by K. Bromberg
“It’s not that easy,” I argue.
“Yeah, actually it is. You lie on your bed, close your eyes, and drift off to sleep. The only decision you need to make is back, stomach, or side. See? Easy.”
I hate that he’s turned on the boyish charm, because it’s much more endearing for some reason than the naked-man-in-the-bathroom thing. “How do I know that you’re not—”
“I assure you I’m a lot of things, but a creep or a murderer or a rapist isn’t one of them,” he states, stealing the thoughts from my head.
“Like you’d tell me if you were.”
He laughs. “If I were one, I already had plenty of opportunities.” He shrugs. “Besides, Smitty vouched for me. You heard him. Shut off your mind. Go get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
And with a flash of a smile and a nod of his head, he enters the bedroom next to mine and shuts the door with a resounding thud. I’m left staring at the faded wood door with unspoken words on my tongue and confusion cluttering my mind.
“Well then . . . there’s that.” It’s all I can say as I slip into my own bedroom and stand there in the darkness, hunger forgotten, shower no longer a priority, and attempt to process the last twenty minutes.
I reach back and twist the handle on the door and test that it’s actually locked, but as I sit back on the bed, I wonder if the lock is as shoddy as so many other things in this house. Besides, lock or not, if he wanted to open the door and get to me, one swift kick of his foot against the handle would grant him access.
The notion settles about the same time I hear his door open. I suck in my breath, my own thoughts and jaded reality melding a bit too much for my own liking, but when I hear his steps head down the hall toward the kitchen, I relax some.
Should I push the dresser in front of the door, just in case? I’ve slept with enough fear in my lifetime; this is one place I don’t want to have to do that.
Just as I’m about to move to the dresser and test its weight, there’s a knock on my door. I jump out of my skin and feel stupid immediately. It’s not like I didn’t know he was here or anything.
“Just in case you’re still scared of me and need some protection,” he says with a chuckle through the door, which leaves me more confused until I see a glint off the moonlight as something slides beneath it. “Night, Socks.”
I wait to hear his door shut again before I move toward mine and switch on the light. Fighting the laugh that falls from my mouth is futile when I look down to see the mini-blind wand on the floor.
Smart-ass.
Unsure what to do and feeling completely unsettled, I leave the wand where it is, throw on some pajamas, and slide into the bed.
But sleep doesn’t come regardless of how tired I am. My mind goes a million miles an hour as I think about what just happened.
The bathroom standoff. The naked dance. The ludicrousness of having to defend myself with a mini-blind wand. All of it.
And yet none of it matters, because he’s still here and I’m still left trying to figure out how I’m going to make him leave.
The funny thing is, I should have been petrified, especially on the heels of my freak-out tonight at the bar. And I was at first. My heart was pounding and adrenaline was racing, but not once did I run away and cower like I used to. There’s something to be said for that.
Baby steps.
At least I just proved to myself that I’m making some.
Chapter 2
GETTY
The sound of a hammer jars me awake.
The sky’s just turning light, and I want to snuggle back under the covers and sleep a little longer. But when I rub my feet together, there are socks on them, and I never sleep with socks on my feet.
Night, Socks.
The words tumble through my sleep-drugged mind and last night rushes back in full comedic color.
I must be dreaming. I’ll just go back to sleep, chase away the nightmare. Prove it didn’t happen.
Just as I snuggle deeper into my covers, the damn hammer starts again. Shocks my mind awake. Tells me Zander really is in the bedroom beside me. And that my damn neighbor, Nick, must be working on his house and has absolutely zero sympathy for the fact that I worked the closing shift last night.
Go away, Nick, I yell at him in my mind. Groaning out loud. But what if Zander’s not a morning person either? What if Nick keeps hammering and the noise drives him insane and pushes him toward the hotel in town?
Optimistic at the prospect, I slide out of bed, grab my fluffy purple robe, and wrap it tightly around myself. Already missing the warmth of the bed, I step over the wand and open my bedroom door so I can check if Zander’s door is still shut. It is.
Keep hammering away, Nick.
I tread lightly down the hall, brush my teeth as quietly as possible, and then head toward the front of the house just as the bang, bang, bang starts again. I know my intentions are bitchy and Zander’s probably a nice guy, but I really need to keep this place all to myself. Need to continue figuring things out on my own. I have to heal my body, mind, and heart so I can figure out what’s next for me.
Intending to sit on the front patio and let the steady pounding wake me fully, I pull open the door and am startled to see Zander with hammer in hand making the noise himself.
Are you kidding me?
Instantly discouraged, I know I should retreat. Go take advantage of the shower while he’s out here and think of a new game plan.
Yet I don’t move. Can’t. Even though it’s the last thing I want to be caught doing, I’m transfixed watching him: the sinews in his forearms as he swings the hammer, his hair falling over his brow as he leans forward, the drip of sweat that falls off the edge of his nose, and the bunch of his muscles beneath his T-shirt. The ones my mind can still picture bared like they were last night.
I’m pissed all over again. At him especially. About all those things inside me the sight of him hot and sweaty is stirring awake. At least last night there was humor and frustration. This morning is just a straight-up punch of—unwelcome—lust.
He definitely needs to go. To the hotel. To any of the other islands here off the coast of Washington State. Out to sea for all I care. Anywhere but here.
I take a step back into the house to provide some distance from his definitive virility and formulate a new plan to get him to leave. Hog all the hot water. Be a slob. Flush the toilet every time he’s in the shower. Burn some awful-smelling incense. I don’t know for certain, but the one thing I do know is that the longer I stand here and stare at him, the harder convincing myself to do something is going to be.
“Goddammit!” Zander swears, and drops the hammer with a clatter. The sudden noise has me stepping back into the doorway. He sucks on his thumb, swears again, and shakes his hand. “You just going to stand there and stare?”
The bite to his voice sounds very different from last night and for a moment I’m frozen in indecision. Then I swallow over the lump lodged in my throat, which used to be my norm, and tell myself that’s the old me. Time to buck up and remember why I’m here and why I need him gone.
“Yep. Sure am.” It’s all I say, all I can think to say, but at least this time I have clothes on when I face him down.
Luckily he does too. What’s unlucky for me is how perfectly they hug his biceps. And his pecs.
“You’ve lived here how long?”
I startle at the question. “Three months–ish.”
“And you never bothered to fix this step here?” I stare at him. Big, blank doe eyes are my only answer, because I knew it was there and hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Fixing myself is a big enough chore in itself. “Didn’t think so,” he responds when I don’t answer. “And you still think you deserve to stay here over me?”
Everything within me bristles at his comment. My need to stand up for myself versus my need to
not feel stupid are warring against each other, so instead of saying anything, I just shake my head and step back into the house without another word.
Ignoring Smitty’s explanation last night, I immediately fire off a text to Darcy, which helps me to feel like I’m being proactive. I know he said she’s not getting any service, but since I just walked away without a word from Zander when I should have stood up for myself, I figured I needed to do something to make me feel a little more in control of this out-of-control situation.
Needing time to think, I head to the one place in the house where I can block out the sound of the hammer and Zander’s annoying presence: the shower. I take my time, purposely letting all the hot water run empty before I get out. The sweat ring on Zander’s shirt says he went out for a run. A run means he’ll want a shower. And oopsie, this house has such a small hot-water heater that maybe he should go to the hotel down the street, where they have a massive abundance of it.
But he’s not waiting to take one when I leave the bathroom. In fact the hammer continues for a while, making it nearly impossible to ignore him. Or forget him. So in another attempt to shut him out, I close myself off in my room and take my time getting ready. I experiment with my makeup, as I find myself doing lately. It’s a newfound freedom being able to choose different eye shadows or shades of lipstick or to wear none at all when for so very long I had to abide by what I’d deemed the Stepford Wife daily makeup application.
My easel calls to me over the top of the vanity. Sketches in charcoal sit there waiting for me to paint them with bright and beautiful colors . . . although for some reason, I think they’d prefer to stay in their black-and-white state with smeared fingerprints and tarnished edges.
Kind of like me. Kind of like my face.
I stare at myself long and hard in the mirror, take stock of the reflection looking back at me: wide-set jaw, full lips, rosy cheeks, peaches and cream complexion, a dusting of freckles I’ve never cared for across the bridge of my nose, longish light brown hair. But the one thing that holds my attention rapt is my eyes; their deep chocolate brown hue looks much less haunted than when I drove onto the ferry, unsure of what awaited me on the island.
I shake my head, pull myself back from thoughts about my old life. The designer clothes, five-star restaurants, and mandatory social-status outings—the finest of all things in life. But hand in hand with that went the complete and utter loss of control over my choices, the pretenses I had to keep, and the lack of truly living my life.
But here . . . here there is water and fresh air and space to create. There are genuine smiles and I’m just the new girl, Getty Caster, not Gertrude Caster-Adams of the renowned Caster family with expectations to fulfill and a husband with a reputation to uphold.
Zander’s voice swearing loudly through the open windows (Mrs. Brown next door is not going to take too kindly to it) causes the ghosts to skitter back into hiding. With a sigh, I look down at my makeup towelette smeared with various browns and blues and reds and decide that my lip gloss and mascara will have to do just fine for today, because coffee is more important than cosmetics at this point in time.
Besides, I don’t want Zander thinking I’m making any efforts for him. I won’t hesitate to do my makeup for work or because I want to, but never again because I have to for a man.
Going through my morning routine, I pretend like the house is still mine, still void of the distinct scent of masculinity, and still drenched in the solitude I came here to find. And when I walk out into the family room, all three of the things I’ve tried to ignore slap me squarely in the face when I come upon Zander making himself at home. He’s sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, and scowling at the television.
I notice it’s a race of some sort. I intend not to give it or him more than two seconds of my attention. And of course that’s impossible to do when I notice the huge gash on the side of Zander’s leg, running from his ankle to about halfway to his knee. It’s bruised and bloody and I immediately cringe at how bad that had to have hurt.
“What happened to your leg?” There’s concern in my voice along with a healthy dose of curiosity.
“Someone has lived here for three months and has yet to fix the step or caution it off so that others might not put their full weight on it and fall straight through to the ground.” He works his tongue in his cheek, but his eyes never wander from the television in front of him.
Oh shit.
“I’m sorry.” The words are off my tongue immediately—instant reflex—before I shake my head and bite back the gushing apologies that automatically cue in my mind out of habit. “I didn’t know. . . . I didn’t expect you. Are you okay? Do you need a doctor to look at it?” I move into the room toward him, truly apologetic, but at the same time knowing I can’t fix it now.
When he finally angles his gaze my way, the stare he gives me stops me dead in my tracks. “Don’t.” It’s a warning, loud and clear, and one I don’t need to hear twice.
We stare at each other, his oppressive mood filling the space between us in such contrast with the playful guy I met and actually kind of liked last night, regardless of how infuriating he was.
“It was an honest mistake. If I had known you were coming or going to get up that early, I would have . . .” My words fade off when his attention turns back to the television as clouds of smoke fill the upper right-hand turn of a track. Metal and tires fly as several cars connect with the concrete wall and one another.
He leans toward the television, jaw slack and eyes widening as if he were there, going through it himself, driving the car. “Unbelievable.” He says it like a swearword before he picks up the remote and turns it off. “The man can do no fucking wrong.”
Guess he really likes racing.
“Was that your driver?” I ask, hoping to break the tension.
His laugh fills the room. It’s full and rich but with a tinge of contempt that has me taking a step back, leery of everything about his demeanor.
I feel stupid. Did I phrase it the wrong way? “I meant to say, is that the driver you usually follow?”
He coughs out an amused sound but says nothing further. There’s something about his reaction that makes me feel like I’m being mocked. And then it clicks for me.
“Is that how you know Smitty? Doesn’t he race or something?”
“Something like that,” he murmurs, eyes back, fixated on the TV screen as if he’s still watching the race unfold in his mind.
“Something like that?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Well, isn’t he Mr. Talkative? “What’s his—”
“No, Getty. We’re not going to do this right now.” He carelessly tosses the remote on the table with a clatter as he removes his feet from it, face wincing in pain. “We’re not going to do the get-to-know-you crap, because let’s face it, you’re going to be leaving in a few days. Then we’re never going to see each other again, so why waste our breath bullshitting each other? Neither of us is going to say anything more than what we want the other to hear anyway. From what I gather, we’re both here so we can’t lie to ourselves anymore, so let’s just save the pretenses. Deal?”
He rises to his feet, bringing our bodies near each other but everything else about us a million miles apart. I force a swallow down my throat because I hate so many things about the truth in his words. Despising that he’s hammered the nail on the head about my reasons for being here when he’s known me less than twenty-four hours. And hating that maybe I was secretly liking and loathing his company simultaneously. That maybe a part of me liked hearing another voice, enjoyed the laughter in his eyes last night, and the way he looked at me like I was more than just an object.
Does that even make sense? God, I’m so confusing. You either do or you don’t, Getty. Kind of hard to desire both solitude and some company.
While I’m at it, I might as well ho
ld a whole conversation in my head while he stares me down to make sure I understand where he’s coming from. And I do. I definitely do.
I nod my head as I wait for the words to come. And with the words come the anger that he’s an asshole and I shouldn’t want to like him, because who is that honest when you’ve just met someone? I’ve had enough assholes for a lifetime—forgetting one more shouldn’t be a problem for me.
“Deal.” I purse my lips, shake my head, and turn on my heel without another word. Because he’s right—I don’t want to waste any more of my breath on him. I’ve already wasted enough that he’s made my head spin.
Chapter 3
ZANDER
Would it kill you to pick up your phone and text me back to let me know you’re okay? I get you’re pissed at the world. Believe me, I’ve been there. Don’t be a dick and try to deal with whatever’s going on all on your own. That’s what you have brothers like me for.
Staring at the text from Shane for the twentieth time in as many minutes, I hate that I want to respond to it and at the same time that I don’t want to. I love my brother to death, but I can’t deal with him just yet.
He’s the good guy. Checking up on me. Telling me he’s there for me. Being the good brother he’s always been to me.
And I’m just the asshole. Needing to fly solo for now.
I delete the text.
I don’t need another reminder of everything I don’t deserve.
Chapter 4
GETTY
All day the bar has seen a steady flow of tourists, likely in a last mad rush to soak up island life and relax with a few drinks before the ferry leaves for the mainland for the last run of the day.
I’ve gotten to know its schedule, the ebb and flow of foot traffic, and then after the tourists load up and get on board, the locals emerge from their hiding places. They fill the Lazy Dog to capacity and bitch about the trash left behind by visitors, while thanking God for the money brought to the island’s economy. It’s the weekend routine here, something I’ve come to appreciate and depend on as part of my new normal.