2019-08-19 - Not the world's best boyfriend

<FS3> Graham rolls Pickpocket: Great Success (8 8 8 6 6 4 2)

<FS3> Graham rolls Breaking In: Success (7 5 4 4 3 2 2)

Graham rifled irritably through kitchen drawers till he found the Aim-a-Flame he knew this fucker would have stashed somewhere. His own fluidless Bic was still sitting uselessly in the pack of cigarettes, so it was a good thing he was right about this dude being one of those assholes that thinks he's some kind of grill-master. He lit the cigarette just when the door swung open, so he was blowing out a plume of smoke and flicking an ash in the kitchen sink when their eyes locked across the space of the dark front room.

For a solid two seconds, they were just frozen in this moment, the guy gaping and Graham smoking.

Then the guy reached for his phone, remembered that he had lost it earlier today (left it in the cafeteria at the hospital, he was pretty sure), flailed around for something he could use as a weapon, wound up grabbing an umbrella from next to the door, and cocked it for a swing. "What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

Graham looked at the cigarette, looked at the guy, answered, "Smoking." Another ash-flick.

"I'm gonna call the fucking police!"

"Yeah? Good luck with that." He withdrew the guy's missing phone from his pocket, turning on the screen so it glowed blue in the dimly lit house. Not gonna lie, he really enjoyed the look of disbelief and fear that washed over the guy's face. It was one of the best parts of his job, that moment when someone realized they were fucked.

The stammering that ensued while Graham entered the passcode to unlock the phone was just gravy. "How the - what the - !"

"Huuuuush, Gary." He started reading the guy's private Friendzone DMs aloud, scrolling through them while Gary all but visibly debated whether or not he thought he could beat Graham with the umbrella or just wind up getting beaten. The conversation, between Gary and some friend of his named Chet (Which was a douchey fucking name - and Graham fully respected that his own name was douchey as shit but still; Chet was definitely douchier.), was all about the hot Chinese chick at Gary's work, the one he was laying the groundwork with so he could "'tap dat ass like a fortune cookie.' I mean, c'mon. What's that even supposed to mean, Gary?"

He turned the phone, showing Gary the picture that Gary had taken of Elise at work, doing something nurse-ish (and looking hot AF, but don't get distracted here, G). The picture that Gary had sent to Chet with the caption "friday nite fun bro." Poor Gary had nothing in his life experience to prepare him for how to deal with this scenario, so he just kept holding on to the umbrella like he was going to use (he wasn't) and making stuttering noises at Graham.

"So lemme lay out your options here, Gary. You stay the fuck away from Elise, and I don't show her these messages. Or you keep up this shit, and I shoot you in the face. Your choice." He dragged out his super-pretty smile and flashed it helpfully, attracting more flies with honey or something.

Good for Gary. He found his balls. "Or I call the fucking cops on you!"

<FS3> Graham rolls Bullshit: Success (7 5 4 3 3)

"Or you call the fucking cops on me. But here's the thing, Gary. I committed felony burglary tonight. Which means the cops'll arrest me, charge me, and my lawyer'll probably have me out again in about three days. Unless you can drop off the face of the planet - which I don't think you can do, Gary, just being honest here. So unless you can do that, I wouldn't call the cops, 'cause if you do? Me and a shotgun will be seeing you in about five to ten business days." He tossed the cigarette into the sink, where it hissed when it fell into the garbage disposal. "Think it over, Gary, and have a good night."

On the drive home - all two blocks of it - Graham let the windows down and tried to figure out how best to broach the subject of situational awareness with Elise. She really, really needed to start looking around once in a while. Which was admittedly going to fuck with his daily routine - if she started actually noticing all the nondescript sedans with tinted windows that followed her around town - but seriously, Ellybean. The number of times he could have grabbed her and shoved her in the trunk of his car in the past week alone was fucking ridiculous.

He tossed Gary's cellphone into his glovebox and let himself into the house with a cheerful, "Hey baby, you home?" Like he didn't know the answer already. Like he didn't always know the answer already.