by P. Dangelico
“I will post the damn vids,” he dismissively tells Jules with only a fleeting glance in her direction. “Now leave us. You’ve done enough.”
We’re fifteen minutes into a three-month sentence and I’m already exhausted.
“Please answer when I call,” she tells him. “Ojai PD will be here in less than ten if you decide this dust pit is not to your liking, so don’t even attempt it.”
“Isn’t that what Shane is here for?” he says and sighs.
The plot thickens. So his brother is here as a prison warden, not to provide security and moral support. Interesting…
“That, too,” she says, putting her large sunglasses back on. Then, without a gesture or a word of goodbye, she walks to the Range Rover with Jess following closely behind.
Aidan watches them all get in their respective cars and drive away. The mask slides off and the forlorn look on his face tells a completely different story than the unaffected one he tried to sell a few minutes ago.
“Well, it’s… uh… time for me to feed lunch,” I announce after clearing my throat. This entire situation is awkward. I don’t even know how to address him. He’s only two years older than me. Do I call him sir? Mr. Hughes? Aidan? One could argue I’m his boss, but why would one want to argue that? It would mean I make all the decisions, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
With all the emails I received, you would think I would remember to ask the simple question of what the heck to call him.
“What are we having?” Aidan asks, his voice weak, his gaze still trained on the cloud of dust the cars left in their wake.
“Not us. The animals need to eat. Some are on a medical diet since they were almost starved to death, so I feed them small meals throughout the day––”
“Tomorrow,” he says speaking over me. “You can tell me tomorrow. I’m tired. Gonna take a nap.”
Without a backward glance, he shuffles to the Airstream trailer and disappears inside.
Alrighty then. Good start.
“Hello, Blue Baldwin, this is your mother speaking,” comes out of the speakerphone. “Call me. I left two messages and haven’t heard back from you yet. I really need to speak to you.”
I hit pause.
“You can’t keep ignoring her,” Mona says and slides a roast beef sandwich with lettuce and tomato across the kitchen island to me.
“Watch me,” I say, taking a big bite. I make a big theatrical show of hitting erase on the voicemail and glance at the time on the microwave. The digital numbers flash twelve.
Wrapping up this working lunch, I finish posting today’s progress of the animals’ health on TikTok and Instagram. A cute picture of Big Ben and Coco grooming each other. Billy standing with his front feet on Venus’ hindquarters––one of the rescue horses we got from a horrible dude ranch––while she’s laying down sunbathing. And Milo, our only llama, peeking through the slats of his fence.
Our followers are generous people, loyal to the cause, who go above and beyond whenever we need financial help. Keeping them up to date on how their adopted children––because that’s what they feel like to most of us––are doing is a small price to pay.
“I almost forgot.” Mona grabs something out of a brown shopping bag and places it on the counter.
“Binoculars?” To Mona’s credit, the walkie talkies have been fun and practical. But binoculars? I pick them up, inspect them. “What are these for?”
“To spy on the men,” she answers without so much as a hint of shame.
“Are you serious?” I have to ask because as long as I have known her, Mona still manages to surprise me on a daily basis.
She nods. “As a dead body in your bed.” Then, looking me squarely in the eyes, she says, “These are gonna come in handy. You’re gonna thank me later.”
See what I mean?
“I wonder about you sometimes.”
“As you should.” She winks and turns to clean the mess on the counter we made preparing lunch.
I don’t know what’s worse: that she’s almost always right or that they are going to come in handy. Time will tell.
“Speaking of men, have you seen Aidan today?” Our resident movie star hasn’t come out of his trailer since we last saw him yesterday morning. His brother has come and gone a number of times, often returning with groceries or shopping bags in hand. But no movie star.
Mona shakes her head. “You think he’s okay? Maybe I should go check on him?”
Yeah, right. Like I would leave her alone with him. I love Mona like I love my liver and both kidneys, she’s precious to me, but she can be a liability at times.
“I’m a little worried, too,” I admit. Genuinely worried. I really don’t want to be in the tabloids for having botched this thing. His fans will inevitably blame me, and the rescue will suffer as a consequence. “Maybe we should both go…”
“Great idea. Let me fix my hair.”
Before I can say another word, she disappears down the hall to her bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re standing outside the silver door of the trailer, staring at it, Mona holding the food the resort had delivered.
“You knock,” Mona orders.
“No, you knock.” Now that we’re here, I’m a little unsure, my stomach churning nervously. I have no clue what awaits us on the other side of that door, and I’m not exactly eager to find out.
“Okay, I will.”
I’m pretty sure I just got played. In case you haven’t caught on yet, Mona is a siamese cat––wily and mischievous, with a tendency to get into trouble, but fun as all get out.
She raises her fist to knock and I grab her wrist. “Wait…” I whisper.
“What?” she whispers back.
“Should we go get his brother?”
“Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know, but should we?”
“No. Then it’ll turn into somethin’ that maybe shouldn’t be turned into anythin’.”
This actually makes sense to me. I’m not in a hurry to see Shane Hughes’ cold expression of superiority directed at me so I release my grip on her wrist. “Carry on.”
“Mr. Hughes?” she says loud enough to wake the dead. “Aidan? We have your lunch. The spa delivered it this mornin’.”
Nothing.
I beat on the door with a fist. “Aidan… you okay in there?”
Still nothing. We glance at each other in unspoken understanding. Mona gingerly opens the unlocked door and we slowly climb the steps into the trailer.
To say the Airstream is the top of the luxury market is an understatement. I’m fairly certain most people’s homes are not this nice. It’s also big enough to accommodate four or more people comfortably. Why his brother couldn’t just share this thing with him instead of evicting me out of my home is anyone’s guess. My guess is that he’s a selfish ass.
The soft sound of the AC buzzing greets us when we walk into the den area. At the far end of the hall, the bedroom door is closed.
“What do we do?” I ask Mona.
“Aidan,” she shouts. “Hi. It’s Mona Harris and I have your food.”
Placing the take-out boxes on the kitchen counter, she walks past me while I open the refrigerator to find it fully stocked with every imaginable drink. Everything other than alcohol.
“Where are you going?” I hiss as she heads toward the one place she shouldn’t be headed—his bedroom.
“He could be dead in there,” she hisses back. “Or almost dead––which is even worse. You wanna be the one who let him die?”
Lord save me from this drama. Taking a deep breath, I follow her slowly.
“Aidan. Mr. Hughes,” I call out loudly. “We’re in your trailer and we are approaching your bedroom. Do not be alarmed. We just want to make sure you’re alright.”
“Tell me your daddy’s the fuzz without telling me your daddy’s the fuzz,” I hear Mona mutter.
This gets an honest to goodness burst of laughter out of me that
unravels the knots in my chest. At the door, where no sound can be detected on the other side, I nudge Mona to open it.
The door creeps open to reveal a full-size king bed, white sheets… and a man. Laying face down, spread eagle, is a very naked Aidan Hughes.
“Oh,” pops out of me. I turn my back to his naked ass and have to force Mona to do the same. Not before she gets a good eyeful of him, though.
“Fucking hell, you ladies are loud,” he grumbles, voice gravelly from disuse and his mouth buried in his pillow.
So he lives. “We were worried you were…” I pause for lack of a diplomatic answer.
“I was what?” he snaps. “I can’t even have a damn beer.”
“Dead,” Mona volunteers.
“Hate to disappoint, but I’m still very much alive.”
He sounds salty about it. Maybe Mona was right once again—he’s depressed. “Have you eaten?” I ask. No response. “We brought your spa food.”
“Fanfuckingtastic.”
“You should really eat something,” I press. “Afterward, we can talk about your work schedule… for your community service hours,” I’m quick to add, voice shakier than I want it to be because I can feel the tension rising in the room even with my back turned to him.
I hear him moving around behind me. Which is basically my cue to grab Mona and run, but…
“See yourselves out,” he says as he walks past us, bare-assed, dick swinging, and disappears into his bathroom.
Taking Mona by the wrist, I hustle us out of the trailer and slam the door shut. I’ll note that it took a few extra tugs to get her moving.
“That was nerve racking,” comes out of me, along with the breath I was holding.
Mona smiles. “That was worth it.”
Chapter 5
You would think things would get better after the first few days. That we would fall into a routine of sorts and everyone––and when I say everyone, I mean the resident criminal––would behave as required by his court-ordered mandate.
You would be wrong.
Following the trailer incident, I catch Aidan (with the help of my trusty new binoculars) going for a jog around the ranch. He’s hard to miss because––and no, I’m not joking––all he has on are black boxer briefs, a pair of fluorescent yellow running sneakers, a red bandana wrapped around his head, and 70s Elvis sunglasses hiding his eyes. Oh, and let’s not forget the ankle monitor.
It’s about ninety degrees and as arid as a summer in Kandahar. The jog doesn’t last very long, under twenty minutes. And that’s a good thing, otherwise I would’ve had to pull out my med bag.
The next time I spot him, while I’m loading the hay on the cart by myself, he’s on the roof of his trailer kicking back on a beach chair, catching rays and smoking a cigar. Not gonna lie, I was a little peeved.
Am I a prison warden? No, I am not. I can’t make this guy do anything. The question is: can he and his henchmen make me sign the court documents that swear he is complying?
By the time I finish night check, around 8:30, I’m ready to take a shower and crash. “Night, my babies,” I say on my way out. “Sleep well and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Beautiful old and young faces stare back at me. We’ve lost two rescues overnight due to old age, and ever since then, I get a little nervous at night, not knowing what I might find in the morning.
At the barn door, I spot Shane Hughes coming back from a run and my feet come to a sudden stop. Looks like this Hughes inherited all the smarts in the family and left none for his younger brother. Running at night when it’s cool and comfortable and he’s in no danger of dying from sunstroke is definitely the smarter choice.
Without thinking, I turn off the lights so he can’t see me. And no, I’m not ready to examine why, though I have a pretty good idea.
He stops in front of the guesthouse and wipes his face with the hem of his USMC t-shirt with the arms cut off. Technically, you’d call this a muscle shirt, which is fitting in this scenario because this dude has plenty of them. His shoulders are round and hard and attached to equally-sculpted biceps.
My eyes take in every little detail. The ones that they haven’t already taken in. His strong hands and blunt fingers. The veins snaking up from his wrist to his forearm. The bulge of his pecs under the sweaty t-shirt. The swell of his butt under the silky shorts.
I’m going to hypocrite’s hell for this. Which is way worse than the regular kind because you’re forced to act out all the things you detest most.
Breathing deeply, hands on his hips, Shane Hughes eyeballs his brother’s trailer a few times. Something tells me he’s wants to go over, but he takes two steps in that direction and stops. Watching the trailer, he continues cooling off, grabbing his toes from behind to stretch his quads.
What the heck is going on between these two brothers? I now realize I haven’t seen them in each other’s company once since they arrived. Not even having a conversation.
I stow that thought for another day because right now I’m much too distracted by the peepshow. Moving on to his legs, they’re toned and cut like the rest of him. He takes the hem of the shorts that skim the top of his knees and hikes them up, exposing thigh muscles that would make an NFL running back green with envy. Then he bends at the waist to loosen his hamstrings. Almost instantly my skin feels tight, shrink wrapped, my ears red hot. When I start to sweat, I know it’s time to stop.
This is indecent behavior. Mine, that is. He’s just an innocent victim. Why am I standing in the dark, staring at this man like I’m at a strip club and I have a right to get hot and bothered? You know you have to take stock of your life when you find yourself acting like a pervert.
He straightens, ruining all my fun, and walks inside. Part of me is a little disappointed, but with the all-clear, it’s time for me to get back to real life.
I make a beeline for the farmhouse when music suddenly blasts from Aidan’s trailer. Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit. My deep sympathies for any woman who gets involved with this clown. As gorgeous as he is—and empirically speaking, he’s close to perfection—he’s really not worth the trouble.
Behind me, the lights come on and the sound of a door opening stalls my flight.
“Hey,” a deep voice calls out.
I turn slowly and find Shane standing a few feet away, still dressed in his running gear, a hand towel hanging around his neck.
“Hi.”
It’s the first time we’ve spoken since the day he talked his way onto this property, so I’m not sure what to expect.
The sconces on the guesthouse cast enough light for us to get a good look at each other. Thanks to my prior lurking episode, I do a decent job of maintaining a neutral, if not completely unaffected, expression. There’s nowhere for me to hide my appearance, however.
The sweaty hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun ain’t going anywhere. Nor are the hands made dirty by hours caring for animals. Other than maybe in the pockets of my baggy jean shorts. I’m past pretending I’m fit for decent company at this hour anyway.
His forehead wrinkles in question. “What are you doing out here?”
“Night check on the animals.” I motion with my thumb at the barn. “I do it every night. I was headed back to the house when the entertainment started.”
We both glance at the trailer, the music still playing loudly. From his profile, I can see his jaw flex, the tension written on every hard line of his handsome face. Something is going on here that I need to get to the bottom of.
“He hasn’t shown up for his community service once since he arrived.”
Shane nods. “I know.” His voice is low and troubled. I was under the impression that Shane had been in and out, largely absent from what was going on, but it sounds like he’s been keeping tabs on his brother.
“Maybe you can talk to him?” I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. This shouldn’t be my problem. This is exactly why his brother is living in my house. Let him play big bad dadd
y. “Or I can call Jules.”
“I’ll talk to him.” He pauses, lips pursed as if he’s debating saying something else. “Can we keep his… behavior between us?” When I hesitate to answer, he continues, “I know he’s causing you trouble, but if this blows up, he’ll do jail time, and let’s just say he won’t do well in there.”
“We definitely agree on that.”
I want to ask a million questions. Like what the problem is with Aidan. Why he acts like a spoiled child tyrant. Why the two of them rarely talk. And why he picked this place to do his time if he had no intention of actually doing it. But I can’t because the man standing before me doesn’t invite questions. He’s a 20-foot high brick wall with a no trespassing sign on it.
His continuous, pointed stare makes me antsy and that’s how I know it’s time to get out of there. I may be too tired to care about my appearance, but I’m still female. Which means I still care about my appearance. And I’m fairly certain the aroma I’ve been marinating in all day is noticeable, too.
Walking backwards, I try to make an elegant exit. As much as I can wearing jean shorts and clunky rubber muck boots, anyway. “Can you maybe start with getting him to turn down the music? Some of us have to work early.”
He runs a hand through his hair and gifts me with another one of his curt nods. I want to inform him––just in case no one else has––that words are free and unlimited and there’s no need to hoard them like he does, but I suspect he doesn’t have a sense of humor.
A smile overtakes my face as I walk into the house. He didn’t catch me staring and I got him to do my dirty work. Not bad in a night’s work. The score tally…
Me:1 Hughes: 0
What is the saying? Oh, yeah, actions speak louder than words.
Aidan doesn’t appear the next day. Or the next. I have to transfer the bags full of wood shavings that we use as bedding in the stalls from the storage to the barn all by myself. Many, many bags.
I’m close to taking matters into my own hands––and when I say my own, I mean call Jess and have her deal with him––when Aidan walks into the barn as I’m grooming Phoenix, one of our newer rescue horses. He’s a nervous Arabian gelding who was traumatized at a show barn and deemed too dangerous to ride after he was repeatedly beaten for not standing still at the mounting block.
