Breaking the Seventh

by Allie Gail

  “I couldn’t say. I didn’t bother to ask him.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to see that the surgery was a failure.”

  “What surgery?”

  “You know, the operation to remove the stick from your ass. I hate to tell you this but it’s definitely still lodged up there.”

  The blue eyes narrow. “Just keep your pets out of my yard. First time I step in dog shit, you and I are gonna have a problem.”

  “Aww. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  He doesn’t seem amused. “Do you have my mail? There wasn’t anything in the mailbox.”

  “Oh, yeah. Lemme go get it for you.” Turning to head for the kitchen, I call over my shoulder, “You can come inside, you know. I don’t have cooties.”

  I grab his stack of mail from the countertop and when I return, he’s standing just inside the front door looking around the living room as if he’s expecting something to jump out and bite him.

  “Here you are.” I hand the envelopes to him with a bright smile and try not to dwell on the fact that he looks all nice and neat and I’m standing here in cutoff shorts, no bra and a faded t-shirt that says According to chemistry, alcohol IS a solution.

  “Thank you.” He starts rifling through the stack, giving me the impression that he has his doubts about it all being there.

  “I was joking about filling out your credit card application,” I reassure him.

  “What?” Looking up from the mail, he says, “Oh. No, that’s not what – I was looking for something else.”

  “If your Gay Times magazine gets delivered here by mistake, I’ll let you know right away.”

  One corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. “Make sure you do.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “How come you’re always so grouchy?”

  “You just met me. How would you know I’m always grouchy?”

  “Just a hunch,” I mutter.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you really pee in my pool?”

  Biting back a smile, I roll my eyes. “No. Not really.”

  “Glad to hear you’re housebroken.”

  “I’ve done other things in your pool, though.”

  He tilts his head slightly to one side and surveys me intently. “I know I’m going to regret asking this…”

  “Those underwater jets are really strong, if you get my drift.”

  I savor the moment as my meaning dawns on him and for the first time, I finally get a genuine smile. It’s heartbreakingly gorgeous, and because of that I find that I almost regret flirting with him. I’m treading on dangerous ground here. Fun is fun, but if I’m not careful I’ll wind up setting myself up for disaster.

  “How old are you, anyway?” he wants to know.

  “I’ll be twenty-four next month. Hopefully.”

  “What do you mean, hopefully?”

  “Let’s just say that if an Acme safe dropped out of the sky and landed on my head, it wouldn’t be that much of a shocker. My birthdays aren’t exactly known for being events to look forward to.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Long story.” I shrug, hoping he won’t press for more. In an effort to change the subject, I say, “You look spiffy. Got a hot date or something?”

  “Or something.” His eyes are fixed on me in a way that’s got me fighting not to squirm. “So. You’ve seen way bigger, have you?”

  What? Oh, wait – shit! I’d forgotten all about that. Why did I say such a dumb thing in the first place? My heart does a little flip-flop but I manage to keep my face neutral. “Much bigger.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Oh my God oh my God oh my God…

  “Well, I could be mistaken. It was dark, after all,” I tell him calmly.

  “I’m quite certain you were mistaken.”

  “Wow. You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

  “Anytime you’d like to settle the matter, just let me know.”

  Hey, if you’ve got the time, right now works for me!

  Shaking the errant thought from my head, I clear my throat. “Um…yeah. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that.” Opening the front door, he taps the envelopes in his hand gently against my forehead, saying, “Keep your nose clean, blondie. If I have to come back over here, it might very well end with me turning you over my knee and blistering your bottom.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  All I get in response is a smirk as he walks away.

  Whoa.

  I know it sounds crazy, but I spend the majority of the day imagining him doing just that.

  The beginning of the week drags by slowly with nothing particularly noteworthy happening to shake up the monotony. Even my excursion to the bank on Monday turns out to be less painful than expected. Filling out the forms only takes fifteen minutes out of my lunch hour, and I am once again assured that the money will be redeposited back into my account very soon. All I have to do is wait. No big whoop.

  Work is…well, you know. Just work. I can’t really complain – after all, everyone at the law firm is nice and we all get along well. Being a legal secretary was a nice change of pace at first, but to be honest I’m already losing interest. I saw it coming – it’s a typical trend for me. This is embarrassing to admit, but I tend to bounce from one thing to another, never finding exactly what it is I’m meant to do. Then again, maybe I was never meant for any one thing in particular.

  Seems like some people are born knowing what they’re supposed to do with their lives. Doctor, astronomer, chemist, teacher. They have a career path and they follow it faithfully. Not me. At twenty-three, I still don’t have a clue. The path I follow climbs over mountains and slides down ravines.

  I did manage to get my Associate of Arts degree from Northwest Florida State College, but I’m still muddling through night classes twice a week. Introduction to Family Law on Tuesdays and Legal Terminology on Thursdays. Right now the plan is to become a certified paralegal because…well, I have to do something, right? I don’t want to end up stocking hot dog carousels at convenience stores. This may not be my dream job – not that I know what is – but hey, the pay’s not too bad for this area. Crestview, Florida isn’t exactly a booming metropolis, but it’s where I grew up and I like it here.

  Most of the time.

  It’s Wednesday evening, when I’m busy trying to study for a Legal Terminology exam, that I see the next-door Neanderthal again.

  I’m curled up in my very favorite spot in the house, the cozy bay window in my bedroom, staring apathetically at the laptop in front of me without actually retaining any of what I’m reading. It’s hard to concentrate on things like temporary injunctions and unilateral contracts when the swimming pool down below is sparkling in the moonlight. What I’d really like is to go for a swim right now, but unfortunately that’s no longer an option thanks to Captain Killjoy.

  His pool may be surrounded by a privacy fence, but from my upstairs vantage point I can look right down into what used to be the Cliftons’ yard. I’ve always loved sitting here in the bay window at night, stargazing and watching the shimmering water below.

  Which is exactly what I’m doing when Myles comes strolling out of the back door of his house, shirtless, a white towel knotted around his slim waist. Apparently he’s about to go for a swim, the lucky bastard. Too bad my house didn’t come equipped with an in-ground pool. Right now I’d be doing good to afford one of those round plastic deals they sell at Toys ’R Us.

  I watch in fascination as he walks over to the deep end and stops right at the edge. Raising both arms above his head, he stretches lazily, the muscles in his back shifting sleekly like those of a prowling jungle cat.

  The towel drops.

  Oh, my. Oh, my-my-my.

  Skinny dipping again, I see.

  I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, staring hypnotically at the perfectly sculpted
curve of his smooth, tight ass. Oh, man – you could bounce a quarter off that thing. Damn him! It’s a total injustice for someone with such a dickish personality to be so freaking hot. How is that in any way fair?

  It’s bad enough that I’m already practically drooling all over myself. But when he idly turns around – yes, turns around – I can’t stop my throat from letting out a squeaky little moan. Even dangling flaccid, that beautiful length of manhood is nothing short of a work of art. Mm…forget Tootsie Pops. I’d like to see how many licks it takes to get to the center of that.

  Transfixed, I wet my lips.

  At that moment he looks up at the window.

  And smiles.

  Shit!

  Snatching up my laptop, I flounce off the window seat and away from his line of vision. That conceited exhibitionist dickwad knew I was there all along!

  Yanking open the drawer of my printer, I grab a piece of blank paper and hastily scrawl something on it in bright orange magic marker. Then I stick two pieces of Scotch tape on the corners. Heading back over to the window, I see that Myles is casually doing the backstroke from one side to the other, his eyes closed in perfect relaxation. That’s fine. I simply stick the paper against the window for him to read at his leisure.

  It says NOT IMPRESSED.

  There. That’ll do for now. Although I really need to think of something more devious to retaliate with.

  I’m lost in thought, debating the legal implications of having my friend Soapy bring his cement truck over and ‘accidentally’ positioning the chute over Myles Bellamy’s car, when Charlie comes pattering into the room with his favorite ball. Dropping it on the floor at my feet, he looks up at me and barks, wagging his tail happily. According to his doggie clock, it’s time to play fetch.

  Laughing softly, I crouch down to scratch his soft little head. “Later, Charlie. Give me about fifteen minutes, okay? Right now Mommy’s got a date with a shower massager.”

  Chapter Five

  I’m in the kitchen pouring myself a vodka tonic on Friday night when I begin to pick up on the faintest background noise. I have no idea where it’s coming from, but it sounds like a steady, rhythmic beep-beep-beep-beep. Perking up my ears, I pause and listen carefully. What the hell is that? A car alarm the next street over?

  Curious, I open the back door and the beeping gets noticeably louder. Not only that, but Charlie is outside, running about in circles while barking excitedly. I catch a faint whiff of smoke, and my heart sinks as I suddenly realize what the sound is.

  A goddamn smoke alarm.

  “Fuck!” Instantly I sprint across the yard, ignoring the burrs in the grass that are pricking my bare feet. What is that nitwit doing now, trying to burn down the neighborhood? I swear, I'm going to have to take out hazard insurance just from living so close to her.

  The French doors are standing wide open and the first thing I see through the hazy smoke is Leah, unharmed and unruffled, standing on a kitchen chair while waving a broom in front of the smoke detector. She is surrounded by three other people, all of whom are clutching their stomachs as they laugh hysterically.

  “What the hell is going ON?” I shout over the din, both furious and relieved that the airhead's house doesn't appear to be up in flames after all.

  Everyone turns to look at me in surprise, and at that moment the shrieking alarm mercifully stops.

  “The galloping gourmet here was trying to make lasagna,” a buxom girl with bright red hair giggles.

  Some goatee-sporting dude who, quite frankly, looks like a stoner to me, chimes in. “We've tried repeatedly to tell her a smoke alarm is not the same thing as a timer, but she just doesn’t listen. Cook it ’til it smokes, then scrape off the scorched part – that’s her go-to recipe for everything, you know.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Using the guy's shoulder for leverage, Leah hops down from the chair. “I overfilled the pan was all. The sauce spilled over into the oven and we didn’t smell it burning at first ’cause we were in the middle of a séance upstairs.”

  I stare at her blankly, certain I must have heard her wrong. Which is entirely possible, considering my ears are still ringing. “Did you just say…did you say séance?”

  “We were trying to channel the late, great Christopher Lee,” another girl explains. This one is sporting a purple streak through her jet black tresses. She is waifish, thin in the extreme and dressed head to toe in black, not counting the neon pink laces in her clunky combat boots.

  I don’t even know what to say here, other than, “May I ask why?”

  “Why not?” Shooting me a playful smile, Leah blinks her wide golden-brown eyes innocently. “We didn’t have anything else to do tonight.”

  “You must be Leelo’s new neighbor. My goodness, she was right about you.” The redhead is unabashedly checking me out, her catlike eyes straying down to my bare feet before slowly roving up the length of my jeans. “You’re so…tall.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t heard that one before.” I glance at ‘Leelo’, wondering what exactly she has said about me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry – guys, this is Myles Bellamy. The man who just bought the place next door.” Motioning in succession to the redhead, the waif and lastly the space cowboy, Leah tells me, “These are friends of mine…Autumn, Willow and Soapy.”

  I’m surprised when the guy offers up a firm handshake. “Simon Renbarger, at your service. Soapy is actually just a nickname that was inflicted upon me years ago by a recurrently inebriated relative. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Simon.” It strikes me as ludicrous that someone who looks exactly like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo can manage to come off as articulate and intelligent. I feel as if I’ve stepped into Bizarro World or something. After all, how twisted is it when loopy Leah stands out as the most normal one in the room?

  “Should we give it another shot?” Willow suggests to the others, looking hopeful. “We could try the Ouija board this time. Maybe Myles would like to help.”

  Simon – or is it Soapy? – pats her shoulder with a shake of his head. “Sweetie, I hate to burst your bubble, but Christopher Lee is not about to make an appearance from the dead just to pose for a Dracula selfie with someone he’s never even heard of.”

  “It could happen! Remember that time we communicated with the spirit of Kurt Cobain?”

  “That wasn’t Kurt Cobain,” Leah informs her. “That was Soapy. He was moving the pointer thingie.”

  “What?” Willow shoves Simon with surprising force for someone who probably weighs no more than a buck five. “Are you serious! Was that you the whole time?”

  He chuckles slyly. “I thought you would’ve figured it out when you asked what the afterlife was like and we spelled out Come As You Are.”

  “Planchette,” I mutter.

  Once again, everyone looks at me as if I’m the weirdo here.

  “It's called a planchette,” I explain, wondering why I’m even bothering. “The pointer. On a Ouija board. That’s what it’s called.”

  “Well, well. Brains and brawn.” Autumn nudges Leah with her elbow. “Leelo tells us you’re currently unattached, Mr. Myles Bellamy. As in single and available. If that’s true, then here’s a thought – why don’t you ask her out? She’s pretty hot, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, Jesus...” Leah’s cheeks warm to a pretty shade of pink as she rolls her eyes and then glares at her friend. “Don’t mind her. She makes it her personal mission to try and set me up with every unattached male we come across. Last week it was the busboy at Applebee’s.”

  “He was cute!” Autumn insists.

  “Hello – the guy had a unibrow!”

  “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Not that bad! Girl, did you step on your contacts? It looked like his mustache migrated north to his forehead!”

  I raise a hand, determined to put an end to this conversation before it can go any further. “Whoa. Listen, I appreciate the suggestion but I’m afraid that’s not gonn
a happen. No offense or anything, but dating is simply not a viable option for me right now. Recent experience has dictated that the only outcome one can expect from messing with hot is to get burned.” Looking directly at Leah, I can't resist adding, “Besides, something tells me this one isn't…easily impressed.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Whatever gave you that idea, I wonder?”

  “Not sure exactly. I could be mistaken, but I believe I may have read it somewhere. Maybe on a billboard or something like that?” The whole flashing incident was sort of a spur-of-the-moment impulse. I caught sight of her in the window and just couldn’t help myself. Something about the feisty little blonde incites an almost uncontrollable urge to test her.

  Which is dumb.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Now is not the time to let my dick override all common sense. I’m still recovering financially from all the bullshit Embry put me through.

  Like I said before, I seem to be a magnet for loonies.

  “Not to change the subject, but are we going to eat or are we going to starve to death?” Simon demands cheerfully. “I assume the smoke alarm was an indication that dinner is ready.”

  “I’m getting hungry, too,” Autumn complains.

  “Okay, okay, everyone relax your sacks. Lemme just put the salad together.” Her eyes still on me, Leah asks, “Brave enough to stay and eat some slightly blackened pasta with us?”

  I’m just about to decline when I catch the glimmer of challenge in her eyes. She fully expects me to cut and run, and for that reason alone I am determined to do precisely the opposite.

  I respond with the most charming smile I can muster. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes, if you’re sure it isn’t an imposition.”

  Surprise flickers across her face for the briefest of seconds, confirming my suspicion. She didn’t think I’d accept.

  “Of course it isn’t an imposition. Don’t be silly.” Sliding an arm through the chair’s slats, Leah prepares to haul it with her into the kitchen.

  “Let me get that.” Without giving her an opportunity to protest, I simply take it from her and follow the flow as everyone drifts into the kitchen. The burning smell still lingers in the air, and there are dirty dishes piled in the sink and something that looks like shredded mozzarella scattered across the countertop. But somehow, all those things make for a cozy, comfortable atmosphere.