My bet’s on that whore, Eliza—poor, pathetic Eliza. It has to be. Who else would be interested in my life? I bet she’s utterly miserable with her newly mundane existence, coming to terms with what an awful mother she’ll be to my little savior baby. She probably got so bored she’s been snooping around in my life, intent on getting revenge because she undoubtedly blames me for everything she’s lost, even though it’s her own slutty fault. In one affair, she managed to shame her family name, lose Brooks, and her shot at marrying into God knows how much money, and compromise her own inheritance.
She’s a mess. Brooks really dodged a bullet.
“What about the Target creep?” Jared asks, standing next to me at the bar as I swivel in my chair. He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow, but his mother apparently had enough of him.
My eyes roll. This is the second time he’s ridiculously suggested the man who enthusiastically chatted me up in line and then slowly drove by as I loaded my groceries. “No. I just can’t figure out why someone would come in and not take anything.”
“I don’t know … check your underwear drawer?” His eyes move in a circle, an innocent whistle blowing from his lips—a dig at his own fetish.
I laugh. “Seriously, Jared. I’m trying to connect the dots here. I’ve talked to all the neighbors now. None of them has a friend or relative with that type of car. Then my house gets broken into, nothing stolen, and they go out of their way to let me know they fed my fucking dog?”
“Maybe they just really like dogs.” He shrugs, then motions to the bartender for another beer.
“Jared, come on! I feel like you’re not taking this seriously enough.”
He scoots his stool closer to me. Nudges me with his elbow. “Sorry, babe. I’m only trying to help calm you down. Honestly, it’s creepy as fuck. If you hadn’t filed a police report already, I’d drive you to the station myself. What kind of shit did they ask you, by the way?”
I sigh. Lean my head against him, recounting the agonizing forty-five minutes of having the police in my house. “You know, the usual stuff: did I leave the door unlocked, how long was I gone, did I notice anything missing.”
“They take fingerprints?”
“They didn’t find prints on any of the stuff that was disturbed.”
“So, the perp wore gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll stay over tonight,” he offers. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
I consider his proposal, but it sours my stomach. If Brooks found out Jared spent the night, we’d be toast on assumptions. Having Jared stay over now as he’s regularly done over the last few months simply can’t continue. There’s a fine line between being a majestic and desirable zebra, who’s merely desired by other lions, and being a zebra who’s actually fucking those other lions. I think it would be good for Brooks to be jealous, though—to wonder if there’s someone else, if I could be swept up at any moment. But it’s far more dangerous for him to really believe there is. I’d rather take my chances with the psycho intruder. I mean, if they really wanted to kill me or something, wouldn’t they have been waiting for me when I got back?
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine. But thanks.”
Jared shrugs. Attempts to smile and move on, but he seems disappointed. Quickly, his mood drops to a low I haven’t seen from him. He asks about staying over two more times over the course of our lunch, in between long stretches of him staring at his phone and texting. At one point, he leans over to show me a funny video on Imgur—some stupid site he’s obsessed with. I see another video below it that looks interesting, and grab the phone from his hand.
He snatches it back, nearly knocking over his drink before stuffing the phone into his jeans.
“Jared?” I ask, shock dripping from my voice.
He pulls his wallet from the other pocket. Stuffs his credit card into the bill holder before smiling thinly at me. “Sorry. I have to get going—haircut appointment in twenty.”
His eyes fix on the bartender who treks off to run his payment. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck as I note his neat sideburns and the crisp line at the nape. Questions grip me, invading every lobe of my brain, and my spine prickles at the question illuminating in my mind.
Who gets a haircut when they clearly just had one?
I’m not taking chances that it was a random break-in, not with that red car that’s been showing up. So, I took the advice the police gave me. I had cameras installed the other day—an arsenal of them around the outside of my house, and even three inside—with 24/7 live-feed access. It makes me feel better about living life—grocery store trips and accepting invites to hang out with Alicia and Devon on the family horse farm. Basically, doing anything but guarding my house.
I sit beside the upcycled table, the breeze blowing against my face, my eyes lingering on the cards in my hand.
“Hurry up,” Devon says, Alicia retaining her patience. Devon wins every time we play anything. It’s quite unfair how swiftly her mind shoots off signals of awesomeness, and she doesn’t like waiting on anyone who’s more … normal.
“Hold on, hold on.” I study my cards, but I can’t make any predictions as to what the outcome could be, because my thoughts are on Brooks. Always on Brooks. “Forget it,” I say, dropping them on the table and picking up my wine. “I can’t think.”
“Is it the guy again?” Alicia asks. “Brock?”
“Brooks.”
“Why can’t you call him? Invite him out here, and we’ll leave. It would be romantic,” Alicia says, singing the last word.
I shrug. “I don’t want to seem desperate. I want him to chase me.” I lean back against the wicker chair. “But I keep waiting for him to text, to call, to throw a fucking flaming bag of shit into my yard, but he’s doing nothing.”
“He’s a guy,” Devon says. “Men are dumb. They need things spelled out. They’re like giant toddlers with abs and bank accounts.”
Alicia smiles. “Call him. I mean, I wouldn’t call him if I were you, because I have anxiety, but you don’t. You’re brave. Do it.”
If she only knew, I think. My head tilts. “He does seem to be at the beck and call of the damsels in distress. There has to be a reason, though. I can’t just call him. It’s too complicated.”
We take intermittent sips of wine as we put our cards back into the box.
“I’ve got it!” Devon says. “What if you call him, tell him you’re scared—that you’re hearing noises outside, and you need him to come over.”
I laugh, my eyes rolling. “Sounds a little far-fetched. Won’t he wonder why I didn’t just call the police?”
She frowns. “Yeah, good point.” For someone who always wins a card game, she sure can come up with a stupid plan.
Alicia sets down her glass. “Unless! Unless you tell him that if the police come, the neighbors will call our parents … who are at a wedding. And you don’t want to be embarrassed.”
“Hmm...” My eyes drift as I consider it.
“Do it!” Devon says. “We’ll make it believable. We can knock some shit over or something behind the house.”
I look from the porch to the rolling green hills that are darkening by the minute—at the dimly lit stable of horses far in the distance, the rustic fence tracing along the grass. The farmhouse is beautiful—a century old, but mostly restored. It would be the perfect place for some romance, for a Pussy and Penis introduction.
“Okay. Okay, let me text him.”
Any chance you’re in the Alpharetta area or close? Farm sitting for my neighbor’s parents, and I hope I’m wrong, but I swear I think someone is outside the house.
Disappointingly, it takes him almost ten minutes to respond.
Holy shit. No, I’m at the house. Did you call the police?
No. OMG, I heard it again.
Stop texting me, and call them right now!
I’m embarrassed! I’m probably just hearing things. Their parents are at a wedding. If I call the police
, the nosy geezers next door will call them. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s vows.
You’re stubborn. What’s the address?
I type it out for him, along with the gate code.
You don’t have to come. I’m sure it’s nothing.
Nonsense. I’m on my way. Make sure the doors are locked, and stay away from the windows. And call 911 if it happens again. Don’t take any chances.
Alicia, Devon, and I shriek in unison as the last of the sun disappears. They gather the remnants of their presence from within the house and head off into the field to lie in wait.
My headlights illuminate the driveway as I ease over the small gravel patch leading to the keypad. I type in the code, my fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the gate moves out of my way, and I keep my eyes on the sides of the driveway as I zoom to the house. Regrettably, it is too dark to see anyone who could be crouching in the hills somewhere, but they will meet the end of my Glock if they try to come near Emily.
I feel bad, not having contacted her after what had happened between us. I … I miss her. I can’t stop thinking about her, not that she wasn’t already invading my thoughts before, but now I feel her hands on me, her lips on mine, and I want more of it. But honestly, she was a bitch after, having the audacity to tell me about her date that wasn’t quite a date. Whatever.
Still, I got excited when she texted me. I have been sneaking peeks at her social media for days, driving myself crazy in the process. I can’t go without helping her if she is unsafe, and … fuck. Perhaps I just want to see her.
I take in the surroundings after I turn off the engine. There is nothing out here. The McMansion rests in the middle of a crater, the twenty or so acres around it the perfect opportunity for a person with ill intentions. I can’t believe she would come out here alone—especially someone as small as her. Farm sitting? More like slapping a target on yourself when there is an award for your head.
I exit the car, still scanning my surroundings, the gun at my hip as I climb the steps. As if being a woman alone in the middle of nowhere isn’t bad enough, this place is full of windows with no blinds. I can see right through to the back of the house—a horror movie in the making.
I press the doorbell, and she appears momentarily, weaving her way through the lit room at the back, and moving quickly to the door.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, her head searching the space beyond me, her signature red lips begging me to kiss them. Her gaze settles on me again. “I told you that you didn’t have to. I think I’m just paranoid.”
She backs up, allowing me in, and when she shuts the door, an ominous feeling overtakes me. I can’t shrug it off as she brushes a hand through her hair and my eyes briefly skate over her body. She is wearing tiny little track shorts and a tank top that is tight around her breasts.
I smile at her. “What direction did the sounds come from?”
“Oh, um … out back, I think. I’m not positive, but pretty sure.”
She urges me along, and I follow until we reach the back wall of the house where I peer out the windows. It is hard to see out of a lit house when it is dark, but they—if someone is out there—are surely getting a great view of me.
I pull the gun from the holster, and set it on the old wooden table, taking a quick glance at the place. The floors have been refinished, and the cabinets are new. Fresh paint is on the walls. But everything else is old, the furnishings all antique.
“Why’d you bring that?” she asks, trepidation in her voice.
“Uh, for safety. You don’t go into a house someone tells you they’re hearing noises outside of without a gun. Especially not out here.”
“Good point,” she says, her eyes shifting to the window, raising to her tiptoes as she seems to search for the culprit.
“You’ll never see them, if there is someone. When’s the last time you heard it?”
“Oh, it’s been a while.” She smiles. “Like, since you texted.”
Suddenly, there is a large, metal crash of some sort in the distance. “Stay here,” I whisper, swiping the gun and moving to flick off the lights. I return to her side, her body trembling as I wrap an arm around her, her fingers moving rapidly over her phone as she turns her back to me.
Another clang.
“Are you calling the police? I am going to check it out.”
“No!” she says, setting her phone back down. “Don’t go out there. I feel so stupid. I don’t know why I didn’t think to text Devon or Alicia and ask. It’s just a farm hand.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to go out there and get my balls chopped off and it be your fault since you should have called the police in the first place.”
“No, no.” She plucks her phone and holds it up, Alicia answering her question as to whether anyone would be out here this late.
Yes, Bo should be there around this time to pick up some saddles. Sorry, forgot to tell you.
I exhale sharply before unloading the gun. “I really thought tonight was it. Brooks Jansen, strung up and gutted by a crazed lunatic staking out a farm.”
She laughs, her hair falling into her face as she leans over the counter. Instinctively, I reach up to tuck it behind her ear, and I look away when her eyes lift to mine, my heart beating faster than I would like to admit.
“I’m so sorry you drove all the way out here for nothing. I’ll show you out.”
Like hell, I am leaving. “Sorry, kid. You’re stuck with me tonight.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I still don’t want you out here alone like this. And do you even know the farm hand guy? Because the last time I checked, working somewhere never excluded someone from being a criminal.”
A smirk crosses her lips. “Okay. If you say so, Daddy.”
My lip pulls under my teeth, my cock stiffening a bit. Emily has this charm that is so magnetizing. I can’t understand how that Elliott guy she dated for two years could have been so stupid. Or Deacon.
A red glow pulls my attention away from her, the farm hand’s car making its way to the gate.
Emily yawns, her hand reaching up to cover her mouth. “Guess I’m gonna crash. Long day. You can pick a bedroom other than mine, or you can sleep on the couch.”
“Oh, so I can’t sleep with you?”
She smiles modestly, pink blooming on her skin. “I mean...”
My heart dips at her hesitation. “You do realize we slept in the same bed already, right? And I’m pretty sure we got to second base before that, so I think we can handle sharing the same mattress.”
“We also only had one bed. There are six here. And contrary to what I thought, there aren’t any murderers hanging around.”
My tongue runs over my teeth. We are definitely not having sex tonight. Not that we should. We should absolutely not have sex.
“Any beer or anything here?”
“Full pack in the fridge. And wine.”
I move to it, pull out two of the Sam Adams and one dry white. “Show me to our room.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Your parents always said yes to you, didn’t they?” I shrug as she steps in front of me and leads the way upstairs.
The room we enter is large, the refinished boards creaking under our weight, the hodgepodge quilt the only thing lit by the moonlight streaming in. Emily feels for the light switch, her hands moving in vain. I step behind her, my chest brushing her back, the bulge of my jeans sliding across her ass as I reach around her to flip it.
“Thanks,” she says, hopping onto the bed, her languid pose like that of a Playboy cover model.
I shouldn’t be here, I think briefly, but fuck … what was I supposed to do? I cross the room and place the bottles on the nightstand. Maybe I should have picked another room.
I pull the cork from the wine and pass it to her before popping the cap from my beer. I sit on the edge of the bed and kick off my shoes.
“You’re sweaty,” she says. My eyes fall to my shirt, noti
ng the wet spots. “It’s fucking hot in here.” I tug it off and drop it on the floor, her throat clearing as I do.
“Farm hand creepers. Shoddy AC. Pretty embarrassing night.” She turns her body to me. “Tell me … what’s your most embarrassing moment?”
I set down the beer bottle and scratch my chin. “Hmm … that’s tough. Probably when my parents left me at a store in France by accident, and I didn’t know any French, so I couldn’t explain where I lived.”
“That’s it?”
I shrug. “Okay, other than the only two girlfriends I have ever had screwing other guys, one of which is about to pop. What about you?”
She falls back onto the bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her arms tucking behind her head. “I wasn’t popular in school.”
“You? I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true. I was a loser. Nobody talked to me. No one. Every day was my most embarrassing moment.”
Her eyes don’t move from the ceiling, and I shift on my side. “Well, the joke is on them now, right?” Her eyes grow watery, so I change course. “Favorite band?”
“I love Fleetwood Mac—Stevie Nicks. I think she’s brilliant. “Landslide” is my favorite song ever. My parents used to listen to them a lot—still listen to them a lot, I mean.”
“Really? I love that song. And it can mean so many things.”
“I agree. And if we’re talking about someone relevant, I guess I’d have to go with Britney Spears.”
I laugh. “She’s kind of the default answer for women your age.”
“She’s a bad bitch. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks. I like that.”
“I’m guilty of that.” I shrug. “I think most people are.”
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 12
