Out Of The Blue

by P. Dangelico

  When I glance up, Aidan is standing in the aisle, shirtless, wearing cargo shorts and his customary Elvis sunglasses. A lit cigarette hangs from his lips.

  “I’m here,” he declares in an utterly annoyed tone. As if I’m the slave master he serves. This guy needs to take a good hard look in the mirror to see who the guilty party is.

  But that’s not the half of it. I can’t take my eyes off the lit cigarette. Jesus could come back and even he couldn’t steal my attention away.

  With a major drought going on in Southern California, the last thing anyone wants to see is a lit cigarette in a barn. One smoldering ash could spark a raging wildfire that could burn for weeks. I can only surmise that he’s the same brand of idiot that would use fireworks at a gender reveal party. I’m constantly surprised at how rare common sense is these days.

  “What?” he says in response to the silent daggers I’m sending his way. I’m what they call spitting mad. Without the spit part… because that would be gross.

  “Step out of this barn immediately and safely put out that cigarette or I will call Ojai PD to come collect you.”

  He sighs dramatically. Then he takes the cigarette between his finger and puts it out on the sole of his work boots. After which, he turns and walks out. Whatever his brother said to him didn’t get through, I doubt he heard him at all, so I guess it’s my turn to take a shot.

  I put Phoenix back in his stall and march after our resident spoiled brat.

  “Aidan,” I call out as he’s about to mount the steps to his trailer. Turning, he places his hands on his hips and all the muscles of his chest jump as if someone screamed, “Action.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  For a moment, I’m stunned into bewildered silence. Do I follow him into the trailer to yell at him? Probably not a good idea. Then I think of the animals.

  “Now.”

  His brows crawl up his forehead, daring me to stop him.

  “You walk in there”—I motion to the trailer—“and I’m calling the cops.”

  He eyeballs me for a beat, taking measure. Go ahead, bud. I double dog dare you.

  “You don’t own a sense of humor, do you?”

  “Not when it comes to you endangering my animals. You realize this is a sanctuary, right?”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “For breaking the law.”

  He scowls, eyebrows smashing together, seemingly offended. God forbid I should remind him of his sins.

  It’s then I realize what the problem is: he hasn’t taken responsibility for what happened. He doesn’t think he did anything wrong. Which means he’ll keep doing stupid shit that could potentially hurt other people because he’s the victim in this scenario. Unfreakingbelievable.

  “For driving fast,” he blurts out in frustration.

  And there you have it. “You gotta be kidding. Condolences on your divorce from reality. There’s a little more to it than that.”

  “Not much.”

  “Tell it to your diary.” Does he actually think he’s going to illicit sympathy from me at this point? “Look, you agreed to serve your time here, something I was not happy about from the start. I’m not the one who’s keeping you here. You’re welcome to leave if you feel that it’s beneath you to help animals that have been abused––some of them starved and beaten to within an inch of their lives. I’m sure you have better things to do than help them. So go ahead, do everyone a favor––me, your brother, the animals,” I tick off on my fingers, “and make the call. Be gone.”

  He exhales, his shoulders slumping. He’s suddenly not doing his movie star pose anymore. “Starved and beaten?”

  His mouth gets tight and it reminds me of his brother. They really do look a lot alike, with the exception of their coloring. “Yes.”

  “That’s fucking horrible.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Does it matter? They’ve all come from crappy circumstances.”

  He pushes the Elvis sunglasses to the top of his head and squints at me. “When you put it that way…”

  “You mean truthfully? Yeah, hate to inform you, but you’re no longer in the land of make-believe. Welcome to the real world.” He glances away, into the distance. It wouldn’t surprise me if he decided to make a run for it. “Well? What’s it going to be––staying or going?”

  A stare-off ensues. He mulls it over. I can’t even believe he’s mulling it over. Does he not realize he’s doing time if this fails? “Staying.”

  “Then I expect you at work tomorrow.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I walk away.

  It’s late when I get done with night check and enter the house. Voices drift out of the family room. Mona’s and Darby’s. I head there to give Mona the updates on the medications we need to re-order and updates on the two horses that have been healing from minor injuries.

  I walk in to find them on the big, beat-up leather couch sitting side by side, Darby’s arm around her shoulders. Mona’s attention is hard to hold and the fact that she’s still seeing Darby could be a good thing. He seems decent enough and clearly makes her happy.

  “Hiiii, Blue,” she cheerfully greets me. “Grab a slice of the brambleberry pie I made and come watch this movie with us.”

  “I may have finally gotten through to Aidan. Fingers crossed he starts to do some actual work tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good, maybe he’s feeling better.”

  She’s still stuck on this idea that he’s depressed. I’m not so easily convinced, but whatever.

  “Pepper didn’t finish her hay cubes tonight.”

  Mona’s smile drops. She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Let’s keep an eye on her.”

  “I will. She’s not always hungry late so it’s probably nothing. The spider bite on Venus’s neck is almost completely healed, but we’re going to need more of that dressing we’ve been putting on it.”

  Pepper is as old as the hills, but she’s been healthy since the day we found her at a kill auction. And Venus is our very first rescue and arguably my favorite after Billy. She’s a paint mare that taught thousands of kids how to ride and was thrown away like garbage when she got too old to work. Thinking about it makes me want to karate chop a stack of bricks.

  I fall into the big, stuffed, distressed-brown leather armchair and throw a curious glance at the flat screen TV above the river rock fireplace. Some strange sounds are coming from there. “What movie is this?”

  “9 1/2 Weeks,” says the woman more than twice my age and a mother figure to me.

  I jump right out of the armchair. The last thing I want to do is watch a lorno, otherwise known as light porn, with Mona and her kinky lover. Not my idea of a good time.

  “I’ll pass. See you tomorrow.”

  “Night, Smokey.”

  “Night, Bandit.”

  Upstairs, I run a bath with lavender Epsom salts. My muscles ache from stacking hay bales and sometimes a girl just has to soak. On autopilot, I drop trou and panties, ditch the sports bra, and go in search of my paperback as the tub fills up.

  I love paperbacks. I love the smell. I love the feel of them between my fingers. You drop that in the tub and there’s no risk of permanent injury. Try that with an e-reader and see what happens to you. This is why some things will never go out of style.

  Searching the box I packed with books when I moved out of the guesthouse turns up nothing. I’m shocked to discover that my well-worn copy of Simply Sinful by Kate Pearce with the cover ripped off is not amongst the other books. My heart starts to pitter-patter a little harder when I check the only other box and it’s not in there either.

  Holy fornication.

  I like my literature dark and sexy and I won’t apologize for it. There can never be enough rough sex and dark undertones in what I like to read. So the fact that my book is missing sends a bolt of cold sweat up my back. If it’s not in the box with the rest of my books, I can only assume it’s in one other place: the guesthous
e. The guesthouse which is occupied territory at the present moment.

  A million scenarios run through my mind and none of them make me look good. The next three months will be a living hell if I have to endure having Shane Hughes cast judgmental stares in my direction. Something must be done to correct this monumental error ASAP.

  Grabbing the binoculars which have increasingly come in handy, I check to see if the lights are on in the guesthouse and they are. I throw on an old t-shirt I sleep in and shorts I made out of old sweatpants I’d worn into smithereens.

  Minutes later, I’m standing in front of the door of the house I once called my home, palms sweating, while I devise a plan. I knock lightly and surprisingly hear, “One minute,” almost instantly.

  Shane opens the door in a fresh white t-shirt that hugs his chest and shorts, long silky ones like basketball players wear. Hair wet, he looks like he recently stepped out of the shower. And if he keeps looking at my mouth with that same intent and focus for much longer, I’m going to need a shower myself.

  “Hi, uh, hi. I need to check something. I mean I left something here when I moved out. I mean I left something here by mistake.”

  His eyes narrow in suspicion.

  Great. I’m doing a great job so far. If he doesn’t get a restraining order on me tonight, I’ll consider myself lucky.

  Without a word, he steps aside and lets me in. Then my eyes go wide. I’m embarrassed to say the place is hardly recognizable. For one thing, it’s super clean––clean like it’s never been clean before––and tidy. If you don’t know that those two things are not the same, then you’re as bad at housekeeping as I am.

  The drapes have been washed. The floors polished. The furniture rearranged a little. Not even a throw pillow is out of place. It even smells different, a nice mix of detergents, fresh pine, and sandalwood. Very masculine.

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say… except, how are you enjoying my home?” I throw a semi-embarrassed smile at him over my shoulder. He doesn’t return one. Nope, that stony façade hasn’t budged.

  “Bathroom’s a little tight, but it serves its purpose.” He crosses his arms and his biceps bulge. So do my eyes.

  Have mercy. Put those guns away, almost comes out of my mouth. It can’t be helped. The running commentary in my head goes at Mach speed when I’m a little nervous.

  In the corner, a guitar rests against the wall. “You play?”

  “Hmm,” is all he offers. He must be touchy about his skills, so I drop the topic.

  I walk further inside and my attention averts to the open kitchen. It’s sparkling clean. A few new pans sit in a new dish drying rack. All the changes have knocked me off-balance.

  “New pans?” He’s still watching me closely, as if I’m a thief casing his property.

  “You didn’t have any.”

  “I don’t cook.” I walk over to the shelf where my books once lived and all I find are a few of his. Two on the history of war and a biography on General Patton.

  “At all?” he sounds genuinely surprised for once. I tear my eyes away from the books to see him rub the scruff on his face. There’s a thin line of hair missing on his chin where he probably had stitches at some point.

  “No. I’m no good at it. They should make it a crime actually.”

  His eyes do this thing where they turn into chocolate crescents, smiling even though his mouth remains at rest. “You can’t be that bad.”

  “I am. Don’t ever eat my cooking unless you’d like an enema free of charge.” Then I catch my mistake. “Not that I’m offering to cook for you.” That didn’t sound right either. “I mean… it’s a joke, never mind.” I think I almost see his mouth curve up a little, but I may have imagined it. “What do you do? For a living, I mean. Or do you work for your brother?” I open the drawer of the side table next to the couch. Nothing there either. It may be time to panic.

  “I’m a writer…” He runs his fingers through his hair and mumbles, “At least, I try to be. Haven’t done much of it lately.”

  “Writer’s block?”

  He nods.

  I feel for him. Growing up in L.A., I’ve known more failed writers and actors than I care to. The entertainment industry beats a person down. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. If I had any enemies, I mean.

  “That’s a tough business…” I muse out loud. Dropping to all fours, I look under the couch and find the absence of my book and the dust bunnies that once lived long, happy lives under there until Mr. Clean moved in.

  “But you can’t give up if you really love it. Just keep plugging away and one day you’ll get your shot. My cousin wanted to be a director and he did it. Took ten years and a bankruptcy, but he’s doing commercials now.” Then it dawns on me. “Hey, maybe your brother can help.”

  I look up and find his gaze directed over my head, avoiding eye contact. Shit, maybe he’s touchy about it.

  “Maybe,” he says. His glances back down and gives me a funny look. Maybe I overstepped again. It’s not like they’re very close. Or maybe it’s a brotherly rivalry. One super successful and the other scraping by. I should just shut up now. I can’t do anything right with this guy.

  I stand and brush my hands on my shorts. It’s actually a small house. One bedroom. One bathroom. One large living area with an open kitchen. There’s only one place left to search.

  “I’m just putting it out there. My two cents.” Who am I kidding? He doesn’t need to take career advice from someone who gave up on hers. “One last place to check. If you don’t mind?”

  He gives me a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t mind.”

  Taking a few steps, I stand in the doorway of the bedroom and gaze inside. My stomach does back flips, my palms start to sweat again.

  The bed is made. New white sheets. The expensive kind. I check the nightstand drawer and find chapstick and reading glasses, neither of which are mine. No Simply Sinful. I don’t know whether to be petrified or relieved.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” he says when I step back into the living room.

  He’s sitting on the back of the couch with his long legs stretched out ahead of him, his arms crossed. His eyes are hooded and his long lashes casting shadows on his sharp cheekbones. His attention lingers on my beauty mark and I start to get a little hot and bothered, my heart beating a little harder. Heat glides over my skin and pools in private places. This thing has always been a curse. Damn you, Athena.

  I thought I was done being taken in for a pretty face and a hot body. This is exactly what got me into trouble with Jaime in the first place. This needs to stop now.

  “No. Not yet,” I mumble. Shaking out of whatever spell he’s casting, I head for the door. If I stand a second longer in his presence, I’ll quickly turn into me at thirteen again.

  “We should exchange numbers.” At my expression, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, he adds, “In case something happens with Aidan and I’m not around.”

  I rattle off my phone number. It’s a wonder I can even remember my name in his company. “Thanks for letting me look around.”

  “Anytime,” I hear him say as I shut the door behind me. Gospel truth, I think I hear a burst of laughter. Then again, I could be imagining it.

  Chapter 6

  Life goes on. Not as I planned it, but it goes on nonetheless. And that’s a good thing––better than the alternative for sure.

  Nowadays, there’s a ton of work to be done online for a non-profit to thrive. I don’t have the time to manage all our accounts, so Mona handles Facebook correspondence and Twitter. She also does most of the ordering of supplies and feed and handles the sales from the Mother Goose Rescue merchandise online store. My job is to post updates and pictures on FB, Instagram, and Tik Tok. And yet, no matter how much time we devote to it, we never seem to catch up. Which is why you gotta multitask.

  As I’m prepping lunch buckets and simultaneously trying to post a few pictures of Hazel and Pepper’s progress, I accidentally switch onto my pers
onal Facebook account. There’s a bunch of missed alerts. Then I remember I muted them. I’m still FB friends with everyone in the L.A. Fire Department, all of whom are required to be EMTs themselves, and although most are close friends of Jaime and he got them in our separation, it’s not like I’m going to unfriend them just to avoid news about my ex––an ex that I have less than zero feelings for.

  That’s why I’m not surprised that he regularly pops up on my feed. Except there’s nothing regular about the next post I see. In fact, it’s so irregular that when I click on it, my stomach drops.

  A picture of Jaime at Joshua Tree stares back at me. He’s hugging a tall woman with long reddish-blonde hair and matching golden Labs sit at their feet. They look happy. She’s holding up her left hand where a small round diamond sparkles in the sunlight.

  I remember what it’s like to be part of a happy couple. Vaguely, that is. Most of those memories have been stomped out under the heel of a size thirteen fireproof boot.

  One dog wears a sign around his neck that says: She Said…

  The other wears one that says: Yes!

  Am I supposed to infer from this bullshit that there was a possibility she’d say no? Is there a third dog somewhere off-camera wearing the unfortunate No sign?

  Rage boils over into a steady, simmering flow. Not because of the unexpectedly fast engagement. They could have ten babies by tomorrow and my blood pressure wouldn’t stir; I fell out of love with him years ago. It’s far worse. Far, far worse. The anger comes from seeing the dogs. Because this is the same man that didn’t want any pets when we were living together. Not even a damn fish. And now he has not one but two dogs.

  We’re never home.

  We work late hours.

  We won’t be able to travel.

  I want it to be “just us” a little longer.

  He used every excuse there is and I went along with it because who wants to believe that the person they love is a manipulating bastard.