Dirty Stranger (The Dirty Suburbs Book 3)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I nod. "You have no idea." I shuffle on my feet, trying to ignore the pinch of new leather on the outside of my baby toe.

  I bought myself some boots. I'm not quite sure I can afford them really but I’ve earned them, that's for sure. Every girl deserves to treat herself every now and then. And now that I'm earning a salary for my work I decided to splurge a little.

  Reuben takes a gulp from his beer mug. "That one’s married to the football player, right?" He tips his chin toward Faith.

  "Yup." I grab his mug from him and take a sip. "Her husband, Maxwell, plays for the Iowa Paragons."

  He nods. "And your best friend, Samantha, is married to Maxwell's brother?"

  I confirm this just as Faith looks around the room. "The rest of you better get ready because everybody gets a turn tonight," she scolds sternly.

  I lean into Reuben's ear. "Scoot back a couple inches into the shadows and make yourself small so they don't call on us next."

  He pushes his chair out of the spotlight beaming down from the stage, carrying me along with him. "You think maybe we could make out now?" he whispers.

  I slap his hands as they slip under the hem of my fitted red tshirt. "Perv."

  As Maxwell drags her reluctant husband onto the raised platform at the front of the room, I feel Reuben’s phone vibrating between us.

  He glares down at the screen. "Gotta take this. It's my brother, Griffin." I nod in understanding as he heads through the crowd.

  Faith manages to spot him. "I see you, Reuben," she calls out. "Don't be a stranger. You and Isla aren't off the hook just 'cause you're new in town. Everybody gets a turn!"

  He laughs, waving his phone at her to indicate that he's going to take a call. She grins before turning back to a tortured-looking Maxwell who is now mumbling the opening lines of a Bon Jovi song.

  The burning in my boot intensifies. Okay, that's it. If I plan on enjoying myself tonight, I need to change my shoes. I'll just limp over to my yoga studio across the street and change into my cross-trainers. They may not be night-on-the-town-wear but at least I won't be in agony all evening.

  "Hey, where you going?" Grace calls to me as I hobble to the door.

  "Just going over to the studio to change my shoes," I tell her. "Back in five minutes."

  She nods, bringing her attention back to the debacle on stage as she slides a nacho past her lips.

  I wrap my arms around me as I amble across the street and unlock the studio door with my keys. I kick off my pretty new boots on the doormat, breathing a sigh of relief. I lean against the wall and take a second to wiggle my toes. I smile to myself. "Freedom..." I mutter quietly as I pad down the hall to my office.

  I plop down into my chair and feel around with my feet until I find my sneakers under my desk. Just as I'm about to shove my feet into them, I hear the rattle of the windchimes hanging above the front door.

  What the fuck?

  I stand, inching toward my office door. "Blakely?"

  No answer.

  My heart rate doubles in two seconds flat. I look around for something to use as a weapon. "Reuben?"

  "Oh, is that his name?" A tall, thin figure moves down the hall toward me. I can't see his face, but I'd know that gut-twisting, nasal voice anywhere.

  "Zayn."

  The streetlights in the parking lot cast an ominous glow on his gaunt face. His brown hair looks greasy and overgrown. And he's lost about twenty pounds, not that he was overweight to begin with. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that he was on drugs.

  "Hello Isla."

  Why the fuck is he standing here in my studio? Is he trying to intimidate me?

  His eyes scan me from my snow-dusted hair down to my bare feet. "You look good."

  "What the hell are you doing here?" I growl, my hands already fisted.

  He observes my defensive stance then takes a step back, throwing his hands up passively. "Not here for a fight, Red. I'm just here to talk."

  Red…

  I always hated when he'd call me that. It wasn't a term of endearment or a cute nickname. It was a jab. Flat out.

  I dyed my hair blonde throughout our marriage because Zayn preferred blondes. He would tease me mercilessly whenever my natural red would appear at the roots. What I didn’t realize was that all the hair color in the world wouldn’t be enough to convince my slutty husband to keep his dick in his pants.

  "I'm calling the police," I announce turning back to my office.

  He flicks his wrist dismissively. "Ugh, relax," he says. He's always had a talent for shrugging me off, disregarding my concerns. "I'm here to talk, Isla."

  My eyes flit around the dark hallway, looking for a weapon, should I need one.

  He grabs a cookie off of the platter on the reception desk and pops it in his mouth. "Y'know, despite everything that happened between us," he speaks with this mouth full, "it kind of sucks seeing you all hugged up on another man at the bar tonight." He makes a face like he just swallowed a mouthful of roadkill brined in vinegar. “Stale!” He points over his shoulder at the rest of the cookies. “You make those?”

  He'd been at the bar? I hadn't seen him.

  "Zayn, let's not do this –" I try to remain diplomatic despite the less than wholesome emotions rioting in me.

  He cuts me off. "I mean, I get it. You're moving on. But is the ink even dry on our divorce settlement yet?"

  Okay, now he’s pinched a nerve. "I don't know if the ink's dry on our divorce settlement but I'm painfully aware that the last alimony check I wrote you has been cashed." Bitterness poisons my blood. "Zayn, how could you? You know that when we broke up, I was barely keeping this business afloat," I whisper as emotion shakes its way through me.

  "Isla, I helped you build this place from the ground up. It's only fair that I get to share the profits with you."

  I shudder at his words because we obviously remember the story of Prasanna's birth very differently. I remember him tossing my business books aside and turning off the bedside lamp so he could sleep. I remember him trying to convince me to spend the bank loan on a new car instead of investing in furnishings for the studio. Basically, I remember him being a dick. As always.

  I used to be crazy about the guy. He was a jock. I was a cheerleader. We were a match made in high school cliché heaven. But now that I’m a grown-ass woman with grown-ass problems, I can’t figure out what I ever liked about him.

  The calming energy of the Universe guides me in all my actions.

  I’m still determined to keep my cool and be the bigger person here, but what he’s saying is pure blasphemy and I won’t allow him to get away with it. "Let's get one thing straight, Zayn. I succeeded in spite of you. Not because of you."

  He scoffs and looks around. "Isla, I'd hardly call you a success."

  You know what...

  My vision narrows, my common sense sputters out and all I see is red. This asshole is draining my bank account month after month. He's the reason for the state of near-destitution I've been living in for the past year. And he has the nerve to walk into my place of business. And insult my means of earning a living. And diss my home-baked cookie while he's doing it?

  Faith’s words replay in my head. Get mad! GET MAD!

  I reach blindly at the shelf on the wall and grab the first thing I get my hands on. The coolness of the ceramic against my fingertips tells me that it's my little Buddah figurine. I love that thing. But I don't care. Not right now.

  Zayn throws his palms up in surrender. "You know what I mean, Red. I'm just saying—"

  Get mad!

  I yank my arm back and hurl the figurine at him. It catches him off guard because he didn't expect me to actually throw it. The sweet, little, repressed Isla he married would never have done such a thing 'cause she was all Zen and kumbaya.

  But this new Isla?

  She's. Taking. Her. Fucking. Power. Back.

  "Ouch!" He grabs his chin, massaging the place where the little statute hit him before crashing to the floor and s
hattering to pieces. He stares at me in disbelief as he continues to back away down the hall.

  But I'm on a roll now!

  I grab a small, framed photo from the wall. "You jackass," I scream as I wind up, preparing to hurl it at him. "You broke my heart, you dragged my private life into court, you took my money." The picture frame goes sailing through the air. "But I'll be damned if I let you disrespect my dream."

  "Isla! Are you craz—"

  GET MAD!

  I charge at him, grabbing the stick propping up my over-tall dieffenbachia plant. Leaves go flying everywhere. The flowerpot tips over, spilling dirt all over the floor. He backs his drunk ass into the corner and with nowhere to run, he cowers on the floor like the loser he is. And I just let loose on him, unleashing years of pent up resentment along with all the fresh hurts, too. He squeals and whines, begging me to stop. But tonight, he’s going to feel some of what I felt all these years that I’ve been tethered to him.

  I'm so lost in my fury that I almost don't notice the lights flick on. I almost don't hear Reuben calling my name. I almost don't feel his arms wrap around my waist and pull the baton from my hands.

  "What the fuck is going on here?" he questions. I can hear anger straining the calm in his voice. "Who the fuck is that dude?"

  Tears blind my eyes. "I'm not finished with him! I'm not finished with him!" I yell as I push against Reuben's grip.

  Zayn wipes blood from his chin. "You fucking psycho! I always knew you were crazy!" He stumbles to his feet.

  "I gave you all of me, Zayn! And you still came after me for more!"

  Reuben’s arms fall from around me and he takes a step toward my ex-husband. "Wait – you're Zayn?" I can feel the rage pulsing through him. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  "He's drunk," I shriek. "He followed me."

  "I just wanted to talk to her, man. I just wanted to find some middle ground with her. She thinks I'm a bad guy for wanting alimony but I was there with her when she started this business. I deserve that money. I'm practically her business partner." Zayn has a tendency to ramble when he's nervous. I just want to sock him in his stupid mouth.

  Tension crackles in the air as Reuben stands there, fists clenched, jaw flexing, completely silent. My breaths come out in tiny angry spurts as tears continue to trail down my cheeks, waiting for Reuben's next move.

  Out of nowhere, he lunges at Zayn, who squeals like the little coward that he is. Reuben grips him by the lapels of his jacket with so much force that Zayn’s helpless body slides up the wall into a semi-standing position. Not a whisper is uttered in the room as Reuben holds Zayn there, pinned to the wall.

  Then…Reuben drops him. Just like that.

  Zayn falls heavily to the floor, groaning and wincing in pain.

  Disappointment washes over me, together with a strange sense of relief and even satisfaction as Reuben straightens his collar and shakes out his fists. He glances at me over his shoulder. "You done with him?"

  I hear Zayn's words in my head. I'd hardly call this a success...

  My ex flinches, huddling himself against the wall as I rear my bare foot back and land a solid kick in his nuts. He howls like a wounded animal.

  "I'm done now."

  Reuben chuckles, pride radiating from his eyes. He holds up a palm to me and I clap mine against it then I limp into my office to get my cross-trainers.

  All I freakin' wanted was to get my damn sneakers.

  I slam the door behind me and drop into my chair with a satisfied smile on my face.

  Reuben didn't steal this moment from me by trying to be my hero. He let me exact revenge on my own terms. That's what I needed.

  All this time I’ve told myself that I didn’t want payback, that karma would handle Zayn Wilkinson, but now that I’ve kicked his ass, I know that only revenge can taste so sweet.

  Chapter 26

  Reuben

  She's sleeping now, quiet and angelic with the sheets pulled up to her neck. And I can breathe easy.

  There are no words to describe what I felt when I saw her ex at the yoga studio tonight. He had no fucking right to be there. The protective alpha male inside of me was aching to pummel him into a memory, no questions asked but I realized that the true satisfaction would come from letting Isla own her moment of retribution. This guy turned her life into a shit-show and it was time for her to get revenge. As much as I wanted to be a hero, I had no right to upstage her tonight. All I could do was have her back and let her enjoy her moment of glory.

  And boy did she own it.

  It was like walking onto the set of an angry Beyonce music video. Emotions cracking in the air. Dangerous objects flying all around. A sexy-as-hell woman taking control. All that was missing was a catchy hip-hop beat blasting in the background.

  And a few backup dancers in sparkly leotards, maybe.

  I’m just glad I got there when I did. True, Isla had had the upper hand when I walked in but who knows what would have happened if that drunk, bumbling asshole had found his footing. Thank god Grace had seen her leave the bar fifteen minutes earlier or else I would have had no idea where to find her when I wrapped up my phone call with Griffin.

  She stirs and rolls over and the blanket slips off her shoulder revealing her creamy, freckled skin. I throw an arm around her and move closer, pressing my lips to her milky shoulder blade.

  "Reuben..." she whispers into the darkness.

  "Mmm?"

  "I'm going to jail."

  My chest tightens at her words. "Don’t be silly. Why would you go to jail? "

  "I beat the shit out of Zayn," she sniffles. “Jail is noisy. How the hell am I supposed to meditate in jail?”

  I laugh, hugging her closer. "You’re not going to jail. And you don't ever have to worry about Zayn again, okay?"

  “Okay…” She laces her fingers through mine but she’s silent. "We should sleep at my place tomorrow night," she says groggily.

  I nod against her shoulder. The hotel life is getting kind of tiring. "Okay." And seconds later her light breathing evens out. She's asleep.

  Chapter 27

  Reuben

  Rosebud Lane is your typical picturesque suburban cul-de-sac, with its charming cottages framed by All-American white picket fences and carefree youngsters running around on the street.

  There's one ratty little bungalow that ruins the lane's perfection. It stands out like a sore thumb. The curbside mailbox is overflowing, beer cans litter the stoop by the front steps, cigarette butts lie all over the porch.

  The home-owners’ association must hate this guy.

  In the rear view mirror, I see his blue Mazda zigzagging up the street. About fucking time, asshole. He parks with his bumper hanging over the curb before he staggers up the driveway. Drunk at 2:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. This guy's a winner.

  I watch him stumble up the front steps and push the unlocked door open. He trips over his own feet before finally making it inside and half-closing the door behind him.

  I get out of my loaner car, tucking my baseball bat under my arm, and travel up to the front door, sick to my stomach that Isla spent eight years tied to this train wreck of a man.

  I don't knock before entering because what's the use? I step into the room and – Jesus, take the wheel. And take the dustpan, too – this place is a fucking mess. Junk food wrappers on the couch, dirty laundry on the floor, a carpet that would give a vacuum cleaner asthma.

  "What the fuck, bro?!"

  Zayn stands in the doorway in his dirty white briefs, a stiff slice of pizza in one hand and a cigarette burning in the other. He has the figure of a preteen boy.

  "Looks like you could use a home-cooked meal," I comment, shaking my head at his emaciated body. I see that Isla wasn’t joking when she said that he needed her in order to keep his shit together. The man is a mess. An overgrown frat boy gone off the rails.

  One thing is clear; he’s obviously not man enough for a goddess like Isla.

  He drops his pizza and cigar
ette to the grimy coffee table then swipes a pair of shorts from the floor. His voice shakes. "What the hell are you doing here, man?" I glance around at the place in disgust, silently wondering what it's going to take to scrub the stench of this dump off of me. Completely oblivious to the filth around him, he pulls up the pants.

  I slap the barrel of my bat into my palm. It cracks loudly against my skin and he flinches. "I'm here to have a conversation about last night."