I hated waiting, it killed my brain slowly. It was waiting that led me to do things like drinking, doping, or in my most recent act of boredom, fucking my neighbor.

But, from what I could hear from the other side of my bedroom wall, Amy was busy, and in a way, so was I. Not with fiddling with whatever made so much metallic noise inside her apartment, but with something far more delicate and probably better tasting.

A bottle of Bombay.

I was lying in my bed, contemplating whether or not I should open it. Leon could call any moment and say they found some locations to scout. Maybe some new evidence. Or maybe even found the missing kid, though that one was highly unlikely. They wouldn't find that kid without me, that was for sure, and that was also partially why I hesitated opening the bottle.

But I wanted it. Really badly, in fact. I usually wasn't the person to hesitate; I either did something or didn't do something, and then I was done with it. Big shit. But, drinking while working on an abduction case with a kid as the victim... if that wasn't careless, then what was?

I heard something metallic creak from the other side of the wall, which was followed by the sound of Amy's sudden loud outburst; "Sonofabitch!"

Something hard thumped and then the door went. I waited exactly three seconds before I heard her footsteps outside my door. And then came the knock.

I closed my eyes for a long second before I got up. The universe sure had a fun way of keeping me from drinking.

I opened my front door and was met by a very soaked Amy; Her hair was dripping and the front of her shirt and the beginning of her short were drenched in what looked like dirty water. My deduction, along with the metallic sounds I had heard from my room, told me that she had a faulty pipe.

"Do you know how to fix a sink?" She said after the initial eye contact. My first reflex was always to read the other persons body first before reading their eyes, but Amy was always upfront.

I crossed my arms, doing another take of her wet persona. "Do you?"

"Clearly not," She snorted, wiping a droplet of water away from her forehead which had been moving down to her eye. "Can you help me, please? I need someone to fix my pipe and I don't mean that as a euphemism. I'm having company later and it wasn't meant to be a pool party."

I sighed and looked down at the floor for a second. Fixing a sink was better than emptying a bottle. "Fine."

"Thank you."

We walked into her apartment—me for the very first time—and I took a good sweep of her home with my eyes.

Stuffy, bohemian, a little messy. Not that I was an expert, but most women usually like their places nice and welcoming. Especially those who were supposed to have company later. Amy's apartment was not.

It revealed that whoever was coming to visit clearly wasn't someone she held high opinions of. Not enough to clean her apartment, but yet still just enough for her to make her bed, which was there, right when you walked in. There were less than five feet from the bed to the door, showing that she didn't waste any time at all. Once prey had been lured into her apartment, prey was already caught in the web.

But I wasn't prey today.

When I turned my head to her kitchen which was past her sleeping area, across from her tiny living room, I saw her sink leaking water and was forming a big pool on the dark wooden floor.

"It has been leaking all week and this morning I got tired of emptying buckets," She said, wiping her forehead with her arm. "I decided to try and tinker with it, but clearly my middle name isn't Tinkerbell."

"Mine isn't either."

"No?" She combed her fingers through her wet hair. "What is it, then?"

"Isaac." I walked up to her sink. Water was still gushing out.

"Isaac? Detective Russell Isaac Crane," She slowly said. "I dare you to say that five times fast."

"Wrench."

"Excuse me?"

I turned and gave her a flat look. "I need a wrench."

"Oh," She said, dropping her crossed arms. "I thought you were calling me one. Hold on." She walked up to her shoe collection which was pushed together in a cluster on the floor. After searching for a moment, she pulled a wrench out of one of the boots. "I got pissed off when the pipe snapped and then sprayed me, so I hurled the wrench away. Here you go."

She handed me the wrench and I took it, laying down on the wet floor in front of her sink. I then turned the valve which stopped the water from flowing.

"Oh. Smart idea," She grunted. "Well, looks like you got that under control. I'll go take a shower then, if you don't mind."

I just kept working on loosening a few bolts on the sink that seemed rusty. After a moment when she realized I wasn't going to reply, she sighed.

"Alright. Have fun, then."

I wouldn't exactly call it having fun, but I would definitely call it keeping me from becoming an alcoholic again.

~~~

About twenty minutes later, Amy came out of the bathroom with a trail of steam following behind her, which spread to her entire apartment and engulfed it in a fruity scent. She had a towel wrapped around her wet hair, but had for my benefit (obviously) omitted the towel around the rest her body. This allowed me to see her naked body in all its gorgeous womanhood. Right from her peaked nipples meeting the cold air, to her long slim legs, to her slick pussy that still was slightly moist from the shower. And freshly shaved.

I took back my previous statement; I was indeed prey today as well.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer," She smirked as she walked up to her dresser and picked out her clothes. She went with a red thong and a bra to match, along with a girly, flowery summer dress as her attire for the day. Not her usual preference of wardrobe.

"Not in my head," I replied. "Pictures can burn, be misplaced or torn up. I found my memory is better at storing data than physical objects."

"Am I data to you?" She wondered while slipping on her thong.

I rose a flat brow at her. "Am I not just another dick to you?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a long moment as she strapped on her bra. "I suppose you make a fair argument, Detective. How's the sink coming along?"

I had long ago turned my attention back to the steel pipe above me and gave the last nut a good twist. I then turned the valve back on so the water could flow. "Try turning on the tap."

She walked over to me, smirking down at me as she strategically placed a foot on either side of my body so I had the perfect view of her pussy. She then turned on the tap, letting the water flow. For a moment, it seemed to flow easily and untroubled.

- And then the pipe burst again, spraying dirty water all over me, much like it had done her.

Amy quickly turned off the tap, just as I turned the valve and blocked the water again. I ran a hand over my face, removing the residue droplets on my face. "You have a rusty pipe. You need to buy a new one."

Amy stepped away and allowed me to get up. "Fantastic. That's just what I needed," She sighed and unwrapped her hair from the towel. She handed it to me. "I'm sorry about your shirt... though I must admit not too sorry."

She smirked as I took the towel and dried my own hair off, which much like hers, was soaked. The same thing applied to my white dress shirt and I guessed that was the reason Amy didn't feel too bad; I imagined this had to be right out of an erotic novel to her; the handyman getting soaked in his ever white shirt so she could see through to the muscular frame beneath.

I felt like rolling my eyes purely from the ridiculous and nauseatingly cliché  scenario.

"You can dry off in my bathroom," She said, sighing heavily after a moment of staring. "I need to mop up all this water before I get company and you dripping on my floor doesn't help. Go," She said, making a simple nod with her head towards her bathroom. "But don't take too long, my guest can be here literally any moment."

"I live right on the other side of the wall. I can dry off there."

"Aren't you even the least bit curious about who my guest is?" She now asked, cocking her brow as she begun to pull on her flowery dress.

"No, I already know who's coming."

"You do?" She said, actually surprised.

"You're trying exceptionally hard to impress someone," I said, stepping closer to her. I watched as she narrowed her eyes. "You don't have a single piece of flowery fabric in your house, not even as much as a green plant, yet you have a summer dress with alarmingly pink roses on it, and it just so happens to look new. Judging by your constant fidgeting and the way you keep glancing around your apartment, you're worried about what your guest might think of your place, maybe even yourself, yet for some reason, you want to give off the appearance that you're not trying so hard, which is why you didn't bother stacking your shoes properly or vacuuming the floor. You however did make your bed," I noted, glancing over her shoulder to her bed, before looking back at her. She gulped. "There's only two distinctive groups of people that other people make their beds for. The first one is obvious; lovers," I said, raising a brow. "But you never bother with that, do you? You know that most men you bring here are already so impatient to be inside you, they don't care if your bed is made or not."

Amy gulped again and looked down at my lips. "You're not impatient right now."

"I'm not most men."

She looked up at my eyes again. "So what's the second, then?"

I cocked my head a little to the side. "I don't know about you, but there's only one person in my life that cares if my bed is made or not. I'm guessing it's the same with you."

Amy glared stunned, but then blinked. Just as she was opening her mouth to stutter a reply, there came a knock on her door. It startled her so much, she made a high-pitched yelp. I stood quietly as she blinked perplexed before she quickly rushed over to her door. Her eyes left mine as she swung it open and greeted her guest.

I thought I had guessed who would walk through that door. My obvious deduction of her room had been that she was expecting a family member—her mother to be exact. And while my deduction was incorrect, it wasn't totally off, though.

None other than Amy's older sister stood in the door and smiled superiorly down at her. Her hair was slightly darker, her skin was a bit fairer, but her features looked a few years older. Everything right from her finely manicured French tips to her polished makeup and hair, not to mention the lint-rolled, ironed business suit she wore, told me she was the older, accomplished sister. And she was obviously here to gloat on her little sister.

Amy's behavior suddenly made sense.

"Hello, Amy," She said, stretching her smile a little wider at her sister's sloppy, unfinished appearance. "Am I too early? We did say 10am, didn't we?"

"Yeah, you're punctual as always and I'm running late as always," Amy replied, a muscle in her jaw twitching. "Come in."

Her sister walked in with her cocky grin, but immediately froze when she saw me. A deep crease formed between her brows and grew deeper for each second she looked at me. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

Amy closed the door behind her and slowly walked up to her sister. "This is Russell Crane, he's my next door neighbor. He was just here helping me fix a pipe," She said, gesturing to the wet floor.

"Oh, I see," Her sister's smirk immediately returned to her face as she did a take of my body.

I enjoyed watching it happen, seeing her own petty, inconclusive deduction take its judging shape on her face; She saw my bare feet, the ones that probably looked dirty now, thanks to Amy's unwashed floor. She saw the dirt splotches on my faded black pants, maybe even saw the small, worn-out mark by my pocket from where I kept my phone. She looked at my drenched white shirt which at least was buttoned correctly, but probably looked wrinkled the places it wasn't wet. She saw my jawline, the chin I hadn't shaved in two days, and she saw my eyes which had dark rims beneath them because of sleep deprivation.

In her eyes, I was poor, unemployed, sloppy and unintelligent.

Amateur.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Crane," She said, giving me a nod instead of a handshake.

I continued drying off my face and neck while not providing her with a nod back. "You're welcome."

She gave a stiff glare and turned to look at Amy. "I thought we were going to be alone today."

"Like I said, Russell was just here to help me fix a pipe," She replied, giving me a look that told me to confirm it. I wasn't going to do that. I was going to do something much better.

"Yes, I'm sorry about the mess, Amy did tell me she'd have company," I replied, looking her sister in the eyes. "I'll just clean it up and then I'll be out of here."

"Oh, you don't have to—" Amy begun, but I cut her off.

"It's okay," I said, giving her a pointed stare. "You wanted my help, now you got it."

Amy pressed her lips together for a moment, before giving up. "Alright. You don't mind, do you, Irina?"

Irina, as her sister's name had to be, gave a vague shrug before she sighed. "Well, it's your place. Speaking of which, those drapes you have over there, they block out too much sunlight. It's so... depressing in here," She said, stepping further into Amy's apartment. "You should reconsider those."

"Right..." Amy tiredly said, walking up to her closet before pulling out a mop for me. "Here, thanks again, Russell."

"No problem."

"Oh, so you do have a mop," Her sister chuckled. "I thought your floors were so dirty because you couldn't afford one, but I guess you just didn't have time to do it, did you?"

I discretely glanced sideways and saw a muscle ticking in Amy's jaw. "No, I didn't. I just came from a night shift at the diner actually, so I'm a little tired."

"Oh, of course, I know how you feel. George works so late at the hospital that when he gets home, he's too tired to cook, so of course I do it for the family," She chuckled again, walking around the apartment, looking at everything and nothing. "I just put down the lawyer's briefcase and strap on the apron."

Amy was losing her cool and I could very well understand why. She kept clenching her fists and unclenching them for each piece of propaganda her sister spewed; She was telling her that she was working harder than her and that she still managed to do the house chores such as cooking and cleaning. The stuff of a real suburban wife.

And like every suburban wife, she had her secrets; Secrets I already had spotted from the moment she stepped through the door.

"Would you like something to drink?" Amy offered, her voice sounding strained. It was obvious her polite tone was forced. "I have ice-tea, milk, water—"

"Obviously," Irina clucked, looking towards the water on the floor I was patiently mopping away. She then glared at me like I had just disturbed her thoughts. "I think ice-tea is fine."

Amy sent me an apologetic look, even though she knew I brushed her sister's judging stare right off me. That sort of pettiness didn't touch me even the slightest. But it touched Amy.

While she poured her sister some ice-tea, Irina took a seat in one of her wobbly wooden chairs. She rested her purse in her lap and started fiddling with her wedding ring. "So, Amy, how's the single life these days?" She asked which only made me have to hide my smile. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"Which question do you want me to answer?" She asked a little defensively as she set the glass of ice-tea down in front of her sister and took a seat across from her. She had also poured a glass for herself which she slowly sipped.

"The last one," Irina replied, grimacing at the worn-down glass Amy had given her. "Have you found a proper boyfriend or are you still living life vivaciously with different men?"

Amy squeezed her own glass so tightly, I considered if she was going to break it. After a moment, though, she eased her grip and set it down. "Nope, no boyfriend. I'm still promiscuous."

Her sister sighed exaggeratedly and folded her hands. "I do wish you could find a nice man and settle down, Amy. You're not going to stay young forever, you know."

"I am aware of that."

"I just can't stand to watch you so... miserable," She said, glancing around. "You need a man in your life."

"FYI, I'm not miserable, and not everyone needs a man to survive," Amy finally said, breaking the cold surface of her anger. "Just because you're married and living the perfect suburban life doesn't mean I'm living life wrong."

"I never said you were doing wrong," Irina gaped in shock at her sister's sudden burst. "I just meant, maybe you should make some changes in your life, like..." I could feel her glancing sideways to me where I was finally getting done mopping the water up. "Maybe you should change the circle of people you hang around."

Amy's eyebrows shot up. "You're passing judgment on me based on my neighbors? That's cute, Irina, act like you know me."

"I wasn't—-" Irina quickly said when Amy shot up and walked up to her sink with the glass, past me. I met her sister's shocked eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr Crane, I didn't mean to—"

"Yes you did, and it's okay," I spoke up, leaning on the shaft of the mop. "You're entitled to your own opinions. After all, this is a free country."

She frowned a little, but then gathered her composure and straightened up. "I'm happy you see it that way, Mr Crane."

"Oh don't worry, no offense taken, Ms...?"

"Mrs Jefferson," She sharply corrected me with a little cocky smile. "I'm married."

"Really? That's interesting," I said, frowning theatrically. "I guess it makes sense, though, because from the way you keep fiddling so nervously with your wedding ring, I would hang onto the word Mrs as much as I could, too."

She blinked perplexed and dropped her jaw. "E-excuse me?"

"It's a giveaway," I said and pointed to her ring. "Either you got married a few weeks ago and still can't get used to the feeling of a wedding ring on your finger, or you're having marital problems that's causing you severe stress. The most common thing to do when one is stressed or under pressure is to fiddle with something; The page of a book, a loose twine, a pen, or in your case, your wedding ring," I mused, cocking my brow. "I wonder if your marital problems are in any way linked to your deep-seeded need to seek out your sister and point out her flaws every now and then. One could almost think you do it as a sort of reassurance to prove to yourself that no matter how bad your life is, it's still better than your sister's. It makes you feel good about your own crappy existence knowing your sister is doing much worse than yourself. Of course that leads me to the question if you even really should consider yourself a good person, or even more importantly, a good sister." I watched how each word I spoke pulled another shade of color out of her face until it was as pale as a ghost's. She opened and closed her mouth so many times, eventually she had to clear her throat.

"H-h-how d-did you—"

"I'm not finished. If you're going through a tough time, it could just be a way of surviving, putting all your frustrations onto your sister. Your need to criticize her is linked to your own need to look so polished and clean," I said, now walking closer. "But no matter how spotless and clean you present yourself, it's always a splattered, colorful self-portrait. For example, the way your thin black pencil skirt has been closely picked from any spec of dust could be affiliated with wanting to show off a professional, clean look. You're a lawyer, obviously it's important to show authority."

Irina gulped down a little and seemed to regain some color. "T-that's right, it's expected of me."

"Exactly. It's expected of you from work," I said, emphasizing the last word. "But since today is a Saturday and you clearly knew you didn't have to fight to outshine your sister, you still decided to strap on your best suit. Why? Maybe because Mr Jefferson hasn't been looking at you too much lately," I said, stepping even closer. "Maybe he's been working more than late hours, and maybe you know he's cheating, and just maybe, that's the real reason you asked your sister about the single life. Not to gloat on her unaccomplished victories concerning the partnership between a man and a woman, bur because you're failing that yourself and you have a feeling that soon enough, you'll be riding that vivacious single-life train right along side your little sister."

Her eyes were wide, her mouth was open and her bottom lip was quivering. She was glaring at me like I was the Devil in disguise and I was here to crush her. Which I was.

Because what kind of sick person got a kick out of coming here with the fullest intentions of bringing her own sister down when she was already struggling enough as it was? I might have been an inconsiderate prick at times, but right now in this room, I wasn't the biggest one. Even after my harsh speech, Amy's sister still took the crown.

"Who the hell are you?" She finally snapped, glaring venomously at me. "How dare you research—"

"He didn't research you, Irina, it's what he does," Amy confidently said, coming up to me. "He's a detective who works with the Miami police. He deducts for a living."

"And I also know how to mop a floor." I added with a sharp look at Irina. I then turned to Amy and handed her the mop. "Are you good from here?"

"Yeah, I'll do," She nodded. "But I think me and my sister need to talk more privately now."

"Indeed," I agreed. I turned then turned to her sister who still seemed too shocked to speak. I gave her a brief nod, just like she had given me. "Good luck with the divorce, Mrs Jefferson."

• • •

- And that's how you own a bitch.