“Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” I mutter.
“Absolutely.”
At this point, Tucker looks annoyed more than anything else. And I’m completely discombobulated. I climb into the truck, to end this weirdness and get the heck away from these two.
Once I’m in the driver’s seat, Van releases my hand. He hits the automatic window button, and the window whirs quietly as it descends. Once it’s all the way down, he closes the door and tugs on the seat belt. “Don’t forget to buckle up.”
“Right. Thanks.” I pull the belt across my chest, still trying to figure out his angle.
He continues to stand there, grinning like he’s in on some secret.
I grip the steering wheel and blurt, “I talked to my brother. He’s the reason for your ridiculous bill. I’ll leave a check for you. Sorry ’bout that.”
“Will you break in again to do that?” His grin widens.
I can feel my face heating up at the memory of Van dripping wet and naked, standing in the middle of his living room. “I didn’t break in the first time. I used a key. And to answer your question, no, I’ll slip it under your door.”
“That’s considerate of you.”
“That’s me. Miss Considerate.”
He chuckles and steps away from the truck, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Have a good afternoon, Dillion. I’m sure I’ll see you later.”
“I should only be so lucky.”
I shift the truck into gear and pull away from the curb, leaving Tucker and Van standing on the sidewalk. For the first time, I’m grateful that I ran into him.
Confused, but still grateful.
CHAPTER 8
SPITFIRE
Van
Dillion’s tires squeal as she pulls away from the curb. I smile as her truck disappears up the hill. I’m not sure if it’s me she wants to escape this time or the assclown standing beside me.
“So you’re Darlin’s neighbor, huh?” His smile is one I’m familiar with—stiff, practiced, and lacking authenticity.
I’m also on the fence about Dillion’s apparent nickname, or maybe it’s the way everyone pronounces her name here. I’m not sure if Lynnie suits her, but Darlin’ makes me think of fifties-style housewives, which she definitely is not.
“Yup. I’m her next-door neighbor.” I give him the same smile back.
He nods, gaze sliding over my shoulder to my car and then back to me. “You from the city?”
“Chicago, yes.” I’ve noticed that everyone in town says “the city” instead of “Chicago,” as if Chicago is the only city that exists.
“How long you planning on sticking around before you sell?” He rocks back on his heels. His whole persona screams trying too hard.
“Dunno that I’m gonna sell.” Or that I want to, especially with my prickly neighbor, whose buttons I enjoy pushing entirely too much, and the fact that this is the only place I can be right now. Going back to Chicago isn’t an option. Not until we can figure out what happened to the missing money. I considered draining my dwindling savings to pay back at least a tiny part of it, which my father and brother seemed on board with, at least until my dad’s lawyer pointed out that it would only serve to solidify the appearance of my guilt.
Tucker pulls his wallet from his pocket and slides a business card out while flashing a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “Well, if you decide you want to, give me a call. I’ve got lots of buyers looking to get into the market. And don’t listen to Darlin’—it’s not about what side of the lake you’re on. She just doesn’t want a new build going up beside the shithole her family calls a house.”
“How do you know Dillion, again?” No one offered the information in the first place, but I’m banking on him wanting to tell me.
“We go way back.” He smirks.
“How far back?” I press.
“Dated in high school. Popped her cherry and taught her everything she knows. Girl’s got a mouth on her, if you know what I mean.” He follows that comment with a wink.
“Wow. That’s not the kind of information I was looking for.” This guy is a jackass extraordinaire. It’s hard to believe that the woman who reams me out for hammering past nine o’clock at night would put up with this guy and his shit. Although I’m guessing his shit is why he’s an ex.
“I give her three weeks before she’s on her back for me. Or her hands and knees.” This time he waggles his brows.
“Is that right?” I glance at his hands and see he’s not wearing a ring.
“She couldn’t stay away from me then; can’t imagine much has changed. You can take the girl out of the trailer, but you can’t take the trailer out of the girl.”
That’s it. I can’t stand this jackass. “Could you be any more disrespectful? I don’t know you, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there’s probably slim to no chance that she’s interested in doing anything but kicking you in the nuts.” I say it loud enough that a couple walking down the street give me a disgusted look.
Tucker’s expression shifts to something like embarrassment. “What the hell, bro?”
I motion between us. “We’re not bros. The last thing you should be doing is trash-talking your ex to someone you just met. It sure as hell isn’t a way to get my business.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I flick his business card back at him. It hits him in the chest before it falls to the sidewalk.
“You don’t even know me, and have no business discussing Dillion’s skill sets with anyone, let alone a stranger. And if I do decide to sell, it won’t be you getting the commission.” I walk away, thankful the street is empty of cars and I can make the somewhat dramatic exit I want.
I get back in my car and drive away without my lunch from the diner, all in the name of sticking up for a woman who hates my guts and doesn’t even know I stood up for her or witnessed my awesome exit. But I’ve learned a few things about Dillion today—her ex is a jerk, she doesn’t put up with crap, she doesn’t like being rescued, and she’s honest.
I make a stop at the grocery store on the way home and pick up sandwich meat from the deli counter and a loaf of fresh bread. The good thing about small-town living is that almost everything is owned by locals, and that also means most of the food is fresh and locally sourced. The bread only stays fresh for a few days, but it’s freaking amazing.
When I get back to Grammy’s place—I’m still struggling to call it mine—I drop the groceries on the counter, then go back to close the front door.
I find an envelope on the floor with my name scrawled in neat writing on the front. I carefully tear it open and find a check for a grand inside and a note from Dillion asking me to let her know what this month’s porn charges are so she can cover those too. I feel mildly bad that I’m going to accept her check. Unfortunately, being unemployed means I have reason to be concerned about the cost of the cable bill.
I rub the space between my eyes and sigh. I have no idea how I’m going to clear my name, or find out what happened to that money. The foundation was supposed to make a hefty donation in the next few months, and if that falls through, the literacy program might not be able to run at all. I hate all this sitting and waiting for something to happen. Especially since now no one will tell me anything, and I don’t have access to any of the foundation’s financial records, having been removed from the board.
I’m not particularly hungry anymore, but I make myself two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches with the horrible fake cheese my parents would never buy when I was a kid that I secretly loved.
Grammy Bee always had it in the house because it made the best grilled cheese sandwiches. And she bought the Velveeta kind, in block form, which she said was better than the individually wrapped slices.
After lunch I step out onto the new front porch that has yet to be stained and head to the garage. I’m saving the staining for the evening, since it’s quiet and won’t get me yelled at by my neighbor. Although, knowing her, I’m sure she’ll fin
d something to yell at me for. I smile just thinking about her. I don’t know what my fascination with her is, other than her being a welcome distraction from my life.
Over the past few days, I’ve managed to make some headway on cleaning out the garage, which is saying something, since it was practically stuffed full of Grammy’s treasures and Grampy’s old tools. It’s a big space, and I’d like it to have a function other than being a hoarder’s dream.
I’ve looked into some of the building bylaws, and it’s pretty tough to get permits for new structures, so I’m thinking my best bet is to turn it into a second living space, once I’ve cleaned out all the junk. With some modifications, it should be big enough for a one-bedroom loft above the garage space, which it was something Grammy Bee used to talk about but never had the chance to do.
It’s also an excuse not to tackle the actual cottage, which is daunting. Grammy Bee’s house is the only place I’ve ever been sentimental about. It’s filled with great memories from my childhood, and I’m not ready to sift through those yet.
I spend the afternoon dragging stuff into the driveway and separating it into piles. There are three: toss, keep, and sell. The toss pile is the biggest, which isn’t a surprise. The garage is basically full of all the things no one wanted in the house anymore but couldn’t be bothered to take to the dump. Or maybe Grammy Bee thought it would be useful to someone. Regardless, it makes for a lot of full black bags.
I’ve started tossing the bags into the bed of Grammy’s ancient truck—which I’m stunned still runs, considering it’s from the sixties and is rusted out in places—when I get a call from my buddy. We went to college together and have stayed close ever since. I’ve talked to him a couple of times since I arrived in Pearl Lake. He’s aware of the dumpster dive my life has done.
“Hey, Frankie, how’s it going?” I put him on speakerphone and heft another bag into the truck.
“Good, good. How’s the backwoods treating you? You doing okay, man?” The clickety-clack of his keyboard comes through the phone.
I glance to the right, where Dillion’s trailer is barely visible beyond the trees. Is my life a mess? Sure. But at least I’m not in Chicago in the direct line of fire. According to my dad, the media is all over the story, so staying here is better than being there. “As well as can be expected.”
“That’s fair, all things considered. Getting day drunk would be completely within reason.”
I laugh, although I’m not sure he’s joking. “Reliving my college days, while fun, wouldn’t be particularly good for my brain cells.” I’m also not sure I can afford to pick up a bad habit at the moment. “Everything okay with you?” I toss another bag into the back of the truck, and it lands with a metallic thunk.
“Yeah. Just wanted to check in on you. You busy with something? Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not a bad time. Trying to keep myself occupied, you know? I’m cleaning out the garage, getting rid of stuff that should have been tossed a couple of decades ago.”
“Productive is always a good thing.” There’s a brief pause in the typing. “Don’t want to let the small-town work ethic rub off on you, otherwise you might get stuck at the bottom of the ladder. Gets tough to climb your way back up.”
“I don’t know that the work ethic around here is all that low.”
“You know what I mean. Small-town life equates to small aspirations. You were on your way to the top. You can get back there.”
“Is this a good news call, then?” Frankie is a well-known recruiter in Chicago, always looking for the newest hot commodity and then placing them in high-performing companies. He’s excellent at what he does and was the one who hooked me up with my previous employer. I’ve only been out of a job for a short time, but I’m already getting antsy about not having a steady income. I want to get the ball rolling and start applying for new jobs, but with this scandal hanging over my head, I’m not so sure it’s going to be easy to convince anyone to hire me.
Frankie sighs, and I take that as a bad sign. “I’m going to be real straight with you, Van. The situation is fresh, and the media is just getting started, from what I can see. No one wants to touch you right now. It’d help if you could clear your name. People need some distance, time for a new scandal to brew, before they can forget about this one.”
I bristle at his tone. I hate that I’m in this position, and that my character and my integrity have been called into question, especially by my friends. “You believe me when I tell you I didn’t take the money, right?”
“Yeah, man, of course. I mean, it doesn’t make sense for you to go stealing the money from the foundation you helped set up. Unless you’ve developed some kind of gambling problem.”
“I don’t have a gambling problem.”
“That was a joke. You won’t even chip in for lottery tickets, like you’re going to blow your money on slots. I think you need to look at the bright side.”
“You mean the fact that I’m not in prison for stealing money from my mom’s own foundation and I don’t have some bearded, tattooed cellmate who wants to make me his pet? That kind of bright side?” I’m grateful that my dad hired a lawyer to help me manage this entire situation. Jail time for something I didn’t do would be a real kick in the teeth.
“Well, yeah, kind of. I’m just saying, it could be worse, Van. Didn’t you say that they’re not taking you to court, or pressing charges?”
Not yet, anyway, and hopefully not at all. “Yeah, I’m just accused of stealing money I didn’t take. I lost my job, and now I’m being told I should stay where I am because of the media garbage.” And who knows how long that’s going to go on for. It’s like my life was hijacked. In one day everything that was stable is now up in the air.
“You’re a genius at what you do, Van. You have classic taste in architecture, with a modern, contemporary outlook. But the jobs you work on are for big clients, and we’re talking a lot of money. It’s an asset and a liability, you know? You’re too fucking smart for your own good, and that means people don’t know if they should trust you enough to put so much money into what you’re suggesting. They’re worried you’ll be able to pull one over on them too.”
“I didn’t pull one over on anyone, though. And I don’t see how my job and what happened with the foundation are even connected. I’m good with numbers, but I’m not that good. According to what my dad told me, someone has been skimming money for the past five years without getting caught. I honestly wouldn’t even know how to do that, even if I wanted to.” The money has been going missing for years: small amounts that individually would never be missed, but over time they added up to millions in lost donations.
“At least you can escape it all. Take a break from the crazy for a while. Let your family deal with the fallout,” Frankie suggests.
“What’s going on with my family?” My dad has checked in a few times to make sure I’m okay and update me on the legal side of things. Teagan and I have talked every day, but she’s been trying to keep things positive. Bradley was on one of the calls with my dad, but mostly he texts with jokes or GIFs and tells me to “look on the bright side.”
I can hear Frankie drumming on his desk. “It’s not good, Van.”
“How not good is it?”
He blows out a breath. “They’re looking into your dad now too. You know how rumors are.”
“My dad? Why?”
“Because he’s on the board of directors for the foundation, and you’re related. I’m sure it’s just protocol when something like this happens.”
“Right. Yeah, of course. I would’ve thought he’d mention that, though.” I talked to him yesterday, and he seemed calm, reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. It was the most supportive he’s been in years.
“He probably doesn’t want to stress you out more than you already are. And it’s probably all for nothing.”
“Maybe I need to come back to Chicago and deal with this.”
I can hear the
creak of his office chair, which means he’s probably swiveling, something he does often. “You’re better off staying where you are. I know it’s not ideal, but let your dad and his lawyers manage this. Look at this as an opportunity to reinvent yourself. You weren’t in love with your job. Relax for a few months, figure out what you want to do next.”
“A few months? I was thinking more like a few weeks.” But considering how long I’ve been here already and how little progress I’ve made, Frankie’s timeline seems more reasonable, although less desirable.
“It all depends on how long it takes for this thing to sort itself out. Take up whittling or something.”
“Whittling?”
“I don’t know. Build something cool. Go fishing. Just give it time. Me and Chip will come for a visit in a couple of weeks. Sound good?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. You think Monica will let Chip come, though?”
Chip is one of our mutual friends. We went to college together and have stayed tight since graduation. His girlfriend, Monica, is high maintenance. Nice enough, but she has Chip wrapped around her finger.
“I’ll get him to start working on her now. I’ll rent one of those party RVs. It’ll be awesome.”
“Sure, sounds good.” And it does. If I can’t be in Chicago right now, at least my friends can come visit me here.
A ping comes from the other end of the line. “I have to go,” Frankie says. “Got a hot date tonight.”
“Oh yeah? With who? Anyone I know?”
“Nah, just some girl I met at a club last weekend. I’ll fill you in when I come visit. Stay chill, my man.” He ends the call, and I tip my head up, staring at the nearly cloudless blue sky, sun shining down on me like it has no idea my life is a mess.
I don’t like that I’m here, in Pearl Lake, and that my dad is now under investigation. Or that he didn’t bother to tell me when I spoke with him. It makes me paranoid. Like people are keeping things from me, and I no longer know who I can trust.
Love Next Door Page 9
