“Shit. Really?” My stomach does an unpleasant little flip. That’s a new refrigerator, just bought a couple months ago. “Is it the fridge itself, do you think? Or the outlet?”
“I’m not sure,” she says. “But it smells a little weird in here, too. Like something that’s too hot.”
“Dammit. Okay, could you go downstairs to the fuse box? It’s just to the left of the washing machine. Can you go check, and see whether the fuse is blown?”
Savannah keeps me on the phone as she goes downstairs. I wait as she locates the fuse box, and eventually she’s able to confirm that there are two blown fuses.
“What do you want me to do with the stuff in the fridge?” she asks. “It’s gonna spoil if we leave it in there.”
“There’s not much, I don’t think.” I guess it’s lucky I don’t cook at home very often. “There’s maybe a half-eaten pint of ice cream in the freezer, and some milk and shredded cheese in the fridge. I guess just dump out whatever is going to spoil.”
“Will do,” Savannah replies. “Also, your pills are sitting here on the counter. You left without them today.”
“Oh, crap. Thanks. I took one this morning, so I’m okay.” I stifle a chuckle. Savannah’s always watching out for me. My mother couldn’t ask for a better roommate for me if she tried. “It’s a new refill. Guess I forgot to toss them in my bag this morning.”
“You want me to run them over to you at the paper office?”
“No, that’s okay,” I tell her as I turn my key in the ignition. “I’ll be fine. And I’m on my way to get a haircut anyway. I won’t need them before I get back home.”
“Okay. I gotta run. Talk to you later.”
“Smooches.”
Savannah hangs up, and I toss my phone back into my bag, smiling. Savannah’s been my best friend for years. She’s one of the main reasons I decided to accept Frank Lamoine’s offer of a job and move into my aunt’s house, instead of just selling the place instead.
I’ve known Savannah since I was twelve. We met at the pool that summer while I was staying with Aunt Jeanne. From the first day, we were thick as thieves. Between Savannah and Jeanne, the summers I spent here during my teen years always felt like coming home.
Unlike me, Savannah has always been perfectly happy living in Ironwood as an adult. Whereas my childhood dreams had involved traveling the world, her plan was always to stay here, in the community where she grew up. She works as a vet tech now, and has plans to become a veterinarian and take over the clinic where she works when her boss retires. She’s lived with me since I moved into Aunt Jeanne’s place. Her boyfriend, Jeremy, is a real estate agent when he’s not working on launching his own home renovation business.
I keep waiting for Savannah to come to me and break the news that she and Jeremy have decided to move in together. So far it hasn’t happened yet — even though she spends almost every night sleeping at his place these days.
Unfortunately, I suspect the reason for that is me.
Savannah worries about my dud of a heart almost more than I do. If I had to guess, I’d say she doesn’t want to move out because she doesn’t like the idea of me living alone, in case something bad happens. Even on the nights she stays at Jeremy’s, she texts me right before bed and then first thing in the morning. She pretends she’s not checking up on me by sending some dumb joke or funny meme instead of asking what she really means: Are you still alive?
A few minutes later, I pull up in front of Curl Up and Dye. I check in with the receptionist, who brings me a fancy water infused with cucumber. Just as I’m sitting down to wait, my stylist Cyndi comes sauntering out.
“Hey, girl! Come on back!” she cries, giving me a grin.
Cyndi looks sort of like a young Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman — if Julia Roberts was a dyed platinum blonde. She’s got the same wide, toothy smile, high cheekbones, and thick arched brows. I’ve never seen her dressed in anything but clothes she could wear on a night out on the town.
As I get settled into the chair, Cyndi takes out a dark smock and fastens it around my neck. “What are we doing with you today?”
“Just the usual,” I say, knowing she’ll be disappointed. “Take maybe two inches off the ends. It’s been a while since my last trim.”
Cyndi nods. “Four months. You’re looking a little wild. I’ll shape you up.” She peers at me. “You sure you don’t want me to do that ombré I was talking about last time?” she offers, sounding hopeful. “I had a last-minute cancellation after you, so I can work it in.”
I shake my head. “No thanks. Maybe next time.” Though I know I’ll say no next time, too.
Cyndi doesn’t know about my heart condition. I don’t tell anyone unless I absolutely have to. Which means she also doesn’t know why I’m reluctant to do anything to my hair other than get it cut from time to time.
The fact is, my hair is one of my best features, and I’m not only vain about it, but also a little phobic about doing anything that might damage it. The drug I take for my condition is a beta blocker, and one of its possible side effects is hair loss. I’ve never had a problem with that so far. But I’ve had nightmares about waking up one morning with a giant bald patch on the back of my head. It’s terrifying. I know it’s probably ridiculous, but I can’t help it.
So even though I know that rationally, dyeing my hair or doing anything involving chemicals is not going make me lose my hair, it still freaks me out enough that I can’t bear to do it.
Cyndi sighs dramatically and gives me a little pout in the mirror. “You’re no fun. You know I have fantasies about all the stuff I could do to your hair.”
“Sorry,” I laugh.
“No, you’re not,” she mumbles, but winks at my reflection to show me there are no hard feelings. I laugh again, relieved that she’s letting it go so easily.
Cyndi takes me back to get my hair washed, and I sink into the luxurious ritual of being pampered by a professional. I love this, I think woozily as she massages my scalp. Why don’t I get my hair cut more often?
“So, how are things?” she asks me when we’re back in the chair.
“Not too bad.” I entertain her by telling her about some of the more ridiculous stories I’ve covered for the Post-Gazette recently, including Mildred and Eddie. Cyndi’s a great listener, as all good stylists should be, and I find myself relaxing even more.
“I swear,” she snorts, pausing between snips, “you have the most entertaining life!”
It’s funny to realize she thinks so. “I suppose I do, in a way,” I admit reluctantly. “Though it’s not all fun and games. Aunt Jeanne’s house is giving me fits, as usual. I think the electrical wiring in my kitchen is screwed.”
“Oh yeah?” she asks. “That’s rough. What’s going on?”
I recount my toaster mishap a few days ago, and Savannah’s call about the refrigerator this morning.
“Huh, that’s not good,” she frowns. “Sounds dangerous.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I admit. “I know nothing about this stuff, but I’m afraid the house is gonna catch fire and burn down if I don’t get this taken care of.”
“I know a guy, actually,” Cyndi muses. “An electrician. If you need one.”
“I totally do!” I jump on her words. “I have no idea where to even start looking. I’ve been putting it off, but this refrigerator thing makes me realize I can’t do that any longer. Who’s your guy?”
“Well, I haven’t used him myself,” she explains. “I live in an apartment. But you know that biker guy I’ve been seeing? Mal?”
“Yeah…” I frown. “He’s an electrician?”
“Not him. This other guy in Mal’s club. He does electrical work part-time. From what I hear, he’s really good. I can get hold of Mal and see if Dante is free to come over and take a look.”
I pause a second before answering. I’ve never met Cyndi’s on-again, off-again biker, Mal. I know they’re not serious at all — she has said more than once th
at they’re just having fun, and that he is, in her words, a spectacular lay. I’m sure he’s a nice enough guy, but I wonder how well Cyndi actually knows this electrician friend of his. It occurs to me that maybe I should think twice about letting a strange man in my house, just on the endorsement that he knows the man my hairdresser is sleeping with.
Then again, any recommendation I would get from word of mouth would just be one person’s endorsement I’d be relying on, right? And frankly, I could end up doing a lot worse by just blindly choosing someone from an internet search.
“That would be amazing,” I finally say. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She stands back and gives my hair a final snip and stands back to appraise her work. “Okay, I think we’re good here. Let me get you dried and styled, and we’ll take a final look.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Cyndi has given me an amazing blowout and I’m ready to go. I book my next appointment before I leave, just to make sure I don’t let so long go before my next trim, and leave Cyndi an even more generous tip than usual as a thank you for the electrician lead.
I exit the salon looking and feeling ten times better than I have in weeks. I decide to treat myself to my favorite sandwich place for lunch, which has the most fantastic BLT I’ve ever tasted. Since it’s a bright, sunny day, I take my feast to a local park a couple of blocks from the Post-Gazette office. When my lunch hour is up, I decide to just leave my car at the park and walk the couple of blocks back to the office. I’ll come back to get it after work.
Things aren’t so bad here in Ironwood, I surprise myself by thinking. I should be thankful for what I have. Even despite the electrical problem in my house, for the first time in a while, my life doesn’t feel quite as broken as it usually does. I could almost even forget about my messed-up heart on a day like today.
My unusual optimism lasts through most of the afternoon. I spend a few hours doing some research for a couple of stories I want to pitch to Frank one of these days — stories that are a little more in the vein of serious journalism. I know they’re a long shot, but I’m hoping that I can convince him to run one of them some week. When we haven’t had a lead about a psychic toddler, or a dog who’s actually the reincarnation of someone’s long lost uncle.
The time flies more quickly than usual because I’m doing work I’m actually absorbed in. Before I know it, it’s after five-thirty. When Frank emerges from his office. I look up and realize we’re the only ones left in the place. I snap my laptop closed and stand up to follow him out. I decide not to take any work home. I think I’ll spend the evening sitting on my front porch with a cold drink, reading the rest of my romance novel.
“You have any plans for the night?” I ask Frank as we walk out together.
He grimaces. “Isaac’s got a game tonight. I get to spend the next couple hours watching a bunch of little kids run around, not hitting or catching a baseball.”
I scoff. “You know you love it.”
And he does. Frank pretends to hate going to his kids’ events, but he’s a consummate family man.
I wave goodbye to him and walk the two blocks back to my car, then drive home with the windows rolled down. As I drive, I remember that since the electricity in my kitchen basically doesn’t work, I’m going to be limited in my options for dinner. Especially because I can’t refrigerate the leftovers. I decide to keep it simple and go with one of my favorite guilty pleasure foods: a peanut butter and pickle sandwich. I can eat it sitting out on my porch swing, with a glass of iced tea — warm, since I probably don’t have any ice cubes left.
I’m so determined to enjoy my good mood to the fullest that I turn on the radio and start singing along to the classic rock hit that comes out over the speakers. A couple of people walking by on the sidewalk turn when they hear me, and I wave out the window, feeling silly but not really caring. I’m so absorbed in my performance that I don’t notice anything unusual when I get home and park my car in my long, gravel driveway. I’m halfway to the front porch before it registers that there’s someone sitting on my porch swing. Someone large. And dark. And familiar.
His size dwarfs the swing. With him in it, it almost looks like it was built for a child.
“Well, shit,” the dark stranger drawls, standing. He cocks an amused brow at me. “If you wanted to see me again, you should have just said so.”
8
Dante
“Excuse me?” the hot reporter sputters angrily. “If I wanted to see you again? You’re the one standing on my porch right now.”
“Yeah, because Cyndi told my club brother Mal some chick had an issue with her wiring.” I shrug. “I sure as hell didn’t know who it was. But you didn’t have to go to all the trouble of inventing an electrical problem.” I let my eyes cut to her front door and give her a smirk.
“You think I made that up?” Amazement registers in her face. “Who does that?” She glances toward the street, where my bike is sitting, then back to me, frowning. “You’re the electrician?”
“Yup. What, I don’t look like an electrician?”
“Not really,” she snorts.
“What does an electrician look like?”
“I mean, I don’t know… not…”
She trails off, sucking in a breath as she looks me over. Then she does a double-take as she seems to realize that she’s looking me over, and immediately turns her head away.
She’s flustered. It’s cute as hell. Makes me want to fluster her some more.
“Where’s your electrician stuff?” she finally manages, her eyes fixed on a point about six inches to the left of my head. Her face flushes pink.
“It’s the end of the day. I’m off the clock.”
“Well, then…” she frowns in confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“Mal said Cyndi told him you needed help ASAP.” Well, he didn’t say her. He said some chick client of Cyndi’s. “I figured I’d come take a look, see what the problem is — if there actually is a problem — and then come back tomorrow to fix it.”
“Will you stop with the ‘if there’s actually a problem’ crap?” She gives me a sour look. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not that hard up for male attention that I have to fake an electrical issue in my house.”
“So you say,” I murmur.
“Besides,” she continues, a challenge in her eye, “how the hell would I have known you were the electrician Cyndi was talking about?”
She’s got me there. When Mal told me some reporter for the local paper was looking for an electrician, it seemed like too much of a damn coincidence to be real. Then, I figured if it was her, it was an excuse to see me again. Wouldn’t be the first time a girl has manufactured some chance meeting with me, hoping I’ll take the bait.
But the blond chick looks genuinely pissed at the suggestion, so maybe she wasn’t making shit up.
I’ll know soon enough, I guess. It’s pretty hard to fake a wiring problem.
“So, you gonna let me in your house to take a look? Or are we gonna stand out here all night and chit-chat?” I say gruffly.
She blows out an exasperated breath. For a second, I think she’s actually gonna send me away. But then, pursing her lips, she opens the screen door and unlocks the main door.
We step inside from the huge wrap-around porch, into a large entryway with worn hardwood floors. The entryway alone is half the size of my living room. This house is crazy huge for one woman to live in all by herself — if she does live by herself, that is. It occurs to me that maybe she’s married. Hell, maybe she even has kids.
If she is married, I’m guessing her husband doesn’t know dick about home repair.
I wait as she tosses her bag on an antique dresser in the entryway, then follow her into the living room. Even though the sun is still high in the sky, it’s pretty dark in here, and she reaches under the shade of a table lamp sitting on an end table, flicking a switch. The room is filled with a low, golden light that doesn’t quite reach to the walls. G
lancing overhead, I see there’s no ceiling light. That’s typical of these sprawling older places, when they haven’t been renovated and modernized.
I take a second to look around the space. The furniture seems all wrong for a twenty-something female — especially someone who looks like her. It looks more like a grandma’s house, or a cat lady’s. Overstuffed couches and spindly chairs are arranged around an old, dusty-looking fireplace. Old gilt-framed pictures line the walls. It’s like someone raided an antique shop to decorate the place — only most of the stuff in here isn’t fancy enough to be antiques. There’s one of those huge ancient square TVs on a low cart over on one side of the room next to the fireplace, and knickknacks all over the fuckin’ place. The only thing that’s missing is doilies on every available surface.
“This is your house?” I ask, frowning.
“Obviously,” she tosses back sarcastically. “Or do you think I break into random houses for fun and hire people to repair their wiring?”
“I just mean…” I shake my head, gesturing. “This furniture doesn’t really seem like your style, you know?”
Her face grows pinched. “I inherited this place from my aunt. She died a couple years ago,” she says softly, glancing away.
“Oh. Sorry.”
She doesn’t respond. “The kitchen’s through here,” she says, turning abruptly.
She leads me through a short hallway to a kitchen filled with a mishmash of appliances whose ages span at least thirty years. I notice her eyes widen for a split-second, and she darts toward the counter, where a small bottle of prescription pills is sitting. She scoops it up and shoves the thing in her back pocket.
“So,” she says crisply, turning to face me. “I was making toast the other day…” she nods toward the toaster sitting on the counter to her left. I notice it’s unplugged. “About halfway through, the outlet got really hot, like something was starting to burn. Then I blew a fuse.”
“Fuses. Of course, you have fuses,” I murmur.
“What does that mean?”
Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC) Page 5
