by Julia London
It was peaceful here around Lake Haven. Just like he’d wanted. He’d thought that was all he needed, but now he knew there was something else lurking in the shadows of his soul that he needed. If only he knew what the hell it was. Whatever it was, it went deep. Marrow deep. It was an itch turned inward that he couldn’t figure out how to scratch.
Yeah, he’d get out and drive. Have a drink somewhere. Eat something that wasn’t out of a bag. He’d risk discovery, but what the hell, he didn’t care. His manager said everyone was looking for him. “There’s going to be a huge bidding war for whoever gets that first shot of you,” Gary had said. He’d called a couple of nights ago to deliver a general diatribe about Brennan having dropped off the face of the earth and not making the decisions he needed to make. For leaving when Gary and Chance were so eager to change directions that they reeked of it.
“That means you’ve got a bounty on your head,” Gary had said. “It’s better if we control the story.”
Brennan knew that was true. He’d once found a TMZ guy hiding under the table at the studio. Those guys would do anything for a scoop, and the sooner he put something out explaining his absence, the better.
But right now, he didn’t care what anyone thought. Or wanted. Right now, the only thing he cared about was a burger.
Brennan walked back inside, and as he passed the kitchen table, he happened to notice a canvas messenger bag in a chair and a sketchbook on the table. He paused—that was new. The sketchbook was covered with stickers: Mellow Johnny’s Bike Shop. A peace symbol. The apple that came in the box of every Apple product ever sold. Some of the pages had gotten wet at some point and paper had swelled, making the cover a little wavy.
He picked up the book and opened it. He looked with surprise at the drawings, made both in pencil and ink, and covering a wide variety of subjects: three musicians in a park. A skyline he guessed to be New York. A vase of flowers.
Brennan flipped through, only mildly interested until he reached those that obviously depicted this house. He recognized some of the empty rooms, but things had been added in the sketches. In the living room, which was currently empty, the sketch included a couch and a woman dressed in a period costume. He recognized the dining room by the strange wallpaper, but not the table around which several people sat. That sketch reminded him of an old Norman Rockwell painting—people laughing, leaning over one another.
The Palladian-style windows on the front of the house had been drawn with shutters instead of the actual thick drapes that seemed to catch dust. Azaleas lined the house where there were no shrubs. Nor were there goats foraging in the grass as the next sketch suggested, and Brennan highly doubted the security guard ever stretched out on a lawn chaise to catch some rays.
He turned the page. The next sketch was of the kitchen. The dogs were curled into little balls on their pillow next to the cheap table and chairs his mother had picked up somewhere. Atop the kitchen island was an ape. The ape was hunkered down, his arms scraping the counter top. And he had a surprisingly familiar face. Not identical, but close enough—
“Hey!”
The sound of the girl’s voice startled Brennan so badly he almost dropped the book. He jerked around; she was standing in the door of the butler’s pantry. And she looked furious.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded as she strode forward, her hand outstretched.
Brennan looked at the sketchbook. “Is this yours?” he asked dumbly.
“Give it back.” Her brows had sunk into a dark vee, and her amber eyes turned stormy. She managed to get her hand on the book, jerking it out of his hands.
Brennan lifted his hands, surrendering. “Sorry.”
“Sorry? Do you often go through people’s things without their permission?”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that,” he conceded. “I saw it lying there and I . . .” Well, he’d picked it up, obviously. He shouldn’t have. But he did. He shrugged. Was it really such a big deal?
Apparently so, because if looks could slay, he’d be lying in a bloody pool right now, gutted and left to die. He put a hand to his nape and rubbed it. “Who’s the ape?”
“Who do you think?” She turned away from him.
Wow. Brennan had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Part of him wanted to laugh. Another part of him thought he ought to be mad about it, but he couldn’t really get there. “What are the drawings for?” he asked.
“For me. I like to draw. What else would they be for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you mean to show them to someone.”
She turned around and looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “To who? Who would care about your kitchen? It’s a diary, obviously.”
Not so obvious to him, but he believed her. “Your diary includes a drawing of me as an ape in this kitchen?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, and looked down at her book. “It’s not every day I run across someone like you.”
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment in any way,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
“Huh,” he said, because Brennan was beginning to believe that this woman really had no clue who he was. God, he could be an idiot sometimes. He ran his hands over his head. He hated always being on edge.
Worse, his body was beginning to take notice of her. He could smell her again, this woman in the wild clothing. She smelled sweet, like fresh cotton sheets. That was a female for you—so soft, so fragrant. Venus flytraps, luring men into their jaws with beauty. Only this one wasn’t luring him into anything. She looked like she wanted to shoot him. With a bazooka.
As she picked up her bag and stuffed the sketchbook into it, he noticed she was wearing a skirt today, one made with a lot of different fabrics. She also wore a long-sleeved silk top that was open at the neck and revealed a glimpse of a purple bra beneath. She had on kneesocks and oxford shoes, and was wearing a knit hat over her hair. If he didn’t know that she worked here with some designer, he’d wonder what the hell her story was—had her house burned down and these were all the clothes she had left? Was she a performer? Maybe blind to color and different fabrics? But at the same time, there was some conformity and cohesiveness in the different articles of clothing. It was weird, but he could see how they went together. He liked the way she looked. It was very cool in an off-the-reservation kind of way. Moreover, he liked her curves, her big, expressive eyes. The same eyes that were viewing him with not a little bit of loathing right now.
“Hey, come on, I’m not as bad as you think,” he said, and unthinkingly touched her arm.
She recoiled from his touch, grabbing her bag and clutching it tightly to her.
“What?” Brennan asked, casting his arms open. “I said I was sorry.”
Her gaze flicked over him. “Should I be honest?” she asked, backing away from him.
“Sure, be honest. Be totally freaking honest.”
“You seem kind of crazy.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. Maybe he did seem a little crazy to someone who didn’t know who he was. Hell, he’d been feeling a little crazy the last few weeks. “I’m not crazy, but I will concede that I may appear a little bit strange to someone who doesn’t know me.”
“A little?”
“I’m not that strange,” he said defensively. “Trust me, I have a good reason.”
“Whatever you say.” She stepped farther away from him.
“Take it easy,” he said. “It’s not like I have a communicable disease.”
She arched a dubious brow.
“Will you lighten up? I’m not going to touch you. I’m not going to give you any reason to touch me. You don’t have to back off like you’re afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she scoffed. A little too quickly, actually.
Brennan frowned. “Why are you acting like I’ve got Ebola? I’m sorry I looked at your book, okay?” He held up his palms. “Truce.”
She didn’t speak.
“Nothing.”
“It’s obviously something.”
She shrugged again and gripped her bag more tightly, backing up another step. “It’s your T-shirt.”
He glanced down. “Yeah, it’s old. So it’s got a couple of holes. And a couple of stains. Okay, a lot of stains.” This shirt suddenly looked a lot dirtier than it had when he put it on.
“And, perhaps you don’t know it, but . . . you stink.”
Brennan looked up. “Excuse me?”
“You stink,” she said again. She’d made it almost to the kitchen door.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, curious now.
“I don’t know how else to say it. You smell.”
Brennan looked at her blankly. In all his life, no one had ever said something like that to him. Never.
“Ohmigod, are you going to make me say it again? Let’s just put it this way—if there were gas masks lying around, I’d be wearing one. Look, I’m sorry, Mr. Yates, fire me if you want, but I don’t want to get any closer to you. You’re rude and you stink and I really think you need to know that.”
“Wow, okay,” he said, nodding. “Anything else, Miss Perfect?”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, studying him now. “I already mentioned the crazy part. No, I think that’s it. Crazy, stinky, and rude. Have a good day, Mr. Yates.” With that, she turned and disappeared into the hallway. He heard her rubber-soled shoes on the tile as she hurried away from him, heard the front door open, heard it close behind her.
Brennan remained seated, staring at the space where she’d just been. He couldn’t smell himself. But his hair did feel a little slick. He glanced down at his clothes, grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt, and bent over to have a sniff.
God, that was awful.
Brennan tried to remember the last time he’d showered. Day before yesterday? Three days ago? Longer? Wow. He used to be fairly fastidious about hygiene. But since he’d slid into this dark hole . . .
Crazy, stinky, and rude.
A smile slowly spread across Brennan’s face. He could feel it cracking him open bit by bit, a screwdriver to the lid of a rusty old paint can. When was the last time someone was completely straight with him? Or someone didn’t have an agenda? The woman in the knit hat had made him smile.
Yeah, he was going to go get something to eat, drive around a bit. But first, he was going to take a shower. He thought of Mia again, of how angry she’d been with him for looking at her sketches—which, admittedly, he deserved. That was rude.
But then he thought of the knuckle-dragging ape she’d drawn and chuckled.
Seven
Mia waited outside the gate so she wouldn’t have to chat it up with Drago while she waited for Wallace. Not that she minded talking to him—but today, her head was spinning around Brennan Yates. Mia had known a lot of summer people in her life, but she had never known one who was so disgusting and rude . . . and yet, could be so hot if he would clean up a bit. How did that happen, anyway? How did a man with privileges that most people only dreamed about end up looking like a street bum?
Whatever the reason, Mia was done with the Ross house. She wasn’t coming back here. She didn’t feel at all comfortable with George of the Jungle hulking around in the shadows.
She could hear a car coming up Juneberry Road, and stood up, expecting it to be Wallace. But a white Range Rover appeared and slowed as it reached Mia. A dark window rolled down. “Hey girl!” Nancy called out cheerfully, as if they were chums. She was wearing tennis togs and a sun visor, although Mia could have sworn she’d left Ross house this morning in a dress and sandals. “Are you finished so soon?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just had to get a couple of pictures, that’s all.”
Nancy’s smile faded. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You look very unhappy.”
“I do?” Mia asked, surprised.
“Terribly,” Nancy said, nodding. “I hope none of the workers or Drago—”
“No, no,” Mia said quickly. The workers she’d encountered the last few days had all been very polite to her, and Drago had never been anything but completely respectful. “It wasn’t any of them.”
“Then who was it?” Nancy asked, her gaze narrowing.
Oh, Mia was so stupid. Why hadn’t she just said no? “Ummm . . .” She glanced back at the house. She might as well say it. Might as well put it out there so Nancy would understand when she didn’t come back. She winced a little as she turned to Nancy and said, “I hate to say it, but I had a little run-in with your son.”
“Oh Lord,” Nancy said, and suddenly dropped her head to the steering wheel. She sat up again. “You know, I should have told you he was passing through. My bad,” she said, patting her chest. “I didn’t think he’d be here this long, you know? He never stays so long. But . . . well, just between us girls . . .” She paused and looked through the gates at the house.
Mia did, too, if only to assure herself Crazypants hadn’t walked up and heard her.
“He’s not himself,” she whispered very loudly. “He didn’t say anything, did he?”
“Say anything?”
“About . . . anything,” Nancy said vaguely and dramatically, as if he were hiding a body up there. Nothing would surprise Mia at this point.
He’d said a lot—but not about anything that Mia could actually recall just then.
“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Nancy said quickly.
Holy shit, what did that mean? “About the smell?” she asked carefully.
“You noticed it, too?” his mother exclaimed. “I thought maybe there was a sewer problem. But no, not that. He won’t talk about the bad breakup he went through recently.”
That was it? That was the big hush-hush? It wasn’t the least bit surprising—when someone smelled and acted like that, the bigger surprise was that he’d had a girlfriend or wife at all.
“Not to excuse him,” Nancy added quickly, waving her hand at Mia, “but it was bad. She cheated on him,” she added in another loud whisper, as if Brennan could hear them all the way back at the house. “Openly, too. For the world to see, so to speak.”
Okay, well, Mia had been through a breakup or two, and she knew how it stung. But that didn’t mean—
“You’re probably too young to appreciate how painful it is to end a long-term love, sweetie. Sometimes people lose their way when that happens, you know?”
“I’m not that young,” Mia said, but Nancy was right. She’d never had a long-term love. Somewhere along the way, Mia had learned that if she got too close to anyone, eventually, they would want her to change. “I’ve had relationships fail,” she said defensively.
“Oh sure,” Nancy said. “But this one was really deep. More painful than your run-of-the-mill thing.”
Was she implying that Mia’s relationships were run of the mill? Was she supposed to say it was okay that he smelled and was rude because someone had cheated on him?
“I’m just saying that it was very bad,” Nancy said, almost as if she could read Mia’s mind. “I’m not asking you to excuse him, but he’s definitely not himself. He’s usually such a nice man, a good man. He didn’t say anything offensive, did he?”
“Not exactly offensive,” Mia said, feeling almost guilty for being appalled by him.
“That’s a relief!” Nancy smiled. “We’ll have to make it up to you the next time you’re back. Oh goodness, look at the time! I really have to run, sweetie. Talk soon!” she said breezily, and rolled her window up before shooting up the drive, cheerful and busy again.
These people were flat-out nuts.
Ten minutes later, Wallace arrived, the van sputtering as it came up the hill. “Well?” he demanded as Mia climbed into the van. “Did you get the all-important photos?”
“Of course.”
“A lot of good those pictures are going to do us now. I told Beverly she ought to come up here,
but your aunt puts bids together about as well as she does floral arrangements—she doesn’t. Now, how was your day? Did you see the semi-hideous son?”
“Boy, did I,” Mia said, and on the way back to the shop, told Wallace about her encounter with him today.
They’d pulled into the back lot behind the shop as Mia finished. Wallace said, “Don’t worry about it, kid. Trust me, we’ll lose the biggest job to come to East Beach in a decade because of Beverly’s disorganization, and you won’t have to see the cretin again. Go on in, don’t wait for me. I have to get some things,” he said as he dug through some papers on the console between the seats.
Mia walked in the back door of the shop and into the darkened storeroom. She sneezed at the overwhelming scent of potpourri. She was fumbling for a light when the door to the showroom suddenly flew open and florescent light from the shop flooded into the storeroom. “Mia!”
Startled, Mia squinted in the direction of the voice.
Her cousin Skylar materialized before her, grinning, her arms wide.
“Skylar? Where did you come from? When did you get here?”
“Last night.” Skylar threw her arms around Mia and hugged her, then stepped back, her gaze traveling down Mia’s clothes. “Now there’s a look,” she said with a giggle. “Never let it be said that my cousin has a dull imagination. I keep thinking that after all the flak you took in high school, someday you might scale it back.”
“Thanks,” Mia said. She would have pointed out that Skylar was one to talk, but Skylar would take issue. Her blonde hair was long and choppy, as if someone had taken scissors to it at different times. She had a nose ring and the ink of what Mia thought was a new tattoo was peeking out from beneath the long sleeves of her T-shirt.
“Where have you been, anyway?” Mia asked.
“Here. There. Everywhere.” Skylar shrugged. “Along for the ride, you know?”
No, Mia really didn’t know. “Aunt Bev didn’t say you were coming.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell her until I rolled into town last night. But she’s so freaked out about this job with the Ross house right now, I don’t think she really knows I’m even here.”
