. “Oh, thank god,” she said. She turned back toward the still-opened door. “Benjamin! We found it!” she shouted, closing the door on his response. She shoved Damien’s wallet into her purse and grabbed Wilford by the arm, awkwardly spinning him around.

“Take me somewhere,” she demanded. There was a hard edge to her voice that Wilford had never heard before, and didn’t dare question. Curious enough to comply, he walked with her back to the car. Before he even got to the back seat to open the door, Michael slid from fussy to full nuclear meltdown without warning. He tried to fling himself onto the ground, kicking and swinging his fists like his life was in danger.

“No. Let’s not,” Wilford said, not really sure how to handle the situation. “Come on.”

“I’m sorry,” Celine said, sighing. “I project. I’m not the best at keeping it under control.”

Between Michael screaming, and the oddness of what Celine was saying, it took Wilford a long moment to realise what she actually meant.

“Oh,” he said suddenly. Yeah, the kid was definitely pissed about something. The situation hadn’t got any easier to deal with, but it definitely made more sense. “I thought he’s just mad at all the driving.”

“He might be. But I probably didn’t help.” She opened the passenger door and let herself into Wilford’s car, leaving him to figure out how to progress.

“Come on, pal. You want to go get dinner? You’re probably hungry aren’t you?” Wilford asked, twisting around to open the door without dropping the kid onto the pavement.

Michael didn’t stop crying, but he did nod. The idea of dinner calmed him down enough that Wilford was able to get him strapped into his seat before he could start fighting again.

“I’m sorry,” Celine said as Wilford got behind the wheel. “I just can’t be in this house right now.”

Wilford wasn’t sure what that had to do with him. Glancing around as he started the car, he realised Mark’s Patriot wasn’t the only car missing. “Where’s your Banshee?” he asked, turning on the radio hoping the music would help settle the kid down.

Celine made a sound that wasn’t quite a grumble, but close. “Rear-ended,” she said. “In my own driveway.”

It was definitely time to get the hell out of there. Wilford didn’t know where they were going, so he pulled out of the driveway and turned to head back into town.

“What the hell is this?” Celine asked suddenly, picking up his phone from its dash mount to see what was playing through the speakers.

“Jazzotron,” Wilford said. He didn’t expect her to understand that word, and judging by the scrunched up look on her face, he was right.

“What?” she asked. She quickly shook her head and tried to unlock the phone, only to be thwarted by the password. “Get me the map,” she said, handing it back over.

Wilford held the phone up to his face long enough for it to recognise him and unlock, before passing it right back. Celine tapped at his phone for a few seconds, and put it back in its mount with the GPS pointing to Pacific Bluffs. It wasn’t quite ‘in town,’ but it was more or less in the right direction for the time being.

“I like this place,” Celine said. “It’s next to a little park on the beach.”

Wilford glanced into the mirror, ignoring Michael’s diminishing protests about being strapped back into his seat. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said. “So what’s going on?”

Asking was risking another meltdown, but it was his experience that married women didn’t often throw themselves into the first functional car they saw. They also didn’t tend to make that grumbly noise Celine made again.

“Mark…” she started, before shaking her head. She tried again several times before finally finding the words she wanted to say. “He knows I project. And he knows I can’t control it very well. So when he wants an excuse to be mad at me, he does shit to piss me off so that he can get pissed off and walk out guilt-free.”

It wasn’t exactly what Wilford was expecting. “What’d he do?”

“He rear-ended my car.”

“Seriously?” Wilford felt no loyalty toward the man one way or another; he threw good parties, and had extended a standing invitation to them. But that kind of thing was just low. “When’d he do that?”

“Last night,” Celine said. “After his agent dropped his ass.”

Wilford tried to follow that precise line of thought. He’d definitely engaged in petty vandalism while pissed off. But basic self-preservation generally meant directing the consequences away from yourself, rather than loading the gun and pointing it right at your own face.

“Your brother said he’d been out of work for a while,” he said, easily connecting the two.

“Out of work. And when he does work, it bombs. There’s good money and good work on the B-list, but he won’t take it until the bank starts making threatening calls.” Celine shook her head and took a deep breath. She glanced to the back seat, and then leaned back in her own seat and closed her eyes for a moment. Whatever she was doing, Michael was definitely picking up on it. That, or he’d just run out of crying energy.

“I’d kill for the B-list,” Wilford said. “I don’t know what list I’m on, but if the B-list can afford a castle in the Canyon, it can’t be that bad.”

Celine laughed, an ironic, mirthless sound. “Could you tell him that?”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilford said. He had no intention of doing any such thing.

“Sorry. You’re his friend. You probably don’t want to hear this,” Celine said. She flipped down the visor and fiddled with the mirror so she could refresh her lipstick.

Wilford thought about that. He certainly didn’t consider Mark a friend. He liked Mark well enough, but he hardly knew the guy. “I don’t think he’s said more than two full sentences to me since my teeth wound up in your pool,” he realised aloud.

“Oh.” Celine hung on that for a moment. “You’re always at the house. I thought…”

“He invites me,” Wilford pointed out. “Any excuse to get away from Legos and the Super Pals is a good one.”

Celine laughed, almost bitterly. “I wish I knew what that was like,” she said. “I wanted kids. He already has two I’ve never met, and he doesn’t want any more. And that’s that.”

“You’ve never met your own stepkids?” Wilford asked. Granted, he’d never met his own biological child, but somehow that didn’t seem as odd.

“I don’t think Mark’s talked to them since I’ve known him.” Celine did not sound amused about this. For some reason, Wilford found himself wondering if this was a universal thing she detested, or if Mark made it a special case.

Wilford wanted to ask why she hadn’t walked out on the marriage yet, but it didn’t seem like the best question to be asking his psychic while they sped down the highway.

“Same mother?” he asked instead.

Celine nodded. “His first wife, yeah.”

Which meant unless they were twins, he’d been there when at least one of them was born. It wasn’t an area Wilford had many opinions on, but even he knew what a deadbeat dad was.

“You want this one for the week?” Wilford asked, nodding back toward Michael. The kid had calmed down again finally, and was watching the world pass by out the window.

“It almost sounds like you're trying to get rid of him,” Celine said.

“He’s a nightmare. Complete pain in the ass,” Wilford said. He shrugged. “But so was I, so I’m probably not allowed to complain.”

“You’re allowed to complain a little bit,” Celine said with an absolutely wicked smile.

Mark was a fucking idiot to drive this woman away. Granting her request and letting her into his car was the biggest mistake Wilford had made in a very long time, and he already knew it. He didn’t have to do a damn thing more than he already had to fuck everything up. She’d spent twenty minutes complaining about her husband — a man who was supposed to be Wilford’s friend — and he couldn’t find a single reason to disagree with her.

He’d fucked up the second he talked to her outside of one of the parties.

“So what kind of psychic are you, anyway?” he asked, realising he was several months too late with the question.

“I’m a medium,” she said. “I can’t read minds or solve crimes, unless someone’s spirit can tell me something. It comes with emotional telepathy I could really do without.”

Wilford nodded, having a pretty good guess at why she might find something like that unpleasant. “Sounds to me like you two don’t like each other much,” he said, knowing just how stupid it was before he finished the sentence.

“I hate him,” Celine said plainly. “And he knows it. And I was dumb enough, and star-struck enough to sign a pre-nup.”

“What do you mean?” Wilford asked. “What was in it?”

“I can’t leave him,” Celine says. “If I do, he gets everything.”

“Even the money you make?” Wilford asked. Well, that sure as hell couldn’t be right.

“Even my business.” She took a deep breath, glancing into the back seat again. She was obviously trying to keep everything to herself until they could get out of the car and put some distance away from the kid.

Wilford shook his head. “I don’t think that’s legal. I’ll hook you up with my lawyer. He can probably nullify it for you in an afternoon.”

“I’ve talked to lawyers,” Celine said.

“You’ve talked to Vinewood lawyers. They got loyalty, and it ain’t to you. I’ve got the kind of lawyer that has to fight off those fuckers when I say something one of their clients or their cults doesn’t like,” Wilford says.

“I keep forgetting you’re one of the bad guys,” Celine said.

“What? You think I’d rather be playing by the rules?” Wilford asked. “The only reason I’m not a super villain is I didn’t have the grades in science for it.”

“Maybe I should try it some time,” Celine said. It was impossible to ignore the way she grinned at him. With a grin like that, she didn’t need anything else at all to be a super villain.

Wilford turned off the Great Ocean Highway toward the ocean itself. There was a little line of houses and quaint little restaurants up against the beach, flying bright flags shaped like birds and fish. It was the sort of town the locals went to go to be tourists, where everything was just fake enough to be comfortable, but real enough to be familiar.

“Never been out here before,” he said, checking building numbers against the address Celine had punched into his phone. It was somewhere close, so he slowed down to keep from missing it.

“We used to come out here every weekend,” Celine said. “One time Damien found this little raft that probably belonged to somebody, and started paddling around this little river with it. He had a blast, until the tide started going out.”

“Did he drown?” Wilford asked. He wished he could have been there to see that disaster.

“He said he managed to paddle back a few miles down shore,” Celine said. “I think there’s a respawn point somewhere I’ve never been able to find.”

Wilford laughed. He found the right place, and pulled off into a parking space. “I’ll have to ask him about it,” he said. “I like the faces he makes when things don’t go his way.”

Celine laughed and shook her head. “You really are one of the bad guys.”

Wilford glanced at her as he was grabbing his phone, just long enough to wink before he got out of the car. He shouldn’t have done that. Maybe he could escape it by trying to wrangle the kid out of his seat and into the little diner.

“Come on, pal,” he said. “You hungry?”

Michael nodded, and started to whine. He was worse than hungry. He was also tired and bored, and probably needed to get inside before he had an accident. As he unhooked Michael from his seat, Wilford reached down to pick up the backpack from the floor, just in case a pair of clean briefs were required. He got smacked in the side of his face for his troubles, but he probably deserved it, fucking with their routine like this.

With a good grip on Michael and the bag, Wilford stood up to close the doors and lock up the car. Getting bossed around by a toddler had done absolutely nothing to discourage any attention. If anything, Celine only seemed further encouraged. It would have been very easy to put her off the path. Instead, he bounced Michael in his arms for a few moments, giving ht e kid his full attention as he tried to calm him down. He let Celine lead the way in, hoping that with Mark’s complete lack of a career, they’d be able to avoid causing any more trouble for themselves. At least not being dragged out to red carpet events meant she wasn’t as likely to get recognised outside of the city.

Once inside, Wilford headed off to find the men’s room while Celine picked a table. As soon as he put Michael down on the floor, the kid rushed off to the nearest stall. And immediately started crying when he couldn’t unzip his own pants.

“Hang on a second,” Wilford said tiredly, just glad that the urgency meant there wasn’t likely to be an emergency change of wardrobe in their future. On the list of things Wilford did not see in his future six months earlier, helping a toddler pee without falling into the toilet or getting it on the ceiling was at the top of that list. And yet here he was.

With that crisis averted, Wilford got him cleaned up in the sink and released him to the wild so he could move around a little bit before he had to sit right back down. The diner wasn’t that big, but still they found themselves a bit lost somehow.

“Will!” Celine called.

Wilford looked over toward her voice, finding her a step ahead of him. There was an open patio at the back of the old, converted house, with a few stairs leading down to the beach and a nearby playground. It was all the encouragement Michael needed. He ran outside, tumbled down the stairs into the sand, and got back up as if he hadn’t even noticed. There were seagulls out in on the beach, picking up whatever scraps were out there, and Michael immediately ran straight toward them.

“Hey!” Wilford shouted after him. “Get closer!”

Michael looked up at Wilford for about a second before running after the birds again.

“Let him play,” Celine said. “He deserves it. I really pissed him off back there.”

Wilford nodded vaguely and sat down, not taking his attention off of Michael.

“Mark said he’s adopted?” Celine asked.

“In the process,” Wilford said, paying less attention to her than she probably wanted.

“You sure got that moving fast. I’ve seen it take years for some people,” Celine said, also watching Michael play with the birds.

“They speed it up when it’s family,” Wilford said. Michael wasn’t going any closer to the surf, but he was still a little too far out for comfort.

“Family?” Celine asked.

Wilford nodded, looking back at Celine for just a moment. He didn’t like this nervous feeling the kid seemed to constantly give him, and he wished it would go away. “He’s my grandson.”

There was that absolute look of confusion Wilford was getting so used to seeing. “Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she said, laughing nervously now. “I thought… he doesn’t speak English…” She covered her mouth with one hand, as if to stop herself from going any further.

Wilford shook his head at returned his attention to the kid. “I’d be offended if this were the first time I heard that,” he said. He looked up again to find an older woman trying not to butt in on a conversation she clearly regretted walking in on.

“Hi,” she said awkwardly, putting a couple of menus down on the table. “I’ll give you two a few minutes,” she said before scurrying away. Wilford watched her go and picked up the menu with a shrug.

Celine still had her had over her mouth, looking everywhere, like she wasn’t sure where she wanted to look. Eventually, she settled on the menu, reading it far too intently for someone who came here often enough to know the address.

“So. Your grandson?” she asked. “That’s…”

“My daughter,” Wilford said, cutting straight to the chase. “She’s in prison. I was the teenage fuck-up.”

He picked up the menu and scanned over it, finding it entirely predictable. Pasta with sauces he couldn’t eat, chowders he couldn’t eat. Some fried stuff he probably already ate too much of. It was just as boring as the fare his neighbours in Del Perro were pushing.

“I had no idea,” Celine said, distracted enough from her menu to actually look at him again.

“We haven’t been very open about it.” He put his menu down and looked back out at the beach again. The birds seemed to know where the food was, barely moving out of the way even as Michael charged at them. Whatever scraps they were digging out of the sand were clearly more important. “It took about two seconds for it to get out that I suddenly had a little kid, but that’s all anyone got with it before it got boring. Once we get his name changed, it should make it a little easier to keep him hidden.”

Celine seemed confused for a moment. “Wouldn’t she be able…” she cut herself off as a visible thought crossed her mind. “Oh. She doesn’t know you?”

She clearly wasn’t very pleased to hear this. Wilford wasn’t sure why that bothered him. “I found out about her the day he showed up at my front door.” He shook his head and shrugged. “I guess it’s a testament to how much her mother hates me that nobody came forward when I was starting to make some money.”

“How old were you?” Celine asked.

“Fourteen.”

She nodded. “Oh, yeah. She definitely hates you,” she agreed.

Whatever Wilford was about to say next vanished from his thoughts in an instant. Michael started screaming bloody murder, finally scattering the seagulls. Wilford jumped to his feet and ran down to the beach, acutely aware of the rising panic he couldn’t clamp down. Michael dropped down into the sand, screaming and flailing his hand. All of the worst thoughts managed to get chased away then. It was small, and difficult to see as it was flung through the air at half the speed of sound, but impossible to miss all the same.

“Oh, you pissed him off,” Wilford said as he crouched down and grabbed the kid’s arm to keep him still. The tiny crab held onto Michael’s finger with a tiny, clawed death grip. As Michael screamed, Wilford managed to annoy it enough into letting go and scurrying away into the dry sand. With Michael still crying, Wilford picked him up and took him back to the table. As Wilford got him settled into the seat next to him, the awkward waitress returned. Wilford still had no idea what he wanted to order.

The dogs knew not to jump, but even with them firmly on the ground, Wilford had to fight not to fall over or wake the kid up.

“Get away,” he scolded, trying to push through them toward the stairs. But he wasn’t actually who they were excited to see. He was simply in the way, and as soon as he got past them, they both crowded around Celine as she tried to follow Wilford in from the garage. Wilford was about to scold them again, but Celine was quick to undermine him by crouching down to give them both excited scratchings. Letting that scene play out, Wilford carried the kid up the stairs and carefully dropped him off in his bed. Once he got the kid settled, he turned to leave, only to find Celine already waiting for him in the door.

“This wasn’t here last time, was it?” she asked quietly.

Wilford shook his head and guided her out, shutting the door behind him, not quite letting it latch. “No, it’s all new.” He kicked his shoes off at the landing and headed out toward the kitchen.

“Most people just move,” Celine pointed out. “Or at least move their office out to the garage.” She followed his lead in taking off her shoes before walking through the rest of the house.

“I make too much money to work out of my garage,” Wilford said plainly. He grabbed a few beers from the back of the fridge, and paused. “Do you want a glass?” he asked.

Celine looked up from examining his record collection. “No, the bottle’s fine,” she said.

Nodding, Wilford popped the caps on the bottles and brought them out to the coffee table. He sat down on the sofa, watching as Celine picked an album and carefully put it on the turntable. Like most people who took liberties with his vinyl, she picked Glenn Miller. Unlike most people, she picked one of the jazz albums, starting on the B-side.

“You didn’t go for the big band?” he asked.

Celine shook her head. “It’s a little late for swing.”

She wasn’t wrong. Wilford watched her curiously as she made her way over to the sofa. She sat entirely too close to be proper. She picked up her beer and leaned back lazily into the cushions, being about as subtle as a brick. She was there to make some mistakes, and the only thing stopping it from happening was Wilford being a complete wreck. He didn’t think he could make a move if he had to. He was once again paralysed by his own stupid fear, and he hated himself for it. Before Celine could see any of it he leaned back as well, shifting into the corner to face her a little better, and took a drink of his beer.

“What happens if he leaves you?” he asked.

Celine shook her head. “You want to know the power he had over me?” she asked. “It was never stipulated.”

Wilford mulled that over for a moment. “I’ll talk to my lawyer,” he said eventually. “He’ll have some kind of magic trick up his sleeve.”

“I want a divorce,” she said plainly. “I want it to be messy, and I want it to hurt, and I want it to be humiliating. I want him to feel as stupid as he me feel.”

Wilford nodded and tapped on his watch to check the time. It was still early enough that if he really wanted to, he could make a few calls and kick things off right then and there. But he didn’t want to. There were easier, less-precise and more obvious ways, so he just nodded instead. He didn’t know if she was doing this on purpose, or if he was just bored and stir-crazy enough to see something that wasn’t there. He’d been so focused on the kid, and before that getting his own ducks in a row for so long that he hadn’t taken the time to just play and have fun for far too long. And Celine was handing him the opportunity on a silver platter. He let his eyes wander completely unprofessionally for the first time since he’d met her. He’d looked, and he’d seen, but he’d never taken a moment to just appreciate until that moment as she spilled her sadistic desires on his sofa.

Finally, he nodded. “How bad do you want it to hurt?” he asked.

Celine moved toward him, leaning against him and getting close enough for him to see the red in her hair under the light. He hated it. He wanted to jump up and get away, but there was another part of him that he usually managed to keep clamped down. The part of him that still craved this.

“I want him to wish he was dead,” Celine said. She was dead serious. How the hell could Wilford pass that up? He hadn’t indulged this hobby outside of work in far too long.

She got even closer, pressing her body against his, holding her beer at an awkward angle that kept her weight even heavier against him. She leaned in to kiss him, and Wilford didn’t stop it. Worse, he was already hard, like some fucking pathetic teenager. Worse still, he was too goddamn terrified to do a damn thing about it. He was still stunned he’d let things go as far as they had. He was starting to wonder how far he’d let things go before he flew into a full-blown panic. But the Universe wasn’t that cruel; or perhaps not that kind. Juts when he thought he might get brave enough to find out, the unmistakable sound of his barely-verbal toddler waking up from a nightmare filled the back of the house. Wilford had never experienced such a confusing collection of emotions before. He was relieved to have an escape route. But he surprised himself by also being annoyed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping whatever was bothering Michael would work itself out.

“Dada!” he whined from his bed.

It was clearly not going to work itself out. Celine sat back up, letting Wilford get to his feet to go see what the problem was. Wilford found him sitting up in bed, crying and unmistakably wet.

“Oh, jeez, pal,” Wilford said, already resigned to what came next. He picked up the kid, not even caring for a second about his shirt. Whatever the nightmare had been, it must have been a real doozy to get him crying as loud as he was.

“Hey, man. You’re cool,” Wilford said, taking him into the bathroom to get him cleaned up. “Let’s take a bath. You’ll feel better.”

As he started to get Michael’s dirty beach clothes off, he looked up to see Celine watching from the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not used to being around kids.”

It took a few seconds for Wilford to realise what she was talking about. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We do this a few times a week. We’re working on getting used to sleeping in his own bed, but he’s not a fan.”

“Oh.” Celine nodded. She stood in the doorway for a few moments longer. “I’ll call a car.”

Wilford looked up, surprised she was already leaving. It should have been ideal. “No, stay. This’ll take ten minutes,” he said. He’d had the perfect opportunity to escape without any awkward excuses, and he’d just told her to stay. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Are you sure?” Celine asked.

“Yeah. Just hang out.” Why couldn’t he stop talking? As soon as Celine left to go make herself at home, Wilford shook his head and cursed himself under his breath. Somewhere along the line he’d lost all his self-preservation skills. That was not going to end well for anybody.

He put that problem aside for later and quickly worked on getting Michael in the bath and cleaned up. The absurd collection of squeaky rubber ducks provided a good distraction from whatever had scared the kid this time, and soon enough he was just tired instead of tired and grumpy. He got Michael dressed and parked him out on the recliner with Buster. It gave him just enough time to strip the bed down to the plastic cover and change into a clean shirt before Michael started getting upset again. As soon as Wilford returned to the front room, Michael settled back down and cuddled up with the dog. Just being in the same room was enough for him, but it also created a unique solution to a stupid problem.

Wilford returned to the sofa, feeling more tired than he had just twenty minutes earlier. Celine wasted no time in cosying up again, this time more relaxed and with less intent. This… this was safe. It wasn’t completely comfortable, but it wasn’t scary enough either to distract him from how much he’d starved himself of even this level of intimacy. He thought he could stay like this for a long time. And he was tried enough to just enjoy it in silence until Celine finally had something to say.

“So this is parenthood, huh?” she asked.

Wilford snorted. “This is the easy stuff,” he said.

Celine nodded strangely. “I’m not surprised,” she said.

“What do you mean?” He tried to lean and bend away to look at her properly, but they were too close.

“There’s a darkness around him,” she said plainly. “I don’t think it’s his, but he’s carrying it.”

Wilford thought about it. He hadn’t considered it like that before. “Yeah there is,” he agreed. “But we’re working on it.”

“Be careful,” she said. She reached for his hand, turning it around to look at the ring she’d given him ages ago. He still wore it because he felt like now more than ever, he needed all the protection he could get. “It can be dangerous if you pick up too much of it.”

This wasn’t a revelation. The potential for everything to go catastrophically wrong was always in some dark corner of Wilford’s mind. “I’m trying not to,” he said.

Celine seemed content with that answer. She rested her head against his shoulder, freeing him to move his arm from between them and over her waist. It was entirely too comfortable to be safe. But that threshold had already been crossed and left far behind. She’d dangled that temptation in front of him, and he was not a strong enough man to ignore it. He might go down in flames with the rest of them, but the broken part of his brain that made all his decisions wanted to be let out to play, and it was too late to stop it. She wanted him to ruin someone’s life, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

The sun was in his face. That was the first thing that he noticed wen he woke up. Second was the record player hissing through the 7.1 system.

Third was that he was not alone on the sofa. Celine had never called a car. She was still there, half leaning against him, half on top of him, holding his hair up and letting it fall. Confused and startled, Wilford tried to sit up. He was too old to pass out on the sofa with someone else, and every bone in his back protested trying to move.

“Is that red or purple?” Celine asked, holding up his hair again.

Wilford realised she was holding it up in the light. “Kind of in between,” he said. He yanwed, tried to stretch again, and gave up. “I used to bleach it in school and it would turn this weird orange colour if I did it too much.”

“I’ve been thinking about lightening mine out,” Celine said.

It was Wilford’s turn to reach out and play with her hair. The angle was completely wrong for him to get the light to play off the colours properly, but he could still see the red tones she had under the black. “You’d look good with red hair,” he said.

“Maybe I will,” she said. She grinned at him, and then glanced over at his watch. She tilted her head one way, and tried to twist his wrist the other, and then her eyes went wide. “I really need to call a car,” she said, getting up suddenly.

Wilford checked the time, quickly realising why she was panicking. It was past eight already. She’d definitely have been missed. He sat up, watching her pick up her bag from where she’d left it by the stereo and dig through it for her phone.

“Shit,” she hissed, scrolling through what looked like a considerable amount of messages even from where Wilford sat across the room.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Triple digits,” she said, tapping furiously at the screen for a few moments before she shoved it back into her bag.

Wilford already knew what was coming next, even if it wasn’t immediate. But this was a familiar feeling that he didn’t miss. The hectic morning after when mistakes feel more like mistakes. Celine stuck around long enough to give Wilford a chaste kiss before collecting her shoes and heading downstairs. It would take a while for any car to get up there to pick her up, but Wilford knew she wasn’t going downstairs to wait. She was going downstairs to sound like she was alone. Figuring he’d help her out, Wilford got up to turn off the stereo. As he stood there, looking at the stack of records they’d gone through the night before, he picked up his phone from the dock and scrolled through his contacts. Finding the right one, he sent a simple text message.

Damage control

comments

cottoncandypink @ 2019-02-04T15:21:00

2019-02-04T23:27:06Z

Sometimes Wilford isn't really sure why he makes some of the decisions he does. There's the obvious answer, of course, which is that there is something fundamentally wrong with him. But he's already responsible for a couple of aliens squatting on his planet. He threw a party with a whole bunch of them. He's indirectly got another one killed right outside his restaurant. He might as well just go all in and consider hiring one.

Wait, no. He's done that already too. By that logic, there's absolutely nothing wrong with hanging around the bar, waiting to open the door back to the studio. In the mean time, he's enjoying a few child-free moments outside the workplace with his first cigarette in days.

comments

Even my three year old knows that he doesn’t have to eat something he doesn’t like

2018-12-10T20:59:04Z

A rampage outside the restaurant was nothing inherently new. It happened. It happened everywhere. Most people went on with their lives, and forgot about it the next morning. But of course, it would happen outside Wilford’s restaurant, two days before he was supposed to film some stupid show he didn’t want to film, and kill someone who didn’t belong in this world to begin with. Of. Fucking. Course.

He could deal with that later. Or just never go back to the bar. Maybe he could send Nichola as a spy to figure out if this is something they’d consider a hanging offence.

First, he needed to deal with his shoulder. Something was very, very wrong in his shoulder, which meant a long wait in an emergency room with a little boy who wanted to be anywhere but an emergency room. Eventually, he was seen, his shoulder was put back together how it belonged, and he was given yet another prescription he didn’t want. He still had some percocets left over from his surgery. He’d take those instead.

It was late by the time they got home. Getting Michael ready for bed with one arm in a sling wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but Wilford was willing to put up with the hassle in exchange for the added layer of protection between his mattress and the bed-wetting child. And his bed was exactly where Wilford wanted to sleep. He was in too much pain and too exhausted to want to crash anywhere else.

By morning, he got rid of the sling. He didn’t want it. It was just in the way. He put just enough energy into getting Michael cleaned up and dressed for the day, and getting everyone fed, and that was all he had left. He was tempted to call Andy in, even though he clearly wasn’t going anywhere, but he didn’t want Andy there while he was home. Wilford would take the lazy way out. He found some asinine cartoons, grabbed some of Michael’s smaller toys from downstairs, and collapsed into his chair to wallow in misery for the day. He lasted a whole hour before he had to get up to dig his pills out of his sock drawer. He could usually power through a lot things. Getting run over a few times and torn up from the inside was apparently not one of them. Maybe when he was in his 20s, but definitely not while he was looking down the barrel of 40. Eventually the percocets kicked in, and he didn’t feel quite like he was going to roll over and die. Not from the pain, at least. Maybe from the garbage playing on the TV. He had a new laptop he needed to set up anyway. This would be the perfect opportunity for it.

While Wilford copied the contents of his hard drive over to the new machine, Michael played quietly on the floor, force-feeding his stuffed animals crackers and smashing cars together, apparently enjoying his day off from having to pick out colours and match shapes. Wilford didn’t think a day off would hurt anything, and he thought that if he got down onto the floor, he might never be able to get himself back up. There were other things he could do later that might fill the gap, but he’d do that later, when it was time to start winding the kid down for the night. For now, he needed to get the new laptop set up so he could get back to work as quickly as possible.

“Da da.”

Wilford looked up, finding Michael looking very sad and holding one of his dolls. Her hair had been all tangled up in the wheels of one of his cars, and showed evidence of an attempt to pull them apart.

“You ran her over again, you maniac,” he said. “Give it here.”

Michael crouched down beside Wilford’s chair, watching intently as he tried to untangle the mess. “She’s a girl. You have to be nice to her, or she won’t want to hang out with you anymore,” he said, carefully rotating the wheels back and forth so he wouldn’t have to shave the damn thing bald. “Then how are you supposed to make all your bad choices?”

Eventually, he managed to untangle the doll’s hair from the car’s wheels, but she wasn’t in a very pretty state. Wilford put his laptop on the table and got up to grab a comb from the bathroom, along with one of his ortho bands. Michael followed him into the bathroom, and back out again to the chair, watching as Wilford combed out the doll’s hair as best he could, so he could fix her hair back up into the messiest braid ever.

“There,” he said, handing the doll back once her hair was fixed and tied up with the band. “Now be nice.”

Michael took the doll and trotted back off to his pile of mess in the middle of the floor.

Monday morning came, and Wilford still didn’t feel any better. Michael had managed to go the night without wetting the bed, so he skipped the part of the morning that involved getting the kid dressed for the day. Andy had two working hands and could do a better job at it. On his way out the door, he reminded Andy about the week’s arrangement, and left to face his doom.

Wilford had thought about running the restaurant as he always did, not showing up until the dinner rush. But that seemed dangerous. That was a lot of open time to go without some form of oversight against whatever these fuckers were pulling, so he put Mandy back on the helm and went straight to Del Perro. By the time he got there, the crew were already out in the parking lot setting up. Wilford walked right past them and through the door to make sure everything was good. Devon had taken down all the trees and angels, but the garlands and little white lights he left up looked good. Tasteful in a way that didn’t declare any affiliation. There were more breakfast diners than usual, but a sign out front warning people that a television crew would be filming seemed to act as more of a draw than a deterrent. As Wilford ducked into the kitchen to make sure everything was neat and tidy and running properly, he caught the first camera operator come through the front door, already filming their establishing shots. Already dreading the day, Wilford poured himself a glass of water and downed a few percocets so he could have a chance at getting through the day.

It didn’t take long for things to heat up. Damien Welsh showed up right on time, immediately snooping through the restaurant as if he were curious, and not looking for cobwebs or mould. Wilford went out to greet him, putting on his friendly TV face. He hated the man already, with his 90s frosted hair and black suit. Wilford had never watched any of the man’s shows in his life, but he didn’t look like the sort of person who spent any real amount of time in a kitchen. Wilford showed him around, answered his questions, and eventually led him to a table and gave him a menu. Welsh was going to be here to stir up shit and mock Wilford for not being able to handle it. If that was his goal, he wasn’t going to get a minute of airable footage. He left Welsh out there to do whatever it was he was going to do, and hid out in the kitchen so the servers could relay info to him. Another camera operator had followed him back, but he didn’t care. This pretentious fucker wasn’t going to win.

“He wants one of everything,” Ashley said, throwing her hands into the air as she came back to the kitchen. “One of fucking everything.”

It wasn’t a big menu, but it was still an outrageous order. Wilford checked his watch and shook his head. “You know how to cook?” he asked.

“A little?” Ashley said.

He nodded. “Good, you can help. Tina’s on the floor too, right?”

“Yeah.”

Wilford guided Ashely over to the line and got everything set up as well as he could without straining his shoulder. She could prep items without having to worry about burning anything, or undercooking it. “Sharp knife,” he said, showing her how to use the steel. He grabbed a carrot from the fridge, and showed her all she’d need to do. “Chop, matchsticks, dice, mince,” he said, showing her each in turn. “You don’t have to be perfect, but try to be quick.”

“Okay,” she said, taking the knife.

“Tina can take it all out as it’s done. But we have to be quick.”

With Wilford on one of the stoves and Ashely helping to prep, they got dishes out to Welsh quickly, but apparently it still wasn’t quick enough.

“He wants to know why you’re so understaffed that his server is helping cook?” Tina asked as she came back in for the next tray.

“Tell him most people don’t order thirty fucking items at nine in the morning,” Wilford said. “He sending anything back?”

“I think he’s about to, unless he has four stomachs,” Tina said, disappearing out to the dining room again.

Things only sped up from there, and it didn’t take long before word got out that Damien Welsh was filming there. Soon, the entire place was packed, inside, on the patio, and even out on the beach.

“We’re out of blankets,” Kim said, rushing over to Wilford where he watched from behind the bar. “We’ve never run out of blankets before. What do we do?”

Wilford looked at the crowd outside the door. That was a problem indeed. Not just because it’s all the camera crew were focused on. The registers had a basic spreadsheet app installed, so Wilford pulled that up and made himself a time table on it. He started it twenty minutes out, and expanded it in five minute increments. “How many?” he asked the first group in line.

“Four,” one of the guys said.

“Name and phone number?” he asked. After the man gave that information, Wilford asked for a seating preference. He entered everything into the table and nodded. “Someone will call you when your seat is ready, in about twenty minutes. If you’re not here within five minutes, it’ll go to the next person.”

He sent them on their way, taking the next few groups and doing the same, making three columns of reservations. Once he had the system in place, he handed it back over to Kim. “Highlight the ones you seat, give people with no preference the first available spot,” he said. “Be hard on people who can’t get here quickly.”

She nodded and took over the register again, only managing to clear out the crowd when wait times started to be quoted in hours and people turned around to go somewhere else.

Wilford barely had time to step away from the front when he noticed one of the other servers disappear into his office. He couldn’t see who she was, but it wasn’t going to mean anything good. He followed her back there, closing the door on the camera operator who tried to follow him in. It was Tina, with her face buried in her hands and trying not to cry.

“This asshole has sent back four plates after eating just about everything, and now he’s refusing to pay,” she said.

This was the kind of tom-fuckery Wilford had been expecting. “What table?” he asked.

“Twelve.”

Wilford nodded, and left Tina to get herself back together. Table twelve was a group of six, and right away Wilford could see who the trouble maker was. The way he sat, looking around the restaurant like he was owed something singled him out as the sort of person who either did this regularly, or had no problem being paid to do it now. Wilford’s money was on the latter.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, stepping right up to the man.

The man started to say something, but apparently had not been told who owned the restaurant. “Your little girl there thinks she can get me to pay for this crap,” he said.

“Yes, that is how it works,” Wilford said.

“But I sent it back,” the guy said. “I’m not paying for something I sent back.”

“You ate it,” Wilford said.

“Because it was in front of me. That doesn’t mean I liked it.”

Wilford shook his head. “Even my three year old knows that he doesn’t have to eat something he doesn’t like. In fact, he’s a fuck of a lot better than you are at it. If you’ve got the balls to make a girl cry, then you’ve got the balls to say you don’t like something.”

Wilford picked up the cheque and looked at it. “Or did you just suddenly realise that you don’t have a hundred and fifty bucks on you?” He looked around the table as everyone slowly started to pretend they weren’t in his party. “I guess they didn’t want to split it evenly like you thought they would?”

He handed the ticket back. “Pay it, and get the fuck out,” he said. He left the table so they could argue over the split amongst themselves.

He hated this whole thing. The thought that they’d be coming back tomorrow, and again on Wednesday, and through the week almost sent him into a rage. The restaurant was supposed to be a hobby, and these assholes had turned it into a circus. He was glad when they were finally able to shut everything down, but even then the cameras didn’t leave. Apparently they wanted to stay for the clean up. Exhausted and in more pain than he could handle, Wilford sat down at one of the tables to check all the messages he’d missed over the day. Ashley followed him over, offering him a glass of water before she started rubbing his shoulder.

“Ow,” he said, not quite wanting her to stop.

“I was almost surprised you came in today. You look like you’re done,” she said.

Wilford took another percocet. “If it weren’t for all this shit, I wouldn’t have,” he said. He flipped through his texts, Andy letting him know that Michael had been handed off to Billy, Billy letting him know that they’d got home fine. A few pictures and videos from Sharon of Michael and Tim playing together.

“He sure is a cutie,” Ashley said, watching the videos from over Wilford’s shoulders. “He starting to talk yet?”

“A little bit,” Wilford said. “Words here and there.” He noticed one of the camera operators getting close, and covered his phone. “Fuck off,” he said.

The camera operator stalled for a moment before finding something else to film.

“Think they got anything worth using?” Ashley asked.

Wilford half shrugged with his good shoulder, and looked over at where Welsh and Daniel-David were having a very quiet argument. “I don’t think so.”

Sure enough, Daniel-David made his way over a few moments later. “So, I know this isn’t the kind of show you’re used to,” he said. “We were kind of hoping for something a little more… typical of day to day operations.”

Wilford and Ashly both looked at him without a word.

“You know, without everyone being so on-guard and rushed about everything. We wanted to see how you’d normally handle things when the cameras weren’t here.”

“Rushed?” Wilford asked. “We have never in history had a four-hour waitlist. These kids were rushed because you brought half the fucking city out here. Now, I think you got more than enough for a half hour. Don’t you think?”

“It’s an hour,” Daniel-David said.

“Then you’ve got thirteen hours of bonus material for your website. You’re done.” He stared at Daniel-David until the man finally backed away, leaving Wilford and Ashley alone.

“Think they’ll come back tomorrow?” he asked, returning to his pile of messages.

“God, I hope not.”

Wilford hung around until everything was cleared up and the crew had gone, making sure the staff knew that he understood how much the day had sucked, and that everyone would be getting their bonuses for not playing along. By the time he got into the car he was exhausted, and he still had to head out to Mirror Park to pick up Michael. Before he could grab his phone to ask Billy to keep him overnight, someone called him instead. Wilford almost let it go to voicemail, but it was Daniel-David. Maybe giving him another stern talking to would make him feel better.

“You know, I think you’re right,” Daniel-David said almost at once. “We got everything we need. I don’t think we need to come back tomorrow.”

“Good,” Wilford said, hanging up before any more could be said. “Great.”

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Tess

2018-12-02T04:45:51Z

The door opens to Wilford's dressing room. The blue walls are decorated with framed vintage movie posters, opening up for a vanity that doesn't look like it's been used since Wilford moved into the building. Along the exterior brick wall is where Wilford's set up his office, with a few shelves and filing cabinets behind the massive desk. The other side of the room is more of a lounge, with a black leather sofa and matching chair, and a smudged up glass coffee table that shows evidence of small, sticky hands.

Wilford closes the door behind them, only to open it again to reveal the large closet where he keeps several other guns. He stores the rifle in with the rest, making sure the door is locked so the nosy little toddler can't find his way in.

Beyond the door leading to the hall, people are obviously coming and going. Someone's having a heated argument, but the soundproofing in the building is heavy enough that nothing specific can be made out.

Now that there's signal, Wilford pulls out his phone to check the traffic report. Wilford sighs. "Someone dropped a yacht on the beltway," he says.

His phone isn't buzzing with missed texts though, so he's hoping it happened after Andy got past that point.

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Money was always the best motivator

2018-11-26T15:49:14Z

“I feel like I don’t really know you. I don’t even know where we stand.”

Wilford was liking Craig less and less by the day. For one, he’d chosen to ambush Wilford at the studio to have this discussion.

“I told you. I got a lot of shit going on right now,” Wilford said as he stacked up the folders to return to Billy.

“Yeah, I know. Your son comes first. I get that,” Craig said. “But right now. He’s not even here and you still can’t look at me.”

Wilford looked at him. “Right now isn’t a good time for me,” he said.

“What time? Right now, this second? Right now this week? This year?” Craig looked at him, obviously fishing for an answer that Wilford couldn’t give to him.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’m probably not the guy you’re looking for.”

Craig threw his arms up and shook his head. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “I mean, I’d like to be with someone who I feel like trusts me. I don’t even get that from you.”

Wilford shrugged. “I don’t trust anybody. You’re not special.”

“I thought I was supposed to be special,” Craig said. “Aren’t I?”

Wilford didn’t know him well enough. He thought that was supposed to be the entire point behind dating someone. But he’d been backed into a corner, and there was nothing he could say that would be the right response. “Fine. What do you want from me?” he asked.

This was going the same way it always did when he tried this. He couldn’t bring himself to get close enough to anyone for them to want to stick around and put up with his bullshit. Sometimes he could bargain and drag it on for a little longer though.

“What’s the story with you and Mikey’s mom?” Craig asked. “I don’t need the whole story, but I’d like something.”

“That’s what this is all about?” Wilford asked. Christ, people sucked. “He’s not mine. He’s my grandson.”

“Funny,” Craig said.

Wilford wasn’t laughing. He shook his head and went back to work.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Craig asked. “Is it some sort of Jack Nicholson thing? How old’s your daughter?”

“Twenty-four,” Wilford said, not looking back up from his computer.

“Wait. What?” The more questions Craig asked, the less he seemed to like the story. “Then…”

“That’s all you get,” Wilford said.

Craig got up and started walking toward the door. “That’s all I ever get.” He left, and Wilford finally felt like he could breathe. That went… better than last time. But he was better off. He wasn’t good at dating, or dealing with other people. Everyone he could find who was willing to put up with him wanted compensation he could not give. And with Craig out of the way, he’d have more time to focus on Michael and his blog project. Maybe he could actually get the damn thing written without having to hide away where nobody could find him.

Not that Craig walking out on him meant that he’d get much in the way of peace and quiet. He’d barely left when Nichola let herself in.

“He seemed upset,” she said, closing the door behind her.

Wilford hummed.

“Sorry,” Nichola said. She sat down on the other side of the desk and picked up the folders. “How many of these are slated for Friday?”

“Three.” There was an email from Daniel-David, reminding him about filming next week. Apparently nobody had gotten him out of that, but that was fine. He had a plan, and would lay the groundwork for it that evening.

“How’s your other project going?” Nichola asked as she flipped through one of the case files.

“Good,” Wilford said. “I got the interview with that Pierce guy formatted, I think. He had a lot of really good things to say that I want to get into deeper at one point.”

“For the show, or for the blog?”

Wilford shook his head. “Don’t know. I’ve got some things in mind, but I’m not sure how it’s going to go.”

“Oh?” Nichola put the folders back on his desk. “Should I be worried?”

“I’m thinking about writing a book,” Wilford said. “That’s trendy right now. I think if the blog does well, I can take what I cover on it, and I don’t know. Expand on it somehow. I’ve got twenty years of case notes at home. Put together a few exclusive things for the book, use the rest of the space to update what I’ve already done.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” Nichola agreed. “Do you have a draft yet?”

Wilford reached down to the floor and picked up his laptop, handing it over. “Password’s still the same.”

“What time are you leaving today?” Nichola asked, already getting into the laptop.

“Soon as Andy drops the kid off. I have to go out to Del Perro.”

“Oh right. When’s that other thing filming?”

Wilford watched her scrunch up her face and attack the trackpad. It really was time to replace that thing. “Starts Monday,” he said. “I don’t know how long he plans on hanging around for, but I’m hoping to waste an entire week if I can. Throw him all off schedule.”

“You’re mean,” Nichola said. “You’re real mean.”

Wilford laughed to himself. “I’m not mean. I’m spiteful.”

“You’re both.”

Michael always fell asleep during the long drive out to Del Perro. Not that Wilford could blame him. It was a drive he wouldn’t mind sleeping through either.

Off-season didn’t seem to mean a whole lot along the boardwalk, and if not for his reserved space, Wilford wouldn’t have been able to park within a mile of the restaurant. He pulled into his space and before he could even shut off the engine, he realised he’d been ambushed. He wondered if it was possible to just will one’s self to death. He tried, but was still annoyingly alive when Craig made it over to his door. Rather than do this in the car where Michael would wake up, Wilford stepped outside and shut the door.

“Jesus Christ, what now?” he asked tiredly.

“What now? Really?” Craig asked.

“Didn’t we already do this today?” He wanted to just grab the kid and walk inside, but that would probably take the fight inside with him. He knew he’d got off too easy that morning.

“Are we even dating?” Craig demanded.

“I thought so,” Wilford said. “I also thought we already broke up, but maybe I’m wrong on both counts.”

“And that doesn’t upset you?” Craig was getting uncomfortably close again.

“Nope.” Wilford stepped aside, putting him in front of Michael’s door. He didn’t think Craig was going to do anything that stupid, but he wasn’t going to wait around to put that to the test.

“Just like that? You’re fine with it?”

Wilford shrugged. “Yeah.” There was a group of people standing on the ramp to the door, watching the scene play out in front of them. Great.

“Did I mean anything to you?” Craig was nearly shouting now, really giving the business suits the show they were after. Wilford knew he could shout back and scare him off, but it was a bad image for the restaurant.

“Not really,” he said. “You seemed like you might be fun, so I went along with it.”

“What fun? I got more action in middle school.”

“So did I,” Wilford said. He pointed a thumb at the car behind him. “Where do you think his mom came from?” If Craig wanted to know this story so badly, he could have it.

Craig had the audacity to look disgusted. “You know what, I don’t even want to know what’s wrong with you. I feel like I dodged a fucking bullet.”

“Probably,” Wilford agreed.

Craig shook his head and stomped off, hopefully to be gone for good. The suits were still standing on the ramp, watching everything. Disgusted with himself, Wilford turned and leaned against his car to just breathe for a while. He was never doing that again. He didn’t need anything from anyone else. He was perfectly fine being alone for the rest of his life. He just needed to learn that.

“Wilford?” a voice behind him said suddenly.

Whoever it was, Wilford didn’t want to deal with them. He shook his head and stood up, taking a moment to turn around to chase off whoever was bothering him now, but the words died on his tongue. He almost thought he was seeing things.

“Walt? What the hell are you doing here?” He realised that Walter was one of the suits standing on the ramp, though the others he was with had disappeared.

“A distributor brought me here for a meeting,” he said, pointing at the restaurant.

“What?” Wilford had no idea what Walter was talking about, which seemed about right. Not wanting to deal with any of this, he turned around and opened the back door.

“I know you live out here, but I didn’t think you’d be in this area,” Walter said. “Is this a popular meeting spot?”

“It’s mine,” Wilford said as he carefully unbuckled Michael from his seat, trying not to wake the kid up. If he was lucky, he could keep Michael asleep for another few hours.

“What?” Walter asked.

“I own it,” Wilford said. He swung the backpack around his shoulder before lifting Michael out of the chair. “I spent money from my bank account and bought the business.”

He turned around and closed the door, eager to get inside to his business so he could keep it from getting sabotaged by some dickless producer.

Whatever Walter was going to say seemed to be forgotten immediately. “Whose child is that?” he asked after a moment.

“Mine,” Wilford said.

Walter didn’t seem to know what to do with this information. “Yours? And your restaurant?”

“Yep. They’re both mine,” Wilford said. He started walking back toward the ramp, but Walter only followed him.

“You have a child?” he asked, leaning awkwardly to try to look at Michael’s face. “With who? Not that man you were fighting with?”

“No,” Wilford said. “Leave him alone. I don’t want him waking up.”

Walter stopped for just a moment, giving Wilford and even more confused look before rushing to catch up just in time for them to get to the door. The host shot them a confused look, but Wilford waved it off and continued back toward his office. “Employees only,” Wilford said, quickly stepping through the door and shutting it between them. Michael had managed to sleep through the whole ordeal, and mercifully stayed that way as Wilford got him settled on the little couch he’d managed to cram into the corner after he got rid of the shelves of paper records. He hoped his accountant was having a fun time with them. For a moment, Wilford wondered how long Walter would wait for him, but he suddenly changed his mind about trying to drive him off. Making sure that Michael was likely to stay asleep, Wilford opened the door again to find Walter still standing on the other side. Wilford nodded back toward the front door, leading Walter back out. He stopped briefly at the bar, flagging down Kate.

“I gotta step outside for a while. Keep an eye on the door,” he said, pointing toward his office.

Kate nodded and rushed back to work. Wilford led Walter back outside and around toward the patio. The wind was high enough that dining out on the beach didn’t seem too appealing to most of the diners, leaving it empty.

“What are you doing here, Walter?” Wilford asked, leaning against the rail.

“Business meeting,” he said. “I come into town for them during this time of year, since there’s not much to be done at home.”

“Why here?” Wilford asked. “Specifically. Also, where do you live?” Had he been nearby this entire time? Gross.

“I told you. He invited me here, in the name of pandering I’m sure,” Walter said, shrugging. “At least he got it right this time and didn’t take me out for Thai again.”

“Why are you in Los Santos?” Wilford demanded slowly. “You don’t fucking live out here, do you?”

“No, up in Flint County. Do you know what there is to do in Flint County in November?” He acted like he wasn’t walking all over Wilford’s things.

“I don’t care,” Wilford said. He wanted a cigarette worse than ever. He’d been kicking far too many habits lately, and felt like he might explode if he didn’t maintain at least this one. “But don’t ever come here again. Anywhere else in the city, fine. But not here. It’s mine.”

Walter nodded. “Of course.” Wilford remembered how easily Walter got scared around him, and tried to pull himself back a bit. He had questions for him that he probably wouldn’t answer if he started panicking.

“Is that really your son in there?” Walter asked suddenly.

“I’m working on making that happen,” Wilford said. “Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember when I was fourteen, and I knocked some girl up?”

Walter seemed to think for a moment. “I think so. Didn’t her dad try to hit you with a tire iron?”

“Shit, I’d forgotten about that.” He’d come over to shout and make noise, and the next thing anyone knew, Wilford’s dad was trying to pull the two of them apart. “I thought if Mom didn’t kill me, he would.”

“What about it?” Walter asked.

“Do you know anything else about that?” Wilford asked. “What happened after?”

“The girl got an abortion and they all moved away, didn’t they?” Walter looked at him, not seeming very certain about his answer.

Wilford shook his head. “That’s what I was told too, but it’s not what happened,” he said. “She had the kid. Just found out a few months ago.”

Walter looked at Wilford, and then back toward the building. “That’s your grandson?” he asked.

Wilford nodded. “Yep.”

“What happened?” Walter asked.

“She’s even more fucked up than I am,” he said, trying not to laugh. “Doing twenty-five to life in some federal pen somewhere.”

Wilford could see Walter trying not to say something.

“Which brings me to the other thing,” Wilford said. “See, to keep the kid safe, I’m taking full custody. I needed my birth certificate for that, and I uh. I noticed something weird about it.”

“Oh?” Walter asked.

“The fuck happened in 1982?” Wilford asked.

Walter spent a long moment thinking. “What do you mean?”

“Why was my name changed?” Wilford wanted to know what else he didn’t know about himself.

“Oh.” Walter counted something out silently on his fingers. “I started school that year. None of the day care people could say my name, so I asked if I wanted to be called something else. I guess they decided to change yours at the same time.”

Wilford let that sink in for a moment.

“You chose Walter? Any name on the planet, and you wanted to be called Walter?” Wilford demanded. “Fuck you!”

“I thought it was a nice name,” Walter said, shrugging.

If Walter liked sounding like an old man, that was fine. But Wilford hadn’t been given much choice in that matter.

“Did you fucking pick mine out too?” he asked.

Walter thought some more. “Maybe I suggested it?” he asked.

Wilford had not expected the answer to his question to be rooted in such deep stupidity. “I fucking hate you,” he said bluntly.

Walter only shrugged. “I was five. Who listens to a five-year-old like that?” He looked back toward the building, either too stupid to figure out that Wilford was properly angry, or too stubborn to leave. “Do Mom and Dad know about him?” he asked.

“Why the fuck would they know?” Wilford demands. “I didn’t even know if they were still alive.”

“Seriously?” Walter asked.

“Yes, seriously. I haven’t seen or heard from them since I was seventeen,” Wilford said. “I kind of thought you were dead too.”

“Not for a lack of trying on your part,” Walter pointed out.

“I could try again,” Wilford pointed out. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Walter said, shaking his head. Wilford hated him.

“No, they don’t know,” Wilford said, trying harder than he had ever tried to keep his cool. The last thing he needed to do was get himself into trouble.

“Are you going to tell them?” Walter asked.

“No, Walter,” Wilford said. “I’m not going to tell them anything, because they don’t need to know.” He shook his head and started to head back inside. “I got work to do. Get out of here before I call the cops on you for trespassing.”

He didn’t stick around to wait and see if Walter was going to leave. He just walked in, stopping to tell the first server he crossed paths with to start telling people there was a meeting after close. He let her go off to get on with his job and headed back to his office to make sure everything was running as it should. The books were balanced, Paul was on top of ordering, and the winter menu was performing as he’d hoped it would. When Michael woke up, Wilford ordered dinner for the both of them, distracting the kid with food and crayons so he could keep working. He wondered if the kid liked crayons because kids were supposed to like crayons, or if it was another little thing he’d started to copy from Wilford.

The two of them stayed back in the office all night, staying out of the way until he could hear the sounds of the place closing down. Wilford saved what he was working on and started shutting down as well so he could go meet with his staff. Hauling Michael out under one arm, Wilford stacked up their dishes and brought them out, handing them off to the first server he crossed paths with. Everyone started to halt whatever they were doing once they got to a stopping point, and one by one all filtered over to the table Wilford had picked out for the meeting.

“Quick one tonight, and then I’ll let you get back to what you were doing so you can get home,” he said. “We got a show filming in here, starting Monday. They’ll have releases with them, so if you don’t want to be on TV, don’t sign anything. I don’t care either way. What I do care about is what happens while they’re here. These guys are going to try to stir up shit for a good rating, but don’t let them. The more problems that those cameras see, the worse it’ll be for your paycheques when people stop coming in. They’ll lie to you, offer you money, or an audition somewhere. If you want an audition, I’ll get you one. You got it?”

He watched a few people nodding slowly.

“I’m serious. Anyone who goes along with the shit-stirring next week walks out the door and doesn’t come back. This is your asses on the line, here. Not mine.”

“What do we do if they try to set something up?” one of the servers asked.

“Ignore them. Tell them you’re busy. And you’re going to be. Shows filming places tend to draw a crowd. We’re going to be packed to summer levels here, and some of those folks will be paid shills here to make your day awful.” Wilford looked around the room, making sure he was understood. “If we can make it through next week without giving them anything to use against us, there’s a raise in it for everyone.”

Money was always the best motivator. Watching everyone nod again, Wilford knew he’d found the right amount of motivation.

“Great,” he said. “Finish up here and go home.”

He picked up Michael and took him back out to the car.

Even after spending all evening at the restaurant, Wilford still felt like he’d had more time to himself than he’d had all month. He was able to spread out his blog project and work on polishing it up to publish it, while Michael played with his Barbies and cars on the floor, babbling quietly to himself. Wilford wasn’t sure why he was doing it, but he suddenly felt compelled to grab his phone and get up.

“Michael, look at me,” he said. When Michael turned to look up at him, Wilford snapped a quick picture and sent it to one of the printers in his office. He walked in after it, stopping first to grab some letterhead and an envelope from the drawer. By then, the printer was done spitting out the photo. Wilford grabbed it from the printer and took everything back out to the sofa. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing when he picked up his pen.

Walt thinks you should know about him. His name’s Michael. Just turned three.

He couldn’t think of anything else worth including. They didn’t even deserve that much. He folded the paper, wrapping it around the 3x5 before sliding them both into the envelope. He had to find a hangul chart online and download a translation service to his browser, but it didn’t take long to find his folks’ address in Korea. He carefully copied it onto the envelope and sealed it up. He hadn’t tried to contact them since college. He dreaded to think what was going to happen this time.

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Answer your fucking phone the next time I call you

2018-11-25T01:08:22Z

Nichola’s condo was closer to the airport, and even at three in the morning, it would make all the difference with traffic. Wilford packed up a bag for himself, and one for the kid in case Nichola decided to watch him herself instead of dealing with the nanny. While she played with Michael and got him ready for bed, Wilford went through everything he’d grabbed, making sure he had every scrap of paper he’d need while he was back east. The birth certificate was still a thorn in his mind, and something he wanted to investigate in person, talking to another human being face to face.

There was only so much he could look at it before it drove him insane though. He put everything away neatly into the folder he’d brought, and stuck it into his laptop case.

“You sure you two don’t want the bed?” Nichola asked as she brought Michael out, freshly bathed.

Wilford nodded. “I gotta be up early. You want to keep him back there so he doesn’t wake up?”

Nichola nodded. “Okay.” She brought Michael over, both of them invading Wilford’s space at once with Michael latching all over him while Nichola kissed him on the side of the face. “Have a good trip. Get back safe,” she said.

Michael babbled to himself while Nichola took him back to the bedroom so Wilford could get a little sleep before he had to head out. He didn’t think he’d be able to catch a nap on the plane, so this was going to be the last chance he got until he was in DC. He made sure all of his stuff was put together once more before stretching out on the sofa to try to get comfortable.

Nichola didn’t know why she’d woken up, but something didn’t seem right. She thought she might have heard a noise that woke her up, but Wilford was out in the front room. He’d have heard it as well and taken care of it, and probably would not have been quiet about it. And since he was still snoring out in the front room, he clearly hadn’t got up to deal with anything.

She started to lie back down when she remembered that she’d brought Michael back to bed with her. And he wasn’t there now.

“Shit,” she hissed to herself, quickly getting out of bed and tripping over Pete. “Pete, get out of the damn way,” she said to him. He meowed loudly at her, ignoring her attempts at being quiet.

As soon as she made it out to the living room, she realised she’d panicked over nothing. Wilford was sprawled out on the sofa, with Michael having wedged his way under one of Wilford’s arms. She must have heard him get up and not realised it. She also realised she probably didn’t need to be as quiet as she thought, since Michael was able to sleep soundly through that racket. It was nice to see him finally able to get any amount of sleep, but apparently the surgeon hadn’t been able to fix his breathing enough to let him do it quietly.

For a moment, Nichola thought she should try to get Michael back to bed, but she decided against it pretty quickly. She’d just wind up waking both of them up, so she went back to bed to let them get as much sleep as they could before Wilford’s alarm went off.

Wilford woke up about thirty seconds before his alarm went off. With Michael having snuck out at some point, Wilford had to quickly fumble around with his phone to cancel the alarm, and then get off of the couch without waking the kid up. Nichola was still asleep, and probably wouldn’t appreciate the half-hour meltdown that seemed to happen every morning when he left the kid in the nanny’s care. Better to let it happen later, when Nichola wouldn’t be so sleep deprived. He quickly dressed and cleaned up in the bathroom before coming back out to move Michael off of the edge of the sofa and push the coffee table close so he didn’t roll off and hurt himself. It might have been better if he took Michael back to the bedroom, but he didn’t want to wake him up and risk being late to the airport.

It would be fine. Maybe if he woke up and Wilford wasn’t there, he’d do a little better.

Finding Tiffany wasn’t difficult. Just like snooping on Linda wasn’t difficult. Her social media profiles were all public, and she never stripped location data from any of her posts. He’d figured out her entire schedule in the time he’d had to wait to board the plane.

It hadn’t been his plan to ambush her at work, but it felt safer to do it that way, than showing up at her apartment. She lived with two other people, so it was no wonder she hadn’t been thrilled about the idea of taking on another mouth to feed. Even on his TV salary, Wilford had only just been able to afford to live in the area during his last few years there.

He waited until the lunch rush to go in. Tiffany was working the counter, but she didn’t have time to do more than glare at him while he ordered his meal. That was good. It meant she knew he was here, and wanting to talk to her. According to what he’d been able to dig up, she’d be getting off in about an hour. That gave him plenty of time to sit down and do a little more digging around before she came to shout at him some more. He wanted to find more on her parents, but they weren’t very social people as far as the internet was concerned. Her mom had a LifeInvader profile that hadn’t been posted to in three years. Dad had one that had never been posted to at all, aside from once when he seemed to have confused a wall post for Google. But that was fine. He’d be a little more direct about finding out about them later.

As soon as the hour ticked over, Wilford found himself being ambushed at his table.

“What are you doing here?” Tiffany demanded.

Wilford closed his laptop and looked up at her. “You weren’t answering my calls,” he said.

“So you flew all the way out here to bother me at work?” Tiffany demanded. She was trying to keep her voice down, but it wasn’t working. People were already looking over at them.

Wilford stood, gathering up his laptop and his trash. “Let’s not get you fired,” he said, nodding toward the door.

“Please,” Tiffany agreed.

Wilford threw his trash away as the two of them walked outside toward his car. The parking lot had emptied out a bit since he’d arrived, but not enough for Wilford to know which, if any, of the cars there might have belonged to her. He didn’t see the red SUV she’d been driving in LS, but that wasn’t exactly surprising, since he doubted she’d driven all the way out there with the kid.

“What’s so goddamn important that you’d come all the way out here to bother me?” Tiffany asked. “And where’s Michael?”

“At home,” Wilford said.

“Alone?”

“No.” God, why did everyone keep asking stupid questions. Wilford checked his watch. “He’s probably with the nanny right now. Which is why I’ve been trying to call you all month. The kid’s got no vax history, or any medical history at all, and I’m pretty sure you noticed that he doesn’t talk.”

“I told you, I gave you everything I could find.” Tiffany said. She started digging through her purse, flashing a bus pass.

Wilford nodded toward the car, unlocking it. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride,” he said.

“To where?” Tiffany asked.

“Wherever the fuck that bus pass was going to take you two hours to get to,” Wilford pointed out.

Tiffany stalled, grumbling to herself before she finally walked around the car to the passenger side. She threw herself into the seat and tossed her bag onto the floor. Wilford waited until the doors were both closed before he asked what he’d come to ask.

“Does she know who her father is?” he asked.

Tiffany didn’t answer right away. “I—no. We tried to pass her off as my sister, but she caught on pretty quick. But no. She doesn’t know anything specific.”

Wilford nodded. “She looks like me, then?” he asked.

Tiffany nodded. “Yeah. That cat was never going to stay in the bag for very long. When she was about eight, she asked if Mom had a secret boyfriend.”

It wasn’t funny, but Wilford was trying not to laugh all the same. He tried to cover it up by starting the car, but the way Tiffany was glaring at him said all it needed to say.

“We need to keep it that way,” he said as he pulled out of the spot. “So I need you to go talk to her.”

“Why me?” Tiffany asked.

Wilford sighed and looked at her. Both because the answer was obvious, and because he didn’t know which direction he should be turning out of the parking lot.

“Oh. Left,” she said quickly.

“If she finds out where that boy is, and who has him, it’s going to end badly for everyone,” Wilford said, turning onto the road. “If I go in there, that’s going to give her everything she needs to know. I need to know what was going on in that house, what that kid’s been exposed to, and what the full custody arrangement is. I can get the latter myself, but I can’t get the first two without fucking everything up down the line.”

“What happened to finding someone else to take him?” Tiffany asked.

“That’s not happening.”

Tiffany stared at him for a long moment. “Seriously? You’re not adopting him?”

“Thinking about it,” Wilford says.

She was silent for a long while after that.

“I can’t go talk to her,” she said eventually.

“No. I can’t go talk to her. You don’t want to. That kid is fucked up ten ways to Sunday, and I need to know what I’m dealing with.” As he stopped at a light, he pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “I’d also really like to know why I was never told about her in the first place.”

“Dad didn’t want you around,” Tiffany said. “You were a fourteen-year-old felon. Nobody wanted you around. Take a right up here.”

Wilford nodded. It didn’t take a genius to know that nobody wanted him around, even then. “My folks were well off. You could have squeezed them for cash. Why didn’t you?”

“Because then you’d find out. They were afraid you might do something to her. Or me, if you found out.”

“I was stupid, but not that stupid,” Wilford pointed out. “But that’s why they didn’t want the boy, isn’t it?”

Tiffany nodded. “She said she’d kill whoever’d taken him. She disappeared when she was seventeen. I don’t know what she was doing. I thought I’d finally be able to start getting back on track after that. Tried to get my GED, but I couldn’t afford to go to school and work full time to pay the bills. Then she showed back up one day, seven months pregnant, with Brian hanging off her like a leach. God knows what she was on. We tried to convince her to give Mikey up. We’d even got her to sign papers and everything. But then he was born, and when they tried to take him, she lost her mind. That poor couple thought they were getting a baby, but…”

Nothing about it sounded surprising in the least. Wilford had done the same thing enough times to know what was going through her mind. With enough practise, he’d been getting better at not flying into a rage when he felt like something had been taken from him, but it still wasn’t easy.

“So you know why I can’t go talk to her. And also why that kid’s name needs to be changed tomorrow,” Wilford said. “I’ve got a good lawyer. He’ll get the records sealed. But first I need to make goddamn sure that the whole thing will be legal, and she doesn’t have any rights to the kid.” He reached over to the glove box and pulled an envelope out of it.

“She needs to sign this,” he said, handing it to Tiffany. “The state may have taken rights, but this will make sure there’s no loophole for her to go through.”

Tiffany pulled the papers out to look at them. “You’re really serious about this.”

“I know what’s going through her head, and it’s nothing good.”

He could feel Tiffany looking at him. He could almost hear what she was thinking. “So what happened to you?” she asked finally. “How come you’re able to live in a nice house in the middle of Vinewood, and she’s in prison?”

Wilford glanced over at her. “Didn’t like being in jail. That was enough incentive to start trying to get my shit together.”

Tiffany sighed. “We bailed her out more times than I could count. Maybe we should have let her stay.”

Wilford wasn’t going to offer up any wisdom about what they should or shouldn’t have done ten years ago. That ship had already sailed, and there was little either of them could do about it without doing something monumentally stupid. He followed Tiffany’s directions back to her apartment, taking the rest of the ride in a heavy silence. He dropped her off in the parking lot of her building, making sure she had the envelope he’d given her.

“Make sure she signs that. I’ve got to swing by the county office, and I’ve got an appointment tomorrow for something else. I might not answer the phone, but let me know if anything comes up.”

Tiffany nodded. “You’re really going to adopt him and hide him away out there?” she asked, getting out of the car.

Wilford nodded. “I don’t see any other choice. Do you?”

She sighed again. “No. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

She closed the door, leaving him alone in the car. That was the hard part taken care of, at least.

Wilford was glad he’d made an appointment, because the walk-in line was not going to get cleared before the office closed. He walked up to the sign-in desk, and was immediately directed to the office he was supposed to go to. It wasn’t so much of an office as one of the cubicles in a sea of cubicles behind a door. The girl at the desk seemed like she’d been ready to leave four hours ago.

“Hi. How can I help you?” she asked, trying to sound peppy, when all she sounded was exhausted.

Wilford pulled his birth certificate out of his folder and handed it over. “I’m trying to figure out what this is all about. I feel like I’d remember if I’d got anything changed on this.”

She took the paper and looked over it. “Okay. Let’s take a look. You’ve never been married?”

Wilford shook his head.

She put the certificate down and started tapping out something on her keyboard. “Is this an original copy?”

“I think so. It’s the one I grabbed from my folks when I moved out,” Wilford said.

She looked over at the certificate again. “Are your parents immigrants?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Wilford said. He thought about correcting that to the past tense, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

The clerk smiled. “What’s your social?” she asked.

Wilford pulled the card out of his folder and handed it over. “You seen this before?” he asked.

She entered his number into her system and handed the card back. “A couple times. People like to give their children traditional names, and then change their minds later. Sometimes the kids are in on it. Sometimes it happens before they’re old enough to have an opinion.” She nodded and clicked around with her mouse a few times. “Yep, name change in 1982.”

“What?” Wilford asked. Why was this the first time he was hearing about it?

The clerk sent something to the printer, and handed him the still-warm sheet as soon as it hit the tray. There was some information on the sheet that didn’t make a lot of sense, but neither did the entire situation. Jung Won-Jae? What? If it happened before he was two, it made sense that he didn’t remember any of this happening, but he couldn’t figure out why nobody would have told him down the road. Why was he 38 years old and only just now learning this information?

“They could do this? Just change a kid’s name like that?” he asked. “For no reason?”

The clerk nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes parents don’t like the name, or their kid doesn’t like the name. Sometimes it causes problems in school.”

Wilford wouldn’t have been in school at the time, but Walter would have been. Which meant Walter was old enough to have known about this, and had kept that information to himself.

“Thanks,” Wilford said distantly, filing everything away into his folder as his phone rang. He grabbed his phone, intending to mute it until he saw that Nichola was trying to Facetime him.

“Yeah, what?” he asked, trying to juggle the phone and fish out his wallet at the same time. On the other end, Michael was screaming bloody murder.

“I think he’s figured out you’re not coming home,” Nichola said, sounding exhausted. She was still at home. She hadn’t even gone into the studio.

Wilford sighed. “Give him the phone,” he said, handing over his credit card so he could pay for the documents. “Sorry about this.”

The clerk smiled again as she took the card to run to run it. As soon as Michael had the phone and could see the screen, he started to calm down a little bit.

“Hey, what’s all this noise?” Wilford said. “Why’re you being such a pain in the ass?”

Michael still didn’t seem like he was going to stop crying any time soon. “Da da da.”

“Oh my god!” Nichola said in the background. “That’s right! That’s daddy!”

Wilford could see the clerk trying not to laugh. Wilford wanted to crawl into a hole. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to sign up to do this for the rest of his life. “Take him back to my place,” he said. “I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”

“Where are you?” Nichola asked, taking the phone back.

“Nowhere. Let him play with the dogs for a little bit. That should distract him.”

“Okay. Sorry about this.”

She hung up, taking the noise with her. Wilford took a moment to just breathe before he looked back at the clerk. “Thanks,” he said, taking his credit card back. “There’s nothing I need to do about this, right?” he asked.

The clerk shook her head. “Nope. I hope everything works out for you.”

Wilford groaned and got up. Nothing was working out, and didn’t seem like it was going to any time soon.

Tiffany was already waiting in the hotel lobby when Wilford got back from his interview. Somehow, he was surprised that she’d actually shown up at all. He was expecting to have to chase her down again.

“It wasn’t easy,” she said, handing him the envelope.

Wilford sat down in one of the chairs and opened the envelope to check the papers. Everything was signed and witnessed just like it was supposed to be. He nodded and put them back where they’d be safe.

“Good,” he said. “I think that’s everything. I’ll go home and start the process.”

“Just like that?” she asked.

Wilford nodded and pulled his chequebook out of his inventory. “Just like that,” he said, starting to write one out. He paused halfway through to check his figures. He finished writing out the cheque and handed it over, along with one of his personal business cards.

“What’s this for?” Tiffany asked.

“Quit that dead end job. Get your GED. Go to school. Send the bills there,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I don’t like having people pissed off at me when it’s something I can fix,” Wilford said. “Short of doing it all over again, this is the best I can do.”

She stared at the cheque for a long time. “Would you?” she asked. “Go back and do it all over again?”

There were several ways Wilford could answer that question. “Remember what I said about trying to stay out of jail?” he asked, getting up. He watched Tiffany for a moment longer. She was angry again, but she hid it quickly. She wanted him to go back.

“Nothing changed, did it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Tried three times. Didn’t go to one party, and you were there at another one, and hormones are a bitch.”

There was a question hanging in the air that Wilford wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. He felt like he’d remember doing something like that, but it was a long time ago.

“We were both drunk,” she said, obviously able to read what he was thinking. “Drunk, and stupid, and fourteen.”

Wilford nodded. That was an answer he could accept. “Answer your fucking phone the next time I call you,” he said, turning toward the elevator.

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Craig had made every wrong conclusion he could have possibly made

2018-11-25T01:07:08Z

Craig was sending him texts. Why was Craig sending him texts? Wilford had thought for certain that his panicked fleeing from the party was enough to put anyone off, but here was Craig, sending him texts.

Ignoring them was an option, but not a very smart one. Ignoring emails was one thing, but ignoring texts tended to lead to trouble for some reason. Goddamn social rules Wilford didn’t understand.

Are you free tonight?

There’s a new club in Vinewood.

My treat.

Wilford looked at the string of texts. What was he supposed to do with that? This was clearly an invitation to a date. Wilford hadn’t gone on a proper date in almost five years. It was easier to just pay someone to pretend. It was also getting more creepy and predatory with each passing year. And it was just one date? What could it hurt?

He could ask what time. And then use that as an excuse to decline.

He wasn’t sure why he’d brought Craig home. He didn’t want Craig in his house. Now he knew where Wilford lived. Worse, Craig saw that where Wilford lived was a complete war zone. Andy was keeping Michael downstairs, so as soon as they walked through the garage door, Wilford was ambushed by Michael and one of his dinosaurs. Before Michael could scare Craig off, Wilford picked him up.

“Any problems?” he asked, focusing on not letting Michael use the dinosaur to bash him in the face.

“Just that first half hour or so,” Andy said, getting up from where he was playing some colour game with Michael. “I think he’s starting to understand that you come back.”

Wilford nodded and took the dinosaur away, tossing it into the box with the rest of them. “He’s doing okay after that?” he asked.

Andy nodded. “Yeah, he’s doing great. He’s starting to pick up on shapes and colours. I think he’ll start catching up pretty soon.”

“So this is Michael?” Craig asked. “What’s the story with you and his mom?”

Wilford shook his head. “I’ll tell you later.”

He saw Andy off and took Michael upstairs, where the real disaster was. They’d already torn out the back wall, and would be getting to the stairs any day. Wilford couldn’t wait to get those replaced. It was what he was looking forward to most with this stupid project.

“All right, pipsqueak. Ready to help me make dinner?” Wilford asked, parking Michael on the counter.

He started making that noise again, which Wilford continued to take for a positive thing.

Between taking Michael everywhere for appointments, and Craig taking him everywhere else to try to get into his pants, Wilford barely had two minutes to himself anymore. He needed to set some better ground rules with Craig. He didn’t mind him coming over. In fact, he kind of liked having him around. But he was turning into the sort of guy who fell head-first into a relationship, rather than giving it time to breathe. There were a lot of things Wilford hadn’t realised he’d missed. He missed just hanging out with someone all night, sharing space. He missed being able to spend money on someone. He missed having someone to bitch at when his day didn’t go the way it was supposed to. But good god, the guy needed to back off a little bit. He was supposed to be coming over that evening. Wilford would lay everything out on the table then.

Until then, he had another problem. Michael’s doctors kept asking for information Wilford either didn’t have, or didn’t have the power to obtain. There was an easy way around that, but it was rather… permanent. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he’d already hired someone to knock out a wall to make room for the kid, so things had already become permanent.

He’d need his own documents to go forward, no doubt. He wasn’t sure what he’d need, but he decided to grab everything he had and go from there. Most of the important stuff was in the same folder it had been in when he’d grabbed it from his dad’s office as a kid. He pulled everything out of the folder to make sure he knew what he had, and stopped at his birth certificate. Wilford wasn’t sure when the last time he’d even looked at it was, but there was something wrong with it. Or at least, not right.

What in the hell was an ‘amended’ birth certificate? He stood in his office, staring at it for far too long before he thought to pull out his phone and look it up. According to Google, it meant he’d been adopted, but that definitely wasn’t right. He knew he wasn’t. It would have been used against him for that to have been true, either by his mother or by Walter.

He looked back at the paper again, and stuffed it back into its folder. It was one more thing to add to the list of shit he had to do when he went back to DC.

By the time Craig showed up, Wilford had completely forgotten about wanting to tell him to back off. He didn’t want Craig to back off suddenly. Noticing that on his birth certificate had thrown him into a strange mood that he didn’t know what to do with, and Craig provided a good distraction for that. Once he put the kid to bed, Wilford even let Craig get a little too close. He even thought he might be able to get into it, and then Craig tried to unbutton his jeans and Wilford was on his feet before he realised what he was doing.

“What?” Craig asked, sounding hurt.

“I—I can’t,” Wilford said, walking to the kitchen. “Not now.”

“He’s in the other room,” Craig said. “We can be quiet.”

Wilford shook his head and opened the fridge for a beer. “Not tonight,” he said.

He lingered in the kitchen a little too long before he got his nerve back to return to the sofa, but by then something had changed. Craig was keeping his distance a little too far, but Wilford could not bring himself to bridge the gap. Instead, he handed a beer over and tried not to scream at himself. Eventually Craig went home on an awkward note, promising to call later. Somehow Wilford wasn’t sure that he would.

It was three days before he heard from Craig again. He felt like he should say something, but Craig blundered right through an apology before Wilford could even come up with a plausible lie. Craig had made every wrong conclusion he could have possibly made, but Wilford let him keep them. It was easier than telling the truth, and if it got him to back off a bit, it was worth it. Maybe when he got back from DC, he’d be able to put some energy into making himself not be such a useless wreck of a human being.

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He really, desperately needed to get this shit under control

2018-11-21T06:38:49Z

The invitation came on Monday. Handwritten, with gold embellishments on the envelope. Wilford didn’t even have to open it to know what it was. A weekend away from everything seemed like exactly the sort of thing he needed. He’d just have to make sure Andy was available.

“What’s that?” Nichola asked from the sofa, where she was trying to juggle a glass of wine, a stack of notes, and Michael.

“Poker night,” Wilford said, tossing the envelope onto the table with the rest of it.

“That’d be good for you,” Nichola said. “When was the last time you had got some time to yourself?”

Wilford shook his head and tossed the rest of the mail into the pile. “When I got arrested,” he realised.

“Oh. Yeah. That doesn’t count,” Nichola said. She twisted away from Michael, holding her glass high out of his reach before he could spill it. “What?” she asked him.

“Ba ba ba ba!”

“I don’t know what that means,” she said.

Michael kept making his noise and trying to get to her wine, so she got up to take it out to the kitchen. Michael chased after her, nearly tripping her when he latched onto her legs.

“Oh!” She got the wine onto the counter and well out of harm’s way, sloshing some onto the counter. “How old is he? Exactly?”

“Uh.” Wilford didn’t know. He knew he’d seen the kid’s birthday in all the paperwork Tiffany had given him, and it stuck out in his mind as being close. It was probably important information to know, so he headed into the office to grab the envelope. He found Michael’s birth certificate, and checked the date against his watch. “Today. Apparently.”

“Do you think he’s ever had a birthday party?” Nichola picked up Michael to give him the attention he was clearly demanding.

Wilford started going through all the papers and notes the kid had come with, in case there was anything else important he’d missed during his tantrum. “Does he need one?” It had been a long time since Wilford had been three, and he didn’t remember much about it. Whether he’d had a birthday party or not wasn’t something he could even hope to answer.

“Well, maybe not a party. You don’t have to invite everyone over, but it would be good for both of you, I think,” Nichola said. She tried to stop Michael from trying to steal her glasses, but nothing she did seemed to work.

“Stop,” Wilford warned, taking him from her. Michael tried to take Wilford’s glasses, but changed his mind with Wilford glaring at him.

“He’s probably never even had cake before,” Nichola pointed out. “Come on, we can take him to that place in Vespucci to get him something, and then swing by somewhere for dinner.”

“What place?” Wilford asked. He pointed out toward their mess in the living room. “Besides, we’re working.”

“It’ll keep,” Nichola said. “Lock the dogs out. It’ll be fine. There’s this toy store that Bill and Sharon took Tim to for his birthday. They said he had a blast.”

Wilford started to argue, but sighed instead. He carried Michael around to lock up doors to keep the dogs away from the mess while they were gone. He didn’t want to go shopping, or go out for dinner, or do anything at all other than get his blog project figured out.

“You’re paying,” he said.

“Nope. Dad has to get the biggest gift. It’s a law,” Nichola said. She finished her wine quickly and walked over to put her shoes on.

“Whose rule?”

“Dad law. Ask Bill.” Nichola smiled sweetly at him as she opened the front door.

Wilford was going to poison her drink for this.

The toy store was a nightmare. Aisles and Aisles of things that light up, made noise, and broke things when thrown. Wilford pulled out his phone to remind himself to call about getting the windows in the living room replace while Michael tried to drag an enormous stuffed horse off the shelf. Eventually, Michael gave up with the horse and started wandering off again. He found a massive dollhouse that was taller than he was, and immediately started pulling pieces out of it and trying to fit inside.

“Don’t break it,” he said, trying to keep Michael from trying to cram himself into one of the tiny rooms. Michael wasn’t going to be easily convinced, and eventually Wilford left him alone to look at what was on the other side of the aisle. Crayons and colouring books lined the shelves. Wilford grabbed a big stack of the books, a couple books of blank paper, and the biggest box of crayons they had. Along the end of the row, there was a conspicuous display of Magic Erasers that were probably there for a reason. Wilford threw a couple boxes of those into the cart as well.

Michael had given up trying to fit into the dollhouse, and had found some Barbie dolls to put into it instead. Wilford watched silently as he arranged the dolls in the house — one bent over with her head in the toilet and one on the floor next to the bed while he used a third as a tool for thrashing the furniture around. Any other kid, Wilford would have chalked it up to kids being creepy as fuck, but somehow he felt like there was more to it than this.

“You found a house!” Nichola said as she walked around the corner into an aisle. “You know what houses need? Pets.” She handed him a bright orange plastic dinosaur she’d found somewhere. Michael shoved it into the closet, so maybe part of it was just down to kids being creepy as fuck.

After twenty minutes of standing in the aisle, watching Nichola and Michael play with the dollhouse, Wilford knew what they were going to be dragging home. How, he wasn’t sure. The house didn’t appear to come apart, and there was no way in hell it was fitting into his car. He looked around helplessly, spotting a kid in a yellow vest tidying up the other end of the aisle.

“Do you guys deliver?” he asked.

The kid looked over, seeming momentarily confused about the situation until he spotted Michael and Nichola. “Uh. Yeah. It should have a bar code on it somewhere. Take a picture on your phone, and they’ll scan it at the register.”

Wilford nodded and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He found the sticker on the back of the house and snapped a picture.

“All right, you two. Let’s get out of here,” he said, tossing his phone into the basket with the colouring books so he didn’t forget to scan it.

It took some coaxing, but they got Michael back to his feet. He grabbed all of the Barbies he’d found, as well as the dinosaur before he started following Wilford.

“Barbies too?” Wilford asked. “When’d you get so greedy?”

He didn’t miss the bemused look Nichola shot him as she picked Michael up to carry him. He just kept walking toward the register, ready to be done with the building full of screaming kids. Wilford had the clerk scan everything in his basket, and set up delivery for the stupidly large doll house. Somehow, he’d spent over $300 on one toy and a few crayons. That sure as hell wasn’t going to become normal.

Nichola was getting Michael the dolls and the dinosaur, which was predictably when the trouble started. As soon as she tried to take them from Michael, he only held on tighter and started crying.

“We have to pay for them,” She said.

The clerk was already on top of it. She grabbed something from underneath the register, made a strange noise with a machine Wilford couldn’t see, and suddenly produced a bright red balloon.

“Your dolls have to go take a bath and get cleaned up before they can go home with you,” she said. “Here, why don’t we trade?”

Michael still whined as he hesitantly reached out for the balloon. Once he took it, Wilford was able to get the dolls from him and put them on the counter. The clerk quickly scanned them all, and stopped when the register beeped strangely after she scanned the dinosaur

“Just him, or the set?” she asked.

“There’s a set?” Nichola asked.

“Two, it looks like. Thirty and fifty,” the clerk said.

“Oh, the fifty. For sure.”

Wilford had opinions about dragging home fifty plastic dinosaurs, but Nichola wouldn’t have listened to them so he kept it to himself, and felt a little bit better when she wound up spending $200 on dinosaurs and Barbies.

Nichola ran her card, and was handed a numbered flag with her receipt.

“If you could wait just over there, someone will be out with everything soon,” the clerk said, pointing to a lounge area near the door. They took Michael over to one of the sofas, distracting him further with one of the colouring books and a few crayons. By the time one of the yellow-vested employees walked over carrying a plastic crate, Michael had apparently completely forgotten all about the dolls being taken away. While Nichola compared what was in the crate with what was on her receipt, Wilford got the crayons all packed up and ready to go. He shoved the box of crayons into his inventory to keep them from melting in the car, and shoved the books back into the bag.

“Looks good. Thanks,” Nichola said once everything had been transferred from the crate to bags. That was Wilford’s cue to get the hell out of there. While he got situated in the car, Nichola got everything into the trunk. She opened up the frankly enormous case of dinosaurs, and dug out the orange one Michael had been playing with earlier.

“Look what we got!” she said, handing it off to him before the door was closed.

The first thing Wilford saw when he got behind the wheel was that balloon in his rear view mirror. Fantastic.

They didn’t get home until almost 9pm, with more shit than Wilford knew what to do with. He took their to-go boxes up first, leaving the rainbow cake out on the counter, and putting everything else into the fridge. Once he and Nichola got everything else up the stairs, Wilford took Michael back to the bedroom. He didn’t like having the kid sleep on his bed, but the couch was extremely occupied. He found the blankets he’d nailed up over the windows when he’d first moved in, and laid those over the bed as an added layer of protection for the stupidly expensive mattress that was in no way suitable for a kid who still wet the bed.

Once he was certain Michael was out for the night, Wilford headed back to the kitchen to grab a beer and the rest of the cake, handing the fork over to Nichola so they both had something to munch on while they worked on their project.

Getting out of the house felt better than it had any right to. The drive out to the canyon was a long one, and spent in glorious silence. About halfway there, Wilford turned on the radio and lit a cigarette. For the first time in a long time, he felt like himself. Two weeks into the month — two weeks after that disastrous Jackson Levy appearance — and Wilford was finally starting to feel like maybe he could forget it ever happened. Her people had been just as eager to keep it out of the papers as he was, and remarkably nobody was talking about it. Not even the 400 wild cards in the audience seemed to be taking any effort to get it out there. That was the biggest relief of all of it.

He was a little early arriving, but he wanted to talk to Celine again if she hadn’t already managed to storm off. He got through the front door, handing Benjamin his invitation just in time to see Celine rushing toward the garage.

“I really have to go,” she said quietly, looking over Wilford’s shoulder toward the stairs.

Wilford started to take the ring off she’d given him, but Celine stopped him, holding his hands still.

“No, keep it. I feel like you still need it,” she said.

“All right,” he said, not really fond of the ring. But if she thought he should still be wearing it, he wasn’t going to argue. “Call me when you’re done hiding. I do want another reading,” he said.

Celine nodded. “Okay. But I am out of here.”

Wilford stepped back, giving her room to make her escape before the rest of the madhouse arrived. He turned around as the front door opened again, and Abe sauntered inside while completely ignoring Benjamin. Someone else Wilford was eager to talk to. The night was already going wonderfully.

The night went a little less wonderfully as soon as dinner was over and chips were bought. Damien had clearly bought a book on counting cards, and was painfully trying to use it to get a leg up on the rest of the table. A little less eager to get into an all-out brawl, Wilford grabbed all of his chips and stuffed them into his inventory while he fled to a quieter part of the house. He found himself in the theatre, and decided that seemed like a good place to be for a while. There was an iPad somewhere in there that controlled the projector, and finding it had suddenly become his top priority. Once he had it, he found a good spot in the middle of the room to see what Mark had in his library. Celine had mentioned the Joey Drew movies before, but Wilford was a bit overwhelmed from kids’ programming as it was, and wanted something with a little more meat to it. What he found were old monster movies. He landed on one about a werewolf and let it play while he lit up a joint.

Not too long into the movie, right as the kids were being attacked by the werewolf out on the moors, the door opened and someone slipped inside. It wasn’t until he got close that Wilford recognised Craig. As soon as he saw the movie, Craig quickened his pace to walk over and sit next to Wilford.

“Do you think Landis did any research for this one?” he asked.

Wilford passed him the joint. “I think this is the movie that made me think England was thirty years behind us.”

Craig laughed. “It is a little Masterpiece Theatre, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t enough to convince Wilford to change it though.

“So what type was Bigby?” Craig asked. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Two,” Wilford said. He wasn’t the man’s doctor, so what did he care about confidentiality? “About half the size of a truck, too. I don’t know where they get the energy.”

“I had a roommate in college who was a Type One,” Craig said. “He was a pretty cool guy. He warned me when I moved in, but I thought that meant he’d go to the clinic or something.”

Wilford laughed. “I guess if you’ve got to have it, Type One’s the one you want. I met a Type Three once that could change at will. That was a trip.”

“Jesus, I thought that was a myth,” Craig said.

He passed the joint back, trying not to cough.

“So did I,” Wilford said. He re-lit it to get it going again. “But I’m not the one who’s supposed to be an expert.”

Craig laughed. “I don’t specialise any more than you do.”

“Isn’t that what your website said? Paranormal Expert?” Wilford asked. He took another hit and passed it back.

“No, it says Expert Investigator. I’m an expert at investigating.”

“And I’m an expert at detecting bullshit,” Wilford said.

Craig laughed again. Conversation turned as they passed the joint back and forth. Eventually the movie ended, and they found another to watch. This time, Craig took the iPad and found a Godzilla movie. Kaiju were just about the one monster that genuinely made Wilford nervous, and he was glad as hell that they tended to stay far away from his continent. The movie was just as bad as the last one though, and didn’t seem to be written by anybody who knew anything about what they were writing about.

Wilford wasn’t sure when it had happened, but about halfway through the movie he noticed Craig had got awfully close to him. Wilford sat up a bit, but didn’t really want to move away. He needed to sort his shit out, and maybe that started here. Maybe he was reading the situation wrong. He’d been so keyed up all week, everything seemed like a threat. They were finishing off the second joint by that point, and Wilford was starting to feel heavy all over. Craig was probably ten minutes from falling asleep.

Then Craig shifted, leaning heavily against Wilford’s side. All the pot in the world wasn’t going to get him relaxed enough to ignore it. But there was a little part of him, buried deep, that was kind of into it. He didn’t miss it, necessarily, but he didn’t completely hate the idea. Mostly hated, sure. He clamped down on the urge to get up and run away, and moved his arm instead so Craig wasn’t crushing it between them. That was how he figured out that Craig wasn’t just dozing off. As soon as Wilford raised his arm to the back of the seat, Craig snuggled up even closer. Wilford tried to ignore the cloying closeness by distracting himself with another hit.

“What is that cologne?” Craig asked suddenly.

“Huh?” Wilford didn’t wear cologne. “Probably wax crayon,” he realised. For some reason, Michael’s new favourite game was stuffing them down the front of his shirt.

“That’s a new one.”

Craig fell asleep shortly after, but Wilford couldn’t make himself doze off if he tried. He’d thought he might catch a nap when it was just him, enjoying shitty movies by himself, but that security had dissolved, never to be seen again. Even after finishing the rest of the joint by himself, he was too keyed up to get any sleep. He switched over to another movie once Godzilla was over, barely able to focus on whatever train wreck he’d landed on this time. He tried to force himself to get a little sleep, but it worked about as well as forcing a Buick into his inventory. He managed to get through one more movie before he couldn’t stand it. His watch said it was starting to get to a reasonable hour in the morning, so Wilford shut down the projector and tried to escape from the mess he’d got himself into. He was hoping after the amount they’d smoked, escaping unnoticed would be easy, but Craig woke right away and looked at him.

“Shit, what time is it?” he asked.

“About seven,” Wilford said. “I, uh. I gotta get home to my kid.”

Craig nodded, seeming a little lost. Wilford briefly wondered if Craig even knew about the kid, but he didn’t wonder for long. Now was the time to make his escape, and he jumped on it.

By the time he got to his car, he nearly collapsed. He managed to get inside and close the door, but didn’t go anywhere for a long time. Unable to do anything else, Wilford leaned his head against the steering wheel, and just breathed. He felt like he hadn’t taken a single breath all night. AC. The AC needed to be on. Wilford turned on the engine and reached over to crank up the AC as high as it would go. The frigid blast seemed to clear his head a little bit, and help calm him down. After far too long, he was able to turn it down a little bit and put the car in reverse.

He really, desperately needed to get this shit under control.

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Come on, pal. Back to bed

2018-11-20T06:42:23Z

Wilford had already sent four candidates packing. He’d had no idea how hard it was to find good help, and he finally understood why people complained about it. One of the candidates had been sent packing before she even arrived. He wouldn’t meet at the house. That seemed like a recipe for trouble, and he knew he’d need whoever he picked to be able to get to the studio on a regular basis. If they couldn’t brave Vinewood traffic, they weren’t going to work.

Wilford was on the phone with a contractor when a knock at the door interrupted him. “Your three o’clock is here,” the desk girl said, stepping aside to let candidate number five in.

Wilford checked his watch. The guy was a bit early, so Wilford waved him over to the sofa so he could finish setting up his appointment to have the house looked at. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right, and that started with making the house a little more friendly for a tiny force of nature. With the appointment made, Wilford hung up his phone and looked up at the man on the sofa, realising he had no idea what was going on.

“Who are you?” he asked, wondering how he’d ever managed to get by on cat naps before. He’d become spoiled on proper sleep, and couldn’t seem to remember how to function without it.

“Andy. Whalen,” he said. “For the nanny position.”

“Right. Of course.” Wilford shook his head and called up Andy’s résumé in his email while waving him back over so he didn’t have to shout across the room. The guy didn’t seem overly nervous or starstruck, which was a good sign. He was still surprised at how many people in LS hadn’t got used to being around celebrities.

“Oh, you,” he said as he read over the document again. He’d listed Jackson Levy as a previous employer, and Jackson had confirmed it when Wilford had walked across the hall to check the reference. “Jack’s just next door. He had a lot of good things to say about you.”

“Oh, is he?” Andy asked. “I knew he’d moved.”

“I guess it was too bad for you that his wife got the kids,” Wilford said. “She didn’t want you to stay on?”

“She moved back to Lemoyne. It was a good job, but not that good,” Andy said.

Wilford laughed. He wasn’t even sure why it was funny, aside from maybe the sleep deprivation. “The guy’s my neighbour, and I didn’t even know that.” He and Jackson were right around the same rung on the Vinewood ladder; worth a month’s rent from some gossip rags. If he was there for the divorce and hadn’t broken is NDE yet, he probably wasn’t going to.

“What’d they pay you?” Wilford asked.

“Forty-five,” Andy said.

“You were let go six months ago?” Wilford asked, scrolling back through the document to make sure he’d got it right.

“Just about, yeah. I’ve done some temping since then, but haven’t found anything full time yet.”

“What’s full time?” Wilford asked.

“Weekends. Evenings and overnight if you need me. I have my own place in North Vinewood, and I’m not interested in moving.” That was a welcome boundary. With so much else going on, Wilford wasn’t interested in hiring someone who expected room and board. “I charge hourly outside of agreed hours, and mileage and insurance on my car if I’m driving him anywhere.”

It all sounded perfectly sensible to Wilford. He hadn’t come up with anything near like a schedule yet, but whatever he did, he’d probably need whoever he hired to drive the kid to appointments. “What made you go into this line of work?” he asked.

“I wanted to be a teacher, but I didn’t like the idea of being broke and holding a second job for the rest of my life,” Andy said.

“Yeah, can’t say I blame you there,” Wilford said. “What grade were you looking at?”

“Grade school, I think,” Andy said. “Most of the kids I’ve looked after have been around that age. Some younger, some older.”

Wilford nodded, still scrolling through the document. “And if I told you the kid doesn’t talk?”

Andy shook his head. “I’d need to get to know him a little bit. I did respite care for a family whose little girl fell in the pool.”

That got another glance from Wilford. The résumé didn’t have a whole lot of details, but he tried to find the relevant entry, if it had even been included. “What made you quit that one?” he asked.

“Insurance,” Andy said. “They kicked her off, or changed her plan or something.

Wilford was going to have to look into this guy a little further. “I’ve got a few other people to talk to. But keep your phone on.”

“Thank you.” Andy got up, reaching over the desk to shake Wilford’s hand. Wilford liked him, but wasn’t quite sold yet. Not until he heard what everyone else had to say.

Michael had passed out on the floor, sprawled out surrounded by a bunch of toy cars, leaving the house blissfully silent. It gave Wilford a welcome few hours to himself so he could get started on his new project. Rosa’s social media campaign for the show and the company included setting up a blog for Wilford, which would provide an additional revenue stream if he could ever figure out what to put on it. An opinion column was murder to a credible news outlet, and like hell was he going to put anything on there that involved him personally. He’d tried three times to write something scathing and damning about the LSPD and their profiling practises, but no matter how he framed it, the piece either included more details than he wanted to share with the public, or rehashed everything everyone in the country had already known since 1992.

But while moving around boxes in preparation for the contractor, Wilford had an idea. He had case notes from as far back as high school, on stories that remained unsolved, or didn’t quite feel right even after the verdict came in. He hauled one of the boxes out to the sofa and started digging through the files until he landed on something interesting. The Washington Twins. Two girls who disappeared from their parents’ lodge in 2008. A year later, to the day, the lodge exploded with a group of teens inside it, among them the girls’ older brother who was never seen again. It was a cold case from day one, and one Wilford had tried to cover off and on for a few years. Eventually the leads dried up and the cops threw the case into the back of a cabinet somewhere. Now, Wilford had every note he’d ever taken spread out over the coffee table and part of the sofa. He knew there was a monster — a wendigo — up there on the mountain. The kids had all rambled about the beast when they were questioned by police, but that avenue was never properly investigated. Wilford’s team had tried, got visas and everything, and spent a week in Alberta. They all got gutted and torn apart by their troubles, and couldn’t seem to get anywhere near the mountain without losing every person on the team.

Wilford knew what had happened on the mountain. He just didn’t have any proof, and nobody who worked the case seemed to want to acknowledge what had really happened. As he went through the notes, he started a brand new page, detailing what he needed to do to put the story together. He needed to find a psychologist to interview, first and foremost. He needed an expert on a phenomenon he knew enough about to explain in lay terms for an interesting lede, but didn’t understand enough to know quite what he was dealing with. He could read up on Wikipedia all he liked, but a quote straight from the horse’s mouth would go light years further.

It had been years since he’d done print work. Not since he realised in college that cable news was well and truly going to be the future. It wasn’t quite like learning something he’d forgotten, but he was definitely slower to remember some of the finer points. He could afford to go into detail and tangents. The only length requirement was what it would take to tell the story. No inches to deal with, or word count, or whatever the current web standard was (good god, was he really that old already?).

He’d completely forgotten about the kid, or the contractor while he buried himself in his project. When his phone rang that someone was at the gate, it woke Michael up so harshly that he started to cry. Wilford quickly buzzed the contractor in while he got up to get the kid up from the floor to try to quiet him down before they scared the poor man at the door.

He was dressed a little more sensibly for a guest appearance on late night TV when Jackson’s showrunner knocked on his door. He checked his watch to be sure he’d be back on his side of the building before Andy showed up with the kid. Timing looked good, so Wilford nodded and got up to take the walk to Jackson’s studio. He wired up the mic and made sure his moustache was straight while Jackson opened the next segment and introduced him. This was the sort of show that had a way of making any recurring guest seem cool to the kids that watched the show. Wilford didn’t think he’d ever get used to people cheering when he walked onto the stage. His own audience in his own damn studio didn’t respond to him the way these people did. There was an ugly puppet horse on Jackson’s show that got a better reaction than anything Wilford got from his own studio.

Wilford was apparently stepping in for the main event that night, going by the amount of time he had they were giving him to fill. He suspected word had got round to Jackson about hiring his old nanny, since he got a little bit of time to address rumours about the kid, which opened up talk about the blog he was starting. In his head, it had still sounded like a futile, pointless project, but the longer they talked about it, the more he thought he might have actually stumbled on a good idea.

After his segment, he had time before Andy showed up, and he wanted to try to have a word with Jackson after the show so he decided to stick around during the musical number. Some rail-thin little pop diva singing about her latest break-up. She was a big enough name to get her some couch time after her number, so during the break the musical chairs continued to make room for her next to Jackson’s desk. She’d barely walked across the set and sat down when Wilford glanced over to the actor next to him. He’d definitely smelled it too — the unmistakable, cloying stench of a bender from hell. It was enough to make Wilford regret his decision to stay. He could have caught Jackson after the kid had been dropped off, but he was too lazy to walk across the building for a second time.

The pop diva was laughing at whatever Jackson had said, rolling against the back of her chair. Suddenly, she rolled away from Jackson and leaned up close in Wilford’s space.

“Did you say you adopted a baby?” she asked, leaning far enough over that she planted her hand right on Wilford’s thigh. He tensed up, trying to lean as far away from her as possible. “That’s so sweet! Single dads are so hot.”

She shifted her hand, and there was no way on earth the 400 people in the audience didn’t just see him get felt up by someone almost half his age. He wanted to run screaming. He wanted to puke. He managed to avoid doing both of them as he pushed her off of him, and back into her own seat.

“I think your new boyfriend would have something to say about that,” he said, using the last remaining functioning brain cells to deflect the whole situation as far from him as possible. Luckily, Jackson threw to commercial, and not a moment after two stage hands quickly rushed out to escort the pop diva off the set and back to whatever whiskey bottle she’d crawled out of.

“I gotta go,” Wilford declared just as quickly, already trying to untangle himself from the mic’s wire. He waved a hand vaguely in Jackson’s direction as he made tracks toward the wings. He shoved the mic pack at the first person he passed and all but ran back to his dressing room. As soon as he was back inside, he closed the door and collapsed against it, using it to control himself as he fell to the floor. He needed to just be alone for a long time. He didn’t have his Xanax on him, because he was trying to ration it until he could find a new doctor. With one thing and another, it had fallen off his to-do list, and now he was on the floor, trying not to puke all over himself. The fact that he was there at all made the whole thing all the more humiliating. The whole goddamn studio saw him get felt up, and then saw him freak out about it. It was being fucking recorded for air that night. The entire goddamn country was going to see it.

Wilford had lost track of how long he’d spent on the floor. Someone knocking on the door behind him startled him back to attention. Right. The kid. Andy was dropping off the kid. Wilford got up to his feet and opened the door. But he didn’t find Andy. Instead, Nichola was standing outside, holding Michael on her hip.

“What’re you doing, runt?” Wilford asked, taking the kid from her. As he walked back to his desk to turn off his computer and fetch his phone, he caught a glance at the time. The kid was supposed to have been dropped off an hour and a half ago.

“I told Andy you were busy,” Nichola explained, as if reading his mind. “Do you—”

“No,” Wilford said, snatching up his keys and walking back around his desk. “We’re going out. Cancel my appointments tomorrow,” he said.

“Yep,” Nichola said tightly as Wilford left the room.

Wilford never watched the late night circuit, but he almost compulsively turned to CBN right around 1am. He watched his segment, and everything was fine. He was used to watching himself on TV, but this was a strange experience. Usually he was watching himself interview someone. He’d never seen himself be interviewed before. Any other time, he might have given himself notes, but that’s not where his head was.

The pop diva came on to sing her song, and Wilford started to tense up all over again. He didn’t know why he was even watching it. He knew what came next. But for some reason, he had to watch. He had to know how much the camera saw; how much the audience saw.

Another commercial break. It seemed to drag on for an eternity. And then the show finally came back on just long enough for Jackson to say good night and sign off. The entire segment had been cut. Gone, just like that. It should have been a relief. Maybe it was. Wilford didn’t know. Suddenly, he was on his feet and rushing toward the bathroom. He made it as far as the sink before he finally lost the battle with his stomach. Before he was even done puking, he wrenched the faucet on, hoping to drown out both the noise and the stench. Once he was done, he rested his head against the faucet and tried to just breathe through the numb void that always came after this part. He stayed there for a few minutes, before he felt like someone was watching him. Wilford slowly turned his head toward the door, seeing Michael hide behind the other side of the wall as he watched warily. Wilford sighed and rinsed his mouth out before he turned off the faucet.

“Come on, pal. Back to bed,” he said, picking Michael up and taking him out to the front room. Instead of parking him on the couch, took him to the recliner and let him curl up in his lap while he flipped through channels to try to find something less stressful to watch.

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Usually when people hire me about a kid, they’re trying to kidnap them from their ex

2018-11-15T05:46:23Z

If that Cisco kid knew what was good for him, he’d find a way to disappear, because Wilford was going to kill him if they crossed paths again. After three baths he didn’t want, and every last pair of pyjamas he had, Michael had finally started to seem like he was feeling better. Which meant Wilford could finally start thinking about other things. As soon as Michael was asleep, and seemed like he’d stay that way, Wilford called Abe.

“Any news?” Wilford asked as soon as Abe answered. The sigh on the other end didn’t sound promising.

“Wish I could tell you that, Colonel,” Abe said. Wilford really wished he could remember what he’d said at Mark’s party that got people calling him that. “I’ve got a couple more names I want to track down. There’s one out here I was going to go see in person. A, uh…” There was a pause while he fiddled with some papers. “Walter Jung… Young? You know him?”

“Jung?” Wilford asked. Who the hell was that? He knew a Walter, but not one with that last name. “You know what, fuck it. Come get your cheque.”

“You sure?” Abe asked.

Wilford looked over at Michael where he slept on the sofa with Buster. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be here all night.”

While he waited for Abe, Wilford had some other things to take care of. He grabbed his laptop from where he’d hidden it in his bedroom, away from the sticky fingers of small children, and took it out to the living room. If his brat had been as awful as everyone was implying, there’d be a paper trail. Possibly even a media trail. He grabbed the envelope Tiffany had given him to make sure he had the right names, and sat down to do some digging. It really did not take much time at all to find details of what she’d done. With the amount of times she’d shown up in the news, having done something apocalyptically stupid with other people, Wilford doubted this Brian character was even really Michael’s father. Michael got his name, but the dates weren’t adding up. Then again, criminal activity didn’t necessarily correlate to anything else.

That could have just as easily been Wilford’s name in the news and police reports. Would have, if he hadn’t got a kick up the ass at the right time. Apparently nobody had bothered to make the same effort with Linda, and now she was in prison for half a dozen dumbass, avoidable offenses.

That still could be Wilford if this shit with Kevin didn’t start going another direction. In another fifteen years, it could very easily be Michael. Jesus, when was the right time to even start worrying about something like that?

He was about to look up how he was supposed to go about digging up the kid’s legal documents when his phone rang that someone was at the gate. He only needed to glance at the screen before letting Abe in, taking the brief time before he got to the door to close his laptop down. He got up to open the door so Abe didn’t knock and wake the kid up. Of course his plan backfired, and as soon as he opened the door, Buster sat up sharply and woke the kid up. By the time Abe made it up the stairs, Wilford was busy trying to calm Michael down again.

“Oh, hey. This must be the kiddo,” Abe said as he let himself in. “He’s a cute little tyke. Doesn’t seem very happy though.”

Wilford rolled his eyes as he carried Michael into the kitchen. There were a few cans of Sprunk shoved in the back, so Wilford grabbed one of those. “He ate something he shouldn’t have,” he said, pouring a little bit of the soda into one of the indestructible cups Nichola had bought.

He was too distracted by getting Michael to drink it to notice the questioning look on Abe’s face. When he did notice it, it took him entirely too long to decipher what it meant.

“Pizza,” Wilford said. “We went out for lunch and he stole some off someone’s plate when I turned around for three seconds.”

Abe nodded. “Right. That makes more sense. I thought…” he didn’t say what he thought, but Wilford could guess.

Michael finally took a drink of his soda and started calming down. Whether it was because the carbonation was making him feel better, or because he just liked soda, Wilford didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care. He was quiet and that’s all that mattered.

“This is the first kid case I’ve taken in years,” Abe said, watching the whole scene. “Usually when people hire me about a kid, they’re trying to kidnap them from their ex.”

That was exactly what Wilford wanted to hear. One more thing to worry about. “Thanks,” he said flatly. He walked into his office and tried to pull his chequebook out of the drawer with one hand. It wasn’t working, so he put Michael down in the chair. “Five a week, right?” he asked, checking the calendar on his desk.

“Yeah, but we can call this week a wash,” Abe said. He walked over and crouched down next to Michael, making the same stupid sounds at him as everyone else.

Wilford shook his head and wrote the check for the whole amount. Abe might not have made any progress, but he’d still been tied up on this wild goose chase. He signed the cheque and tore it out of the book, immediately handing it over. “Go ahead and call your guy off the other thing too. My lawyer almost broke my neck when he found out about that.”

Abe laughed as he put the cheque into his wallet. “Sure thing, pal. He said he wasn’t getting the impression they were putting a lot of effort into the whole thing.”

“Yeah, neither was I,” Wilford said.

“I saw that. Got a good lawyer?” Abe asked.

Wilford nodded and picked Michael back up before he could spill soda all over the desk. “He’ll take care of it. You sticking around?”

For a moment, Wilford thought Abe might, but he shook his head instead. “Nah, you look like you’ve got your hands pretty full right now. I’ll get out of your hair. We’ll catch up next weekend.”

Wilford had completely forgotten about the party. Part of him knew he should probably bail out this time, but the idea of a weekend away from kids and drama and bullshit was extremely tempting. “Yeah. I need to work some stuff out here, first. I guess you’ll know by then if I can make it.”

Wilford didn’t know if Abe was nodding because he understood the implication, or if he was just nodding because Wilford was saying something. “Yeah, cool. We’ll see then.”

As they walked to the front door, Abe stopped to give Buster a little scratch behind the ears, and then let himself out. With the kid starting to get fussy, Wilford realised it was probably time for dinner. Maybe for once, he could actually convince Michael to eat something without a tantrum. Or maybe it would be even worse than usual given how the rest of the day had already gone.

“Come on, pipsqueak,” he said, grabbing a chair from the kitchen table and moving it closer to the stove. He sat Michael down on it, hoping the kid would stay put long enough for him to get the dogs out of the way. Luckily, he had the dogs on his side, and Buster immediately trotted over for attention while Bailey begged for her dinner at Wilford’s side.

“What do you think they want tonight?” Wilford asked Michael as he opened the fridge. “They got chicken or fish. What do you think?”

Michael whined quietly and poked Buster in the side of the face. In return, Buster started licking Michael’s face.

“Yeah, they’re probably sick of chicken,” Wilford agreed. He pulled out the last of their cod from the drawer and put it into a frying pan. While that heated up, he grabbed out eggs for each of the dogs. With Buster occupied, he set them both aside and went back to the fridge to see what was left in the dogs’ produce drawer. Not a whole lot. It looked like he’d need to go shopping soon. That wasn’t an adventure he was looking forward to.

“Did your mom ever even try to cook for you?” Wilford asked. It was a stupid question. He knew the answer. Linda probably didn’t know how to open a can of soup. “Pay attention. It’s a good skill to have.” Michael was probably too young to even understand what was going on, but the doctor said to talk to him, and he had no idea how to carry on a conversation with someone whose entire vocabulary consisted of a single syllable.

It had taken less than a week for the kid to start picking up on Wilford’s habits. By the time Wilford woke up, the kid was standing in front of the window, munching on his animal crackers and watching the neighbours. Whether or not he understood what he was watching was another matter.

“They killed one another yet?” Wilford asked, picking up his glasses from the coffee table.

“Ba ba ba ba,” Michael said quietly.

“What’d I tell you about mumbling?” As Wilford got up, Michael started shouting again. The kid definitely understood what was said to him, but he didn’t seem to want to repeat any of it back.

He left Michael at the window and walked into the kitchen to start the coffee machine. “You want to go find some breakfast?” he asked, starting breakfast for the dogs. Michael responded with the same noise he always made, which Wilford took to mean he agreed with the choice to go somewhere else.

Wilford got the dogs fed with whatever was left in the fridge, giving them their wimpiest meal they’d had in a while. That just meant it was their lucky day, and they’d wind up with lunch as well. Once the dogs were fed, it was time for the task of getting Michael to sit still long enough for Wilford to get cleaned up and dressed. He’d taken to showering at night while the kid was sleeping. The absolute easiest way for Wilford to go about doing his thing in the morning was to run a bath to let Michael splash around with all the toys Nichola had bought for him. With him suitably distracted, Wilford had the time to trim up his beard and style his moustache, brush his real teeth, clean the fake ones, and shove a bunch of tiny rubber bands into the back of his mouth. He needed to make an appointment about finishing off the process, but suddenly he wasn’t sure another surgery — even a minor one — was the best idea. At least not until he found a decent nanny or something, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to have the energy to chase after the little brat while he was off his ass on percocet. And really, he wasn’t even sure it was necessary. Maybe he’d make the appointment anyway, just to be sure he wasn’t going to fuck himself up by not finishing the process.

He put that in the back of his mind, put his teeth in his mouth where they belonged, and started getting Michael ready for a busy day.

It had been entirely too long since he’d been to the restaurant. Between one thing and another, finding time to go make sure it hadn’t burnt itself to the ground just hadn’t been a priority. But he was pleased to see it still standing and in good order. Devon was able to take care of payroll, but the first thing Wilford did when he got back to the little closet that called itself an office was double check the numbers while Paul threw something together for them in the kitchen. Everything was in good order, Michael wasn’t putting up the same fuss about eating that he tended to do at home. For the first time in weeks, it felt like things were finally starting to settle back down. Wilford hadn’t realised how much he’d fallen into a routine until it had all been upended at once.

Michael’s appointment wasn’t until 4pm, which gave them plenty of time to go do some shopping and get it back to the house. Maybe it was time to hire someone who could do his shopping for him again. Or maybe Wilford was just dead tired from chasing after a toddler all week. He’d been really getting used to that full night of sleep he’d been getting, and now that had all gone right out the window.

Rather than waiting around for 4pm to come, Wilford packed the kid back into the car and headed back toward Vinewood once he was done with his bookkeeping. He was satisfied with the numbers, which seemed to dissolve a stress he hadn’t even realised was there. Michael had eaten without fuss, which Wilford filed away as another point to bring up to the doctor.

The best shopping was out in Little Seoul, but it was a pain in the ass to drive all the way out there for grocery shopping. He’d go sometimes, when he was after something specific, but for the most part the Uwajimaya in Vinewood was decent enough. Wilford plonked Michael into the shopping cart and did a dry goods circuit first. Less than five minutes in, Michael was already bored with shopping and starting to fuss. Not sure what else to do, Wilford grabbed a bag of rice crackers off a shelf and opened them, hoping that by letting the kid snack, it would keep him quiet.

“Oh, look at the boys out, giving Mom a break!”

Wilford turned to look at the woman cooing at Michael.

“I bet she really appreciates the day off,” she went on.

Wilford stared at her wordlessly, watching her slowly realise that her input was not welcome. He continued to say nothing as she grew obviously uncomfortable with the situation and tried to melt away into the shelf.

“What have I told you about people like that?” Wilford said to Michael once the irritating soccer mom had disappeared. “They need to learn to mind their own fucking business.”

Michael munched away on his crackers, oblivious. That was fine. As long as he stayed quiet, Wilford could do his shopping without having everyone in the market pissed off at him.

With the cart filled from the shelves, he made a second pass through the back of the market, first grabbing all the fresh produce he needed, and then stocking up from the butcher and seafood counters before heading to check out. As he stacked everything onto the belt, he managed to get the cracker bag away from Michael long enough for it to be scanned.

“He was starting to freak out,” he explained.

The guy behind the counter shook his head. “Happens all the time. You’d be surprised how many people just stash the bag somewhere, like nobody’s going to notice it under a few pears.”

Somehow, this did not surprise Wilford at all, though there was something a little reassuring about the fact that feeding one’s noisy kid from the shelves was a done thing. He paid for his groceries and bagged them up, eager to get them home so he could feed the dogs and get Michael to the next in his absurdly long line of appointments.

He watched quietly as the psychologist talked at Michael and watched him play. Wilford had no idea what any of it meant, and wondered how many times he’d been in a room like this when he was a kid. He remembered a lot of much less welcoming rooms and evaluations around middle and high school, but surely somebody had noticed he was fucked up long before then.

Wilford answered the questions he was asked, consulting the long list of notes he’d written for himself.

“I can’t get him to eat anything at home for anything. Take him out of the house, and he’ll devour anything in front of him.”

“That’s… something,” the doctor said. He turned back to Michael and got the kid to open up his mouth. “When was the last time he saw a dentist?”

Wilford shook his head. “Couldn’t tell you,” he said, already writing the reminder down to find one and make an appointment.

“Do you know if he was still on a bottle?”

It wasn’t even anything Wilford had considered. “There was one in his bag he came with,” he realised. “I tossed it because the internet said he was too old for it.”

“That’s something you should ask the dentist about. They can tell these things.”

Great. Fantastic. Wilford wrote that down as well. “When do we need to start worrying about some of the nastier shit that runs in the family?” he asked.

“What kind of things?” the doctor asked.

It was a can of worms Wilford did not want to open. It had stayed very firmly sealed until recently, so it was probably time to give the wriggly little bastards some air.

“I don’t know what they call it now, but the word that was thrown around when I was a kid was psychopath. My mom was…” he shook his head. “A real piece of work. I’m willing to bet it didn’t come from nowhere.”

“Any siblings?”

“Brother,” Wilford said. “Older. He was an emotional void.” Wilford at least had a few emotions, even if he didn’t get any of the good ones. He didn’t think Walter had any at all. “Couldn’t tell you about the boy’s father.”

“It’s a bit early,” the doctor said. “A typical child his age would just be starting to acquire empathy. Some take longer. With his delays, he might not start to get there until he gets caught up.” He picked up his laptop and started making notes of his own. “But I think that’s all it is; a delay. Usually the concern with his displays would be autism, but he’s too friendly for me to want to lean that way just yet. We’ll keep an eye on him, monitor his progress. I’ll want to see him about once a month to make sure we’re going in the right direction. Find out more about his parents if you can. Knowing more about how they treated him would help us figure out the right course of action.”

Wilford nodded. “His other doctor told me to keep talking to him. Anything else I should be doing?” he asked.

“Talking’s good. Try reading and playing games. The way he mimics video games, try to keep TV to a minimum. A movie here and there for quiet time isn’t going to hurt, but he needs to learn to interact with people instead.”

“Great,” Wilford said, writing everything down. “We’ll see how it goes.” He looked down at his page of notes. He definitely needed help.

comments

“Yeah, he might be dead,” Billy agreed.

2018-11-15T03:21:37Z

It was dark by the time Wilford finally got out of the station. He actually had to give an interview at some point. At the main desk. How humiliating was that. But he liked his job and wanted to keep it, so he put on a good face and answered the asinine questions, and got on with his day.

His day was extremely light on the schedule, but he wanted to get caught up everything he’d missed while he was out. He hadn’t watched any news segments during his time away, because by the time anything makes it to air, it’s been so cut down and butchered so all the actual relevant information has been left on the floor somewhere. So he caught up on everything that had been covered, and everything Nichola had been up to on her own. Jess was still hanging around Billy like a tiny shadow with her arm in a sling, and how was it that a man roughly half the size of a redwood was the only person of their group that didn’t get hit during that clusterfuck?

Wilford walked out with Billy and Nichola, since they both seemed annoyingly reluctant to leave him alone. It was like they were afraid he was going to pass out and stop breathing if they took their eyes off him for too long. While Billy was giving Nichola a hard time about her new boyfriend, Wilford zoned them out and focused on just getting home and trying to take a nap. He still had a good handful of pills left over, and even if they made his head funny, it was already shaping up to be the sort of day that make it worth taking one.

Suddenly, Billy’s laughter stopped, and it took Wilford a few seconds to realise why.

“What’s with this guy?” he asked.

Wilford looked around, finally spotting Walter skulking around at the edge of the garage. Security in this place really sucked.

“Leave it alone,” Wilford said, but Billy was already on his way across the parking lot.

“What, you think this is funny?” Billy asked, stomping toward Walter. “You could have showed up at any time, but you choose now?”

“Billy,” Wilford said, trying to move quickly to chase after him. “Leave it.”

“I had no reason to before now,” Walter said evenly.

“You had every reason.”

“Bill, knock it off,” Wilford said.

Billy was close enough to Walter now that their height difference was becoming clear. Walter looked calmly up at him, like he was waiting for Billy to make the first move. He used to look at Wilford like that, right up until he chose the path of avoidance.

“When I asked him if we should call anyone, he said no. So you probably shouldn’t be here anyway,” Billy said, stopping right in front of Walter so he towered over him.

“Dennis!” Wilford snapped. As funny as it was watching Billy go to bat for him, this was neither the time nor the place for it. “Back the fuck off, man. I’ve got this.”

Billy finally turned around.

“Which is it? Billy or Dennis?” Walter asked.

Billy sneered, but stepped away as Wilford finally got close to them.

“Just. Leave it. It doesn’t matter.” Wilford walked past both of them and their posturing, and made tracks straight for his car at the end of the row. “Just go home. I’m sure I can survive the night.”

He didn’t have to look back to know he was getting a pair of concerned looks during the few seconds of silence before Billy and Nichola started walking back toward their own cars. But that still left Walter, and after a few seconds, Wilford did stop and look back.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I told you,” Walter said, still trying his false bravado on instead of the cowardly lion approach he’d taken that morning.

Wilford wanted to argue, but he was too tired to bother. “Whatever.”

He started back toward his car again, almost surprised when he heard Walter following him. He led Walter straight to his little piece of junk car, and without a word, opened the back door so he could twist over the seat so he could open the front door.

“This is what you drive?” Walter asked. “Wasn’t this falling apart when you were in high school?”

He stepped up to the passenger side to look at the car, suddenly yelping in pain a few moments later.

“Watch out for the bees,” Wilford said, watching Walter slap at the air.

“Your car has bees?” Walter demanded. “Why?”

Wilford shrugged. “Cheapest security system on the market.”

Walter shot an accusatory glare toward the front of the car, while still slapping at the air around him.

“Are you getting in, or what? Passenger doors don’t open,” Wilford said, still holding the back door in case Walter decided to make up his mind about what he was doing there.

“Your car is terrible.” He stepped away from the car, still swatting at everything around him. Once it seemed like he was out of the bees’ territory, he stopped to look cautiously at Wilford. “Where are we going?”

“It depends on if you’re getting in or not,” Wilford said, losing his patience again.

“With you,” Walter said.

“No, with Santa Claus. For fuck’s sake, get in the goddamn car, or go away.” He wanted to get some dinner, and then go home and pass out. Not deal with this garbage again.

Walter slowly approached the car, hesitating at the bumper. Wilford’s impatience must have been showing on his face, because something sparked Walter into suddenly moving forward and climbing into the car, having to awkwardly get over the centre console into the passenger seat. Wilford shut the door behind him and got into the driver’s seat, taking a good few seconds to just sit and breathe.

“Are you trying to pretend that you’re sick?” Walter asked, watching him. “That’s a new one.”

“For fuck’s sake, Walter. I got shot. Shut the hell up.” Wilford was trying not to let his anger get the better of him, because he wasn’t going to let Walter be right, but he wasn’t making it easy. If anything, he knew how to press all the right buttons to piss him off.

He could see Walter reaching for a door that wouldn’t open, and the slow, dawning realisation that there was no quick or easy way out of the car now that he was inside it.

“Who shot you?” Walter asked finally. “And why?”

If Wilford hadn’t already suspected as much, that was as good as proof that he didn’t live in the area anymore. Wilford sighed and started the car, enjoying the little startled look from his brother when he didn’t have to coax the engine into working. Though to be fair, he was a bit startled himself.

“About ten angry rednecks, because they didn’t like me exposing their murder-devil-worship cult on TV,” he said. He pulled out of the space, looking to see if Billy and Nichola were still watching to see what was going on. Their cars were both still in their spots, so there were definitely hiding somewhere.

“Did you know about that, by the way?” he asked. “What happened because you wouldn’t let me crash on your couch for three goddamn weeks.”

Walter shot Wilford another nervous look and reached for his seatbelt. “What?”

“Man, fuck you.” He didn’t know why, after so long of not even thinking about what happened, it still hurt. “I should have let Bill grind you into a paste. I’ve never seen him that angry before.”

“And he’s friends with you?” Walter asked.

Wilford breathed deeply. He wanted to shoot Walter right in the face, as they drove down the road. It would feel so good. But then the stupid prick probably wouldn’t reset, and Wilford had fallen out of the habit of recording saves lately, and it just wasn’t worth the risk. He focused on the road, and getting onto the freeway to head back into Virginia.

“Why are you here?” he asked again.

“I told you. Your—”

“Yes, I know. Some dipshit rolled up and threatened to break your legs. I don’t know him, so you got your ass punked.”

“What?” Walter repeated.

“Walter, I just got shot!” Wilford shouted. “A lot of times. I almost fucking died. I don’t know what they taught you at farmer school, but an intelligent person would be able to connect the dots. You’re being scammed and I don’t want any part of it.”

“You almost died?” Walter asked.

Wilford barely managed to pull onto the shoulder before he slammed on the brakes. He couldn’t do this. Walter was raising his blood pressure and he wouldn’t survive another minute breathing the same air as him.

“Get the fuck out of my car,” Wilford demanded.

Walter looked around at the traffic zooming past them on the freeway. “Here?” he asked.

“Get out!”

Walter suddenly started scrambling to find a way out. He tried pulling on the handle too many times before he remembered that the door didn’t work and he was forced to climb into the back seat.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” Wilford said. “You’re dead. You never fucking existed. Get out of my life forever.”

Walter fell out of the back seat and onto the pavement, staring at Wilford like he’d just seen the devil himself. Without another word, Wilford leaned into the back seat to slam the door shut before speeding back off into traffic. In the rear view mirror, he could see Walter getting up and looking at all the traffic that sped past him. Watching him nearly get creamed by a truck felt a lot better than Wilford knew it should.

When he got to his apartment, he wasn’t even a little surprised to see Billy already there, waiting for him in the parking lot. Hoping to get this over with, Wilford got out of the car and started heading for the stairs. Climbing them wasn’t an easy task, but he needed to get used to doing it again sooner rather than later.

“Where’d he go?” Billy said, looking back at the car as he caught up with Wilford.

“Dead,” Wilford said.

Billy stopped on the stairs behind him. “What? Seriously?”

Wilford shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I kicked him out of the car on sixty-six.”

“Yeah, he might be dead,” Billy agreed.

Wilford let them into his apartment and went straight to the sofa to collapse, while Billy wandered into the kitchen. He could hear the fridge open, and then close seconds later. “Where’s that shoebox?” Billy asked.

Wilford thought for a moment. “Check the bedroom,” he said. At least with Billy following him home, it meant he didn’t have to cook. That was a plus.

comments

Probably just saw a high-profile target and went after it for a promotion

2018-09-24T02:52:29Z

The house was not laid out for more than one person. Sure, it had more than one room, but one had been converted before Wilford had even bought the place, and the other was at the bottom of the worst set of stairs in existence. There was his bedroom, but the bed had cost almost $2000 and wasn’t a place for a bed-wetting toddler. If he didn’t do that, he’d probably fall off the enormous thing.

With Michael sleeping on the couch with a couple of blankets between him and the leather, Wilford had been falling asleep in his recliner again. He woke sharply to the sound of a car crashing outside and got up to look out the window. One of the neighbours had crashed one of their cars into the other, trying to back out of the driveway. Fucking idiot.

But he was up. Once he was awake, he never managed to get back to sleep, so there wasn’t much point in trying. Letting Michael sleep, Wilford quietly roused the dogs and led them into the kitchen. He tossed an egg to Buster, wondering why he was still surprised and disappointed every time the idiot missed it and got splatted on the face with it. Bailey was there to help him clean it up while Wilford started quietly making their breakfast, careful not to bang around too much with the kid sleeping just a few feet away. He’d figure out their breakfast once the kid woke up. For now, he could get by on coffee and nibbling on the vegetables he cut up for the dogs.

School starting up again was the best part of the year. Summers effectively meant full house arrest, and by the time September came along, Wilford was going stir crazy. No sports. No clubs. Just two and a half months of staring at the walls. He was so glad to finally get out of the house, he’d left almost an hour early, and stayed after the final bell to see what kind of excuses he could find on the event schedule that would give him a reason to let him stay out past his stupidly early curfew until baseball started up again. A photography club would look good on his transcripts, and he could definitely up his skills in that area for the school paper.

He expected to get shouted at when he finally wandered back home. Walter was already home, sitting on the sofa and staring at the TV. Sitting around watching TV was the last thing Wilford wanted to do. He dropped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes to go head back to his bedroom to find something to do. His teachers hadn’t even had the decency to assign him something to do.

His bedroom door was open. He usually kept that closed. He knew he’d closed it when he’d left.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demanded when he walked in on his parents going through his dresser. “Get out of my stuff!”

He pushed past his dad to his bed, where every drawer in his desk had been emptied and laid out. There was a lot missing. “Get out!” he shouted.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” his mom asked, holding up a butter knife.

Wilford shrugged. “From the kitchen? So what? Get out!”

He noticed a half-full trash bag in the corner and reached for it. Before he could grab it, his dad grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. “Do you want to go back to jail?” his dad asked. “Why do you have a knife?”

“I’m gonna go back if you don’t get out!” Wilford was having a hard time not shouting. He wanted to shout and scream. They were in his room, going through his stuff and taking things.

His dad held up a lighter. It was one of the things he was under no circumstances allowed to possess, just before knives on the list. “That’s Walter’s,” he said.

“Why do you have it?” his dad asked.

“Why are you in my room?”

His mom shook her head and grabbed the trash bag from the corner. For about half a second, Wilford thought she was going to give back what she’d taken. Instead, she pushed everything that was on the bed into the bag.

“What the fuck?” Wilford shouted, stepping toward her. Before he could even figure out what he was going to do, his dad grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him out of the room.

Michael didn’t want to be stuck in a chair. Wilford didn’t want to be stuck at the clinic. But neither of them were getting what they wanted. Wilford watched the new doctor put headphones on the kid and struggle to keep them there. Eventually, he got Michael to cooperate and was able to step back toward his computer.

Wilford watched the whole thing from a seat in the corner of the room. He hadn’t actually considered how something like this would be tested until they’d walked into the room. A long discussion about what he’d observed was expected, and the doctor had seemed just as puzzled as Wilford about the inconsistencies. He’d respond sometimes, but someone could be screaming and shouting and it was like Michael didn’t even realise they were in the room. Whatever that was, it probably wasn’t his ears.

“I’m going to play some tones,” the doctor explained. “Varying volumes and pitches in one ear or the other. He can’t tell us if he can hear it or not, but most healthy kids will look for the sound if they can hear it.”

Wilford nodded. It didn’t seem too awful. The doctor did something on his laptop and Michael looked up over his left shoulder. A few moments later, he turned his head toward the right. For ten minutes this continued, with various gaps between each time Michael looked around. Neither the doctor nor Wilford said anything, to avoid somehow telegraphing to Michael. Watching it, Wilford had no idea if what he was seeing was expected or not.

“Okay, Michael,” the doctor said finally, heading over to take the headphones back. “Good job!”

He wound up the headphone cord as he turned back to Wilford. “Good news is I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,” he said.

Wilford had expected that somehow. It was funny to irritate Jim by pretending Bailey was deaf, but Wilford knew what that really looked like. But he’d rather be thorough than miss something out of cockiness.

“So what now?” he asked.

“Keep your appointment with the psychologist. Take a lot of notes. Any information you can take in there will help.”

Wilford nodded, while Michael started ba-ba-ba’ing and slapping the table. It was usually an easy enough sound to ignore, but for some reason it caught Wilford’s attention this time.

“What does that sound like to you?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head. “Babble?” he said.

Wilford pulled his phone out of his pocket and loaded up the MeTV app. It took about ten seconds to find what he was looking for and play the video. Some nerd in his bedroom was playing some game, running around shooting zombies. Wilford scrubbed to the middle of the video to find a point with a lot of action. Almost immediately, Michael started shouting even louder, still slapping the table.

Son of a bitch. He was going to kill that woman.

Wilford knew Walter had some cigarettes somewhere. Sometimes he could even get lucky and find some weed attempting to hide somewhere. With no one else home, sneaking into his brother’s room was easy.

He immediately forgot all about cigarettes as soon as he opened the door. They weren’t allowed to play video games. Apparently they’d make you violent or some stupid bullshit. Whatever. Wilford didn’t care. Somehow, Walter had smuggled a GameStation in, and Wilford wanted to see what they all about. It was simple enough to get it started. No different from the VCR, really. Put the disk in, turn it on, and find the right channel on the TV. Apparently Walter was into shooting Nazis. That sounded fun.

Playing the game was less straightforward. The controller had about twelve buttons, and a couple of joystick sort of things. Wilford was always either looking at the floor or walking sideways like a crab or getting stuck on things. He wasn’t actually sure what he was supposed to be doing, but getting shot by Nazis probably wasn’t goal. Still, it was funny enough that just trying to figure out how to play the game was keeping him entertained.

So of course, Walter had to walk in. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

Wilford didn’t even pretend to stop what he was doing. “You’re not supposed to have this,” he said as his character fell off a building and died. That was a new one.

“You’re not supposed to be in my room!” Walter said. He walked over and turned off the machine.

“Hey, I was playing that,” Wilford said. Oh well. This was more fun anyway.

“You’re not supposed to be playing it,” Walter pointed out, snatching the controller away.

“Yeah, neither are you. What are Mom and Dad gonna say? Are they home? I’m gonna go tell them!” Wilford jumped up off the bed as Walter dashed to the door.

“You’re not going to tell them,” Walter said, blocking the way out of the room. Funny how he’d changed his mind about Wilford being in his room so quickly.

Wilford thought about this for a second. “Dad! Walter’s got a GameStation in here!” he shouted.

He did not know that Walter knew how to throw a punch.

Wilford knew that Nichola had about twenty meetings and teleconferences that week. Just because the show was off the air didn’t mean he had to stay away from the studio. In fact, there was probably some work he could get done. He planted Michael on the sofa with a few pens and some printer paper and booted up his PC for the first time in a couple of weeks. The emails were a nightmare. He hadn’t been looking at any of it, and somehow even without the show running, everyone in the network seemed to have something to say to him. Wilford deleted everything.

It didn’t take long for Nichola to find him. She let herself in and sat down on the sofa next to Michael to see what he was doing. “How’d it go?” she asked after a moment.

“Not his ears,” Wilford said, going through a stack of papers that had been left on his desk. Half the stories they’d been working on were out of date and irrelevant already. Goddamnit.

“Well, that’s good, right?” Nichola asked.

Wilford thought about it. “We’ve got another appointment on Wednesday, but I think I know what they’re going to say.”

“Same thing as everyone else?” Nichola guessed.

Wilford nodded. “Yep. Turns out, he’s a pretty good little mimic.”

“What?”

He pulled up another video on his computer and turned up the volume so Nichola could tell what it was from across the room. Wilford jumped to a point where the game was actually being played, and again Michael immediately started imitating the gunfire.

“Oh my god,” Nichola said, staring at Michael. “You’re kidding me?”

Wilford turned off the video. That was enough of that. He shook his head and shrugged. “We’ll see what they say on Wednesday,” he said. He sighed and watched the kid smack the coffee table, shouting, “Ba ba ba ba!” He knew what the problem was. He knew what he was going to hear on Wednesday. He didn’t know why, but it pissed him off to think about it. He’d never wanted kids in his life, and of course, the one he did wind up having was the biggest, fucked up waste of space on the planet. Wilford knew he was a self-centred prick, but Linda had found a way to take it to a whole new level.

If she was smart, she’d do everything she could to avoid parole, because Wilford was going to fucking kill her if she got out of prison.

Nichola started to say something, but was interrupted by a meek knock at the door. Before Wilford could tell whoever was on the other side of the door to piss right off, it opened and the new girl from reception stepped inside awkward. “Uh. These… guys are here,” she said.

As soon as Wilford saw who ‘these guys’ were, he sighed and buried his face in his hand. “Not a good time,” he said.

“You know, we hear that a lot,” Roberts said. He reached into his coat as the receptionist fled back outside. Wilford already knew what was coming next.

“Seriously?” Wilford asked. Christ. As if his day hadn’t been bad enough. “Can we not do this in front of my kid?”

The two detectives looked at Michael, and then one another for a moment before Roberts nodded. Wilford stood up, picking his keys up from his desk.

“Call my lawyer,” he said, tossing his keys to Nichola.

Nichola gaped at the entire situation. “Hang on. Wait. What?”

The assignment was stupid and Wilford hated it. Creative writing had been strongly recommended to him if he was serious about going to school for journalism. And he was, but somehow he thought he’d be doing a little bit more writing.

Obviously there was a point to the assignment, but it just wasn’t a very interesting one. The teacher had given them a series of character descriptions from various books, and wanted everyone to draw what was described. Wilford couldn’t draw for shit, but luckily the teacher’s definition of drawing was a very loose one. Armed with glue sticks, a delicate little pair of scissors he’d found in the bathroom, and a stack of his mom’s magazines, Wilford started cutting out faces at the kitchen table and gluing bits of them together. It still looked like dogshit, but he wasn’t going to fail the assignment just because it was stupid. He cut out a face, glued some new eyes on it, found someone else’s hair. He didn’t think any of them really looked right, but it probably had more to do with the fact that everything he’d made was creepy as fuck.

“What are you doing!?”

Wilford jumped so hard he almost stabbed himself with the scissors. “Homework,” he said, loving the way his mother only ever seemed to shout.

“I was reading those!” She started snatching up her magazines, catching Wilford’s assignment with everything.

“When?” Wilford demanded. “They’ve been in a basket under the coffee table for a year!” He tried to at least save the work he’d already done and got smacked with one of the magazines in return.

“Those are my scissors!” his mother shouted.

Wilford glared at her. “Have them,” he said, throwing them at her.

She ducked out of the way, giving Wilford room to get up and walk outside, ignoring everything else being shouted at him. He wasn’t outside for long though. Just long enough to grab the garden hose and turn on the tap. He walked back inside, waiting until he was right behind his mother open the nozzle and spray her in the back of the head with a jet of freezing water. She shrieked while Wilford stood there, soaking everything on the table. When his mother tried to grab the hose from him, he turned it on her and sprayed it full-blast in her face.

He’d forgotten his dad was home until he was grabbed by his shirt and swung around to the floor. In an instant, he was pinned to the ground with a knee in his back.

“Stop,” his dad said, grabbing both of Wilford’s wrists to pin them down as well.

“Get off!” Wilford shouted. He tried to get free, but his dad had the advantage. A second later, he had both Wilford’s wrists with one hand, freeing his other hand to hold Wilford’s head against the carpet.

“Stop,” he repeated.

Wilford did not want to stop. His mom was screaming, everything was soaked, and this was not how the evening was supposed to go.

“Is it too late to consider that military academy?” Walter said from somewhere.

Wilford screamed. As soon as he got free, he was going to murder his brother.

Wilford didn’t have to be psychic to know that this, right here, was exactly what Steve had been talking about when he said to stay out of trouble. He’d never seen the man look so tired before.

“You want to tell us again where you were between two and six on the first?” Ingall asked, looking down at a notepad that was probably full of random scribbles.

“Home,” Wilford said. “Where I go every Saturday, because there’s shit-all for me to do on Saturdays.” He could see Steve looking less than impressed with his answer, but he didn’t care.

“Can anybody back that up?” Ingall asked.

“My dogs. You want to talk to them?” Wilford asked.

“Not helping,” Steve said.

“Disappearing like that every week would be a pretty good way to cover up a change of routine if you wanted to kill somebody, wouldn’t it?” Roberts asked.

Wilford didn’t even need Steve to know that wasn’t a question he should even acknowledge.

“You want to tell us why you hired a PI to dig around behind our backs?” Roberts asked.

“You hired a PI?” Steve demanded. Apparently Wilford had forgotten to mention that.

“That’s one of those stupid things I wasn’t supposed to do, wasn’t it?” he asked. Well, shit.

“Yes,” Steve said. Fuck.

“No, you know why I hired a PI?” Wilford said, trying real hard not to get even more pissed off that this was what everything had come to. “You dumb fucks couldn’t even investigate the back of your own hand.” Steve slapped him hard on the shoulder, but Wilford didn’t care. “He was into a lot of dumb shit in his off-time, but that was his time. I didn’t fucking care. But he had to go get himself killed and sink a million-dollar investment. If I’m going to get any of that back, I need his case notes, but you morons are too busy thinking he got killed over a goddamn pet story. Have you even looked at his computer yet? That stupid fucker was doing all sorts of dumb shit on the deep web that would get anybody killed.”

There was an awkward pause while Roberts and Ingall looked at each other. “What investment?” Ingall asked.

Wilford could have rolled over and died from all the stupidity in the room. “You didn’t even check his social media?” he asked. “I was backing him for a new show. How did you walking clusterfucks miss that?”

“Excuse us a minute,” Roberts said. He and Ingall both quickly stepped out of the room, leaving Wilford and Steve alone.

“You know,” Steve said. “You are the only client I’ve ever had who gets in this much trouble by doing nothing at all.”

Wilford shrugged. How in the hell was that his fault?

Wilford couldn’t have cared less about the yearbook, but he liked flipping through to see how many of his photos wound up being used. Every now and then, somebody would come up and insist on trading signatures. It was kind of a stupid tradition, but being the moody kid who refused to sign yearbooks wasn’t a good image to have. He’d flip through until he found a page for one of the clubs he was in and write down some stupid joke while the other person did the same.

Around the middle of the book, he found the survey that had been going around a few months ago. He was honestly surprised to see his picture in the list.

“Most likely to become a super villain?” he read aloud.

“Oh, absolutely,” another kid at the lunch table said. “You got that whole deflection thing going. Everyone knows you probably want to burn down the school, but instead you’re over here all Mr Four-Point-Oh taking AP classes for fun.”

“Regular classes are boring,” Wilford said. Also, AP gave him a mountain of homework to keep him busy at home so he wasn’t staring at the walls all night.

“Exactly. Super villains do that so everyone’s all like, ‘oh him? No, he’d never do that.’ And then when you do finally do it, everyone’ll be all like, ‘oh yeah, we totally knew.’”

“What?” That made no sense. “I don’t want to be a super villain. Do you have any idea how stupid henchmen are? They’re henchmen because they’re so stupid they had to drop out of grade school. Who wants to deal with that?”

“The fact that you know that means you’re already looking into becoming one.”

“Please,” Wilford said. “Being a puppet master would be so much more fun. I’d rather surround myself with smart people and rule from the shadows.”

Nichola was already waiting at the station, looking as tired as Wilford felt by the time they gave him his stuff back and let him go. Steve had already left to get this latest disaster suppressed and erased, but that was getting harder and harder in the social media age.

“Where’s the kid?” Wilford asked when he saw Nichola was there alone.

“Didn’t think he needed to be here, and you probably need a break,” she said, starting to walk with him out to the parking lot. “Bill took him home for the night. Sharon’s been wanting to meet him anyway.”

Wilford nodded. That was a good plan. He was totally on board with it. When they got to the car, Wilford decided he was too tired to drive, and got into the passenger seat. He just wanted to go home, have a few drinks, and crash.

“So. What now?” Nichola asked as she started the car.

Wilford had no idea. “Hopefully they lay the fuck off and Steve can bury the arrest.”

“They actually arrested you?”

“Yep.” It had been years since he’d been properly arrested. A few nights in the drunk tank, but nothing more serious than a fine. He’d worked goddamn hard to keep it that way.

“What evidence did they think they had?” Nichola asked.

Wilford ignored the traffic around them and stared at the road ahead. “Who the fuck knows,” he said. “Probably just saw a high-profile target and went after it for a promotion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nichola said.

Wilford agreed. After a moment, he pulled out his phone and looked at it. “What’s my blog password?” he asked. This was probably another one of those things Steve had insisted was stupid and shouldn’t be done, but maybe it was time to start hanging out with the grownups in his field.

“I don’t know. Rosa set that up for you. Why?” Nichola asked.

Wilford opened his phone book and found Rosa’s information. “Because I can think of a couple of guys who need to be fired.”

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Why was everything so awful all of the time?

2018-09-18T18:49:28Z

Nichola gave him two whole days before fleeing like a coward. The only thing the kid wanted to eat were the dogs’ toys and random bits of trash he found hiding in the strangest corners of the house. The social worker didn’t seem to have a whole lot to say, once she decided the house was clean and the finances stable enough for this arrangement to continue. She was no help whatsoever.

That didn’t change the fact that there was clearly something wrong with the kid. Wilford hadn’t been around many kids, but he had a feeling they were supposed to be loud, obnoxious brats. Michael just babbled and cried. He was still obnoxious, but in a different way.

Something had to be done. Even if that something was just figuring out what information he was going to relay to the next person. Abe hadn’t called back yet, but he would. Wilford knew that sometimes these things took a little time, but until then, he was going to do everything to make the next couple of weeks go as smoothly as possible. And that started with giving Dr Taylor a break from being on blast, and calling the medical centre about finding a pediatrician. Wilford wasn’t sure what information he’d need when he took the kid in, but he grabbed everything he had. All the court documents, everything Tiffany had scribbled down, and a little bit of what he could find about Michael’s mother online. It probably wasn’t anything useful or relevant, but it couldn’t have hurt either. If nothing else, ‘his mother appears to have murdered his father’ brought some context to the table.

Nichola had put the ridiculously complicated seat into Wilford’s back seat, but hadn’t left any instructions on how to use it before she ran away. Trying to keep the kid within an arm’s reach and try to look up on the internet how the stupid thing worked was a task for someone with four arms. It was a goddamn good thing there was an eight-foot-tall gate between them and the road, because the kid would have run into traffic about ten times before Wilford figured out what he was doing. Finally, he managed to figure out all the belts and buckles and snaps, and get the kid tied into the seat. By then, he was running late, and didn’t even have time to wonder what in the hell he was even doing with his life.

He’d signed himself in to plenty of clinics in the past, but trying to fill out the forms for a kid he had next to no information on was a different beast entirely. He didn’t know the insurance situation, and was glad he’d brought all the court documents, because consent was a confusing can of worms. He assumed, at least, that the court documents gave him the ability to deal with these things. Nobody was saying otherwise, so it must have been the case.

The kid was already getting fussy by the time they were called back. Apparently the animal crackers he’d had for breakfast hadn’t quite done it, but they were the only thing he’d ever eat, aside from chicken nuggets. And Wilford was not going to get the kid chicken nuggets three times a day. Wilford didn’t like holding the sticky little monster any longer than he had to, but he’d planted himself on the floor and frowned like he was trying to make himself cry. Not having much of a choice, Wilford picked him up and hauled him back through the door, following the doctor back to her exam room. Like the waiting room out front, the walls had been painted with friendly woodland creatures having picnics and playing badminton. It was awful.

“I’m Doctor Ross,” she said, looking over her chart while Wilford tried to get the kid to stop fussing. “We’re here for a wellness check?” she asked.

The kid was about three seconds from melting down, and Wilford was already done with the day. He pulled a box of crackers out of his inventory and opened them up. “I’d be angry all the time if that’s all I ate too,” he said, handing the crackers over. It seemed to do the trick for now.

“He doesn’t eat?” Dr Ross asked.

Wilford shook his head, finally turning to face her. “I just got him on Monday from his mom. I don’t know if he doesn’t like me or if he’s always like this.”

“You’re separated?” Dr Ross asked.

“He’s my grandson.” That still left a foul taste in his mouth. Wilford couldn’t figure out which scenario he liked worse though.

Dr Ross nodded and made a note on the kid’s chart. “What else is he eating?”

“Chicken, but only if it comes from a drive-thru. He won’t touch anything I make at home.” The kid was going to waste away at this rate.

“It’s a stressful time for him, I’m sure,” Dr Ross said, still writing. “A white diet can usually help kick these habits a little faster. Pastas with just a little bit of sauce, cereals, oatmeal. Try to hide some fruit in there if you can. If he chokes or makes himself try to vomit, then we’d start to be a little more concerned.”

“Haven’t noticed him doing anything like that. Just screaming and throwing things.” Apparently they were going shopping on the way home. Great. Exactly what Wilford wanted to do with a two-year-old in tow.

“But let’s take a look,” Dr Ross said, setting her charts aside. “Hey, Michael. How are you doing?” she asked, stepping close to him.

The kid looked up at her, ‘ba-ba-baing’ and holding up a half-eaten cracker.

“Oh, Grandpa gave you some crackers. Yum!”

Yep. Wilford hated that more, he decided. He reminded himself that it would all go away soon, and then he’d be done with all of it forever.

He watched the doctor get her readings and write down numbers, all the while with a concerned look on her face. Wilford hadn’t mentioned his primary reason for bringing the kid in, but it was clear he didn’t have to. She saw it plain as day.

“He’s three next month?” she asked, looking up at Wilford.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She grabbed her auriscope and checked the kid’s ears. “I don’t think there’s a hearing issue, but we’ll schedule a test just to be sure,” she said. Every time she tried to look into the kid’s ears, he turned sharply to look at her. After the third time, Wilford reached out to hold him still.

“Just you, or is there a partner in the house?” she asked.

“Just me,” Wilford said, watching Dr Ross try to do her job with the kid still squirming around. “I had help for a few days, but she had her own stuff to deal with.”

“Does he have many toys he plays with?” she asked, throwing the cap to her scope into the trash and making more notes.

“Yeah, he’s got a whole bunch. Most of them, he’s either stuffed into my shoes or tried to feed to the dogs, if that matters.”

Dr Ross was writing everything down again. “It does,” she says. “He knows his name, from what I saw?”

Wilford nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

“Does he understand when you ask him to do something?” Dr Ross asked.

“He understands ‘knock it off.’ And then starts crying about it,” Wilford said.

Dr Ross nodded and lowered her charts. “Michael, what have you got there?” she asked with an exaggerated grin.

Michael grinned back and ba-ba-ba’ed some more, holding up his box of crackers. She spent the next few minutes playing with him, getting him to point at things and making him laugh. Wilford wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be all about, but he stood back quietly and let her do it.

“The situation’s new. It’s probably stressful and scary,” she said once she seemed convinced with whatever she was doing. “He’s testing boundaries, which is a good thing. You can probably expect it to get worse before it gets better. But before I go throwing big, scary words around, what was his home life like with his mother?”

Wilford shook his head and shrugged. “I didn’t know he existed until a couple weeks ago,” he said. “I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms with his grandmother.” He picked up his folder and started digging through the papers in it. “His mom’s in prison. That conviction was last month?” He double checked the dates. “Yeah. Grandmother didn’t want him, so she sent him out here instead. His father’s parents are both a couple of felons too, from the sounds of it.”

“What about his father?” Dr Ross asked.

“Dead. A few months ago.”

Dr Ross started to say something, but nodded instead and wrote all this down as well. “It’s possible we’re dealing with some form of regression from trauma,” she said. “Did his grandmother say anything?”

Wilford shook his head. “She did everything she could to dump the kid on me and run away back to DC.”

“Okay.” She looked back over to the kid, where he was still happily munching on animal crackers, and trying to feed one of them to the rabbit painted on the wall behind him. “The other likely alternative is we’re seeing a profound language delay. Without knowing what his home life was before, it’s difficult to say which one it is. Were you able to get any medical records from DC?”

“I don’t think there were any. There wasn’t even a birth certificate anyone could find,” Wilford said.

Dr Ross nodded. “All right. Since we don’t have any records, we’re going to want to run some blood tests so we can see which, if any vaccines he’s had. He might have a lot of catching up to do, but there are some vaccines that we don’t want to over-do it on.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a series of small tools. “He’s not going to be very happy about it. Why don’t we sit you both down here, so you can hold him still?”

She pointed to a chair as she got herself set up.

Not sure what else to do, Wilford picked the kid up and took him over to the chair. He got a half-eaten animal cracker shoved in his face before they even sat down. “Which ones does he need by now?”

She listed off a lot of letters Wilford didn’t really understand. “You don’t do any of the lycanthropy or anything like that?” he asked, trying to wrestle away the cracker.

Dr Ross sighed. “We can do it at twenty-four months, but it’s a hard one for little bodies to cope with. We only do it if the living situation requires it. Otherwise, we schedule mutative vaccines to after twelve.”

Wilford shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” It made sense now that she’d said it. Some of the ones he had to get for work knocked him on his ass for a week.

“All right. We might have to do a few pokes to get everything we need. Try to hold him real still for me.”

It took almost twenty minutes of poking the kid’s fingers with a barbaric little tool, every second of which he spent screaming bloody murder. Dr Ross was right. He didn’t like it. They left with a bunch of colourful band-aids on his fingers, an obnoxious new toy, and a stack of referrals and instructions for both getting the kid to eat and getting the kid to talk.

“Someone will call you soon to set up appointments,” Dr Ross said as Wilford was on his way out.

He hoped it wasn’t too soon. But he’d got the paper trail started, so hopefully the next person would be a little more willing to take him. Wilford took the kid out to the car and got him strapped into his seat, letting him whine out the rest of his upset. Once he was in the car, Wilford turned on the AC and pulled out his phone. Abe always seemed to answer by the third ring, no matter what he was doing. Today was no exception.

“What’s the good news?” Wilford asked.

The way Abe sighed suggested there was no good news. “This Linda’s a real piece of work. You sure she’s yours?”

“What’s going on?” Wilford asked.

“It sounds like she needed money. I mean, no shit, she and that boyfriend of hers were Bonnie and Clyde-ing their way across town. But before they did that, she paid Mr and Mrs Benson a little visit,” Abe said. “Tied them both up in their bedroom and sacked the entire house. Didn’t even have the decency to untie them when she was done. Took two days before anyone found them.”

“Jesus Christ.” He looked in the mirror back at the kid. He seemed to have forgotten all about his ordeal back in the clinic already.

“So, they’re not really willing to take a kid they’re afraid might wind up even worse. If you could even imagine a worse.” Abe said. There was a tapping sound on the other end of the line, like a pen against a table. “They’ve got two other kids, and they all seem to feel the same. I think that’s when word started to spread, because I can’t get anyone to talk to me now.”

“Fuck,” Wilford hissed.

“There’s grandparents on the other side that seemed eager, but there’s a lot of debt there. I wasn’t very sure about that,” Abe said.

Wilford remembered what Tiffany had said about the father’s parents. “Absolutely fucking not,” he said. Whether or not there was truth to what she’d said, it wasn’t a chance Wilford could afford to take. He knew the farther removed family got, the more likely it was that people expressing interest probably didn’t want the kid at all. And then he was back at square one.

“What about the other thing? What have you got for me there?” he asked, hoping to get some sort of good news.

Abe sighed again. Good god. “Your friend’s parents are starting to cause waves. They just want to take him home and bury him.”

“And they’re not releasing the body,” Wilford guessed. Great. “Where are they staying?”

“Is that a good idea?” Abe asked.

Wilford looked back at the kid again. “Nope,” he said. “But my day’s already fucked. Might as well go all-in.”

He got the address from Abe and hung up. This was an awful, terrible, stupid idea, but things couldn’t manage to get much worse. “Well, pipsqueak, you want to go help me fix a problem?” he asked.

The kid didn’t have much to say about it.

The hotel was in Vinewood, and not too far from the clinic. It wasn’t exactly a nice hotel, either. Wilford was able to walk straight from the car to their door, without ever stepping foot inside. The kid was starting to get fussy, but maybe that meant he’d nap in the supermarket.

For a brief moment, when the door opened, Wilford thought he’d knocked on the wrong door. He’d never met Kevin’s parents before, and had no idea his mother was white. “Mrs Imahara?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, confirming what her tired posture and dark circles under her eyes suggested. “I… know who you are. Come in, I guess.” She stepped aside, letting Wilford inside. The room was small — a single bed, with a night stand, and an old CRT TV on a crumbling dresser. The place didn’t look like it had been upgraded since the 80s. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

Wilford shrugged, trying to adjust the kid as he tried to squirm away. “Lawyer said to stay away.” Being a suspect and all, it was probably good advice. “But I heard you’re having some issues with the cops. I just wanted to… I don’t know.” He shrugged. Say he was sorry? For what? He had nothing to do with this.

Mrs Imahara laughed joylessly. “My husband’s down there right now, arguing with someone. The last time we talked, Kevin said he was getting his own show online. He was so excited about it. It’s never going to happen now.”

“Yeah. I was going to produce it. He had a lot of good ideas.” Ideas that didn’t fit with Wilford’s show, so it made sense to branch out and share resources that way. The kid was trying to squirm right out of his arms. Wilford thought he was about to get bitten if it kept up any longer.

Mrs Imahara stepped forward. “Let me take him,” she offered. Wilford gladly handed the kid over. “What’s your name?” she asked, her voice more gentle suddenly.

“Michael,” Wilford said. “He doesn’t talk.”

Mrs Imahara looked very sad again for a moment, but then she lit up with the sort of false cheer that the kid seemed to go nuts over. “Hi! Aren’t you a cutie!” she said.

Michael scrunched up his face and laughed. If nothing else, he was good as an icebreaker. Mrs Imahara sat down on the bed, letting the kid go so he could explore. There wasn’t a whole lot in the room he could break.

“We just want to take our son home, Mr Warfstache,” she said finally. “He’s not evidence; he’s a person. What more do they need from him?”

Wilford shrugged. He could give some bullshit explanation that didn’t really say anything. Or he could tell the truth. “They’re looking at me pretty hard,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I saw someone camping this place across the street, actually.”

Mrs Imahara looked to the window and moved like she was going to get up to close the curtain, but Wilford shook his head. “Don’t do that,” he said. “That looks like we’re sharing secrets. I think they probably know I’ve got a PI snooping around, and they’re trying a power play to make me do something stupid. So, here. I’m going to do it.” He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the stack of business cards he’d accumulated since moving to LS. He kept all of them because sooner or later, they always came in handy. “I can’t give you my lawyer, because he wouldn’t be able to take you on. But this guy is very good. He deals with cases like this. He’ll get you all the media coverage you need to shame the department into letting you take Kevin home.”

He handed the card over, watching her examine it.

“You sound very different in person,” she said finally.

“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Wilford said.

“This will work?” she asked.

Wilford nodded. “You’ll be home in a week.”

Mrs Imahara stood up and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said.

Wilford wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now.

They survived the supermarket and got home in one piece. Following Nichola’s example, when she’d taken his car to go shopping, Wilford parked out in the driveway. Getting the dogs up and down the spiral stairs inside was enough of a hassle. He didn’t want to try to cart groceries and a kid up them as well. The outside stairs up to the balcony were much less precarious.

By the time they were inside and had everything put away, they were both starving. He cooked for the dogs first, like always, and then started trying to figure out dinner for him and the kid. His sole experience with Italian food was boiling noodles and opening a jar of sauce, and that was exactly what he did. He wasn’t really in the mood for pasta and tomato sauce, but he was even less in the mood to cook three meals.

The doctor had said to try small portions with large noodles. He hoped penne was what she meant, because that’s what he bought. The sauce was bland as hell, with just enough seasoning to separate it from plain boiled tomato sauce, but Wilford didn’t want to risk trying to spice it up and scare the kid off it. He dished both of them up, giving the kid about a dozen noodles with the tiniest splash of sauce, and sat both plates on the coffee table. Maybe if he sat down next to the kid, he could convince him to eat something.

“Eat it,” Wilford said, pointing at the kid’s plate. “You need to eat something that isn’t a cracker today.”

The kid curiously picked up one of the noodles and examined it. He threw it back onto his plate and picked up another.

“Stick it in your mouth,” Wilford said. He took a bite off his own plate. He’d actually managed to make something even more flavourless than the crap he’d get delivered at 4am.

The kid put the noodle into his mouth and immediately started to cry. Burying his face in both hands, Wilford fell back onto the floor, almost wanting to cry as well. Why was everything so awful all of the time?

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