by Harlow Stone
I’m not sure how much time has elapsed before he speaks again.
“You’re different Elle.”
Wow, not sure where he’s going with that one but way to break the ice with a woman.
“Gee, that a compliment neighbor?”
He looks up at my face and studies my expression before continuing.
“A major part of the jobs throughout my life Elle have been studying people. Learning what makes them who they are, sometimes before they even know themselves. Understanding what they do, and what moves their going to make before they take the first step.”
I can understand what he’s saying. If he was a soldier or whatever the hell it is he does that would be one of the main attributes to the job. Knowing the people around you. Knowing your enemy better than you know your friends. I’m sure it’s what keeps the men in this town alive overseas, able to come home to their families.
Sometimes I wish I could have been that observant of the people in my life and my surroundings.
If so, it may have saved me many days in hell.
It may have even saved my family.
“You don't like new people. Actually, I take that back. You don't like unknown people, especially not in groups because it’s too many to try and read at one time. It makes you uncomfortable. Not knowing who they are and you can trust.”
He resumes his ministrations and moves towards my knee, keeping his eyes on mine.
“It takes a lot of time for you to trust someone, I get that. I can even understand it. You don’t know me Elle, but give it time and I promise I won’t let you regret it.”
I don't know where he’s going with this but damn if he didn't hit the nail on the head with that one. As much as I would love to have a come to Jesus with this intoxicating man I need to remember why I’m here.
“Is there a point to this story soldier?”
His hands pause the journey north and he turns his head back to face me.
“I’m not a soldier anymore, smartass.” He says with more force in his tone necessary.
“You would know that by now if you weren’t trying to push me out your door as quick as I came in. I moved on from that part of my life a long time ago. I do security work now, and occasionally help train on base.”
This is news to me, not that I thought I knew him at all but seeing him jogging that day in Jacksonville near base I put two and two together. Or so I thought.
“A long time ago. How old are you Mr. Callaghan?”
“Thirty seven. Spent twelve years with the corps out of high school and the rest building my security business in Jacksonville. What about you Elle?”
The tone in his voice suggests his pride towards his company and he seems genuinely interested in my answer. Unfortunately there’s not much that I can tell him.
“You mean how old am I or what do I do?”
“How about both?”
He sincerely asks. Christ if it were only so simple. However the thought of saying I was a waitress (As per my social security info from Tiny) seems incredibly fucking lax compared to my old life. Nothing against waitressing, it was my first job in high school and kept my gas tank full. But it’s a far cry from what I used to do.
“Thirty.” That should do it, and perhaps we can bypass the rest.
Ryder nods his head. I think he understands he's not going to get much more than that.
“Fair enough beautiful. Maybe one day you’ll realize I’m not someone to fear and you’ll tell me the rest.”
His genuine interest is heartbreaking, how long has it been since someone seemed generally interested in me and not just because they wanted to know my business. However the beautiful comment puts my guard back up. I’m a miserable bitch most of the time. I’d say I’m ugly from my scars but I believe it’s my heart that's the ugliest at this point. And if he’s referring to my face as the beautiful part, I’m not sure I can take it as a compliment since it’s a purchased and altered version of my former self.
“We’ll see.”
It's the best response I can give him. He has yet to break eye contact and resumes his massage of my calf muscles as I close my eyes.
“You want to throw the TV on?” He asks most likely understanding we’re not going to sit here and make small talk about our lives.
“I don't usually watch it, but Tom won’t quit paying for it.”
“Well, as much as you may find your dog’s snore soothing, I’d prefer listening to the news.”
He reaches over my legs for the remote on the coffee table.
“Don’t you have your own TV to watch?”
I can hear the smile in his whiskey rough voice when he responds but I don't dare open my eyes.
“The company is better over here. And before you assume that I’m giving you a compliment, which I’m certain you’d reject, I was talking about the dog.”
The first genuine feel of a smile touching my face is the last thing I remember before falling asleep.
Attractive, thoughtful, and funny to boot.
I’m in trouble.
* * *
Its early evening. The sky is not quite dark yet and I’m feeling a nice little buzz after my dinner and drinks at Frank’s.
Frank’s is one of the few small dives to get a beer and a burger in this town, and it’s only about a ten minute walk from home which is a bonus. I’m alone tonight which is normal. Once a week for as long as I can remember I indulge solo and entertain Frank with my wit. In turn he feeds me and makes sure my Beer stays full. I quit coming in for a while after the accident that took my family, but soon realized a little bit of my old routine might do me some good.
Frank’s was my first paying job as a teenager. He and his wife Meg’s were good to me, and we’ve remained close. The older couple acts as surrogate parents to just about everyone in this town. Not afraid to dish out advice whether you want it or not, and not afraid to call your spouse to come and haul your ass home when you’ve had too much to drink.
They’re good people, and their little hole in the wall bar serves the best homemade burgers you’ve ever eaten.
“I’m outta here Frank, I’ll see you next week.”
He looks up from where he’s polishing the bar.
“Don’t remind me darlin’.” he jokes, shaking his head.
“You love me old man, don't forget it. Give Megs a hug for me when you get home tonight.”
I wave as I make my way out the door. My wit doesn’t hold its usual bright smile, but I’m slowly getting there.
Walking home alone in this town is not something to fear. I can’t say everyone knows everyone here but it’s pretty damn close. I guess you could say every fifth car that you pass on the street is an acquaintance. I get a few waves as I make my way around the back of the establishment towards home.
I’ve walked this route a hundred times. From the time I was a child until now. I used to live East of Franks when I was a kid until I moved on to University. Now, and for the past eight years I’ve lived Northwest in my own little two bedroom bungalow on Peters Road.
I make my way through the parked cars out back, not rushing, just enjoying the calm summer night air when a hand reaches in front of me. I go to turn right and see who the arm belongs to, but his other hand grabs hold of my hair. I swing my arm in front to brace myself on a lamp post and then bring the other back and elbow him in the ribs.
I hear a grunt but it does not slow the attacker down. I stomp on his instep and attempt to hit him again when his arm wraps around my neck and the other one goes for my mouth.
I thrash and kick, do whatever I can to get loose from this person. His hand and arm squeeze tighter and I start looking around the parking lot for help. I see a man to my left in a cheap suit staring at me with a look of shock on his face. HELP YOU STUPID FUCKER! FUCKING HELP ME! I try to scream around the soaked cloth that's now smothering my mouth.
The stranger sees me struggling but makes no move to help, just watches with his car keys in
hand, seeming to debate what the best course of action would be, but never actually moving from his spot on the pavement.
My vision begins to blur and my breathing shallows as my head lolls to the other side. I look at the van in front of me and see my attacker’s reflection in the window, and then I see two of them as my vision doubles before it all goes black.
My shoulders are shaking and I feel dampness on my face.
“Elle!”
I’m afraid to open my eyes, afraid to see the reflection of his face in the window again. Afraid that it might not be a reflection this time, but the real thing and I’m back in that damn basement again. Hanging and helpless with my arms tied above my head.
“GODDAMNIT WOMAN WAKE UP!”
Strong hands are on my shoulders, shaking me.
I jolt forward which causes me to face plant into a hard chest. I cry out at the pain that runs through my leg from the quick movement. My breathing is heavy and the wetness I feel on my cheeks confirms the tears that have run down my face. His arms surround me and I pull my hands up between us to push away from his chest.
“Don’t fucking move Elle.”
Ryder squeezes me tighter and begins running his hands up and down my back in a soothing motion. I lie to myself that the tears still coming down my face are from the nightmare, and not from how good his affection feels. This is the first hug I’ve experienced since the attack, the first warm set of arms to embrace me in almost a year. I take deep breaths and attempt to calm my racing heart.
We sit like this for a while, in no hurry to move and afraid to let go. He smells like fresh laundry and man. I turn my head into his neck and breathe in the subtle scent of his cologne. My thoughts are changing course, I want so bad to lick him, and I’m pretty close to doing so which forces me to put gentle pressure on his chest once again so that I can distance myself from what would most likely be a huge fucking mistake.
He slowly releases some of the pressure of the bands that are his arms around my back and looks down upon me. I see his mouth coming and close my eyes in rejection before I feel his lips on my forehead. I hear his own intake of breath, feeling his nose buried in my hair before he gently pulls back.
“Not sure what that was all about Elle, but if you want to talk about it I’ll listen. I’ll also help if you need it. Just ask.”
Dammit he’s kind. I have no idea why he’s not married with four children yet, surely someone should have snatched this man up by now. I can hear Laura’s opinion of him in the back of my mind while I sit here trying to figure him out. I know exactly what she’d say.
“Lack’s in the sack, sister! No man is ever kind, good looking AND single. Especially at our age, unless he’s gay. That’s the only exception to men like him.”
If he’s gay, maybe we could be better friends if I didn’t have to worry about him coming onto me or seeing me in my birthday suit. But after the heated looks in the bathroom and what I am certain is the so called ‘chemistry’ women talk about but never often experience, I’m left in a grey area.
I don’t for one second think he ‘lacks in the sack’, but it wouldn’t be the first time I spread my legs for a good looking, linebacker size of a man and was left unsatisfied.
You take them home expecting a nice English cucumber, but regrettably end up with a pickle.
Laura and I had a name for this, or I should say we had a label for them.
Gherkins.
That one, itty bitty small word was enough to sum up the morning after talk, which usually ended the talk because the description said it all.
“You haven’t eaten anything in a while, I’ll make some food and you can find something more interesting on television than the infomercials.”
It’s said as a request and I don't have the energy after my nightmare to protest. I’m also trying hard not to laugh being as I was just thinking about a certain food product.
Shit, an ‘almost laugh’
I’m making progress.
I look at the clock in the kitchen and notice that I was asleep for three hours. I wonder if he stayed here the entire time?
“What did you do while I was asleep?”
I say to his retreating back as he heads into the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder and I’m certain I can see his lips twitch as he replies.
“Watched infomercials.”
Lying bastard.
Chapter Nine
It’s been a few weeks since Ryder witnessed my nightmare. He’s tried to come around a lot more, and I only reject him about half the time. I’m trying so hard not to let him get close but I’d be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the company. Other than helping my handicap self to and fro he hasn’t bothered to touch me much, which I can respect as much I as I hate.
I know he wants to touch me, I can see it in his eyes when I catch him staring at me. I suppose I don't exactly put off that ‘come touch me’ vibe that most women do. Or certainly most women in the presence of Ryder Callaghan.
That man could make a nun shed her habit. I’ve reiterated the friend vibe through my actions rather well and surprisingly he’s followed suit. I respect him even more for that.
I see him through my kitchen window leaving his house. He’s dressed in a dark black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Dark jeans and black boots on his feet. I have no idea what his schedule is with work, he seems to be home more often than he is away lately. Perhaps owning your own security business allows you the pleasure to make your own hours. I’ve never asked and he has never supplied the information, simply says ‘gotta get to work’. Part of my not making small talk leaves me in the unknown more often than not.
As much as the talk remains small, or void, I can say that life has felt a little lighter with him around. I haven’t left the house much and for the first week he brought me groceries and spent some time on my couch in a comfortable silence while watching TV.
He hasn’t asked me any personal questions, or mentioned the scars on my neck or wrists. Being who he is and what he does for a living, I’m pretty sure he has a good idea and knows the topic is sensitive. Or would be sensitive for most women, I’m not sensitive at all about it. More like I’m a hardened bitch when it comes to talking about it and I can’t because I don’t want him to know who I am.
I watch as he pulls out of the drive and heads for town. I finish up my tidying and make to do the same. I’ve spent a little more time on my feet today than I should have; making up for lost time spent on the couch these past few weeks. When I push it my leg starts to hurt again, so I’ve embraced being a couch potato and spent a lot of time reading.
Now that the overdue cleaning and laundry is caught up I decide to treat myself to surf and turf dinner in town. Well, take out surf and turf dinner I should say. I don’t mind eating alone in public at all, but I know Saturday night and one of the town’s only decent restaurants will be busier then I can handle. The loud crowds and half-drunk patrons leave me too many variables to assess.
I jump in the truck with Norma in tow. It’s a nice night and even though my ankle is still tender I plan on taking advantage of the boardwalk to the restaurant with my dog. It’s a nice place to walk and watch the sun set behind the large array of fishing and sail boats.
I park in the beach lot which isn’t too far from the restaurant. I grab my bag and open the back door for the dog to jump out. The sun is setting and the wind is a little cooler. I’ve dressed in black tights, a flowing black tunic that cinches on the side of my waist paired with my customary wrist cuffs and scarf.
My feet are covered in my knee high black boots, once again with my knife stashed inside. Daytime footwear probably would have involved sandals of some sort, but being out later I feel more comfortable in what I like to refer to as my armor.
Don't draw unwanted attention to yourself. Blend in and be prepared at all times.
I replay Tiny’s words of wisdom as I make my way towards the boardwalk, scanning my surroundings. Nothing makes the hairs on
my neck stand up and I don't see many people about. A younger couple and their children, and an old man out with his dog.
I walk on the old wooden planks and Norm sniffs her way through the sand as we make our way towards the restaurant. Snapper’s, known for their steak and seafood, has a front entrance off the street and a large rear patio with an entrance next to the boardwalk.
This little harbor really is beautiful. Different sailboats and small fishing ships line the docks. Its big and busy enough that not everybody knows each other, but it still has that small town feel where you’re not rushed and bussed from one place to the next without so much as a friendly smile.
I climb the small set of wood steps to the restaurant and ask the waitress for a menu, declining the offer for a table. I was right; the place is filling up rather quickly. I order the eight ounce tenderloin with a lobster tail and mixed green salad to go. The waitress quickly enters my order while I take a seat on the bench to rest my leg, and watch Norm chase something in the water.
