There was silence as Todd swiveled in his chair. The scowl on his face would have been like a punch to the gut except for the grin that followed. “Nah. Once Scott heard you were practically killed by a George Foreman Grill, he covered my shifts.”
Shaney immediately frowned. Scott didn’t do anything unless it benefited him, much less anything out of the kindness of his heart—especially where Shaney was concerned. No love lost there. “Wait—”
Todd waved his hand and diverted his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. It cost me. Well, no. Actually, it cost you,” he confessed, moving quickly to pick up his books.
Shaney narrowed his eyes. “Cost me what?”
Todd mumbled something under his breath and practically sprinted from the kitchen, but Shaney was hot on his tail.
“Freeze, warlock!” Shaney commanded.
Todd halted and turned on his heels, a smirk threatening his lips at being called ‘warlock.’ Shaney put his hands on his hips to prove he meant business. Todd pressed his lips together, and let a deep breath escape from his nose.
“A picture of your second head.”
Shaney grimaced. “I’m really hoping you’re not talking about my dick, Todd.” Scott wasn’t even gay.
Todd let out a strangled laugh as his eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “No! Your other… second head.” Todd pointed his finger at Shaney’s bump.
“What the hell, Todd? What would that asshat want with a picture of the bump on my head?”
He shrugged. “Something about the Internet. Maybe, as we speak, your second head is becoming the next biggest YouTube sensation. You know, like that talking orange, only a talking second head?”
Hey, that was Shaney’s idea. Well, not the talking part. Shaney dropped his arms in defeat. Fate or destiny or the cosmos, or, heck, maybe the entire universe had it out for him.
* * * *
With minutes to spare, Shaney dropped into a hard plastic chair in his probe officer’s waiting room. He’d sprinted from the apartment before realizing that a hat would have nixed the stares at his misshapen head—stares much like that from the burly biker dude currently sitting across from him. His eyes were glued to Shaney’s scalp.
Shaney pointed to his second head. “Space debris, man. You gotta keep an eye on the sky.” Shaney pointed at the ceiling as Mr. Anderson called his name. Biker Dude’s eyes grew wide as he watched Shaney walk into the office.
Shaney slumped into the chair in front of the obsessively neat desk. The grey cinderblock walls of the closet-sized office were already closing in around him. His left leg bounced as he chewed on the side of his thumbnail. Mr. Anderson sat ceremoniously in his high-backed chair, squared the lone folder on the desk, and then cleared his throat. He was maybe ten years older than Shaney and quite uptight for someone possibly under thirty. Maybe he had a wife. That would make Shaney uptight.
Mr. Anderson leaned back. His gaze rose to meet Shaney’s and then the man’s usual bravado whooshed from him. He practically deflated right before Shaney’s eyes. Was that defeat he saw festering there? Oh, shit. He was sending Shaney to the big house. No way would Shaney ever survive prison. A shiv after his first stupid question to some convict named Big Louie would end him. Run. That’s what he’d do. Canada. Crap, he didn’t have a passport or one of those special license thingies needed to cross the border. Wait. He wouldn’t actually want anyone to know he was there. He could hide in a trunk with a false bottom or ride in the back of a cattle truck. Would the cows mind?
“Shaney, pay attention,” Mr. Anderson snapped.
The sharp tone yanked Shaney out of his head. Shaney leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, ready for the verdict. Mr. Anderson leaned forward as well, stiffening again as he clasped his hands on his desk. Silence could definitely be deafening.
“Shaney, I consider myself to be quite good at my job. I strive to match community service assignments to the people completing those hours because it has proven successful. I like success.” He cocked a disapproving eyebrow at Shaney.
In other words, he disliked failure. Shaney had failed. Nothing felt worse than that.
“Because I like success, I expect it from those I work with.” He narrowed his eyes. “I expect it from you, Shaney.” Mr. Anderson’s eyes were like laser sights on him, lips thin and tight.
Shaney shifted in his chair, barely breathing, running his sweaty hands over his jeans. He needed this to end quickly. Band-Aid style.
The quiet grew as Mr. Anderson let his last words loom large and heavy over Shaney’s head like storm clouds. Shaney licked his lips and managed to stutter out, “O-okay.”