by Skye Darrel
“College is helpful,” I say. “But don’t major in art history.”
“Why’s that?”
“I did and look at what I’m doing.”
We share a laugh before Cora leans closer. “Just so you know, my mom is really touchy about Asher.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
Rene walks past and gives me a wave before he leaves. He’s attractive and slender, except his nails are painted the same yellow as my Beetle. His eyebrows also looked plucked, which seems to be atypical of the men in Salma’s Hope. I guess everyone has their own style.
Juno stands by the bar with hands on her hips. “Good job with the tables, ladies.”
“It was mostly Cora,” I say.
Cora beams. “Natalie is too modest.”
Juno sends her daughter home after a short speech about curfews and not staying up late. Then she pours us two cups of iced coffee at the bar. We sit on stools, and I apologize for bringing up Asher earlier.
“I didn’t know it would upset you.”
“Not your fault, hon. Dale Buckley blabbers too much. Like I said, Asher and I have a history. I don’t like having him or his family talked about like some rumor. He’s not a rumor, not to me.”
“Are you guys . . . together?”
Juno laughs. “Nothing like that. I help him out once in a while and he keeps an eye on Cora when I’m out of town.”
I nod, even though I can tell Juno hasn’t told me everything. I want to ask a hundred questions, like who Priscilla is, but I hold my mouth. Juno has been more than kind to me, and respecting her privacy is the least I can do.
“How bad is it?” she asks suddenly.
“How bad what?”
“The Wade house. I haven’t been over there in two years, not since he got back from the Army. Is it really a mess?”
“Asher seems to like wild grass and guns,” I say carefully. “And barbed wire.” For a variety of reasons, I don’t mention his state of dress.
“Barbed wire?”
“Yeah, strung all over his picket fence like Christmas decoration.”
Juno shakes her head.
“Is he traumatized or something?” I ask. “I mean, if he fought overseas, he’s probably seen some bad stuff.”
“He’s not traumatized. He’s pretending.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” Juno says hastily. “Doesn’t matter what’s going through his head. A man should keep his lawn clean.”
I sigh. “Maybe I can find a buyer who doesn’t care about neighbors.”
“Natalie, would you live next door to someone who uses barbed wire as lawn ornament?”
“No,” I admit.
“How badly do you need to sell Gatsby’s house?”
“I’ll lose my job if I don’t.” Even worse, my boss will have won. Liam Branigan the Third, a sleazeball who tried to grope my chest in his office, will have won.
“If you want,” Juno says, “I’ll talk with Asher.”
“Oh no please don’t. I’ve bothered you enough.”
“It’s no bother,” Juno adds. “Asher Wade knows better than to bother me. Do you want me to talk with him?”
I look down for a moment. “Yes. That would be great.”
“Get a good night’s rest. There’s a shower upstairs down the hall. Tomorrow morning, you go back over there, and I’ll make sure he has his act together.”
I thank her again.
Later, as I’m lying in my clean bed after a nice shower, I think of Asher’s fierce eyes and wonder. They seem to be the eyes of someone still fighting a war.
4
That Jersey Girl
Asher
Here comes doll face strolling up my lawn. No lipstick today. Natalie looks more comfortable in her skin, more determined, head held high, wearing summer shorts and a plain white T-shirt, that pink messenger bag slung across the shoulder. She’s ready to take on the world.
Juno Newlin can have that effect on people. She called last night, ordering me to treat the sweet, innocent creature strutting over my lawn with the utmost respect. Or we would have problems. So I’m going to obey.
Juno can have that effect on me.
I even trimmed my hair. Presentable, but still no shirt.
Doll face will have to get over her delicate sensibilities.
I wait for her to knock, and after two knocks, I open the door to meet her big eyes and bite back a growl. Something about her face gets me going like nothing else.
Red creeps up her cheek. “I see you’re still doing the shirtless thing. Classy.”
“Got pants on.”
“Always a plus.”
I look at her. “Where you from?”
“New Jersey,” she says. “Originally.”
“I’ve never been to New Jersey.”
“I’ve never seen you there.” She frowns. “Where are you from?”
“You’re looking at it.”
Natalie glances at the house I grew up in. “It’s big,” she says.
“It is that.”
“So. Did Juno call you . . . ?”
“She told me to cooperate.” I wave outward. “As you can see, the guns are gone. And I removed the barbed wire.” Took me two hours last night.
“But your lawn remains a jungle.”
“This isn’t the suburbs, doll face.”
“Call me doll face all you want. You have my permission.” She bites her lip and crosses her arms.
Seeing her teeth in that pouty lower lip stirs my cock. “I’ll do that. What do you want with my lawn?”
“Your neighbor’s place has a neatly manicured lawn. There’s a small garden too. I think we should make your property match his. It would make a good impression for any interested buyer. Besides, whoever buys Gatsby’s place will be your neighbor. It’s in your interest to make a good impression.”
“Yeah? What happened to the guy from yesterday?”
There’s genuine hurt in her eyes, which makes me feel like a genuine asshole.
“Nelson passed,” she says. “He left me a horrible review.”
“Only a prick would blame you for what’s my fault.”
Her cheeks redden another shade. “So you agree you’re at fault.”
I make a throaty noise. “What do you want me to do?”
“Got a lawnmower?”
Keeping my face blank, I lead her to the toolshed beside my garage. Inside are a variety of gardening utensils Priscilla collected after I’d left for the Army. It pains me to see them, and I step back while Natalie picks up a pair of shears, her eyes gazing in wonder at everything. If she’s into gardening this is paradise.
A single lawnmower sits in the corner.
“Just tell me what to cut,” I say.
“No I can take it from here. You go do whatever it is you do.”
I don’t move.
Natalie looks at me. “I’m not gonna steal your shears or whatever.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. You’re small. This is a big yard.”
Her eyes bulge. “I’m not small. You’re freakishly huge.”
“That’s what she said.” I couldn’t resist.
Natalie bites her lip again. “You’re very rude.”
We stare at each in silence.
I give up. “There’s gas in the cabinets for the mower. Enjoy the yard work.”
“I will,” Natalie calls after me.
Standing on my porch, I watch her carry out tools from the shed and lay them carefully on the ground. She pulls out the lawnmower next, struggling and grunting, and I damn near go back to help, but she throws me an angry glare when I take a single step in her direction. So I stay and watch.
She takes out a notebook and pencil from her messenger bag, starts writing something.
“Sure you don’t want a hand?” I yell.
“No,” she shouts, eyes focused on whatever’s on the page. “Why don’t you go jerk off or something?”
I’
m surprised how much I need to. There’s nothing suggestive about what she’s doing, but my cock is rock hard. Her frown of concentration is beautiful, the tail of her hair swaying in the warm breeze, the way she chews her lip as the pencil moves back and forth. I don’t understand the effect she has on me and that pisses me off like a motherfucker.
“I’m heading inside,” I say. “Be careful out here, this isn’t a safe area.”
Natalie finally looks up. “What’s not safe?”
“Just be careful. And watch out for cars coming up the road.”
“Thank you, Daddy! I’ll be sure to stay away from strangers.” She shoos me with her little hand.
The strangers here are more dangerous than she knows.
I go inside to find Hansel on his haunches in the living room. “Watch after her, buddy. And behave yourself.”
Hansel dashes out of the front door. Seconds later I hear a girlish squeal and Natalie’s voice, “Warn me when you send your mutt out!”
But Hansel wins her over soon enough. Playful barks and Natalie’s laughter fill the air. They’ll be all right.
Time to focus on my real mission. That girl is a distraction.
I descend into the basement, the cold air cooling the fire below my waist and reminding me why I came home two years ago.
I sit at my desk and re-read my sister’s old letters.
I inventory my weapons in the storage locker. These are my real weapons, not that rusted junk I left on the front lawn for show. Several sidearms. Grenades and plastic explosives stowed in crates. An AR-15 civilian rifle I’d modified to be a fully automatic assault rifle. I’m not a gun nut, but I know guns.
These weapons are meant for one man.
A picture of him is taped to the cinderblock wall. I stare at it every day when I plan how to murder him. It’s funny. I see his mug more than anyone’s, just like when we were kids.
Verne Resnik.
We’re the same age.
We grew up together in Salma’s Hope. We both played for the Panthers in high school, running across the same gridiron, bulking up in the same gym, sweating it out every summer doing two-a-days in ninety-degree heat until we threw up our guts.
The other guys on the team were jocks, but not Verne Resnik. He was like me. We didn’t date cheerleaders or fool around with girls from the booster club. We wanted no part of that social life. We wanted to win. We played to prove something to ourselves.
I liked that about him.
Verne Resnik was a kindred spirit.
There’s a framed picture on my desk, taken outside the front doors of Salma High. All four of us—Eugene, me, and him. And standing in the middle, the apple of everyone’s eye, is my sister Priscilla. Verne has his hand on her shoulder. They were already a couple, but not yet engaged. Eugene and I stand slightly apart to either side, the brothers on the flanks.
We trusted Resnik that much.
We didn’t know what a monster he would become, the sickness in his rotten heart.
I can’t say why I keep that picture on my desk. It gnaws my guts to see it. I suppose it’s a memento of what Resnik took from me, the trust he betrayed.
A reminder too that if Eugene were alive, he’d want the same thing.
Vengeance
Justice.
No matter the cost.
Resnik killed our sister.
I will burn his world down and bury him in the ashes.
“Helloooo?” Natalie’s voice calls from upstairs.
My watch reads noon. She’s been working all morning.
I hurry up the basement steps and find her wandering in my living room, drenched in sweat, the white T-shirt sticking to her figure and stained with grass. I can make out a sports bra underneath. My eyes travel down her legs, just as stained, before I get my attention under control.
Hansel follows happily at her heels, wagging his tail. Man’s best friend looks ready to follow her home.
“Hansel, git.”
The dog pads away with his head down.
Natalie folds her arms, pushing up her breasts in a way I can’t ignore.
“What are you looking at?” she says curtly.
“Nothing,” I growl. “You want some water?”
“Please.”
I take her to the kitchen, a storm in my head, and she sits at the table like she owns the place. She’s the worst distraction there is.
I get two unopened gallon-jugs from the pantry and put one on the seat next to hers. The other jug I tip over my mouth, drinking the water straight up.
Natalie watches me in shock. “Where I come from, people don’t walk around shirtless all day and drink from jugs.” She glances at my abs, then meets my eyes as her cheeks flush. “And don’t tell me this is some macho Army thing. They use glasses in the Army.”
“You know I was in the Army?”
“People mentioned you at Goldilocks. Juno Newlin told me some stuff.”
“What’d she say?” I ask sharply.
Natalie flinches. “Nothing! This guy Dale said your brother died in Afghanistan and Juno told him to shut up.”
Eugene. Killed in action.
“Glasses are in the cabinets,” I say with a grunt.
Frowning, she gets a tall glass and sets it on the table. I lean against the sink, watching her, trying not to think about Eugene while she hauls up the jug and pours into the glass. Her arms tremble. She’s already exhausted from yard work. The glass gets half full before she loses her grip, and the jug hits the ground spilling water.
Natalie shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath. Her lips look parched.
Did I teach you to be a dick, bro? My brother’s voice in my head.
Don’t be rude, Asher. My sister adds hers.
Bits of grass cover Natalie’s clothes and her elbows are scraped. A bigger gash that looks inflamed marks her knee. She’d gone through hell on my lawn.
I want to lick that gash clean.
My hand goes to her shoulder and she spins around.
“Sit down,” I say.
She sits slowly, eyes following my every movement. I wipe off the table. I fill her glass and she finishes it in seconds. I pour another.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Hang tight.”
I get a first aid kit and a clean towel from the hallway bathroom. Back in the kitchen, I wash my hands before I kneel at her feet. Her ponytail is loose, messy wisps framing her face, and sunlight from the window highlights individual strands of honey and gold.
She closes her legs. “What are you doing?”
“Your cuts need treatment.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You want an infection, doll face?”
She scoffs but doesn’t complain when I wipe her elbows with alcohol pads. I clean her legs next and cover her knee with a bandage. She tenses every time my fingers touch her bare skin.
“You need to rest,” I say.
“Maybe later. Your lawn is a disaster.”
“I’ll clean it,” I growl. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Y-You will?”
“Yeah. Don’t need you scraping your pretty soft skin and leaking blood on my grass.”
Natalie sucks in a breath. “I wouldn’t be scraping anything if you weren’t such a slob.”
“You want lunch or not?”
“Got any fried shrimp?”
I end up frying a steak, all I have in the fridge she might enjoy. I’m no fucking chef, but I can make a tender steak in any environment. Learned that one in the Army. I nuke frozen veggies in the microwave and add a dollop of instant mash. Hell, I wasn’t expecting to feed her.
Natalie wolfs down lunch while I eat a protein bar that tastes like protein. I haven’t bothered with taste in years, just nutrition to keep my body strong.
“Not bad,” she says, putting her fork down.
“I aim to please.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come see your lawn then.”
I follow her down the hallway toward the front door. With every step, her ass cheeks bulge in those shorts and my cock pushes into my pants. Right at the door, she whips her head around and nearly catches me gawking.
“What?” I say.
She chews her lip. “Nothing.”
We step onto the porch, where Hansel rests on his belly. When he sees Natalie he hops up and runs circles around her.
“Your dog is much nicer than you,” she says, scratching his ears.
I’m too busy gaping at my front yard to answer.
In one morning she’d returned the left edge of my lawn to pristine condition. She’d cut the grass. She’d pulled the weeds out by their roots and piled them by the toolshed. The twigs and branches from last winter are gone. The contrast to the rest of the yard is night and day.
“You can thank me later,” Natalie says. She takes out that small notebook from her pink messenger bag, which she seems to carry everywhere, and shows me some sketches. The pictures are drawn with pencil and show my house with a clean lawn, adorned with flowers under the front windows. “Your lawn should look like this after everything’s done,” she says. “We’ll have to buy some flowers from town later.”
“We?”
She pouts so fucking adorably it kills my heart. “It’s your lawn, Asher. And you’re paying for those flowers.”
I stare at her drawings. I’m no artist, but this girl can draw. It’s not just what she’s drawn, which is a damn near perfect copy of the house in black and white, but the spirit she imbued it with. There’s life on the page. A sketched butterfly hovers over the flower bed she has planned and seems ready to fly off the paper.
“Damn,” I say.
“You don’t like it?”
I hear the uncertainty in her voice. “I love it. What the hell are you doing selling houses?”
Natalie gives me a look. “Good question. Starving artist has been my goal since I picked up my first crayon, but actual starving was less glamorous, so here I am.” She shrugs. “I’m not good enough pay the bills with art.”
