by Elodie Colt
“If you’re looking for some inspiration on that particular matter, I can lend a hand… Or two.”
She goes rigid as my breath wafts over her naked shoulder. The shell of her ear turns red first, up to the little loop earring on top, before the flush continues to creep across her cheek. I can almost feel her heart pumping as the vein on her neck starts to pulsate at a hundred miles per hour. All the cords twang in her neck as she swallows, her fight-or-flight reflex kicking in.
With a harrumph that’s supposed to conceal her mortification and bring back the voice she apparently lost, she spins around to nail me with a stare so cold, it looks as if she’s trying to transform me into an icicle that she can hopefully shatter with a flick of her fingers. To her dismay, that doesn’t happen when I straighten to smirk down at her, gloating and completely unperturbed by her sneer. Also, her warm, walnut brown eyes in combination with her dark eyebrows somehow weaken the lethal glare she’s aiming for.
Cocking an eyebrow, I level a probing stare at her, allowing her time to gather her wits and salvage her dignity with an eloquent comeback that won’t do shit to get her out of her humiliation state. She purses her lips, keeping direct eye contact without twitching a lid.
“Actually,” she says in a surprisingly steady voice, “I might take you up on that offer. Here.”
She slams all her clothes into my chest, and I automatically catch the heap with both hands. I open my mouth to ask her what the hell she’s doing, but something comes out of left field, snapping my head ninety degrees to the right. A collective sound rolls over the store, low oooh’s and hisses through teeth, before a stinging pain shoots up my cheek, mixing with the throbbing of my torn ear.
“Sorry, handsome. I’m having a really, really bad day.” Her apology doesn’t sound anything like an apology for the hell of a slap she just delivered in front of a hundred people.
And just like that, she’s turned the tables on me, because my brain pulls up a blank. Other than a lame ‘what the fuck,’ I can’t think of anything to say as I swivel my head back in its natural position. But she’s already breezing past me, leaving me standing in line with clothes I don’t need and a composure I can’t find.
An older lady behind me pokes her elbow into my ribs. “Boy, you’ve got yourself a feisty little thing here. Whatever you did, I suggest you drive home, drop to your knees, and grovel until they bleed.”
I give her a puzzled look, blinking. For a second, I’m tempted to just toss the clothes to the floor and run after the blonde mane hurrying down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched and head down—the polar opposite of the temper she just threw at me in spectacular fashion.
I want to yell at her, scream at her that her reaction was clearly over the top. I want to apologize to her, to erase the sorrow from her pretty face I spotted before she turned tail.
But for the most part, I want to hurl her into a changing booth and make her show me her rage when I fuck her against the mirror.
The lady nudges me again. “Boy, your turn.”
I turn my head back to the front and dump the clothes onto the counter. “Just the men’s stuff, please.”
I cast another glance out the window. The blonde is gone.
Christina’s boobs press into my chest as she gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. I wince. Her hand lingers a tad too long on my hip as she guides me through an insanely spacious entryway.
Three-thousand per week, remember.
“What did you do to your pretty face?” Her voice takes on that extra layer of concern when she strokes a finger over my bandage.
I gracefully tilt my head away to escape her touch. “Just a scratch.”
Christina gives me an elaborate tour through her modest house, as she calls it. Marble floors, granite countertops, wall-to-wall windows everywhere, including a dining room with glasswork in abundance, security systems that would make Homeland Security green with envy, and a work-out room with more high-end equipment than a regular gym.
“Not that you need this stuff,” Christina says with a deliberate touch on my arm and a nod to the rows of barbells. “Swinging axes is more your style, isn’t it?”
Not sure what she wants me to say to this, but Jillian saves me as she shuffles out of what is probably a pantry with half a dozen Tupperware containers in her hands.
Her steps falter when her eyes land on me, but as opposed to the blonde I’ve humiliated to the point she went violent, her skin doesn’t blush as easily. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi.” My casual tone contradicts my lingering glance meant to communicate that I’m all for continuing where we left off last time. When I’ve gotten Christina off my case, that is.
The hint of a dimpled smile signals that she got the clue before she skirts off as if afraid her mother might feel the sex vibes. Doubtful. She’s already rattling in her own.
“Come, I’ll show you your room.” With a complacent smile on her blood-red lips, she leads me through the grandeur of her villa—past a housekeeper, a pool boy, and someone who could either be her yoga trainer or gigolo (or both)—and up to the first floor. To my dismay, Christina’s room is next to mine, which she points out beaming at me. The door features a lock and a key, though, so I don’t need to worry about which Ms. Robinson I’ll find in my bed.
With a sigh, I shut the door behind me and dump my bag onto the floor. Everything smells of clinically treated fabrics and a decadent luxury that’s foreign to me, just like the lack of hay and dust in the air. The en-suite room boasts a gray double bed with a two-feet thick mattress, a multi-media system with a TV flatter than a piece of sandpaper, and electronic shutters in front of the window, I realize when I press a random button on the remote control lying on the nightstand.
I quickly take a shower in the cabin that is more like a hundred square-feet glass cube before I unpack my stuff. Something drops to the floor when I discard my jeans, and I pick up the black satin box Dad almost shattered to pieces today. I stash it away in the nightstand drawer.
After putting on some fresh clothes, I make my way downstairs. I heard on the news that a thunderstorm hit the beach last week, so better to check out the damage in Christina’s garden before I set off to work.
I saunter into the living area where the woman in question lounges on an S-shaped sofa with a beauty magazine in her hands.
“I hope the guest room is to your liking?”
Guest room? More like a presidential suite. “It’s more than enough, thank you.”
Smiling, she stands up to open the fridge. “Any refreshments? Coffee? Soda?”
“Coke, please,” I say when I spot an ice-cold can in the fridge door.
She hands me my drink, and we head out onto the porch. A huge patch of polished granite spans out from the door to hold a long oak table, a fancy barbecue, and a couple of sun loungers. The air is heavy with fresh, moist soil and rose blooms scattered all across the yard. Safe for a few mangled bushes and loose branches, her garden got away with scratches.
Her neighbor, though, didn’t share her luck.
“Damn, that storm hit you pretty hard,” I point out when I take in the devastation on the adjacent property.
The broken half of a Red Rocket Crape Myrtle tree lies in between a pile of broken wooden planks, with the other half jutting out of the ground like a deadly spike. The swimming pool seems to be intact, but it will take some shoveling to fish out the branches, leaves, and vase shards. The Chevy parked next to the fence didn’t get away unscathed, either, with a surfboard fin protruding from the windshield. The only thing that seems to have survived the destruction is the tree house at the far end, nestled in between a robust oak tree.
Sighing, Christina places a hand over her heart. “Yeah, poor Sam. Lightning struck that tree over there and sent it crashing into her porch. I’m just glad it missed my fence.”
The tree stood about half a mile away from her fence, so unless the thunderstorm turned into a full-blown tornado, I doubt a branch would have touched her
property. I keep the comment to myself.
“It will take some time to get rid of all the junk, but Sam doesn’t give a shit about her garden, anyway. I mean, look at all those weeds,” Christina jeers, but ninety-nine percent of her sentence falls on deaf ears when a girl steps out onto the porch to water her plants.
And with a girl I mean…
The. Girl.
I become unplugged. The sight of her is like a second slap in my face, only this time less of the painful and more of the irrationally thrilling variety. I edge two steps closer, squinting to check if I’m not mistaking that ass for someone else’s, but her white, loose shoulder top and cropped shorts she wore earlier today are my proof.
Fuck. Me.
“That girl over there, does she live in the house?” I ask Christina, interrupting whatever she was rambling about.
She sweeps over to me, pouting as if frustrated that someone has diverted my attention from her. “Yes, Samantha Kent. She’s got four roomies.” Lips puckered, she adds, “All of them crazy, if you ask me.”
Samantha. Not her fault her parents chose that name, but fuck, the syllables alone grate on my ears.
A strange beep resounds from somewhere inside Christina’s house, causing her to throw her hands in the air.
“How many times do I have to tell that boy how the stove works?” she hisses at no one in particular before she sashays off, allowing me a free minute to silently watch Samantha from behind a stone pillar.
With a watering can in hand, she tends to the various pots dotting her wooden porch that have survived the storm. Gathering from the soft, hushed words leaving her mouth and the way she strokes the leaves, she’s talking to her plants as if they need her consolation and some sweet pillow talk. A smile leaks onto my face, one that turns from sweet to wicked the moment she crouches down. Her shorts slide an inch lower, revealing a lacy thong that elicits a jerky movement in my boxers.
Someone from inside the house calls her name, and just like that, her peaceful expression diminishes, placing a scowl onto her pretty features. She slams the watering can onto the ground, and sends what seems to be a silent prayer for patience up to God before she stalks off.
Even if I can’t see her, my gaze follows her up to an open window on the first floor where I spot two girls. Raised voices seep out as the blonde joins them, waving her hands about in agitation. The only word I catch is ‘surfboard’ before one of them points an accusing finger at her. I watch in amusement as a fourth girl butts into the commotion, hands lifted as if trying to defuse the situation.
The grin stays plastered on my face until I retreat into the house.
Something tells me the girl will need my helping hand soon.
Or both.
Five
Samantha
“Do you see that?” I snap, lifting my laptop higher and angling it so the camera sways over my wrecked garden. It doesn’t look half as bad on the screen, so I zoom in to the tree that destroyed my porch.
“Yeah,” Mom says with imperceptible compassion. Not enough to show me that she truly feels me. With a huff, I trudge back to my desk, slamming my laptop down.
Kids hoots in the background, the sound coming slightly distorted through my speakers and making me cringe. I turn down the volume.
“Honey, I’m so sorry, but my hands are tied right now,” she goes on, but I can tell she’s busy at the moment swinging her laptop to the side before one of the kids hits random buttons. Swatting a tiny hand away, she shushes him before she gives me her divided attention. “I can transfer you three hundred dollars if that helps. We’re currently collecting money for a big non-profit project that we…”
I start to sort my markers by color, pretending to listen while I mentally suppress the urge to slam my laptop shut, boiling inside. Not that I don’t need every cent she can give me, but it rubs me the wrong way that her charities are more important to her than her daughter’s financial crisis. I love that she’s helping the poor kids down there, but her benevolence only goes as far as the Kenyan boarders, and now that Dad jumped on the bandwagon, he doesn’t have my back anymore either. Not as much as he used to.
“Samantha. I know you’re shutting me out every time I’m bringing up the topic, but just listen to me, okay?” Mom heaves a sigh, and I drag my sour expression back to her pursed lips and dimples in her cheeks that I haven’t inherited from her. She has sneaked into a separate room somewhere where the kids don’t tackle her. A broken fan rattles on the ceiling. “I know you love your job as a freelance editor, and I get it.” No, you don’t. “But this job won’t guarantee you a stable future. I know what it means to be burdened with the responsibilities of a house. It’s sucking up money daily, and as long as you don’t have a husband by your side to shoulder the costs, you will keep struggling.”
Bristling, I open my mouth to defend myself with a plausible argument, but Mom lifts her finger.
“I know you have four roomies paying you rent, but it’s not the same. They can’t help you when the water heater conks out or when you need to kick some insurance agent’s ass.”
My mouth slams shut as I shake my head in denial. As usual, I refuse to see reason on the matter.
“Come here to Nairobi, Sam.” Her voice is pleading now. “We’ve got a nice little house with a beautiful view at the savanna and trust me, life is way cheaper here. We’ll sell the house in Florida. You’ll become my assistant, and we can both make the world a better place. And if you still want to freelance, you can do that from here, too. The WiFi reception is not that bad,” she adds with a wink in an attempt to inject some humor into her monologue.
My lips flatline. “I’ll think about it.”
No, you won’t, her pinched lips say. “Alright. We’ll visit soon, maybe in a few weeks.”
No, you won’t, my half-assed smile says. “Okay, gotta go now. Bye, Mom.”
I disconnect the call before she can say her goodbye, too, her digital picture freezing on the screen before it goes blank.
With a groan, I bang my forehead onto my desk. My markers bounce with the impact, but I’m too frazzled to nurture my OCD and put them in the right order again.
I’ve been on the phone with my insurance agent all morning until the crap-ass thing almost burned my ear. Guess what—the insurance won’t cover shit! The Red Rocket Crape Myrtle was already rotted and ready to fall before the storm. Technically, it was my fault the tree toppled over. And my ruined car with Skyla’s surfboard still decorating the windshield? No money there, either.
Skyla and I have been butting heads ever since. I went through the roof, raked her over the coals for over an hour yesterday. I told them to move everything inside before the storm hit. How could she leave her stupid surfboard out there?
I lift my head and rake my nails down my cheeks. Skyla will have to pay for the damage and get me a new windshield. She won’t be able to come up with the cash by tomorrow, though, so I’m handcuffed right now.
I brave a glance at the trash can in the corner. Jam-packed to the rim with crumpled paper and fruitless ideas. A reminder that a shiny career as an author is a dream as attainable as the next galaxy in our universe.
I need to ask the girls for help and raise the rent. I can’t scramble up the money on my own, and the bank won’t give me credit as long as my business isn’t producing more income.
“Argh!” I yell into my room, tugging at my hair and kicking my filing cabinet for good measure. Other than books toppling over on top and a throbbing toe, it doesn’t do any good, so I launch from my chair and beeline for my closet in search of a suitable work outfit. I need to do something before my room becomes the next demolition zone.
After putting on my oldest sweatpants and a faded tank, I twist my hair up into a messy bun, fetch some working gloves, and attack my garden. I collect the shards of vases and flower pots scattered around like a carpet of shrapnel, fish out the junk from the pool, and refill the tank with chlorine. Then, I drag a wheelbarrow and a saw fr
om the shed and cut the smaller branches off the fallen tree. By the time most of the mess is cleaned up, I’m soaked in sweat and covered in cuts.
After a ten-minute rest, I grab the saw again despite the blisters already forming on my palms. One gnarly branch is particularly tenacious, and I curse the saw as it gets stuck every time I move it, when something in Christina’s garden catches my eye.
I pause, my posture perking up. A dark-haired guy kneels on the ground, digging in the earth. He has his back to me, but the way his dirty, white T-shirt strains around his shoulders tells me he’s sporting a set of nice muscles. With my saw still stuck in the branch, I watch as he rises, brushes the dirt off his hands, and disappears into the neighbor’s house.
I frown. Who is the guy? Hang on, didn’t Kendra say Christina hired a new gardener? The guy she caught with Jillian in his truck, Matthew? My gaze trails to the spot where he was only seconds before. A row of neatly arranged sunflowers that weren’t there yesterday lines up one side.
With a shrug, I refocus on my branch. Finally, I manage to cut through, and I huff in relief as it topples to the ground. I bend down, ready to throw it into the wheelbarrow, when the guy waltzes out again, stealing my attention once more.
Without forewarning, he grabs his T-shirt by the hem and yanks it over his head.
The tendons in my face go slack. My pulse elevates to the point it throbs in my ears. I could put my sudden light-headedness down to the desert-like temperatures today, but that would be a lie. Toned shoulders, square chest, prominent abs under tanned skin. I swear I’ve never seen a hotter guy in my entire life.
But that’s not the reason why I’m close to suffering a multi-organ failure. That’s not the reason why my paper heart explodes like pieces shooting from a confetti gun. I’m paralyzed, incapacitated, and torpid to the point I can’t remember how breathing works, as if Medusa just popped her snaky head into my field of vision to petrify me from head to toe.
