by Harlow Stone
I’m skilled at that.
I grab my new prepaid and order a pizza since I’m too lazy to cook lately. I’ve been too busy searching for a new place to live. I’ve found a few places online in Indianapolis that look promising. I don't feel the same about them as I do this cozy place, but it will do.
I’m torn between a little bungalow near the river and a shabby house more secluded near a lake that needs quite a bit of fixing up. My options are slim, wanting to still be near the water but far enough away from neighbors.
I’m weighing the pros and cons of the two when I hear a knock at the door. I didn’t hear a car pull up and the dog is barking, frantically.
No tail wag.
Too early for pizza.
Not Ryder.
I grab my gun and edge along the wall towards the door, close enough they can hear me.
“Who is it?”
I holler out while taking shelter in the hallway.
“It’s Anna.”
I don't know a fucking Anne but she doesn't sound threatening. I make my way to the door and peer out the window to see a beautiful woman with a blonde bob. She’s tall and slender dressed in beige well fitted slacks with a frilly red blouse. Her pale skin is glowing under the porch light and I unlock the door.
“What can I do for you?”
I ask as she looks me up and down. My jogging pants and faded out tank top not up to par with this woman's wardrobe.
“I can’t get into the house or get ahold of my fiancé, I assume he must be working late, I’ve been away so I’m not sure what time he’s been coming home. Have you seen him today?”
She asks in a haughty voice that grated on my nerves the minute she opened her mouth. I assumed an Anna would have a sweet, kind voice.
Not this snooty bitch.
“Who did you say you were?”
I’ve never met any of the other neighbors, and I’m still disappointed she’s on my porch not the pizza I’m waiting for.
“Anna.”
She says with some bite in her tone, like I see her every fucking day.
“I don’t know any ‘Anna’s’, and I have no idea who your fiancé is so I can’t help you.”
I begin to close the door but her words force my back to go straight and my head to whip around and face her again.
“Ryder Callaghan.”
She half hisses, like she sick of talking to me.
No.
It can’t be.
“Ryder doesn’t have a fiancé.”
I say with less conviction than I would have liked. It’s also said more like a question.
“Yes. He does. As I said, I’ve been away. Could you please tell me what time he’s been coming home? I’ve lost my key.”
She quips and I know in that moment the bitch doesn’t have a key. Like I said, I’m good at reading people. I would consider all her words to be a lie until I look down and notice the small, but pretty little rock on her finger.
Why the hell does bad shit seem to find me?
If it can happen, it will happen right? Well it certainly does in my world. That fucking bastard. The letter he wrote me? His mouth between my legs. The connection I felt with him?
I suppose it’s true, at the end of the day we all want what we can’t have. Ryder seemed like a great catch, probably because the entire time he was unavailable.
Engaged to another woman.
This feeling of being a home wrecker gives me that last push to get the fuck out of Dodge and not look back.
“I wasn’t aware Ryder had a fiancé. Mind you we don’t talk much and I haven’t seen him lately as I too have been away.”
Not a total lie, we really don't. And I was away.
She humph's a little before shaking her head.
“He’s probably off playing G.I Joe somewhere at the moment. I’ll leave him a note since his phone must not be working properly. However if you see him let him know I’ll be at the Hilton.”
Her prissy attitude is more than I can handle so I simply nod and shut the door.
The man my heart had softened for.
Engaged.
To be married.
What the fuck?
* * *
It’s early morning and the last of my stuff that I want to bring with me is loaded in my truck.
I haven’t called Tom to let him know I’m leaving. This place is paid for the next three months and I know Ryder will be back to look after it. He’ll let Tom know when I don't return. I have no doubt it will be in good hands until then. I packed up my cooler with the remnants from the fridge and took the garbage to the curb.
I lean against the truck with my phone in hand.
It will be goodbye, I tell myself.
Enough for closure.
I’ve rolled the conversation over in my head of all the ways I can tell him what a lying sack of shit he is. I saw Anna’s little red car parked in his driveway this morning.
Bitch must have found a key.
I dial the number I memorized from his letter and wait for it to connect. I half hope to hear voice mail before his whiskey voice rasps down the line.
“Callaghan” he grunts into the phone sounding out of breathe.
Probably fucking some other cunt on the job, while his muse packs to hit the road and his soon to be wife waits for him at home.
“I thought about staying Ryder, until you got back. To give you a proper goodbye.”
I hate that my voice cracks a little on the ‘bye’ and I hope he doesn't notice. I take a deep breath and center myself before speaking again.
“But that’s changed.” I say with the firm tone I was originally going for.
“What-What's changed Elle? Stay and talk to me. Please. Three more days. Four max and I’ll be back so we can sit down and talk about why it is you refuse to stay. Give me that much Elle, don’t make me come back to find nothing but an empty house.”
There’s a desperate tone in his voice, and at this moment it makes me fucking hate him more for seeming to be so interested in me and my life, all the while lying like the bastard that he is.
I go in for the kill.
“Don’t worry handsome, someone will be here for you when you get home.”
Then venom in my voice won’t be mistaken.
“What are you talking about Elle?”
I clear up his confusion in three simple words before hanging up.
“Anna, your fiancé.”
Click.
Chapter Seventeen
Two and a half months later
“Get your head in the game Elle! One two PUNCH! He's not gonna wait for you to get your shit together babe, and neither am I!”
My back slams down against the mat and the air whooshes out of my lungs. I run my arm across the sweat running down my forehead.
Brock is kicking my ass today. I only managed three hours of sleep last night due to the nightmares, and my body is exhausted after the past hour on the mat with my trainer.
He stands above me and reaches a hand out to help me up. He knows not to go soft on me. I need the release of someone kicking my ass, and giving everything I’ve got in return to get myself out of the situation.
It’s cleansing, paying to get your ass kicked. It’s like my new form of therapy.
I don’t often ‘win’ per say, and I’ve never taken him down. Brock is huge. From a far he seemed a bit intimidating when I first met him. He’s over six feet tall, covered in colorful ink and has shaved light blond hair. He’s built like a mastiff, but I know deep down he loves like a kitten.
In another life I might be attracted to him, but the love he has for his wife Sam along with the strictly business attitude he gives me makes it easy to stay in the teacher/student zone.
“You need sleep Elle, go home. We need your head here, and it’s not today, girl. Go home and sort that shit out okay?”
Brock pulls me up and gives me a pat on the shoulder. I give him a head shake but I don't deny his claim. I know I’m a
useless sack of shit today. If someone were to come at me right now, much like with Brock I’d be put flat on my ass.
“Yes, sleep. I think after today's ass kicking it should be a good one.”
I joke. My way to lighten the situation.
Brock heads to the boxing ring and I make my way towards the showers. I’ve been coming here for two months now. What started out as a self-defense class turned into one on one lessons with a personal trainer named Brock.
I’d like to say I took the lessons that were offered because I had a genuine interest in going home bruised three times a week, which would give me another excuse to soak in the tub.
The real reason is because during the self-defense class I enrolled myself in, I blacked out and lost my shit when Brock wrapped his hands around my throat.
It took me straight back to the basement and I knew nothing in that moment other than true survival. Of course he was only teaching our first demonstration before he would implement how take down an attacker.
Instead of a friendly demonstration where he would have come out unharmed, Brock walked away with a broken nose, black eye and most likely a reduced ability to make children should he hope to do so in the future.
While the blood poured out of his nose and he lay in the fetal position on the floor protecting his man parts, he opened his mouth to speak what I assumed would be something along the lines of ‘you crazy bitch get the fuck out.’
He said no such thing.
“That was badass Elle, but we definitely have more work to do. Be here Monday at six and we’ll work on some alternative maneuvers. No group class, just you and me.”
I walked out that day with lingering stares from PTA looking moms who probably thought I belonged in a mental institution. I still don't give a fuck what other people think of me, so I showed up on a Monday two months ago and started my personal training with Brock.
He gets me.
Never has he asked personal questions, or made comments about the marks on my body which are impossible to hide in a gym setting.
Long sleeve shirts and scarves are null and void when you’re sweating your ass off with boxing gloves on.
We’ve been training many times a week together and I could not have asked for a better sparring partner. My muscle mass is through the roof and I’m pleased that on those nights I don't need alcohol to ensure myself a few hours of sleep.
I leave here exhausted.
I wave at a few of the guys as I make my way towards the exit. Its dark out, I prefer to train late specifically for the sleep benefit. Usually arriving here around seven and getting home around nine.
As usual Brock watches me leave through the window on the side of the building, and stays there until I’m in my SUV. The man is like a lion in the gym, but a giant teddy bear when it comes to my well safety.
We’ve bonded these past few months, and although I turned down his wife's invitation for drinks a few times, he seems to understand and still holds a candle for me. If I were ever in trouble I know he would help me out. He’s good people.
I climb in my truck and head for the highway. The gym is only fifteen minutes from home which is convenient for me. I drive through the small town outside Indianapolis that is much like my old one in North Carolina, only a little bigger.
Instead of one grocery store there are three, and many small chain stores that provide anything I need. I haven’t left town much since I moved here simply because I don't need to. There's a small mall on the south side of town that curbs my retail therapy when in need. And instead of having only one liquor store, this town actually boasts one dedicated entirely to wine.
It’s an all-around win.
Minus one special man.
I pull onto the little lane I live on; thinking about the man that still makes me feel warm at times.
Ryder.
I didn't know him long and I’ve been gone for just over two months, but I learned I can put that ‘attraction by proximity theory’ right out the window. At least once a day he crosses my mind, and it’s not for lack of eye candy around here. Especially at the gym.
I’ve had more than my fair share of offers for companionship. Brock eventually stepped in and put his foot down. I appreciate his protectiveness, even though I can take care of myself in that department. However, it was getting a bit relentless and we both wanted to focus on my training. Not worrying which man was going to ask me for drinks next and steal my focus away.
Not many women venture into ‘Fist’. It’s mostly a man’s gym, aside from the self-defense classes they offer. The few fake titted bitches that came to ‘work out’ here quickly moved on.
It’s not spin class and Zumba at Fist. Its sweat, blood and tears. Sadly that would ruin their makeup, so they didn't stay long.
I reach my house and take in my surroundings as usual. My little bungalow is nondescript. It doesn't attract the eye but it is not cluttered either. My little grey sided abode on just under an acre of land.
There are a scattering of trees throughout the property and it’s about a hundred and fifty feet to the river’s edge. I have privacy fencing on both sides of the property and a garage to park my truck in. It’s not my old little cottage style home, but it works for us.
The neighbors on both sides of me are old enough to enter nursing homes. I’ve learned most of the lane seems the same. These houses were built in the fifties and I think the original residents still live in most of them.
It’s quiet, and they don't get out much.
My first week here I had a few knocks on the door and a muffin basket delivered. I learned that I don't need to answer the door with a gun in my hand, not in this neighborhood, but I still keep it close by.
I pull in the paved drive and press the garage door opener. I scan the surroundings once more before pulling in.
I’ve felt extremely off the past two days. Lack of sleep from the nightmares, and my random feeling of being watched. The hairs on the back of my neck aren’t standing up so I try my best to shrug it off.
I go through this from time to time. Nightmares inflicting my paranoia. I do feel more comfortable now that I have been training with Brock. I know my skills have improved immensely, and should someone try to attack me they are in for a surprise. I may still be small, but even Brock comments on the strength I’ve gained.
Most people would get excited at something like winning a trip to Vegas; I get a thrill out of knowing I can lay someone on their ass if they try to touch me.
As per usual, I’ll always be different.
I get out of the truck to a happy tail wagging dog. More so than usual. The garage is heated and when I’m gone for more than a few hours I leave her out here. I installed a dog door on the wall and a good sized fenced in portion outside for her to use when I’m gone.
When I’m home she’s free to the water.
“Why so happy pretty girl huh?”
I reach down and nuzzle her fur.
She smells different. Perhaps old Mr. Clemens from next door brought over his wife’s famous pot roast for her again. He does this once a week when his wife cooks said pot roast, because it’s more like beef jerky and his dentures can’t handle it.
I don’t blame him for not wanting to eat it and the dog appreciates it. Usually he brings it over Sunday night when his wife catches up on her knitting. I don't recall seeing him yesterday, but that's not uncommon since I don't sit staring out the window like most of the old folk who live around here do. Still it could mean that he brought it over tonight instead while I was at the gym.
I open the connecting door to the house and Norma runs in first. This is our routine. If someone is in there she will let me know.
I watch her make the rounds through the hallway to the two bedrooms, and then back towards me. She heads towards the couch and sits down.
All clear.
When I first moved in there was a wall separating the kitchen from the living room. I hired a contractor to clean it up after I took
a sledge hammer to the drywall that kept them apart. He then cut out the two by fours and made what's basically a large opening above the counter to the ceiling. It’s not an island with kickass barstools, but now I have a clear view to all exits from the kitchen and living room.
