There was an older man and woman across from her who had probably been Angie’s age when they came in. The woman gave Angie a look of disgust. The man gave Angie one of interest. Jesus, the guy had to be eighty and he was probably wondering how much money he had in his wallet. His wife blew her nose into a well-worn tissue. She looked ready to fall over. Angie spread her legs wide and the man blanched. The wife looked like she was about to have a heart attack.
Before they could move away, Angie stood up and went to the magazine rack. God, this place was depressing. The waiting room was a cesspit of germs and disease. Anybody who thought America didn’t have socialized medicine should spend a couple of hours in their local ER. Someone was paying for the uninsured and indigent to see a doctor, and it sure as shit wasn’t the uninsured and indigent. Hell, you were better off without insurance these days. You got the same crappy care but you paid less.
She skimmed a Field & Stream then a Ladies Home Journal from the Christmas before last as she waited for Gina Ormewood to show up. Michael had gone too far yesterday. He’d grinned at her like a monkey while they worked through his Vice records and now she knew why. It was one thing to fuck with Angie—hell, she probably deserved it—but the fact that he’d gotten Will upset was unforgivable. Michael must have said something, let a few words slip that told Will he’d banged Angie. She worked with men all day, arrested the fuckers, even, and she knew how their little minds worked. A second couldn’t go by without them either thinking about sex or talking about it, and the fact that Michael had fucked Angie was very good gossip. He’d probably even told that turdball Leo Donnelly. The whole squad must know by now. No wonder Will felt humiliated.
God, she had to stop listening to the girls so much. No one hated men as much as a prostitute. They spent hours talking about what lowlife scum men were, and then they had to go off with the first asshole who flashed a little green in their face. Angie had enough issues with men without starting to think about them like a whore.
The doors opened and she glanced up as a couple of guys came in. She looked back at the magazine, not really seeing the fruitcake recipe. Her head hurt with thoughts of Ormewood, the disappointment on Will’s face, the way he had looked at her the night before when she’d gently pushed him out the front door. He must have been seething when Michael started bragging about it, telling the intimate details of his conquest.
Angie flipped to a different page, a different recipe. If Michael was going to screw around with the one person Angie cared about, then she was going to give it right back to him. Nothing distracted a man more than trouble at home.
“Robin?”
Angie turned to the next page. Mother and daughter sweaters. How fucking adorable.
“Robin? Is that you?”
Shit. She looked up. John Shelley stood in front of her. He was beside a black guy whose hand was wrapped in a bloody bandage.
Tank called, “Sign in, please.”
“I’ll be back,” John told her. He took the black guy to the counter. Obviously, profuse bleeding moved you up the list because Tank took the guy right back.
John was staring at Angie. “What are you doing here?”
“Routine maintenance,” she said, indicating her lower half. “What’s up with that guy?”
“Ray-Ray,” John told her, the asshole who wanted one on credit. “He cut his hand on a piece of metal sticking out of a car. Art asked me to bring him up.”
“He gonna be okay?”
“If Art doesn’t kill him first,” John said. He seemed at a loss for words, and blurted out, “You look nice.”
She looked like a whore, but a compliment was a compliment. “I thought you were gonna stay away from me.”
“Oh.” His face fell, and for a split second, she was reminded of Will—the way he could never hide his emotions from her, the way he sometimes wore his shame and disappointment on his sleeve.
“Come here,” she said, taking John’s arm and leading him out into the hall. They stood just inside the front door. Angie could see the smokers on the other side.
She asked John, “You doing okay?”
He was smiling now, almost hopeful. “Yeah. How about you?”
“No,” she insisted. “Last time I saw you, you were in some trouble.”
He nodded, looked down at his feet. Why did she always end up talking to men who looked at their feet?
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “I know I said I was going to stay away, but it’s really nice seeing you.”
“You hardly know me.”
He smiled again. God, he had such a sweet smile. “I know about Stewie.”
He knew lies, she thought. The first of many, if history told her anything.
“You really look nice.”
“You already said that.”
John laughed. “I’m trying to think of something else to say.” He laughed again, not so much uncomfortable as really enjoying himself and her company. He looked down at his shoes again, and she saw that he had the prettiest eyelashes she had ever seen on a man. They were a soft, delicate brown. John was a big guy, almost as tall as Will, with a broader chest and a hell of a lot more self-confidence. Despite the cold weather, his face was tanned and there were golden streaks in his hair from working outside all day.
She said, “You look nice, too.”
He smiled, and again she got the feeling that there was nothing more he wanted to do than stand there and talk to her all day.
What lies would she tell him? How long before she ended up taking John to a broom closet or a bathroom and screwing him, then hating him because he had fucked her? How long before she messed up his life, too?
She asked, “What were you in for, John?”
His smile dropped. His shoulders dropped, too.
Angie had already read his parole sheet, but that had only told her the charges, not the details of the crime. “Tell me what you did.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I had an aluminum siding salesman last night who wanted me to suck his toes and call him daddy,” she said. “You think you’re going to come up with something that shocks me?”
“I made some mistakes.”
“We’ve all made mistakes.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You were in a long time,” she noted. “Did you kill somebody?”
He licked his lips, nervous. He was so much like Will that they could have been brothers. Hell, considering Will’s slutty mother, maybe they were brothers.
John told her, “I should get back with Ray-Ray, make sure he’s not talking himself into any trouble.”
Angie looked out the glass doors. Gina Ormewood was standing with the smokers, her blue nurse’s scrubs a stark contrast to the cigarette she was sucking on.
John said, “It was real good seeing you.”
“Take care of yourself.”
He started to walk away, then stopped. “When this is over,” he said, spreading his hands out like there was a tangible thing between them. “When what’s going on is over,” he said, still being obtuse, “maybe we can go out to dinner or something? See a movie?”
“John,” she began. “Do you think that’s really gonna happen?”