Lights. Camera. Murder. by C.S. Poe

Author:C.S. Poe [Poe, C.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Emporium Press
Published: 2020-05-20T00:00:00+00:00

I recycled empty Altoids tins.

They could be turned into basically anything.

I sat at the table, Optivisor pulled down over my glasses as I stripped the ends of two cables to solder onto a panel small enough to fit into the box. This was the third solar-powered USB charger I’d built since getting home.

The television murmured on the other side of the room. Some show called New York, New York. I didn’t know anything about it beyond: canned laughter sitcom and Marion Roosevelt’s first big break. According to IMDb, anyway. He’d come out in real life after the second season aired, à la Ellen DeGeneres, so said one comment. Marion was several years younger, practically baby-faced. But he still knew how to steal the camera in every scene.

“Jack’s gay?” a woman asked, question delivered in over-the-top comedic acting.

I glanced up, raised the visor, and watched Jack—Marion’s character—sink into a couch as two friends argued on either side of him.

“Did you not just see the man attached to Jack’s face? It was like something out of Alien,” the second actor countered.

Insert audience laughter.

She looked down at Jack. “Is this true?”

Jack stared up at her. “You know how you hate my dad jokes?”

“Yeah.”

“When I have a family, my kids will hate them twice as much.”

More laughter.

Marion was a good comedian, even when he had a shitty script to work with.

I heard the schiiik of a key being inserted into the front-door lock, and turned in time to see the apartment door open and my most recently acquired ex step inside. I took off the visor as I quickly stood. “Nate?”

“Hi, honey.” He shut the door.

I held my hand out. “Key.”

Nate ignored the demand, unbuttoned his coat, and walked to the couch while watching the flickering TV screen. “Are you really watching this show?” He picked up the remote from one of the cushions and turned the television off. “It’s awful.”

“It’s not bad,” I countered.

Nate turned toward me, rolling his eyes. “And if I’d said it was great, you’d have said it was shit.”

“Why are you here?” I asked sternly.

He approached, drew close, and placed his hands low on my hips. “We broke up.”

“Right.”

“So—”

“I’m not interested.”

Nate blindly reached down to grope me through my jeans. “You feel interested.”

I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “Not with you.”

He huffed and stepped back. “You have something more pressing to do than getting some no-strings-attached sex?” Nate laughed and held his hands up to interrupt anything I may have tried to say. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re too busy working. What’s the investigation this week? Undercover work as a drummer for some punk band that meets in mom’s basement?” He motioned to the worn-out clothes I was still wearing from all day on set. “And what about next week? CPA? Stock trader on Wall Street? Living out of your car while you track—”

“Nate.”

“You need to get a fucking life,” he shouted.

“Did you come here to fight with me?” I asked calmly.

He might as well have not heard me.

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