Hard Core

by Tess Oliver

  The lopsidedness I’d seen in his silhouette was more pronounced up close. My eyes drifted down to the leg below the hem of his shorts. I tried not to stare, to show a reaction, but my social skills had been dulled by the months spent with people who considered slamming you in the head with a food tray friendly lunch conversation. There was a sizeable chunk of the man’s calf missing, and whatever the doctors had done to patch it up had been a failure.

  “It was a shark bite.” His voice was deep and booming like someone rolling a bowling ball over a drum.

  “Wow. That must have been scary. Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Why the hell not? Everyone does. And I lied. It wasn’t a shark. It was a rattlesnake.”

  “Shit. Equally scary.”

  He picked up his soda, gulped some down and released a long sigh. “Nah, another lie. I’ve got a whole host of them. Especially like to use them on the ladies. Sounds better than the real story, which is that I scratched my leg on my dad’s rusty tractor and never tended to it. It got infected. My entire calf was the size of a basketball before I dragged my stubborn ass to the emergency room. Came close to losing the whole damn thing. See. Not quite as exciting, is it?”

  I laughed and nodded. “The real story has its merits too.”

  “Third stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Third? What were the other two?”

  He held up his fist and stuck up one finger and then a second. “First wife and second wife, except not in that order. Second wife was a doozy.”

  We both laughed.

  “I’ve never seen you around here before. I’m Mike, by the way.” He reached out his beefy hand. It took me a second to remember that hand shaking was part of the outside world.

  “Ledger. Nice to meet you, Mike.”

  “Ledger, that’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “Yeah, it was a family name apparently. On my mom’s side.”

  “You’re lucky then. I had a buddy in the army who was also saddled with a family name. It was Dinkle. Personally think they could have let that family name die with the relative who owned it.”

  “Yep, considering myself really lucky right now.”

  He pulled out a cigarette and offered me one. I shook my head. In prison, cigarettes and weed cost so much money, I’d learned it was easier to go without. Some of the other guys were consumed with finding ways to keep their habits going. Instead, I worked out. My time in the yard, running and doing push-ups and chin-ups was the only way I could keep my sanity. Otherwise, the prison walls, the surrounding barbed wire fences and the cocky guards with their long range rifles could make you feel as if you were being swallowed up in a black hole and that the only way out was death.

  “So, you were in the army?” I asked.

  He struggled to light the cigarette in the wind and finally dragged hard enough to make the end glow red. He squinted through the fresh stream of smoke as he shoved his lighter in his pocket. “Vietnam. Drove a tank.”

  “Yeah? I think that kind of puts the shark attack and snake bite stories to shame. You should start with that one . . . with the ladies, I mean.”

  “You think?”

  “Yep.”

  “You look like a guy who knows his way when it comes to women, so I’ll have to remember that.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “You here on vacation?”

  I shook my head. There wasn’t any real way to describe my reasons for being at Rockwood Beach. I went with the first thing that popped into my head. “I’ve been looking for work and not having luck inland. So, I thought I’d head out to the coast to see if things were rosier out here.”

  “Probably not. What is it that you do?” he asked.

  I gazed out at the water. A sleek white and blue sailboat was coasting over the choppy surface, heading out toward open sea. Mentally, I went through my list of skills. It was not an impressive list. “I’ve worked at a gas station, and I’m pretty good with cars.” My voice trailed off to be drowned out by the waves below. I sounded pathetic, and the word loser kept floating through my head.

  Mike grew quiet, and I almost expected him to laugh. “How long have you been out?”

  I looked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t mean to pry. It’s just you look like someone who forgot what it was like out here in the world past the prison bars. Unless maybe you were on the space station. Were ya?”

  “I wish.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think the astronaut program would be too keen on all those tattoos. I like ‘em though. Got a few of my own right after Vietnam.” He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. The infamous, midcentury hula girl tattoo smiled back at me. “Not sure why but for some reason getting tattoos after the war was therapeutic. I mean, I came back in better shape than most of my buddies.” His chuckle was a low rumble. “Of course, that was until I met my match with that damn tractor. But my mind was pretty screwed up. A lot of stuff in there that can’t ever be erased. The tattoos helped. Don’t know why or how to explain it.”

  “Actually, I know exactly what you mean.” I stared down at the tattoos covering my forearms. “I did two years, and I’ve been out a week. You’re one of the first people I’ve talked to.”

  “Is that right? You’ll get the hang of it all again soon.” He limped over to the wobbly podium he’d set up on the pier, plucked some bills out of his metal cash box and pushed them into his pocket. “I’m going down to the end of the pier for a hot dog. I’ll buy you one if you want to tag along.”

  “I never turn down a free hot dog.”

  We headed along the boardwalk. I had to check my stride so Mike could keep pace with me. With the sea as a backdrop, his sun-darkened leathery skin, his pronounced limp and the waddle that came with it, he reminded me of an old peg-legged pirate. He even kind of talked like one, with that booming, salty drawl that sounded as if it had come from a corny, vintage black and white pirate flick.

  “I imagine it’s tough finding a decent job and a proper wage when you’ve got that damn ole’ police record nipping at your heels.”

  “Doesn’t exactly make me the ideal candidate.”

  He made a point to wave politely to the two elderly women selling arts and crafts items. “What were you in for? If you don’t mind me asking.” We continued on. The distinctive, smoky smell of grilled hot dogs, onions and mustard floated toward us.

  “I took a stolen car on a joy ride and got caught.”

  He clicked his tongue the way my dad used to do when he heard I’d been in the principal’s office again. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Two years seems kind of stiff. You must have had a judge who was constipated or having a bad day.”

  “It was a police car.”

  His laugh shot out so fast, it surprised even him. “Oh my,” he said after catching his breath, “a police car.”

  “The keys were in the squad car, and the damn thing was running. The officer had walked over to talk to someone. I just planned to drive it down the street to the donut shop. Thought I’d be helping him out.”

  Another booming laugh, this one loud enough to startle seagulls off the pier. “I guess that could be listed as one of those victimless crimes.”

  “I don’t know about that. I think the cop’s pride took a pretty big hit.”

  “Well, it’s clear just from talking to you that you’re not stupid, so you were either higher than the Empire State building or you’ve got some mighty big balls. Or both maybe, huh?”

  “Let’s just say I was dumb enough to get so high that I thought stealing a police car would be fun. I was out of my head in a cloud of drugs, and boom, stupid idea followed along with a jail sentence.”

  Mike stopped just a few feet from the hot dog stand. “You know, I’ve got a friend who does landscaping and sprinkler syst
ems around the town. He just lost one of his workers. The work’s hard and it doesn’t pay much, but it’s outside and you don’t have to wear any fancy clothes or a uniform. I could introduce you. Are you interested?”

  “Yeah? Hell, yes, I’m interested.”

  “Great. I’ll talk to him today. Now let’s go get those dogs.”

  Chapter 4

  -Jacy-

  It was official. I’d turned into a nosy neighbor. I was blaming the entire thing on Rachel. I swung the basket of muffins at my side as Rex galloped ahead of me, kicking up a nice little spray of sand with his clumsy paws as he dashed toward his favorite pee spot. Late afternoon on the beach always brought in an ocean breeze, and today was no exception. I’d made my usual futile attempt to tame my ridiculous head of hair by tying it back. I zipped up my sweatshirt and glanced down at my faded, worn-out jeans. I hadn’t exactly dressed to introduce myself to the new neighbor, but then I wasn’t really out to make an impression. I just wanted to appease my nosy neighbor curiosity.

  My quaint, unimpressive little house, my first place alone, had quickly become my sanctuary. I was renting it from a wonderful, old woman, who was well past eighty yet still energetic and sharp. The cold coastal air had been wreaking havoc on her arthritic bones, and she’d found beach trips were just too painful. Her rent was reasonable, and even though the tiny two bedroom house needed lots of work, I couldn’t pass it up. I had just signed a lease for the coffee shop, and the house was only a five minute drive away from work. The house and shop were the first things that had worked perfectly for me since I’d left home after high school to get married.

  All the beach houses along Rockwood Beach sat perched on a hillside that was held mostly in place by a hefty tangle of succulents. Stout Manzanita trees with their rainbows of glassy, smooth red and orange limbs gripped the hillside, lending an array of warm color to the landscape. There was a wide swath of hillside between my house and the neighbor’s. Even though the entire beach was dotted with houses, our little stretch of hill was vacant, save for the two old homes. Bombay Cottage, where the new neighbor lived, was the oldest structure on Rockwood Beach. It wore its many years with pride, although it had probably lost the privilege to be called a cottage decades earlier. It was much closer to a shack than a cottage. Weathered and stripped of most of its paint and a good deal of its roof shingles, the house was just one step above being uninhabitable. The owners had inherited the place but they lived abroad, leaving it in the care of a rental agency. Until now, it seemed they’d had no luck in finding a tenant. It was the first house I’d looked at when I came to Rockwood Beach. The rent was fairly low for the area, but the place just looked too decrepit. It needed an adventurous tenant who was low on funds but high on wanting to live on the beach.

  I stopped just below the cottage and stared up at it. Thin green reeds, rogue weeds that had no place in the lush coastal landscape, had choked off the stone path leading to the front door. The afternoon sun glinted off the front window, making the pane opaque from my vantage point.

  It was hard to know whether or not the new tenant was even home. In fact, with my stomach feeling a little fluttery about it all, I was almost hoping that he wouldn’t be. I’d brought muffins, and I’d tucked in a note that said ‘welcome to the neighborhood’. I planned to leave the basket if no one answered. I’d walk away without quenching my curiosity and with nothing interesting to tell Rachel in the morning, but I’d feel better about myself as a neighbor.

  Rex, my loyal companion and truest friend, seemed to understand where I was headed. He bounded up the mostly buried wood steps toward the cottage before I could stop him. Since I was approaching a house with a complete stranger, having my big dog along couldn’t hurt. Rex wasn’t the type to bite anyone, but he tended to be just aloof enough with strangers that he could seem unfriendly and big and toothy.

  I followed Rex’s path up the hill, stepped over the forest of weeds and onto the front stoop. It was dark and quiet inside, so I knocked lightly. No answer. I knocked a little louder but still nothing.

  Rex had trotted around to the side of the house to explore. I doubled down on my nosy neighbor character by tilting my head just slightly to the side to see in through the big window. Something about the scene inside made my throat ache. The house was dilapidated on the outside, but the inside looked even sorrier. A single mattress had been pushed into a corner of the floor with only a sheet and single pillow on top. In late autumn, the nights on Rockwood Beach were far too cold to be without a blanket. I leaned over even farther. There was a microwave on the counter sitting next to a hot plate and an ice chest. An open box of macaroni and cheese sat on top of the microwave. The only piece of furniture was an old frayed beach chaise.

  Rex’s sharp bark startled me. I pulled my gaze from the sorrowful looking interior and gasped when, in the window, I caught the reflection of a shirtless man standing behind me. The width of the shoulders left me with no doubt that I was about to meet my new neighbor.

  I spun around. And as startled as I’d been to have him walk up behind me and catch me snooping in his window, the look on his face was one you’d expect from someone who had just run into a ghost or a long lost friend from the past.

  “I’m so sorry.” I lifted the basket. “Just dropping these by to welcome you to the neighborhood.” I was talking fast, and to my ears, it sounded just a little too twittery, like a nervous bird.

  He stood stock-still, casting his huge shadow over me. The only movement I detected was the rise and fall of his massive chest and, beneath his beard, his throat rolled as he took a deep, hard swallow. Tattoos covered most of his upper torso, a torso that straddled the line between menacing and lethal. The shorts, shoes and sheen of sweat made it obvious he’d been running. His light brown eyes stared out from beneath thick, dark lashes. His dark blond hair was pulled back from his face, a face that was half covered in a beard but that couldn’t be described as anything but handsome. In fact, his straight nose, intense gaze and physique was the stuff that Hollywood legends were made of.

  It seemed he was struggling to find words.

  “I’m feeling just a little awkward.” I restarted the conversation again, hoping to save the whole thing from being a completely humiliating disaster. I pointed back to the window with my thumb. “I was just peeking inside to see if anyone was home.” The pink blush that covered my cheeks whenever I lied, my Pinocchio’s nose, as my mom called it, warmed my face. I shook my head and continued with the one-sided conversation. “That’s a lie. I was being nosy.”

  He hadn’t said a word, but he stared at me as if I was something he’d just conjured up in a daydream. I lifted the basket. “I’ll just give you these and slip away in utter embarrassment.”

  Rex broke the weird silence that followed with another bark. Then my normally standoffish dog walked over and stuck his head directly under the man’s hand and pushed against it. The nudge seemed to knock the man from the trance he’d been in.

  He patted my dog on the neck. “Hey, Rex.”

  “You know my dog’s name?”

  He straightened. There was another swallow before he spoke, almost as if my voice was enough to render him speechless. He was the six foot plus block of chiseled steel, but I seemed to be the intimidating person standing on the stoop.

  His gaze dropped behind the same incredible fan of dark lashes as he continued to pat Rex. It seemed he preferred to look at my dog than me when talking. “I can hear you when you’re telling him not to terrorize the seagulls.”

  “Oh, jeez, that’s embarrassing. I guess I have to stop yelling like a fish wife when I’m out on the beach.”

  “No,” he said quickly, and before, it seemed, he could stop himself, he lifted his eyes to my face. He hesitated, and I thought I’d lost his side of the conversation again. “I like it. It’s cute. No fish wife comparison at all.” His throat moved
again, and I decided he was probably just thirsty from his run.

  We stood looking at each other for a long moment, and suddenly, I had a flash of feeling as if I was supposed to be standing there with him. As if somewhere, somehow, he should have been part of my life. I shook off the odd sensation. “Since Rex doesn’t stand out on the sand and bark my name, I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Jacy. I live in the next house over.” I stuck out my hand. “Welcome.”

  He stared down at my hand long enough that I was about to withdraw it. Then he reached for it. “I’m Ledger.” His big hand made mine feel frail like glass as if he could just squeeze and break it. He released it slowly. I’d gone through scenarios about how this welcome to the neighborhood thing might go, but this was definitely not one of them.

  “I’m in your way,” I said hastily.

  “No, no you’re not. Sorry, I’m not usually so bad at this. I—I just wasn’t expecting you—I mean, anyone. I wasn’t expecting anyone. But thanks.” He lifted the basket. “Thanks for these. My food supply is kind of tragic. I’m just getting moved in.”

  Just getting moved in meant a house cluttered with unpacked boxes or furniture waiting to be arranged. It seemed clear from my intrusive glance through the window that his belongings were meager. Maybe he’d just gotten divorced and his wife got everything.

  He had the kind of eyes that were hard to look away from, and he gazed at me as if we’d been friends or even lovers in a different life. He looked at me as if he knew me. But I certainly didn’t know him. He was most definitely the kind of man I wouldn’t forget.

  “I’m going to take my seagull terrorizing dog and head home.” I sidled around him with a weak smile. “Maybe we’ll see each other again,” I said quickly. We lived just a couple hundred feet away from each other so that seemed more than likely. I only hoped that the next time wouldn’t be quite so stiff and bumbling.