Breaking Even (The Sterling Shore Series #5)

by C. M. Owens

  I rush back out to move Maggie's car, but I'm frozen to the ground when I see a smirking devil propped against his doorjamb. I'll no longer refer to him as Mr. Sexy. From now on, he's Mr. Dead Meat.

  He idly sips his coffee, his twisted, wicked grin growing ever so slightly as he watches me, waiting for me to show my ass again. Today he's wearing dark denim jeans and a black T-shirt that says “Nirvana” on the front.

  I offer him my best I-want-you-dead glower, and he raises his coffee cup in a toasting motion, proving he's proud of his little payback. I hate him. Mr. Dead Meat can go to hell. I'll not be driving into his car today. Mostly because it wouldn't do a damn bit of good, and because my car might fall apart this time.

  After playing musical vehicles, I head off to work, praying I don't file anything wrong. I'm sure my boss is going to make me work over just to make up for yesterday.

  Just as I park at the museum, something familiar catches my eyes. Then a sickening feeling consumes me as the scene registers in front of me. My heart stops when I see the only man in the world I wish would disappear off the face of the planet.

  It's him. John Abbott. The son of a bitch who made me a divorcee just after I turned twenty-five is here, and he's not here alone. A gooey-eyed blonde is draped on his arm, staring happily up at him as he walks out of the museum—where I work.

  What's he doing here?

  I watch as he unfolds something, and my heart constricts. It's then I realize he's sliding a ring on her finger. He's proposing here? At my work? What... the... hell is going on?

  Not that I've been keeping tabs, but I know for a fact they've only been dating for three months. Everyone who knows us always fills me in on his life, even though it should be obvious that I don’t want to hear it.

  This is too soon. Has he lost his mind? Or is she just as stupid as I was to think the creep is capable of truly caring about her?

  I scan the parking lot for his truck, hoping I'm not parked anywhere close to him. God must be busy, because he doesn't answer my prayer. I’m parked two cars down from him.

  I try slumping down in my seat, but it's too late. His eyes lock with mine, and then he tilts his head. At first I think he's going to pass by, pretend as though we're two acquaintances who barely knew each other once upon a time, but then he stops just as he reaches the back of my car, his eyes locked on the rear. Horror spreads over his face, and he drops Barbie's arm to rush over.

  “Brin! What the hell happened?” he demands, his eyes pinned toward the back, and I huff loudly when I realize what kept him from just walking on.

  He’s what happened. I was too pissed to think straight because of what yesterday was. The ignorant, selfish, stupid asshole. Now I have to face him and only humiliate myself further.

  I slowly climb out of the car, wishing I had gone to church more. Maybe then God would have helped me out. Why does it feel like I'm being punished?

  ***

  BRIN

  “So he was there getting her ring appraised?” Maggie asks in disbelief, referring to my son of a bitch ex-husband and his shiny new toy that has the Sterling sparkle.

  “Yep. And I showed up just as they were leaving. He actually used my name to call in a favor and rush the process along, and they did it for free because he and I are friends. Can you believe the nerve? My life sucks,” I groan, cursing as I drop to my bed.

  His fiancée must know what a prick he is if she’s forcing him to get the ring appraised. It wasn’t a flashy diamond, so it can’t possibly be worth more than a thousand dollars. Pointless appraisal if you ask me.

  Maggie starts to speak, when we hear a loud, terrifying cracking noise, and I squeal loudly as my bed shifts and breaks. A stupid girly scream passes through my lips as the right side collapses, slanting my bed at a terrible, unforgiving angle that drops my ass in a rolling motion to the hard floor.

  I land awkwardly and a grunt is forced out of me. After peeling myself up, I look around, still a little stunned.

  “What the hell?” I groan, looking at my large bed in disbelief. My poor, poor bed. The ache from my pummeled rear reminds me the bed wasn’t the only one injured. My poor, poor ass.

  Maggie is wide-mouthed as she comes to gape at the crazy damn thing that has just happened. “How did your bed just fall apart?” she asks, and I look at her as if she's joking.

  “Sorry,” she mutters, realizing that was a stupid question. But as she examines the bed closer, she gasps. “These legs have been sawed through. And the other two are completely intact. Someone did this on purpose.”

  Shocked and completely bewildered, I try to process that. Who would break in and saw my bed down? No. That’s preposterous.

  “How could anyone even get in the house? Maybe we've got beetles or something.”

  That's when she turns pale and takes a step back. But within seconds, her horror turns to fits of laughter. Um... What's going on?

  “Oh damn. It appears you've started a war,” Maggie says, not making a damn bit of sense.

  “What?” I ask slowly, suddenly questioning her sanity.

  Her laughter tapers off as she slides down the wall until she's sitting and leaning against it, putting her eye-level with me.

  “Mr. Sexy came over earlier today because our pipes burst outside. I never saw it. I should have possibly questioned that, but hell, he had tools, and I know nothing about pipes or tools—no pun intended. Anyway, my days are always busy with client calls, and I had to leave him alone numerous times. I heard noises, but I didn't really think much about it. You're so fucked if you've started a war with him.”

  Her laughter resumes while my mouth remains unhinged, dumbfounded by this turn of events. That asshole is paying me back? Why? He frigging sawed down my bed?

  “I only ran over his car because he had our spot. Again! That was us breaking even. This... this is him getting back up by one shot.”

  Maggie tilts her head as an amused smile crosses her lips. “What are you going to do about it?” she dares.

  I scowl as I finally climb back up to my feet, and I grab my phone and keys from the nightstand. Is there a hardware store nearby?

  “First I'm going to find a saw so I can knock down the other two legs of my bed to make it level, and then I'm going to google revenge.”

  Her laughter returns just as I walk out, and I glare at the neighbor's house across the street. When I see his Range Rover behind my sad little car, I stalk through the darkness.

  The second I reach the door, the bastard swings it open before I can even knock. “Yes?” he drawls, having the audacity to seem bored.

  How dare he answer shirtless and attempt to distract me! Those tattoos aren't intimidating me right now, though. He lives in a subdivision, so he can't be too dangerous. I don't think. Maybe, anyway.

  “I need your saw,” I growl.

  He tries not to grin, but fails miserably as he reaches beside the door and pulls out a hacksaw, as though he was waiting on this. How did he know I’d come over here when I only decided it seconds ago?

  “I'd give you the electric one I used, but you might cut one of your fingers off. Looks like you'll have to do it the hard way,” he gloats.

  I narrow my eyes at him while snatching the saw away. “Thank you,” I hiss, and then I turn to walk away.

  You really told him off, Brin.

  “Oh, and now we're even,” he calls through the darkness, humor and triumph lacing his every word.

  “No. We were even when I screwed up your car,” I growl, never slowing down. “This means war.”

  His throaty chuckle puts unwelcome tingles throughout my entire body, but I shrug them off as my speed quickens.

  “Bring it on, Darlin’,” he says to my back.

  Famous last words.

  ***

  RYE

  “You're kidding,” Wren says just as I lock the door to my office.

  He follows me out to my car, and takes the passenger seat. I’ve finally succeeded in talking him into
going to Silk, but I have to swing by my house and change first. I refuse to let him back out, and he will if I don’t drive him there myself.

  “Nope. And now she's threatening war.”

  I can't help but laugh. What's she going to do? Try to run over my car again? I'm not driving anything but this beast for a while. Besides, her car wouldn't survive another attack.

  “Did you just laugh?” he asks, his eyes wide in disbelief.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I do laugh on occasion.”

  He snorts derisively. “On a very rare occasion, and nowhere nearly that loud.”

  Grinning, I shrug. “Must be the adrenaline high.”

  It's later than I meant for it to be, but we finally finished this week's ungodly load. Maybe I can start on my car tomorrow. And with us being caught up, the guys can handle taking care of the grunt work alone.

  As I crank the car and pull out onto the road, Wren sinks back in the seat.

  “You're fucking crazy, dude. The girl could be one of those chicks that cuts a guy's balls off in his sleep or something.”

  Hadn't thought of that. And I really wish he hadn’t just put that thought in my head.

  “Then I'll sleep with one eye open. I couldn't let her get away with smashing my car and not do anything about it. It wouldn't be... me.”

  He tilts his head, and I keep my eyes trained on the road in front of me because I refuse to see the scrutiny in his eyes. “Then call the cops. The girl hit your car and drove off. Don't sneak into her house and saw her bed down.”

  My laughter escapes before I even realize it, and Wren’s eyes widen again. Christ. You’d think I never laugh at all. Okay, so maybe it is rather rare, but that just means I’m not an easily entertained fool.

  This is more fun than I realized, and I might have laughed a long time ago if I had known how fun it was to piss someone off as well as I’ve pissed her off.

  I would have loved to have seen her face when she crashed to the ground after that bed collapsed. As high as that bed was, it had to have gone into a forty-five degree angle the second it fell.

  We turn onto my road, and I grow curious when I see people walking down the sidewalk in mass quantities. It's rare I see more than a few joggers. These are regularly clothed people in suits and casual wear, all of them walking as though they're on a mission.

  Just as I near my house, I quickly whip into the spot that will piss her off in the morning. I can't help my smug-as-fuck grin.

  “Holy shit!” Wren says through a cough, his gaze going across the street to my house.

  It's then I realize my lawn is littered with people who are dying laughing, and a projector screen is playing on the side of my white home. What. The. Hell?

  It's a scene on repeat, and it's not exactly something I want my damn neighbors seeing.

  “What the fuck is that?” I screech, irritated by the unusual octave of my voice.

  I climb out of my SUV, wondering why there's guy-on-guy porn on the side of my house.

  “What the hell is this?” I growl as soon as I near Leslie Marks, my neighbor from down the road.

  “It's Broke Back Mountain,” she says through a chuckle, and I cringe as the scene starts back over, apparently playing on a loop as two cowboys in a tent breathe a little too heavily.

  “Ah, hell,” Wren says, walking away from me like he doesn't know me at all.

  I'm going to kill her.

  I rush over and grab the projector, and then I stomp the fuck out of it as the sounds and images end.

  Everyone is laughing, but I tune them out as I zero in on the girl sitting on her porch, grinning as she absently stirs a straw in her glass. My stride turns into a sprint, and she squeals while jumping up and running inside, dropping and shattering her glass in an attempt to escape me.

  The door slams and locks seconds before I reach it, and I pound fiercely as the neighborhood continues laughing at my back.

  “Who is it?” she asks in a singsong voice, a mocking lilt to her tone that proves she feels cocky and safe inside her house.

  “Open the damn door!” I bark, and her laughter pours out to taunt me.

  “Not happening. Consider us even.”

  Even? “You've got to be fucking kidding me!”

  She only laughs harder, and I glare at the door like I can blow it to pieces with the sheer power of my enraged mind. Unfortunately, all that happens is the abrupt promise of a migraine.

  “Fine. You want to play this game? Then consider this a declaration of war. Just remember you started it.”

  “Bring it on, Darlin’,” she says in a playful, deep tone, recycling my words from yesterday.

  There will be hell to pay for this.

  ***

  BRIN

  “Shit!” I yell as the blue dye drips from my body.

  Maggie's laughter rolls out, and I turn to glare at her as the blue continues to soak through my clothes.

  “Damn,” she chuckles as I close the refrigerator door.

  “It's everywhere,” I groan when I look at my body, the kitchen floor, and the wall behind me. Oh, and my poor, pitiful hair.

  Maggie's laughter only grows. How did he rig my refrigerator to explode blue dye packs the second I opened it? And when the hell did he do it?

  “Did you let him in again?” I growl, giving my murderous glare to the possible traitor.

  “No,” she chuckles, shaking her head. “He must have found a way in.”

  “And disarmed the alarm?” I ask skeptically.

  “Must have,” she says, lying her ass off.

  “How could you?”

  She only laughs harder, grabbing her side as though she’s in pain. I glare at my ex-best friend, and she leans back, trying to catch her breath.

  “He's dead,” I hiss, doing all I can to come up with something as equally destructive to do to him. “Right after I get this damn blue off me. It had so better not be permanent, or you'll be the next one to suffer my wrath.”

  Instead of cowering in fear—as she should—she only continues to laugh, and I storm into my bedroom to shower and plot my revenge.

  ***

  BRIN

  “It's not so bad,” Maggie lies, biting back her grin as she looks at the remnants of blue that are still staining my hair.

  “It looks like I have a lot of graying hair.” I could cry—if I knew how to cry. The blue faded to be a duller, lighter color, but it didn't all wash out. My clothes are ruined, and my hair... I'll kill him.

  “It's really not so bad. Besides, I can make you a hair appointment with my girl. She'll have this fixed up in no time.”

  She gives me an apologetic smile that I don't particularly find sincere. She's helping the enemy. How could she?

  “Well, I have a date to get ready for,” she says when my scowl loses its effect. I suppose it can't lose its effect if it didn't have one to begin with. “So you're on your own with Mr. Sexy for the rest of the day.”

  She turns to walk away just as I say, “You have an early morning date? So this is getting really serious?”

  She grins as she walks into her room, not bothering to answer. It's barely six in the morning. But I have more important things to worry about than her breakfast date.

  I quickly rummage the cabinets and see the baking soda. Genius strikes.

  When I hear Maggie slip into the shower, I quickly make my way out the front door and across the lawn. Hopefully he’s not up yet. As long as he’s not waking up to gloat about my new dye job, I should be able to get in without detection.

  He doesn't have an alarm on his house—I don't think. He swung the door open as soon as his footsteps made it there the other morning when I banged on his door. And I know I've seen him climb through the window before when he apparently locked his keys in the house.

  Geez, I sound like a stalker.

  Moving to the window I've seen him climb through three times, I push up, smiling when the window lifts without sounding an alarm. It's a little high
, but fortunately I'm able to hoist myself up and fall in like the worst covert operative ever.

  Staying still, I listen for any rustle of movement to say I'm busted. I look around at the living room I'm in. Damn. It's twice the size of ours. And it's really, really clean. So not what I was expecting.

  I wish I had more time to snoop, but I don't. I have to hurry before he finds me.

  His massive kitchen is easy to locate, and I take a second to marvel at all the marble surfaces. It looks like a picture Tuscany would envy.

  Surprisingly, the copper accents and fixtures actually look good alongside the sleek stainless steel appliances. Guys don't deserve kitchens like this. I would love it, take care of it, and treat it with so much respect. It does smell good in here, so maybe he's utilizing it at least a little.

  With a wistful sigh, I open the fridge, and that's when I melt a little more. It's something people should sing about. Crisp vegetables along with numerous other things are perfectly organized within the fridge. I want to move in and move him out.

  Grabbing the ketchup, I offer one last look to the fridge, and then I sneak back out. This is going to be good.

  After managing to get out the window with more grace than I entered, I sprint across the yard and head inside. It takes the ketchup a while to run to the top, but I wait patiently, never moving my eyes until the last drop has slid down. Then I flip it back up. Just as I grab the baking soda, Maggie walks in wearing nothing but her towel.

  I ignore her as I focus on the task at hand.

  “Why are you pouring baking soda into our ketchup bottle?”

  Ah hell. This is making a mess. My excitement has caused my hands to shake and some of the baking soda spills over.

  “It's not our ketchup,” I mumble absently.

  “Whose is it? And why are you pouring baking soda in it?”

  “Have you ever seen one of those baking soda and vinegar volcanoes people used to do at school?” I ask distractedly, still dedicating the majority of my attention on my revenge.

  “Yes. Why?” she asks slowly.

  “Do you know what the main ingredient is in ketchup?”