Up With The Crows Read online

  Up With The Crows

  Book One, The Unsylum Series

  Zoe Parker

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  To Be Continued…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Zoe Parker

  Copyright © 2018 by Zoe Parker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design by Andreea Vraciu

  Editing by Precision Red Pen

  This is to all of you.

  Darkness rests in every soul, balancing out the whole. Give it wings to fly away but it’ll always return another day.

  Foreword

  Birds have wings; they’re free; they can fly where they want, when they want. They have the kind of mobility many people envy.

  Roger Tory Peterson

  Chapter One

  Birds born in cages think that flying is an illness. ~Alejandro Jodorowsky

  A date should never make you sleepy in the first 20 minutes.

  When my jaw cracks from yawning, I shake myself to wake up. There’s a possibility that I drooled a little on my hand, I check. Yep, it happened. Straightening, I look for a relatively un-embarrassing way to clean the drool off. Then again, he hasn’t noticed me semi-napping while he’s gone on and on about his entire life. All on our first date. I even know his bowel movements are regular—not because he told me, but someone like him loves their fiber. I can just tell.

  Honestly, most of this I should probably be paying attention to, possibly even enthralled by. Especially considering that this is the first date I’ve had in a year. And no, I’m not counting my drunken escapades, those aren’t dates with anyone but the GYNO. I’m careful but also paranoid, in this day and age we have to be. If I had unprotected sexy times, with the way my luck works, I’d get the supercharged UTI to end all UTIs and die alone with 20 cats and a pee bag strapped to my leg.

  Not that cats are horrible, I like cats. My allergies don’t.

  Eyeing Steven, I try to gauge exactly how much attention he’s paying to me. From the way he keeps talking, that practiced smile hovering on his face, I’d say not much. He’s too busy listing his life accomplishments. Eyes steady on him, watching for any sign that he’s not just a talkative robot, I use the linen tablecloth to clean my hand. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I believe in taking advantage of opportunities presented to me.

  Like this obvious mistake of a date, I jumped at it when he sent me a message on the “KissingCupids” dating app. It was politely worded and contained all the ridiculous keywords that make women break out the lipstick, including me. The fact is that a guy as attractive as him, asking me on a date without having a bit of conversation first, should’ve rang warning bells in my head. Wait, maybe it did, and I ignored them? That’s not an uncommon reaction from me. I have issues with impulse control, it’s why I’m banned from the Home Shopping Network.

  With effort, I make myself focus on his face and attempt a smile. Mine falls flat and turns into a frown when the plastic smile on his face doesn’t change a bit. He doesn’t even pause in his onslaught of fun facts about himself, and I know he saw me wipe my hand. There’s not even the smallest reaction, he continues onto his requirements for his prospective wife instead. This part makes me pay attention, and his expectations aren’t as surprising as they should be considering he’s a stranger. A woman who maintains a clean, orderly household; who likes to stay at home, raise the children, cook three square meals a day. Gracefully, and yes, he used that word, host parties for his work cronies, while looking glamorous and happy—yes, he used the word glamorous too. I think there’s a chance that this guy was hugged a bit too much by mommy. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with someone staying at home to do these things. It’s a job in itself. However, the bar he’s setting is quite high and I’m not sure that it’ll be met.

  That doesn’t sit right with me. I think I’ve stupidly gone on a date with a Stepford-husband.

  Honestly though, would knowing this have stopped me from coming on this date? Nope, it wouldn’t have because I’m your average, lonely—sort of desperate—woman in her late 30s. I crave love like everyone else, the need for someone to come home to. Hell, maybe even kids one day. You know that normal white picket fence shit.

  Plus, in this case, it helps that he’s a great looking guy; dressed rather nice, if a bit over dressed, in a light gray suit that was obviously tailored to fit him. It also probably cost more than I’ve had in my bank account at any given time, in years. His wavy hair is honey colored, cut in a style that flatters his face while looking natural in the process. A vivid set of robin’s egg blue eyes that brightly stand out on his tanned face, crowns the glory of Mister Stepford. Speaking of his face, his belongs on a coin somewhere in Roman history. High cheekbones, a strong prominent jaw that shows at least one of his parents has good genes, and I’m pretty sure there are dimples in both cheeks. I’m surprised he’s not a movie star instead of a portfolio manager.

  Going purely on how he looks—in theory, he’s perfect for me. Just looking at him would make most women get all gaga. He’s over six-feet tall with the kind of smile that I’m sure gets him plenty of company. His lips are full, and kind of plush for a man and his teeth are a bright, almost blinding white and incredibly straight. Definitely, a braces kid, but it was worth the result I’d say. On top of the physical attributes, he has a six-figure job, his own house, and drives a car that looks like he bought it yesterday.

  The suit and way he carries himself prove those bits of info he provided true.

  But… I feel absolutely nothing for the guy. Zero. Nada. My vagina is so dry that I’m surprised there isn’t sand in my underwear. How very disappointing, and boring. It must be the talking. He’s a long-winded-preacher-on-a-hot-Sunday-morning-before-the-big-game kind of dull. Why does it always happen this way? Is it the creepy factor? Considering it, I decide it’s not and face the truth of my loserness. If he were in debt up to his eyeballs and considering selling his kidney to buy a bag of weed, I’d think he was the best guy ever.

  My dating radar is completely and utterly broken.

  The last time I had a date that I relatively enjoyed, the guy showed up with his shoes on the wrong feet and wearing only one sock. I hadn’t dated for months at the time, not even the occasional one nightery, so I ignored his “rumpled” appearance, choosing instead to go with it. Idiotically, we started drinking. As the night progressed and the alcohol flowed freely, he somehow lost his shirt and, man, those abs were hard to resist. Not that I did, at least I don’t think I did. It’s still a hazy memory.

  In my defense, we ended up so drunk that the only reason I remember his face—okay, so those abs and his face, his name is lost in time somewhere—is because I took a picture on my phone. He is one of the reasons my GYNO knows me by name. After having drunken sex, or the suspicion I did—with someone whose name I can’t remember—the smartest choice I made in that entire scenario was to take a trip to the doc. One of the condoms in my purse was gone, which makes me hope that we had enough sense to
use it. All the tests came back clean, at least.

  It’s a shame that the probably-had-it sex wasn’t memorable, because then I’d have something more than a nagging worry about being that irresponsible, I’d know exactly how bad it was. I’ll admit I still occasionally hook up—ha, not lately but thinking it makes me feel better—but I don’t drink at the same time anymore. Alcohol and I combined always results in havoc. Always. Usually it’s the kind that I regret the next day, but not every single time. I can’t lie and say that every moment of my life has been that pitiful.

  The fact that I came on this date, while ignoring all my common sense, might get itself filed in the pitiful pile.

  “Will it be my place or your place after dinner?” I swear I hear that awful sound of a record needle scraping in my head as I focus on him. He has my complete attention now.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask semi-hoping I heard him wrong.

  “For sex,” he says so nonchalantly that I think he had more emotion talking about his job then having sex with me. I’m not sure whether to laugh at him or hit him in the face with my plate.

  “I didn’t realize that was a guaranteed thing on a first date. Is there a hidden requirement for that in the contract on the dating site I met your ass on?” I ask, lifting my phone to pull up the app. I’m not actually going to read the terms of service, but I am going to read our conversation and make sure I didn’t miss agreeing to have sex with him on the first date. Sure, I’ve done it, but that’s not the point. There was no “expectation” of it and him having one annoys the ever-living shit out of me.

  “I assumed, my mistake.” He finally loses that creepy smile off his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” Frowning at him, but seeing no reason to argue with him going to the bathroom, I wave him away.

  After several minutes, and with no sign of him, I have no choice but to accept that he isn’t coming back. I suspected it after the first five but I’m nothing if not stubborn. I was determined to give him a chance to be a decent human being and pay his half of the bill. This type of behavior is one of the many reasons I have an incredibly small amount of faith in humanity. Grabbing the check, I look dejectedly at the minuscule amount of money in my wallet and head up to the cashier.

  Not having as much cash as I thought, I end up digging through the bottom of my purse, where things get lost, for change.

  “Here ya go,” I sit the sticky items in my hand on the counter, “You get a free half-piece of gum and some lint.” Both are stuck to the dirty quarter that finishes the last bit of the change I have. My eyes burn, but I push my way through it. Steven doesn’t care that I won’t have food this week because he ditched. I attempt to smile at the cashier who looks at me with a mix of pity and disgust, yeah, that’s not an uncommon look.

  “Do you want a receipt?”

  “No. Thanks though.”

  Considering his behavior, it’s possible that Steven’s wealth is all a façade. That explains why he ordered double portions, something you’d think someone in his kind of shape wouldn’t do. I have a pretty solid feeling he had no intention of paying, whether I slept with him or not. Now that I analyze some of his—what I thought was eccentric—behavior, all the signs were there. The way he turned his “Rolex” away when I asked to see it, I’ve never seen a real one and wouldn’t know a fake either way. Or how he ate those heaping servings of food so fast before talking about his entire life, that was probably fake too. Hell, maybe that’s how he affords all those expensive props because some dumbass like me pays all the bills? A new horror fills my mind. Oh, shit what if he’s married?

  That Ken doll mother—

  “Ma’am, can you please continue your tirade outside? The other customers are staring.” The nasally voice of the cashier breaks into my mental tangent.

  Turning my attention to the pimply faced boy, I open my mouth to apologize then see the smug look on his face. “It’s Denny’s dude, it’s not exactly a $100 dollar plate place. There’s a homeless guy in the corner with pee stains on his pants.” He opens his mouth to argue and then he looks at the homeless guy, who is really in the corner with pee stains on his pants and shuts his mouth.

  Without another word, I grab my moneyless purse and drag my ass out to my car.

  Stopping outside of the ancient contraption that—out of pride—I still call a car, I peel the corner of the plastic grocery bag off the window. Sliding my arm through the hole, I pop the lock and open the door. Yes, there’s no window, and I still lock the doors, but for me, it’s a point of principle. Fixing the bag, I climb inside and pull the door shut only to look over and find that the passenger window is in pieces on the seat. The desire to cry again hits me hard, with a tight throat I fight it back with a sharp bite to my inner cheek. On the seat, on top of the shards of safety glass, is a note written on a copy of my resume.

  Sorry for breaking your window, I didn’t realize there was a bag on the other side. I didn’t steal anything because I felt bad about breaking it. God bless.

  Why the hell did they end their note with God bless? I mean come on! They broke into my car, you can’t bless someone you tried to steal from. That’s got to be blasphemy of some kind, or a one-way ticket to a special kind of hell when they die. Angrily, I swipe at the tears streaking down my face, I hate being an emotional crier. If I’m sad I cry, if I’m happy I cry, if I’m mad I cry. It sucked as a kid and sucks even more as an adult.

  Turning the car on, I wait the customary 2 minutes with my ears covered, for the fan belt to stop its awful caterwauling. I pat the dashboard affectionately, Herbette and I have gone through some shit together. I’ve had this car since the day I got my license. Mom parked it in the driveway with a big polka dot bow on it. Of course, back then it was in great shape, brand new and shiny. I’m pretty sure it only had 40 miles on it when I started it up the first time. Getting it was one of the happiest days of my life; we spent the evening driving around with the windows down while singing loudly to eighties music. This car has been where I cried the most, where I lost my virginity, and where I got my first speeding ticket. So many memories inside of this wonderful, rusted metal member of my family. Now she’s 23 years old and, if I could, I’d retire her. The whole too-poor-to-buy-a-new-one thing interferes with that.

  Turning the radio on, I make a face, but would rather have the background noise. The soothing classical music that I listened to—one time—22 ago, is now all that plays in the car. Somehow, in one of my drunken teenage moments, I got gum in the hole for the knob. The one that’s been missing since that day. Of course, that was back when I had friends before they left me behind to pursue their dreams of farming. Together. Without me.

  Come on Mel, you sound a bit twatty don’t you?

  Sniffling, I wipe my snotty nose with a tissue from the emergency pack I keep in the console. I had 2 friends in high school, Jason and Charmaine. They’re now unhappily married, but back then it was the three of us together conquering the world. We did everything together and having that closeness with them made the crapshoot of high school bearable. That dream all came crashing down on me the day after graduation. Jason proposed to Charmaine who then decided that she couldn’t be my friend anymore. To her, I was a distraction for Jason from the life goals she had planned for them, you know, their dreams of farming.

  Talk about a complete 180.

  Jason looked like an eager puppy as he grabbed her hand and off they went to change the world of produce and become famous entrepreneurs. Now he weighs 400 pounds, has no hair, and sports a bad case of adult acne. She’s lumpy like a cheap pillow and smokes 2 packs of cigarettes a day. I know for a fact that she also cheats on him religiously with the truckers at the Que-Mart. The life goals they had of starting an organic farm and living the green life crumbled on their heads because they have 6 kids, 20 dogs and live in a trailer outside of town. No farm, no green life. Just a yard full of old appliances and broken-down cars that weave around the store-bought swimming pool
that she washes laundry in. Both work at Greg’s Grocery, not that it’s shameful to work there, but it’s not the organic farm they dumped me for.

  Honestly, I’ve never seen 2 people hate each other as much as they do now.

  There’s a teeny tiny part of me that wants to celebrate their misfortune, the rest of me kicks its ass. Never, ever, should you feel happy about someone’s misery. There’s something abjectly wrong with that. I can be happy that I wasn’t dumb enough to be the one to date Jason. Instead, I went off to college to get my useless bachelor’s in human resources, that’s only use thus far is a fancy, framed walnut-cracking tray.

  Still, in all that misery and bitterness, at least they both have jobs. I seem to run into constant issues keeping one. Bad luck follows me around like a stalker, always getting into my life and messing everything up. My most recent job, working as a dog groomer, was great. I love dogs, and for some reason, they love me back, never had one give me issue. It’s their owners that I ran into problems with. Dyeing your dog’s fur is yuck, the colored spray that washes off is fine, but the actual dye is horrible for their skin and their digestion. Dogs lick themselves.

  All I tried to do was explain to her—what my boss told me to explain to her—about the dangers of dyeing your dog’s fur. She clobbered me with her purse and demanded I be fired, or she was suing the business. Considering that it’s a small-town business, with a single owner and me—the only other employee—Sandy, my boss, didn’t have a choice. She canned me with a week’s severance pay.