Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
Trent Ryder wasn't a usually a falling-down drunk but on the one day a year he made an exception to that classification, he planned out his inebriation like a military maneuver.
So as not to attract too much attention in the town where everyone knew him by name and also knew that he used to drink more than he should, Trent spread out his purchases. He started with two bottles of Jack at the seedy liquor store over on X street. Then it was four bottles of his wife's favorite wine from the little vineyard out on highway X, individually gift-wrapped so it looked like Trent was a nice guy and was sending someone special a nice gift. He used to. Every year on their anniversary he'd buy his wife a few bottles and they'd sip it on their back deck and watch the lights of the boats on the lake.
At the Kroger, Trent picked up a case of Rolling Rock, along with a monster bottle of Aleve for tomorrow's hangover, though he doubted he would take any. He liked the pain. Deserved it. It was all part of the ritual.
It was busy at the store, being Memorial Day weekend. Lots of people were buying cases of beer and racks of ribs they'd barbeque with friends and family during the long weekend. Trent was satisfied to spend the weekend with just the liquor for company.
Finally he picked up the bottle of X, specially ordered weeks earlier from the liquor store on the east side of town, the nice one. The one with the marble floors and the mahogany bar where they held wine tastings on the weekends. It had been 10 years since he'd last tasted the X and felt the smooth fire of the liquor burning down his throat. He glanced at it as he drove home, wrapped in the brown paper sack rolling around on the passenger seat of his pick-up.
Memories began to flood his brain of that night ten years ago, but he quickly closed those taps. Not yet. Maybe a bottle in, or two, he'd let the images come.
Trent pulled through the iron gate emblazoned with his gilded initials at the end of his driveway and glanced at Hank's house next door. He said he'd keep an eye on the place while Hank was RV-ing his way to Arizona to visit an old friend, but it seemed quiet as it had for the past two weeks since he’d been gone. Usually he'd take a walk around the perimeter, make sure no windows had been broken, or that the toilet wasn't flooding. The alarm company would respond if there was a break-in, but Trent liked to get a visual. He owed Hank that much and more. But not today. Hank would understand.
The only to-do item on his list for the day mentally checked off, Trent could now concentrate on the drinking. He pulled into his garage, closed the door and sat there for a moment, toying with the idea of simply letting the engine run until everything went dark. But that was too easy or maybe Trent was too afraid of what awaited him on the other side, so he turned off the engine, gathered his booze and headed into the house to start the systematic torturing of his liver.
One by one, Trent removed the brown paper wrappings from the bottles and lined them up on the kitchen island. He took all the beer out of the case and added those to the crazy train, too. The line spanned the width of the island almost perfectly. A sign, maybe. Ghost images of each bottle were reflected in the gleaming black marble. He liked that and stared at it a moment until his eyes went blurry and he could see the faint outline of his reflection, too, hovering above.
The beer had warmed a little during the ride back to the house, but it didn't matter. After the first few they all went down the same. He chose three beers from the end of the line-up, kicked off his flip-flops and headed out back where he could watch the midday sun's rays dance across the shimmering blue water of the pool he’d had installed when he and Amy had bought the house.
Trent left the cool dark interior of his house and stepped into the stifling humidity of Nashville in late May. Insects buzzed from the shade of the towering sweet gums that lined one side of his yard and he could hear the distant sound of motorboats on the lake that spread out below his hilltop property. The rose bush Amy had planted the first summer they'd moved into this place were in bloom and the sweet smell settled in his nostrils. It was almost like she was there next to him.
Settling into the only lounge chair on the cement deck surrounding the pool, Trent set the extra beers next to him on the ground and thumbed the metal cap off the top of the first bottle. The metal teeth dug into his flesh but he welcomed the pain.
A fat carpenter bee, no doubt having been at work eating the unpainted trusses of Amy's gazebo, bumbled by, seemingly unaware that by no stretch of physics should he have been able to leave the earth at all. He'd have to paint the gazebo, he supposed. Or bulldoze it. Trent toasted the determined little bee and brought the bottle to his lips. He closed his eyes, anticipating that first bitter shock to the tongue then nearly dropped the bottle when a short, sharp scream, more of a yelp, really, came from Hank's back yard, and was promptly cut off by a watery splash.
Trent shot to his feet, kicking over the unopened bottles of beer in his haste. They rolled to edge of the pool and plopped into the cool blue depths.
Cocking his ear, Trent listened, wondering if he'd imagine the scream. After all, no one was over there. Everything had looked quiet just now as he'd driven by. But he had been distracted. Maybe there was something he hadn't noticed. Some intruder he'd let skate through so fixated on his own misery. Why hadn't the breach triggered the alarm? Or maybe it was a stray dog that had taken an unexpected plunge in Hank's pool?
He listened, but after a moment the birds resumed their twittering and the insects and low hum of the AC fan and Trent’s heartbeat were the only sounds. Trent's pool deck was bounded by a wrought iron fence, but Hank had installed a tall privacy fence so Trent couldn't easily see what was going on in Hank’s back yard from his vantage point.
Then there was more splashing. No scream this time, just cursing. A lot of cursing. That was no dog unless what was left of Tent's marbles had finally joined the ones he’d lost years ago.
Trent set his untasted beer on a small deck table, grabbed the closest weapon at hand, which happened to be nothing more threatening than a rusted pool net, and went to investigate.
Trent crept out of his gate, closing it silently behind him made his way and across the short expanse of yard to Hank's. Like all properties huddled around the lake, the lots were deep, but narrow, so the expanse between his backyard and Hank’s was only a few yards. Trent pressed his eye to one of the cracks in Hank's privacy fence, careful to keep the pool net below the top of the fence, out of sight. No one was around, though he did notice a tall glass of tea and a paperback novel sitting on a small table next to a towel-draped lounge chair. A squatter, maybe? One who liked to read? Or maybe Hank had come home early and Trent just hadn't realized, today being what it was.
His grip tightened on the pool net. Trent wasn't at all sure he could wield it successfully, or even manage to scare off an intruder if he was armed with a more serious weapon, if it came to that. He ought to just call 911. Too late. Someone emerging from Hank's pool caught his eye.
Pink. That was his first impression. Bare skin—that was his next. Bare golden curves that belonged on a pin-up girl. His grip on the net slackened. The intruder was a she. A bikini-clad she with a bright pink top barely covering breasts that tested the wimpy strings holding it on. She wore the shortest cut-off jeans he'd ever seen on her bottom half, the pocket linings sticking out below the denim. Water streamed off of her tawny skin as she hoisted herself out of the pool and onto the side. The blood that had been pulsing though his body in a fight or flight reaction changed course all at once and headed directly south.
/> Her dark hair, sleek black and dripping, was swept into a high ponytail, leaving her long slender neck bare except for a silver chain. She wore dark sunglasses, the kind right out of an 80's movie and her full lips were a pink almost as bright as her swimsuit.
Trent stood slack-jawed for a moment, just staring. And then the water goddess, still cussing like a sailor on leave, stood and bent over, her back to Trent, to shove off her soaking wet jean shorts. God in heaven, she was wearing a matching pink thong. She turned, revealing a flat tan belly and a twinkling belly ring. She didn't look older than about 20, way too young for Trent to be ogling, let alone imagining what would happen of those bikini strings popped under the strain of the job they'd been given.
The pool net dropped from Trent's grasp, the long metal pipe hitting the corner of the cement and echoing loudly across the yards.
The intruder turned sharply towards the noise, startled fear displaying clearly on her even features. She picked up her phone, which also dripped with water, frowned and then set it down, picking up the glass pitcher of iced tea, instead, gripping the handle with both hands out in front of her as if she was brandishing a Claymore. She approached the fence cautiously.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
Trent held his breath, unsure whether to announce his presence or to try to slink back into his own yard as if he hadn't been peeking through the fence slats. His boner would tell a different story, of course. He'd almost decided on the slinking when he remembered that the woman, even if she was the only woman who'd gotten his dick's attention like that in years, was trespassing at least and breaking and entering at most. And Trent had committed to watching Hank's house for him. Besides, she could probably see his red shirt through the fence slats. He wasn't much for covert operations.
Trent cleared his throat. "This is private property. If you don't leave, I'm going to have to call the police."
He looked about for anyone who might be with her—a burly boyfriend brandishing a firearm, maybe, but didn't see anyone, at least not through the tiny crack between fence slats.
"That's an excellent idea. If my phone hadn't just drowned, I'd call myself.”
Her voice was firm and a little deeper than he'd anticipated. There was a challenge, but a slight tremor, too, as if she wasn't all that sure he wasn't a nut-job. He could see her, and all her golden curves, standing with that glass pitcher in her hands waiting to do him some bodily harm. The sight of her hit him right in the gut—or more accurately, in the boner. But he didn't want to see her arrested. A girl like that in a jail cell with all the Memorial Day drunks? She was no doubt just trying to cool off and had noticed Hank's house had been empty for a couple of weeks. Naw, no cops.
"Get your clothes and leave the property."
"Why don't you go take a hike?"
He was still crouching outside the fence and staring through the slats like he was like he was a Peeping Tom. He kind of was.
Enough was enough. Hank had been there for him when no one else had been and he'd promised to look after his place while he was gone. The intruder was sexier than your average perp, but no matter how appealing Trent found her, the fact was, she had to go.
He straightened and headed for the gate at the back of the enclosure, tucked behind some bushes. Letting himself in, he again scanned the area for any accomplices, but the young woman seemed to be alone.
When she saw him, she jumped then backed slowly towards the house, the pitcher raised a little higher, the forgotten tea spilling all over the concrete at her bare pink-tipped toes. "Get the hell out of here," she said. "Now. I'm not kidding."
"This isn't your house."
He started towards her, intending to take the pitcher away before she hurt someone, like herself.
She continued to back towards the sliding door of the house, putting the monster of a grill Hank'd had delivered right before he'd left between them. 60,000 BTUs with a built-in smoker box, rotisserie system and lighted control knobs, it was a stainless steel beast that weighed more than a Titan's linebacker. And she made good use of it as a barrier between herself and Trent.
The woman reached for the door, crouching a little as if they were about to break out the pistols and have a gun fight then reached for the handle on the sliding door. Shit. She was going in the house. Trent made a dash for her and almost had hold of her, but instead of a handful of soft female, he got a head full of cut glass right in the noggin when she beaned him with the pitcher.
Searing pain exploded through his head and he swore he saw actual spots swimming in front of his eyes. Honest to God, swirling stars, just like in the cartoons. The woman yelped and ran inside, locking the sliding door behind her.
Trent stumbled, dizzy from the blow. His vision blurred and the world tilted on its axis, sending him tumbling into the grill. The brakes hadn't been applied and all 300 pounds of stainless steel slammed hard into the glass doors, shattering them, and just kept going, right on into Hank's kitchen.
Trent stumbled on the shards of broken glass and went down hard on the tile floor, banging his head again, the back this time. The last thing Trent remembered before the world went dark was a couple of pink triangles clinging like pasties to a gorgeous pair of breasts and an even more gorgeous pair of bright blue eyes hovering over him, just out of reach.
*****
Patterson O'Reilly managed to get her shorts on over her bathing suit bottoms, which she never would have worn if she'd known there were pervs running around her great uncle's upscale neighborhood, and shove her dripping bangs out of her eyes before the paramedics showed up. She'd already checked the crazy homeless man's breathing and pulse, having been a nursing major for a semester and a half and a Red Cross volunteer for three months, and knew he was stable. But she also knew that he might very well sue once she found out into whose home he'd literally crashed, having been a pre-law student for a semester, and wanted to protect her great uncle from any kind of personal injury lawsuit the homeless man might try to file. She'd called 911 to cover her legal butt.
She frowned down at him as the paramedics worked, checking his blood pressure and breathing and feeling his long limbs for any broken bones. What she could see of his face was deeply tanned and there were faint lines around his closed eyes, which made sense if he spent most of his time living outdoors. The rest of his cheeks and jaw were covered with a thick bushy black beard.
He was wearing an old red t-shirt, ripped across the bottom hem and she didn't know if that came from his fall through the sliding door or whether it was raggedy to begin with. His khaki shorts weren't much better than something you'd find in a dumpster, wrinkled as if they'd been in a ball on the floor before he'd pulled them on that morning. His feet were bare.
His hair was dark with just a few strands of silver wound through. Judging by her brief stint as a cosmetology student, his shaggy mop hadn't seen a pair of shears in at least six months. He was lean but not skinny, his arms especially well-defined. It was a good thing she'd had Aunt Emma's favorite tea pitcher handy because he was well over 6 feet tall, towering over Patterson's 5'2 frame. If he'd gotten hold of her, she wasn't sure she could have gotten loose again, having only taken a few self-defense classes before developing a keen interest in candle-making and dropping out.
Patterson actually felt kind of sorry for him, even though he had tried to attack her. There was something etched in his face that said he hadn't had an easy life.
The police officer writing up the report fished the man's wallet out of his back pocket of his khaki's and examined the contents.
He arched an eyebrow at Patterson after a moment. "Are you sure you don't know this man, m'am?"
"No. Never seen him before."
"Well, this license gives his address as 405 Whooping Crane Drive."
"Yeah?" Patterson squinted at the officer, a headache of her own starting to blossom behind her eyes. So much for escaping to uncle Hanks' for some R & R.
"This is 403 Whooping Crane Drive, so I'd say
your attacker lives about 20 yards in that direction," the officer said pointing to the neighboring yard. A wrought iron fence surrounded a pool and patio that almost matched Uncle Hank's. "He's your neighbor."
She frowned, looked from the scruffy man to the million dollar home next door and back again. "Are you sure? Maybe he stole the wallet."
The officer handed her the wallet and she peered at the DMV photo. The same scruffy beard, the same shaggy hair, the same worn-out look. Even the same red t-shirt. Did he only buy red t-shirts, kind of a red-neck version of Howard Hughes? She looked back to the man at her feet. The cervical collar was a new addition as well as the IV the paramedic had just started.
"Ok, so if he lives next door, what was he doing spying on me?" She glanced at the name on the ID: Kevin Allen Trent. Her uncle had mentioned a friend he called Trent in passing, a fishing buddy. Somehow she'd pictured someone in his seventies, more her uncle's age. Even lying unconscious this Trent just looked virile and definitely too young to be a card-carrying member of AARP, though she had spied a yellowing ASCAP membership card tucked in his wallet. He was a songwriter, part of the music industry, just like her uncle.
The officer took the wallet back and looked at her sharply. "What were you doing swimming in a pool that doesn't belong to you?"
"This is my great-uncle's house. I'm staying here for a few weeks. He's out of town."
The officers exchanged glances. "We're going to have to call to check on your story. Until then, just have a seat over there, Miss." The officer's partner moved between her and the archway leading out of the kitchen.
"So much for Southern hospitality," Patterson said, settling on the bar stool at the kitchen island the officer had indicated.
The paramedics wheeled the unconscious man, who was still a creep, neighbor or not, through the kitchen towards the front door and the waiting ambulance.
"Will he be OK?" she asked as they passed.
"Probably," the officer said, shrugging. "But you never know with head injuries."
Nashville Crush Page 1
