Fury on Fire

by Sophie Jordan

  Let her see it there tomorrow. She’d get the message.

  His earliest convenience was never.

  FIVE

  He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t knock on her door as she assumed he would. As a normal, responsible person would do when they found a note on their windshield from their neighbor.

  By the time Thursday evening rolled around, she accepted that he didn’t care. Not only was she living next to a sex-hungry deviant, he was rude, too. Rude. A cardinal sin in the South. The memories she had of her mother were vague and not exactly plentiful, but she remembered her mother telling her over and over again that rudeness was unacceptable. If another girl was mean to her on the playground, it was not right to be rude back. Maybe he wasn’t from around here and such basic courtesy hadn’t been infused into his baby food.

  When she returned home Friday afternoon to find his bike encroaching on her spot, she pressed down on the brakes and stared, idling in the street, tapping her fingers in annoyance over the steering wheel before going ahead and parking her car.

  Their combined driveway was built for two vehicles, not two and a half. She had to roll her far left tires into the grass in order to fit her car, but she was feeling stubborn and unwilling to give up her rights to the driveway by parking in the street. He had to be aware that he was infringing on her side. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

  Slamming her car door shut, she marched up to his door and knocked. The television played quietly inside, but he didn’t come to the door. She told herself it was because he didn’t hear her. He wasn’t looking out the peephole and ignoring her. He wasn’t that rude. No one could be that big of a jackass.

  Grumbling under her breath, she marched inside her house and wrote him a second note.

  Please keep your bike to your side of the driveway or park it on the street.

  She grudgingly signed her name and included her phone number (again), her mother’s words playing in her head. Just because someone is mean to you doesn’t mean you can be mean back. She stepped back outside and tucked the note in his windshield wipers once again.

  Stomping back toward her door, she noticed a crumpled ball of paper at the far side of her welcome mat, practically in the neglected corner of her porch. As though it had been thoughtlessly tossed and then blown there by the wind. Dread pooled in her stomach.

  She stopped, her gaze narrowing on the familiar pale green paper.

  No, he did not.

  She advanced on the crumpled paper. Bending, she scooped it up, already knowing, already recognizing. It was her note. Her dread took a hard turn into indignation. He’d read her note and tossed it aside. That was how little he thought of her. That was the kind of neighbor she was dealing with. One who banged women silly, rejected her scones, destroyed her notes and parked in her spot.

  Inside her house, she changed her clothes, then turned on her television and went about making dinner, inhaling through her nose until she felt calm and composed. She stood in front of her pantry, inspecting its contents. She felt like she deserved a little bit of comfort food, so she went with pasta. At first she started making enough for two. Old habit left from when she lived with her father. Suddenly, loneliness stabbed at her. She sniffed back a sudden burn of tears and returned half the pasta to its box. What was wrong with her? She’d wanted independence, freedom.

  She still wanted that, she reminded herself. Rude neighbor not withstanding, she loved her new place. She just hadn’t thought about what being alone would feel like.

  Even when she was in college and grad school she’d had roommates. She shook off her longing for the sounds of her father walking down the creaking hallway of her old family house—or the sound of a baseball game on the living room television punctuated by Dad’s occasional shout. She smiled ruefully at the memory and then gave her head a swift shake. She would be visiting home on Sunday and baking his favorite meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Hale would be there, too, doubtless shouting at some game on the TV alongside Dad. She’d get her fix of home and family.

  Besides, she reminded herself, she had a date tomorrow night. Whether Brendan was Mr. Right or not, she was getting out there. She’d find someone eventually. She knew she had a lot to offer. She didn’t have to be alone forever. Not if she didn’t want that for herself. Life was full of choices. She was in control of her fate.

  She returned her attention to the sauce for her pasta, tossing in bits of bacon into the bubbling concoction of olive oil, milk, and parmesan cheese.

  While the sauce finished simmering, she poured a glass of wine. This evening had become about comfort and indulgence, after all. It had been a long day. Sitting with a bowl of creamy pasta in her lap in front of her television, she found an episode of Modern Family. Burrowing deep into the thick cushions of her couch, she scooped up a big spoonful of spiral noodles and took a bite, moaning in approval.

  The episode was almost over when she heard her neighbor’s door open and shut. Without getting up, she pushed the mute button and angled her head, listening as keys jangled. She heard North Callaghan’s steady tread over the concrete of their shared porch.

  She resisted the impulse to go to the window and spy on him through her blinds. Along with fighting down that impulse, she crushed the flare of curiosity over where he was going, what he was doing—who he was doing. None of her business.

  She sat rock-still on her couch, her fingers clutched tightly around her spoon. He had to have seen the new note by now. She waited, imagining him grabbing it off his windshield. She envisioned the tall length of him standing in their driveway as he read it. Maybe. Probably. Perhaps now his conscience would prevail upon him and guide him to her door. She listened for a knock.

  An engine started. That was a no then. He wasn’t coming to her door.

  She gave a sigh of disgust, unmuted the TV and went back to watching her show where everything was laughter and everyone was happy and life was full.

  She was a persistent little thing. Well, not little. He’d seen enough of her body through the blinds to know that.

  He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it toward her door like he had done before. Hopefully she would find it later on her front porch. It was for the best. Let her get the message that he would never be in the running for Neighbor of the Year. The best way to kill his interest in his mysterious neighbor was to scare her off—all within legal means, of course. He wasn’t going back to jail for any reason. He’d die first, because that’s what prison would be the second time around—a death sentence.

  Once in his truck, he drove to Bob’s BBQ Shack and ordered some brisket, ribs and sausage to go. He also ordered a side of potato salad that rivaled his aunt Alice’s. He’d spent many a summer eating potato salad and fried chicken, crowded around his grandparents’ kitchen table, his future a distant rose-tinted mirage. He smiled faintly. Those had been good times. Not every memory of his past was a bucket of shit.

  Climbing back behind the wheel, he set a brown bag full of smoked meat on the seat beside him. The delicious aroma filled the cabin of his truck as he made his way back home to eat his dinner alone.

  SIX

  Faith woke to a persistent knocking, broken up by the swift pings of her doorbell. A quick glance at her clock revealed it to be half past midnight.

  She stumbled groggily from her bed. Rubbing at her eyes, she paused as she caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway. She’d looked better. The day she took a softball to the face her freshman year she had looked better than this. Her hair stuck up in a haphazard bun, strands sticking out wildly from every direction on her head. A T-shirt that had belonged to Tucker, circa 2005, complemented a pair of baggy pajama bottoms that she would never get rid of on threat of death.

  The doorbell rang again, prompting her to action.

  The pièce de résistance was the green avocado mud mask she’d applied to her face for the night. Her former roommate Bonnie swore by the stuff, and since Bonnie’s mother was sixty years old a
nd looked thirty-five, Faith tended to believe all of Bonnie’s beauty tips, as they had all been passed down from her mother.

  Flattening her hands on her door, she peered out the peephole. The low glow off her porch light illuminated Serena standing in front of her door. Or rather swaying in front of her door.

  Faith frowned. Maybe the woman was fleeing from Faith’s jackass neighbor? Maybe he was a brute. An abusive brute. Faith had seen horrible things as a social worker, and she had heard stories all her life in whispered undertones between her father and mother, and then later between her father and brother, about events they had witnessed in the course of their day-to-day work. What did she really know about North Callaghan, after all?

  She quickly unbolted the door and yanked it open. “Serena? Is everything all right?” She surveyed the woman with an eye for injuries, searching for any evidence of abuse.

  Serena blinked. Dropping her chin, her gaze started at Faith’s feet, slowly working her way up to the top of her head with wide eyes, not missing a single thing. “You’re not North,” she finally proclaimed.

  It took a long moment for Faith to register this declaration and what it signified—along with Serena’s booze-laden breath. “No. I am not North.” Annoyance pricked at her chest. “Are you looking for him?”

  “Ohh!” She smacked her forehead hard enough to make Faith wince. “You’re the scone lady! Hey . . .” She took an unsteady step forward, inching inside Faith’s house. “You got any more of them in here? Those were goooood.”

  Faith lifted her hands and set them on Serena’s shoulders, giving her a gentle push back to keep her from entering her house. “No. I don’t have any more scones. Sorry. Is there something I can help you with, Serena? Are you hurt?” Faith swung a quick glance sideways, as though she expected her neighbor to jump out from the shadows.

  “Hurt? No! I’m not hurt.” She attempted to step inside again, saying, “You got North in there? North! North! Come out!”

  “Wh-what?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “No, he’s not in here. Why would you think that he’s in—”

  “You’re in his house.” She blinked and tilted her head back to look up at Faith. “If he’s not here, then where is he?”

  “I . . .” Faith stopped and took a breath, understanding dawning.

  She looked out to the street and where Serena’s familiar car was parked haphazardly. The ass end stuck out onto the street. The front of the car was wedged right up behind North Callaghan’s truck, barely a hair separating the two vehicles.

  “Serena,” she drawled, her stomach twisting sickly. “Did you drive yourself here?”

  She nodded sloppily. “Yes.” Leaning forward, she whispered loudly, one finger pressed over her lips as a gust of booze-laden air escaped her, “I’ve had a few beers.”

  “A few?” It seemed like she had more than a few.

  “I always get horny when I drink so I thought I’d take myself here.” She splayed her arms wide, nearly losing her balance. “North is always up for a good time.”

  As in another sex marathon. “Well, here is my house, not North’s.” She jabbed a thumb to her left. “There is North’s house.”

  Serena’s eyes grew comically large. “No way!”

  “Yep.” Faith nodded. “You’ve knocked on the wrong door.” She shrugged. “It happens.” Especially when intoxicated.

  Serena slammed both hands over her mouth. Sputtering sounds still managed to escape, however. The woman was on the verge of hysterical laughter. “For real! I’m sorry! That is hilarious!”

  “It’s quite all right,” Faith said. “Happens more than you’d think.”

  Really, it never happened. But living next door to Mr. Sexy Fun Times, it might become a thing.

  Dropping her hands from her mouth, Serena stepped closer, squinting. “Is that guacamole on your face?” Wrinkling her nose, she stuck out a finger as though to test for herself.

  “No! No, stop that.” Faith swatted at her hand, bobbing her head out of Serena’s range. She felt her hair flopping on top of her head, strands falling onto her forehead and getting stuck in the avocado mask.

  Suddenly a yellow glow flooded the porch as the neighboring porch light flipped on and the door to the left pulled open.

  Oh. No. NoNoNoNoNoNo. She wasn’t going to finally meet him now. Not like this. She wasn’t going to finally come face-to-face with him looking this way.

  She resisted the urge to run inside and slam her door shut. So what if he saw her with a green avocado mask on her face and dressed like a thirteen-year-old girl at a slumber party? She wasn’t out to impress him. That ship had sailed. And clearly he was not out to impress her. He didn’t give a damn about her. Inexplicable anger sizzled through her at the ugly thought. The feeling was mutual. At least that’s what she tried to tell herself . . . that’s what she tried to convince herself.

  Regaining her composure, she turned to face the neighbor who had been ignoring her notes, ignoring her—who did not have the courtesy to park in his own driveway or keep the sounds of fornicating to himself like any other respectable human being.

  And then she saw him. Truly saw him.

  Melting brown eyes. Dark hair hovered over naked shoulders, the strands uneven and layered, all the more appealing for the effortless nature of the style. This guy didn’t go to a salon or dump product in his hair.

  And then there was his body. His body with all its curves and hollows. His abdomen with those tight ridges. He belonged on billboards advertising Calvin Klein underwear. He turned at the waist and his muscles bunched and danced in unbelievable ways. Her mouth dried and her heart kicked painfully against her chest. She’d seen a hint of this when he entered his house and when she’d spied on him in his backyard. But nothing had prepared her for the real up-close-and-personal reality of him.

  His face was a study in beauty, too. Square-cut jaw and a beautiful well-carved mouth. Eyes so rich and deep. Eyelashes criminally long. A woman would throw down good money for those lashes.

  None of this beauty was marred either by the jagged scar running down his face and ending at his jawline. It might have ruined another face, but not his. No, it added to his masculinity. Gave all that prettiness a hard edge. A half inch to the right and it would have sliced his eye, too. He must have been pretty once, but now he was this. A man whose face both drew and repelled. Enticed and intimidated.

  He was the embodiment of her every sexual fantasy. Scratch that. He was the embodiment of every woman’s sexual fantasy. She could almost cry. Or laugh. She wasn’t sure which of the two was the stronger impulse.

  His deep brown gaze skimmed over Serena before landing on Faith. She supposed they were both in bad shape, but Faith would probably win the prize for biggest freak show. Which was saying something considering Serena was swaying on her feet with bloodshot eyes and definitely looking like roadkill.

  The world seemed to fade away as they assessed each other. It felt as though she had been barreling toward this moment for a long time rather than the week she had been living in her new house.

  She was certain, of the two of them, she was the only one feeling this way. She probably never even crossed his radar. Especially considering he could never do the right thing and introduce himself to her or answer the damn door for her or pick up the phone and acknowledge any one of the notes she had left him. No, she was certain she was the only one who felt as though the world were fading away and leaving just the two of them standing in it.

  His gaze swept over her. Instantly she wished she was wearing a bra at the very least. She felt vulnerable without one until she remembered that she was wearing the world’s baggiest T-shirt and her breasts were practically nonexistent anyway.

  He was much bigger in the flesh. Taller. Broader of shoulder. And speaking of in the flesh, he had on a pair of boxer briefs. Nothing else. Her gaze devoured tan, muscled skin that bunched and rippled as though it was possessed with its own life.

  So. Much. Skin.<
br />
  God. OhGodOhGodOhGod. This wasn’t happening. Say it wasn’t happening. Please. God. Not like this.

  His eyes narrowed. “Faith Walters?”

  So he knew her name. So he wasn’t so indifferent to her notes that he didn’t file away that little tidbit. Although he didn’t look thrilled to see her. But he was definitely seeing her. His gaze crawled over her face, leaving a path of fire in its wake.

  “North Callaghan, I presume?” Did she actually say that? Like she was in some sort of Alfred Hitchcock movie?

  He chuckled. “Great. So we know each other’s names. Glad we got that out of the way.”

  “Yeah, well, how would I know anything about you? You won’t acknowledge the notes I left for you. Or answer your door whenever I knock.”

  Serena laughed. The sound jarred Faith. For a moment she had forgotten her presence. “Oh, North? He’s not very social. He wouldn’t know the first thing about being neighborly. Or small talk, for that matter.” She staggered forward until she fell against him. Her hands made good use of the proximity, touching and stroking that delicious chest of his. The irrational urge to step forward and yank Serena’s hand off him seized her. She quelled the urge as Serena continued talking. “But you don’t need small talk with North. That’s the nice thing about him.” She giggled, her clumsy fingers sliding south on his chest. “Well. Not the nicest thing.”

  He didn’t crack a smile, and she imagined she saw a flash of irritation in his dark eyes. He grabbed Serena’s wandering hand and stopped it from roaming.

  Serena clucked her tongue and pulled a pouting face. “Aw, you’re no fun.”

  Faith could well understand the irritation. Indignation filled her, bubbling in her chest like when she ate too many peppers on her nachos. Which was absolutely crazy that she should feel like that. She should not feel offended on his behalf. He was a rude, inconsiderate neighbor. If he was okay with being treated like a piece of meat, then who was she to care?