by Lucy Score
“I’m fine. Really,” Riley said repeating her refrain. “It’s not like I want to still be married to him.” She grabbed her purse, lunch bag, and unreturnable coffee jar and headed for the back door.
“Of course not,” Wander agreed. “But it’s still normal to have feelings about the situation. I have feelings about it.”
Riley let herself into the house. The smell of something very strong and very not great wafting from the kitchen hit her in the nose. She made a beeline for the back staircase to avoid her neighbors. “Oh, really? What are your feelings?” she asked her sister.
“I find myself wishing karma worked more swiftly,” Wander said.
It was her sister’s equivalent of Jasmine smashing her car into Griffin’s. Riley laughed. “I appreciate your frustration on my behalf.”
“I mean, the man sued you after you caught him cheating on you in your own home,” Wander continued. “I realize that his journey is his own, but I don’t care for the fact that he dragged you along for the ride before leaving you in the gutter.”
Her sister could really commit to a metaphor.
“I’m fine,” Riley said again.
“It’s not fair that you’re still paying for his mistakes and he gets to just go on with his life.” Wander’s voice wasn’t as soothing now. It was vibrating with a deeply suppressed rage.
“Maybe you should take a breath? Do some meditating?” Riley suggested as she climbed the stairs.
The screaming reached a crescendo on Wander’s end of the call. “Girls, if you can’t lower your volume and find a way to behave as a community, I’ll make you churn homemade butter again.”
There was a chorus of “noooooo”s and then the relative quiet that can be achieved with three girls under the age of eight in one room.
Riley heard her sister take a deep breath, followed by a second one.
“I’m going to consult my spirit guides,” Wander decided.
“About your ex-brother-in-law getting engaged or your kids fighting?” Riley asked, tackling the last flight to the third floor.
“Both. But also you. I’m concerned that there’s an obstacle standing in your way of finding happiness.”
“I’m happy,” Riley lied.
Wander snorted elegantly. “I can smell that lie from here.”
“You’re so weird.” Riley laughed.
“You could be too if you just gave yourself the permission.”
Between the second and third floor, Wander had to go save a child’s hair from the Velcro strap of a sneaker. With the chaos of her sister’s life still ringing in her ear, Riley let herself into her quiet, peaceful apartment.
But today, her space didn’t feel so quiet or peaceful. It felt… sad. Lifeless. Also, suspiciously neater than when she’d left it this morning. The throw on the back of her ratty couch was folded and draped on the wrong side. The clean laundry she’d brought home from her parents’ house Sunday was neatly folded on her coffee table. The stack of mail she had had the energy to open had clearly been pawed through.
Mrs. Penny, she thought. Her second-floor neighbor had made breaking and entering—and tidying—into a hobby.
Riley’s nose twitched. And she immediately suppressed whatever “message” or hallucination that was trying to come through. When it was too quiet, her brain did stupid things like trying to predict the future or attempting to read minds. Since she didn’t have three daughters to yell at or the desire to strike up a conversation with any of her neighbors, she would find her own distraction. She changed into gym shorts and a tank and jogged back downstairs with feigned enthusiasm.
“Joining us for dinner, Riley?” Fred called out from the kitchen door. He wielded a spoon coated in something so dark it was almost black.
“We’re recreating that spinach thing from the Indian place,” Lily announced behind him. “Fourth time’s the charm!”
The Bogdanovich twins’ hobbies in restaurant recipe recreation rarely ended well on Indian night. They could manage an Italian dish, and even their beef and broccoli was passable. But they had yet to make a palatable Indian meal.
“Wish I could,” Riley fibbed, stuffing earbuds in her ears. “Gotta run!” She waved and headed out the front door before they could try tempting her with homemade burnt naan.
Once outside in the not-spinach-scented air, she cranked her music to drown out any stray thoughts from passing strangers that might accidentally lodge in her own brain.
The mossy, muddy Susquehanna flowed lazily to her right. Late afternoon sun flickered on its surface. It wasn’t so bad. A little humid, a little mosquito-y. But the grass and trees were a healthy green, and the river didn’t smell too much like fish.
See? She could do things. She wasn’t stagnant.
A shirtless runner with a six-pack of abs and a shoulder-pec-bicep tattoo gave her the “what’s up” nod. She smiled back, but he was too busy calculating how many scoops of protein powder he had left and didn’t notice her boobs or her smile.
She walked until she got hungry—about half a mile—then returned home and snuck up the front staircase to avoid any more supper invitations.
Her dinner choices were limited to a single serving frozen pizza or the last container of homemade vegan lentil soup from lunch with her parents Sunday.
The pizza won.
She preheated the thirty-year-old oven and gave in to the siren song of her couch. Faceplanting on it, Riley reached for the remote. Mrs. Penny had definitely been here. Her Netflix history included four episodes of her neighbor’s favorite guilty pleasure, Beyond the Picket Fence: Gruesome Unsolved Crimes.
Riley queued up the next episode of her guilty pleasure, Made It Out Alive. The survival show helped to keep things in perspective. Sure, she was divorced and broke and her stupid ex-husband was probably buying a new custom-tailored tux, but at least she hadn’t been mauled by a grizzly bear in the Canadian wilderness.
Yep. It was all about perspective.
She was contemplating a fourth slice when she heard the creak in the hallway through the paper-thin walls. Worn from decades of feet, the floorboards groaned in protest when anyone approached either apartment.
It was probably Dickie.
She had no idea what the man did for a living, but he kept odd hours. She usually only saw him Saturday mornings as she was reluctantly leaving for early morning “family yoga” and he was coming home from wherever dirty old men spent their Friday nights.
She heard the knock across the hall and wondered if it was one of the second-floor neighbors complaining about Dickie “stomping around like a maniac” again. The knock sounded again. More insistent this time.
That wasn’t a neighbor. They all had a tendency to announce themselves like “Yoo-hoo! It’s Lily from downstairs,” or “Dickie, turn that porno shit off! My grandkids are visiting.”
Riley heard the footsteps and lolled her head against the back of the couch to eye her own door. The knock sounded a second later.
She heaved herself off the couch, debating whether she really wanted to meet anyone who would voluntarily knock on Dickie’s door. The debate was settled when she snuck a peek through the peephole.
He was tall, at least according to the fish-eye view. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He was looking down at something in his hands, but the top of his head held the promise of full-face hotness.
She opened the door and confirmed full-face hotness.
Yep. Tall. Broad shoulders, muscled chest. Bronze skin. Short dark hair that curled just a little on top. Assessing eyes under thick brows, full lips bookended by deep, matching dimples barely disguised under razor rebel stubble.
And those eyes. Blue-green like the ocean on a sunny day. They sucked her in.
The vision hit her fast enough that she didn’t have time to fight it. Her nose twitched so hard she felt her lip curl Elvis-style.
For a second, the sexy stranger vanished in a cotton candy fog of pink and blue. Then she saw a hideous bedspread
in yellows, oranges, and greens. A lava lamp cast an orange glow from the other side of the bed. Those ocean eyes boring into hers as his body covered hers. Tattoos. One on his chest. One on his bicep. None on his neck—thank God. His mouth was on hers as he dragged her underwear down her thighs.
“Riley,” the vision stranger breathed as he lined up his very, very nice cock with her center.
“Nick,” Vision Riley gasped as he drove into her.
The TV remote slid out of her hand and hit the floor. The vision—or more likely the exercise-induced hallucination—retreated.
Sexy Stranger cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Jorge Alvarez,” he said.
“That’s me,” she croaked, hypnotized by his dimples.
He glanced down at the clipboard he was holding and back up at her. “You’re Jorge Alvarez?” One of those dark eyebrows quirked.
Since when were eyebrows sexy?
The guy was either too handsome to be smart, or he had an excellent poker face.
“Kidding. I don’t know any Jorge Alvarezes,” she said. “Alvari?”
He was still staring at her, and Riley gave passing thought to how disheveled she must look. Her hair was in its sloppy post-walk knot. She had pizza sauce on her tank top and probably an entire serving of oregano in her teeth.
Don’t smile, she ordered herself.
He nodded and made a note on the clipboard. “Do you know most of your neighbors?” he asked.
He gave off a cop vibe. A really, really good-looking cop vibe. “Of course,” she said, crossing her arms. “We’re all related.”
This guy hadn’t shown a badge, but there was something “official” about him.
“Hmm,” he said, clearly not believing her. “I have a Jorge Alvarez at this address down for three boxes of Nature Girl Chunkie Munkie Choco Nut Bars. He hasn’t paid yet.”
“You’re selling Nature Girl candy?” she asked. No self-respecting cop would pretend to participate in an adolescent girl organization fundraiser.
“My niece did the selling. I’m collecting from the deadbeats trying to stiff her out of her candy money.”
There was no way in the hell she’d missed a Nature Girl canvasing the house selling candy. She loved the Goosey Gooey Caramel Nuggets. This hot guy with his eyebrows was definitely lying. “Uh-huh. Sure,” she said.
“You’re sure Mr. Alvarez doesn’t live across the hall?” he pressed.
“Positive.”
He gave her a flash of dimple and a swoop of eyebrow. “Do you know who does live across the hall?”
“Yes.” She swooned internally.
He waited a beat and then turned on what she assumed was his best weapon: his smile. Those dimples deepened and beamed out hotness.
“You don’t give much up, do you?” he asked, all charm.
“Not to strangers who knock on my door looking for fake neighbors when there’s a nice, neat nameplate next to the door with the current resident’s last name.”
He cleared his throat again and glanced over his shoulder at the nameplate. “So Mr. Frick lives there?”
Riley just smiled.
He turned back to his clipboard and made a note. She shifted to peek at the paper.
“That looks pretty official for a Nature Girls order sheet.”
He flipped the folio closed and dropped it to his side.
“Thanks for your help, Ms…” He trailed off.
She pointed to her nameplate.
“Thorn. Fitting,” he said with a wink. Those dimples got impossibly deeper. She bet they’d hold pencils.
“I didn’t catch your name,” she said, extending her hand.
He paused for a second before taking her hand. “I’m Nick.”
Well, hell. Score one for the vision.
Her nose gave a twitch. Bedspread. Lava lamp. Sex.
She shook her head, dislodging the scene from her brain. His grip was strong and warm and felt way too much like it had in her… dream. He squeezed her hand tighter, and her thighs quivered in response.
“You’re not really collecting candy money, are you, Nick?”
He met her gaze levelly. His grip stayed firm. “Now what would give you that idea, Thorn?”
What was she doing sharing an extra-long handshake with a hot stranger who was obviously lying to her face? Riley released him and wiped her palm on her shorts. “There is no Chunkie Munkie Choco Nut Bar.”
“What are you? Some kind of—”
“Nature Girl candy connoisseur,” she finished for him. “What’s your niece’s name?”
“Esmeralda.” It rolled off of the tongue almost as easily as the truth.
She narrowed her eyes. “No one is named Esmeralda.”
“Thanks again for your help, Thorn.” His grin was a flash of temptation and danger. “See you around.” With a wave of his paperwork, he headed toward the stairs.
“Anytime, Nick.” If that was his real name. “Would you like me to tell Dickie that you stopped by?”
He paused and turned back to face her. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t mention this to your…”
“Uncle,” she filled in for him.
“Yeah. Maybe don’t mention this to your uncle.”
She had a feeling he was going to say that.
5
11:00 a.m., Wednesday, June 17
To Nick Santiago, the best thing about working for himself was that he got to set his own hours.
When everyone else in the city got up early and on the road fighting morning commuter traffic, he’d slept until eight, hit the gym, chugged a protein shake, and took his sweet-ass time wandering downstairs to the office. He’d gotten a deal on the first-floor storefront and upstairs apartment from his Aunt Nancy who was a Harrisburg property maven.
The timing had been right when the last tenant, a sketchy vape shop, moved out. So Nick had signed a three-year lease and set up shop. That had been—well, hell—two and a half years ago. Time still managed to fly without the demarcations of a traditional work schedule or wedding anniversaries or first days of school, he realized. But it was the way he preferred it. He liked his life. Liked working for himself.
Except for all the fucking paperwork. And walking in on his cousin getting a lap dance from his wife in the office.
“Seriously?” Nick said, dumping his sunglasses on the empty desk and picking up the stack of mail.
“Mmph, sorry, man.” His cousin Brian wrestled his tongue back from his wife’s mouth. They were about as unlikely a couple as anyone could be. And not because Brian was in a wheelchair or Josie was Chinese-American. Nick’s cousin was a blond-haired, glasses-wearing, reformed ladies’ man with a brain that constantly sifted through data.
Josie was… different. She was tiny and lean and lived for the opportunity to be mean. Most of the time, her expression was completely unreadable. To anyone too stupid to notice details—like the knife tattoo on her shoulder—Josie looked like a beautiful, fragile flower. But she was as fragile as barbed wire and as flowery as poison ivy.
In high school, while Brian had been elected Homecoming King and Josie had been voted Most Likely to Go to Jail for Homicide, Nick had the distinction of collecting the most detentions in school history. A record that still stood.
The three of them had been best friends since elementary school when Dax Dipshit tried to dump third-grade Brian out of his wheelchair on the playground. Nick had been in the middle of getting his ass kicked by Dipshit—actual name Dipler—and his two cronies when new girl Josie wandered into the melee and punched Dax right in the nuts.
Josie was the problem solver of the team. If the problem could be solved with force. She enjoyed sidling into dangerous situations and being underestimated. She was almost as good a shot as Nick was and better at hand-to-hand combat.
Brian was a one-man gossiping geek team. If there was information to be dug up, he would find it. Technically, he only worked for Nick part-time. The rest of the time he ran his own cybersecu
rity company.
Nick’s contribution was, well, doing everything else it took to run the business… except paperwork. He was observant, street smart, and good at getting information out of people, women especially. He also had no problems doing the heavy lifting of armed security and surveillance jobs.
Together, the three of them made Santiago Investigations into a reasonably successful investigations business.
Bill. Junk. Bill. Nick threw them back on the desk, deciding to ignore them until absolutely necessary.
Thanks to a good run of pharmaceutical rep layoffs and armed security gigs in the spring, Santiago Investigations had enjoyed some positive cash flow. However, with summer just getting started, things were slowing down a bit. More people were vacationing rather than serving divorce papers and hiring security. That just meant his schedule could be even more flexible until business picked up again.
“Any messages?” Nick asked.
Brian wheeled closer to his monitor setup while Josie perched on the edge of the desk like a deadly bird of prey.
“Stoltzfus called. He wants eyes on his wife,” Brian reported.
Nick rolled his eyes. “Again?”
“Again,” Brian confirmed.
“Why doesn’t he just get a divorce already?” Josie pulled out a three-inch blade from her boot and went to work cleaning the dirt from her fingernails.
“Anything else?” Nick asked.
“Chad called in sick. Kids gave him the stomach bug they were circulating. Just in time for half a dozen serves to come in.”
Process serving was Nick’s second least favorite part of the job. Which was why he hired Chad, a middle-aged, stay-at-home dad to dole out divorce papers and summons on nights and weekends.
“Another one for Mustangs,” Josie reported.
Mustangs was a gay club half a block down from the capitol complex. An ex-partner was being a pain in the ass and suing. Nick had served the club so often that he joined the owner’s drag poker game every few weeks. At least, when he could afford to lose to Lady Ophelia Everhard.