Fixation Read Online Free

Highway to the right where it turned into Geary Boulevard and entered the Richmond District.
    I lived in an in-law cottage in the back lot of a shabby Spanish mission-style house on 42nd, between Anza and Balboa. The paint on both the cottage and the main house was cream with a faded blue trim that had once been a vibrant aqua before the sands and winds from the Pacific Ocean scoured the color from it. It took a dedicated effort of time and money to keep houses freshly painted out near the beach and Jack, my landlord, had neither to spend on exteriors. Luckily he had no problem maintaining things like plumbing and heating. Sure, the worn hardwood floors had long since lost their luster, and the cream-colored paint on the walls could use a touch-up. Overall, though, the interior of the cottage was comfortably shabby and my mismatched secondhand furnishings, if not quite shabby chic, made for a cozy little home.
    I pulled into the driveway next to Jack’s motorcycle and let myself into the garage via the connecting pedestrian door adjacent the front door. There was a side gate as well, but that was for deliveries. Normally I’d knock on Jack’s door and stop by for a drink and conversation, but tonight I was just too wiped out from the extra-long day at FPC and the weird encounters with Nagual.
    The garage smelled like a carpenter’s workshop: turpentine, freshly cut wood, and paint. Surfboards, pieces of furniture in various stages of having the wood stripped, sanded, and repainted were everywhere, along with bins of shells, sea glass, doll heads, driftwood, old toys, bottle caps. You name it, Jack had it.
    An expert Dumpster diver, as well as thrift store/yard and garage sale junkie, Jack had a gift of looking at a piece of junk and seeing its potential. His offbeat artistic sensibility combined with the practical skills necessary to turn each piece into a functional and funky work of art (think furniture by Tim Burton by way of Clive Barker with a touch of seaside shabby chic thrown in) had enabled him to give up his day job. Since I took public transport to work, I let him use my truck weekdays to pick up his purchases and in return he gave me a break on rent and the occasional gift of one of his pieces.
    I wove my way carefully through the maze of Jack’s workshop without knocking anything over or banging an elbow on a random corner and emerged back out into the tiny brick courtyard lined with pots and planters of flowers, herbs, and vegetables that separated the main house from my cottage. Major Fudge, Jack’s very fat black cat, sprawled on the little porch below my front door. He rolled on his back as I approached, angling for a tummy rub. I obliged before going inside, leaving Major Fudge to loll happily on my doormat until Jack called him in for the night.
    The interior of my house was basically a box divided into four unequally portioned sections: living room and bedroom on one side, small kitchen and tiny bathroom on the other, and a narrow hallway in between the two sides. Not a lot of room, but roomy enough for one woman and a cat.
    Turning on the front light, I took off my hoodie and tossed it, my purse and bag full o’ crap onto the battered chocolate brown leather loveseat under the bay window in the living room. Mismatched bookcases lined the available wall space, breaking for a small fireplace. A coffee table made of tortuously twisted driftwood sat in front of the loveseat. Seaglass studded the driftwood; the whole thing had a definite Cthulhu vibe going for it. The tabletop consisted of several randomly shaped platforms of wood, glass, and bronze metal. Jack called the piece “The Little Mermaid’s Nightmare.” It fit.
    I plugged in the fairy lights interspersed with amber colored crystal strands I’d strung along the top of the window and was immediately rewarded with the soft glow of light and amber reflected in the glass. I’d also coiled smaller strands of the fairy lights in mosaic