Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  Another perfect example of how she doesn’t need my help, and the only reason I’m about to offer it. I silently pull the door open and head out once she’s marched herself halfway up the street. When she turns around for the return trip, she startles when she sees me standing next to her truck.

  “Am I being too loud? If I am, you can blame the U-Move guys for being so shitty to deal with.” She wags the device in the air between us as if I might be interested in sharing my opinion with them.

  I reject the offer. She spins away, then right back around to face me. Like a ballerina in those cute pink shoes. Only she doesn’t smile like she’s on stage. The glare directed at the person on the phone is now mine to contend with.

  “What’s so funny? You think you can do a better job with the asshole on the line than I can?” She walks to me and stomps her small, cheerfully coloured foot beside my bulky, black, steel-toed boot. “You think because you’re a man you can fix it better than me?”

  “I never said that.” Her independence is hot as fuck.

  While she was right about not needing my help to move heavy boxes and furniture, I didn’t know that when I offered. For all I knew, she was about to break her back or crush a toe in those flimsy shoes, undertaking a multi-person job all on her own.

  She twirls away again, her long hair following in a gentle arc a second behind. “You didn’t have to use your highly guarded words, Owen.” She spits my name out like it’s a cuss. “That smirk says enough.”

  I don’t smirk. Not at women. Not at this woman in particular. This one is already making my life hell, and she hasn’t even spent a night next-door yet.

  I wish I thought she was doing a shit job—at least that way I’d be keeping my mind on the professional side of things. Instead, I’m thinking about how I want to see that feistiness play out in my bedroom. I want to make her growl until she’s too hoarse to scream anymore. I dig my hands into my pockets to shift my thickening cock into a less obvious position, and her eyes follow, lingering long enough to stall her angered words for the person on the phone.

  I choose this silent opportunity to say, “I have cables.”

  “I don’t want your—” She waves her hand dismissively, then stops with her arm outstretched. “You have cables?” She pulls out a sweet and innocent voice like she wasn’t spitting fireballs a second ago.

  I raise my eyebrows at her so that I don’t have to repeat myself.

  A tiny Oh leaves her perfectly pouty lips, leaving me with a glimpse of what that word would sound like if it had walls to bounce off. She pulls the device away from her ear, disconnecting without saying goodbye.

  “Sorry for,” she points at my feet, “stomping at you.” Iris Jr. tucks her flyaway hair behind her ear, putting her otherwise perfect brown locks in place. She’s going to make it hard to keep things hands-off. “Thank you.”

  There might be a sheepish hint to her voice. Then again, it might be me wanting her to feel indebted so I can tell her how she can repay me.

  “I’ll get my truck.” I walk away before I tell her what’s really on my mind.

  I head down the street and away from my house, again walking the lengthy way home through the alley. By the time I drive back around to the front, she has the hood popped and is waiting for me, leaning against the door, reading something on her phone. Her thumb nail is tucked between her teeth and she’s grinding her jaw without actually biting it. It’s a curious habit for someone who obviously spends a lot of time and money on her nails.

  I park facing her. Iris Jr. pushes off her vehicle and comes to stand beside me while I reach into the toolbox in the truck bed. I have to fish around to the bottom for the jumper cables since they don’t get used often.

  Iris Jr. is tall, and it doesn’t take much effort for her to peek over the edge of the truck into the toolbox like a curious child. She watches me shift things around, cataloguing what she can hit me up for. Her job is going to need more than what I have in here and I hope that whoever she hires to do her renos has the appropriate tools.

  Or not. Then she can come crying to me with the signed bill of sale in her hands, telling me Iris should have sold to me in the first place.

  “I know whose door to knock on when I need a tool.” She says it with a hint of excitement that quickly morphs into embarrassment at the double meaning.

  She’s testing the limits of my self-control.

  With a grunt, I pull the cables out, saving me from pushing her against the side of the truck and showing her the best tool of all.

  She comes off her toes and holds her arm outstretched for me to hand her the cables. I shake my head.

  “I got it,” she says with little room for negotiation in her tone.

  I don’t doubt she knows what to do, but I’d still prefer that she avoid battery acid burns on her perfectly peachy skin. Who knows what condition the battery in this truck is in?

  I slide past her without responding. There’s no point in telling her I’m going to do it when I can just get it done.

  She puts her hands on her hips and mumbles “arrogant ass” under her breath.

  Looks like falling in love won’t be an issue after all.

  Iris Jr. huffs as she marches to her truck and yanks open the squeaky door only to slam it shut once she’s seated inside. The open hood impedes my vision of her, but I know the look she wears on her face. Many women have scowled at me for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Or for saying nothing at all. Still, the thought of her thinking of me that way hits me straight in the gut. I have better ways to use that feisty energy than being angry behind the wheel of a shoddy rental truck.

  Setting aside the latest thoughts of her in my bedroom, I hook up the cables, then hop in my truck to start it. She waits a minute before trying hers and I’m impressed again that she didn’t need me to give her a signal.

  The engine starts with the slightest protest, and I unhook the cables then toss them in my toolbox. While she gives her battery a moment to charge, I lower the hood then come around to her open window and lean my forearms on the frame. She leans away with a jerk, pointing out that our faces are too close. She’s right, but I hold my ground because I’m a stubborn asshole. And because I want her to feel a little uncomfortable for judging my kindness as anything but. And because she’s beautiful. I enjoy watching her squirm, especially when she continues to look at me with a disturbed mixture of frustration and attraction.

  “Where are we going?”

  She places both hands on the steering wheel and stares out the windshield. “I don’t need a chaperone.”

  “What if the battery dies again?”

  She contemplates this for a second. “Can I borrow your cables? I’ll find someone if I need to.” With eyes fixed forward still, Iris Jr. puts her hand out the window, waiting for me to drop the cables into her palm.

  I shake my head and mumble, “You are your grandmother.”

  Finally turning to look at me, she raises her chin high and plasters a sarcastic smile on her face. “Thank you.”

  As I walk to my truck, I say under my breath, “You would take that as a compliment.” Then I call over my shoulder so she can hear me through her open window. “I’ll follow you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Chapter 5

  Izzy

  “Seriously, Kelsey. He’s all sorts of arrogance.”

  Kelsey leans forward and grabs another slice of pepperoni olive pizza out of the box. “When you look like that, you’re allowed to be cocky.” Her eyes widen with mischief. “Speaking of cocky, how about that—”

  “Kelse!” I shriek, expelling pizza from my mouth. I reach forward and wipe off Gran’s old coffee table with the greasy balled up napkin in my fist. Social graces aside, I wonder why I’m single.

  She shrugs her shoulders. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t peek. Even Glynnis was checking him out. What was he wearing when he helped you unload the truck?”

  I don’t want Owen to be a part
of her late-night fantasies; I’ve already selfishly claimed him for that role. “Exact same thing—black t-shirt, black Carhartts.” I don’t have to add the “so hot” since she knows I have a thing for guys in work wear.

  “Oh, my god! Are you blushing?” she taunts.

  I shove the beer bottle in my mouth, saying no into the cavity.

  “Yes, you are. You do have a thing for the arrogant neighbour.” She talks like she just had Botox injections in her lips and her mouth moves in comical over-enunciation.

  “Quit it!” I yell and flop onto the couch. “I don’t think he knows my name, you know that?” He spent hours with me between moving boxes, boosting the truck, and escorting me unnecessarily to the storage unit, and never said my name. Another swig of beer slides down my throat before I sit up and shake my head. “Then again, he doesn’t talk much.”

  Kelsey shrugs. “Most guys don’t.” Her perspective is skewed since she doesn’t hang out with guys for their conversational skills.

  “He’s less talkative than most.”

  She waves me off in a gesture of whatever. “Maybe he’s saving all his energy for other things.” She wags her eyebrows comically and I throw a pillow at her, which she bats away with a laugh.

  “Not with me.” He can’t pretend to be nice for five minutes, let alone long enough to get naked.

  She stands and heads towards her purse at the front door. “Let me distract you from your abysmal sex life. And before you tell me it’s not that bad, let me assure you, it is.” It’s better than what she says, unless I compare mine to hers. But she gets way more action than the average woman. Even the lucky ones.

  “I don’t need distractions.” I’m not looking for a fling, I’m looking for a future, and therefore, I’m picky.

  “I need a distraction. Your celibacy is depressing me.” Kelsey pulls a fat joint from her purse. “I brought this to bless your new house as Gran would expect you to do.”

  While I may disagree with her characterisation of my sex life, I do agree that Gran would approve of us giving the home a proper dedication. We head through the kitchen to the back porch and flop ourselves on Gran’s oversized swinging chair. It’s a little snug, but we squirm around until we’re both tucked in and cosy.

  When we were little, Kelsey and I would take turns sitting in here with Gran. She’d push the swing because our legs were too short to reach the ground. Sometimes she would lead us on an adventure in the sky, sometimes we would take her.

  “Where to today, dear?” I ask Kelsey as I rock the chair back and forth. That’s how all our swinging chair adventures would start.

  Kelse lights the joint. “Over the rainbow and far, far away.”

  After a deep puff, she passes it to me. I pinch the joint between my thumb and forefinger and watch the burning embers for a second before putting it to my lips.

  I inhale and hold the smoke in my lungs like Gran taught me. On a thick exhale, I say, “The first time I got stoned was with Gran.” Long before it was legal—she was never one for rules.

  I pass the joint to my cousin, who laughs. “Me too.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised, although I thought that was something Gran and I shared alone. There are a million memories packed into this backyard. Most of them, I guess I’ll never know.

  Like us, our swings get higher and higher and Kelsey lets out a little wee! “You get to charter the first adventure in your new house.”

  I scan around the backyard that’s in desperate need of mowing, pruning and, eventually, landscaping.

  “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

  Kelsey pulls another hit from the joint. “This is really it for you?” Her tone is disbelieving. She never understood my connection to this house. Because my parents were out of country for years before they died, this has been my closest thing to a permanent home in a long time.

  “This is it. Gran’s house was always my happy place. I want to turn her home into my masterpiece and live out my days here with a husband, kids and grandkids. Like she did.” It’s too fairy tale-like for Kelsey, but that’s all I need for my happily ever after.

  Kelsey’s gag of distaste in my life goals is interrupted when we hear a similar noise coming from beyond the fence. We drop our feet and skitter the swing’s movement to a jerky halt. We look at each other and both put a finger to our lips to signal silence, which makes us giggle harder.

  “Is someone listening to us?” Kelsey whispers at near-full volume.

  The duplex’s yard next to us isn’t landscaped yet, and I don’t see why anyone would sit in the dirt just to listen to us talk about our hopes and dreams.

  “It’s probably a neighbourhood cat hopping across fences.” We both lean forward to listen, like that will help us solve the mystery.

  After a minute of silence, I push my feet to start the swinging motion again and Kelsey falls back into the cushions, apparently satisfied with my sleuth-like interpretation of the sound. We each enjoy one more toke off the blunt and I reach to the side table for the empty soup can I brought outside to snub it out.

  We rock in silence for a beat, then Kelsey asks, “Have you met your neighbour yet?”

  I shake my head. With the house next-door still being under construction, if anyone is living there it’s likely the contractor rather than a permanent neighbour. Honouring Gran’s disdain for development on the street, I’m fine to avoid making friends with them.

  Another noise from across the fence has me rethinking my feline theory.

  “That definitely sounded like someone cracking a beer.” Kelsey agrees with my thought.

  “On three?” We know from years of being in the swing with Gran that we both have to stand at the same time. If one tries to go first, the swing unbalances and swivels to hit the standing person in the back of the knees.

  I nod and we both place our hands by our sides, ready to push ourselves out of the deep, well-worn cushions. Kelsey counts us down and on three I jump, then hear her say, “Go!” as the swing knocks me from behind, sending me flying forward.

  “Fuck!” I scream as I stumble off the edge of the porch, face-planting into the cool grass. Gran didn’t believe in safety regulations and never bothered putting a railing around the perimeter of the porch. It wasn’t an issue when we were kids, but apparently as stoned adults, it’s a hazard.

  I lie face down in the grass with Kelsey standing above me, gasping for breath through her laughter.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay! You were supposed to go on three.”

  “It’s one-two-three-go, then you go.” She rolls me over with a tug on my shirt.

  Kelsey extends her arm to help me but instead, I yank her on to the ground with me where we lie in a fit of giggles. I swear there’s a male grunt from the other side of the property line, but the sound gets drowned out by our own.

  We lay on our backs looking at the sky. It’s a perfectly clear evening, which means it’s going to get chilly, but the stars will be amazing.

  “Let’s stay out here tonight.” I stretch out for Kelsey’s hand, holding it like we’re two young girls waiting on a shooting star. “I’ll run inside to get sleeping bags and toques.” We’re in an inner-city neighbourhood, but the streets are quiet and safe. The biggest concern about spending the night outside would be running inside to pee or risk doing so in the brambly bushes.

  Her head rolls to the side, and she stares at me with gigantic pupils. “You want to sleep outside on your first night in your new home?”

  “The yard is part of the home.” My idea isn’t that absurd.

  She shrugs at me. “Sure. But bring out and water while you’re in there.” Kelsey stops me mid-sit-up with a tug on my elbow that sends me falling to the ground once more. “Nothing the neighbourhood cat will like, though. I don’t want it coming to our side of the fence thinking it can crash our party.”

  “Okay, no catnip. Or beer. It sounds like our furry friend likes the canned variety,” I sa
y, loud enough that if someone is there, they’ll make themselves known.

  I sit up again and, to remain unseen behind the rickety fence, I duck walk to the porch. I move into a shadow before standing on my tippytoes to peer beyond the fence. There’s a single folding lawn chair sitting unoccupied in the patchy grass.

  “See anything?” Kelsey calls out.

  “Shh!” I hiss and drop to a crouch.

  I snort laugh, which gets Kelsey going too. She’s rolling in the grass laughing when I hear a screen door swing open, then click shut on the other side of the fence.

  Good thing they went inside. I don’t think being this high is the best way to start a neighbourly relationship, contractor or not.

  Chapter 6

  Owen

  Every Saturday night is boys’ night at the local pub a few blocks away from the house. I meet my closest friends, who are all in housing development or real estate and connected to Black Ladder in some sense.

  Brett has tried to get us to move our weekly gathering to a pub in a new neighbourhood that he says is up-and-coming, but we’ve all vetoed him. He’s pushing for it because he’s got a reputation with the women here and he’s looking for unfamiliar faces. Being known is what the rest of us like about this pub. It makes it easy. And by the time Saturday rolls around, easy is exactly what we want.

  “How are things going with the old lady’s shack?” Greg, my architect, claps me on the back after I sink my third ball in a row at the pool table.

  “Coming along.” At a slow as fuck pace. If I didn’t spend so much goddamn time thinking of ways to get her naked, I could find a way to get her off my street.

  He leans against the ledge where our drinks sit. “Care to elaborate?”

  He’s always trying to get me to talk more. It’s exhausting—listening to him and talking. I used to be more talkative, now I prefer to listen.

  “The granddaughter moved in.”

  Brett comes over and rests his hands on the pool table. I glare at him. I don’t like people in my space when I’m shooting pool. Or in general.