by Kira Blakely
“They?” Michelle’s brow furrowed and she shook her head slightly, unable to compute all the negative data she’d just been given. She looked at me, and then at Chet. “I’m sorry, but who the hell are you?”
“Your next door neighbor,” I answered in deflation, staring Chet down like I knew exactly what this meant. I knew Chet.
Browntooth stuck his hand out toward Michelle and she tentatively took it. “Chet,” he introduced himself with just a degree too much warmth for my taste. “I’m sorry we had to meet this way. I’ve been meaning to come by and introduce myself, but you’re such a busy little bee.” His eyes roved over her and I bristled. He was acting like I was invisible. “I never want to interrupt you.” I had just punched him in his bitch face, and the spirit moved me to do it again, but I resisted.
“Chet... Browntooth?” Michelle wondered next, swaying to look at Chet and then at me and then at Chet again.
“Deputy Browntooth,” Chet agreed coolly. “That’s correct.”
“Well, Deputy Browntooth, thank you for investigating the situation,” Michelle told him.
“Does anyone else think we should check out the house?” I asked, which neither of them seemed to be considering anymore. I plucked the crowbar from Michelle’s hands as I jogged past her.
“Wait! Andrew!”
I passed through the open door and strode into each room, flicking lights. No one was here. I traveled down the hallway, scrutinizing a dining room and a kitchen. There was one bedroom in the back of the house. I heard one set of light footfalls enter the house, and then another, heavier set.
“Andrew?” Michelle called to me. “Andrew?” Her voice was high with panic.
I flicked the light in the bedroom and made sure to check the closet for anyone. “I’m in here,” I called, poking at her dresses. There was no one in here. Whoever had broken in was gone now.
I heard the soft crush of stockinged feet on carpet and went to meet Michelle in the doorway. “All clear,” I announced but Michelle scowled up at me.
“You can’t just be in my bedroom by yourself with the lights on,” she hissed. “That should be part of our agreement.”
“All right,” I allowed, smoothing my palm over the switch and blanketing the room in darkness. “How about now?”
“That’s a little better,” Michelle whispered up to me.
Her eyes were especially bright in the darkness, and I thought I could hear her heartbeat. It must have been a phantom.
I stretched one curious hand up to brush my fingers over her jaw—just to see what she did, if she might stretch her neck open in welcome—and then Chet’s voice shattered our moment.
“Miss Harper, would you like to come down to the station with me and fill out an incident report?”
Michelle flinched away and yelled back to him, “N-no, I don’t think that’s necessary. I didn’t see anything missing.” She turned and left the room, and I deflated with a long exhale. Down, boy, I schooled myself. You have a pact with the lady. Nothing ever happened, and nothing ever will.
I heard their voices in the distance. As I approached down the hall, she thanked him for checking her out. As I passed into the living room, Chet said, “I’ve been trying not to,” with a bashful bullshit smile. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think it’s critical that you take a ride with me down to the station. We really do need to track this kind of thing.” And as much as I hated it, he was right.
“That is a good idea,” I agreed. Was my brow pinching up into a frown? Just because he was going to be alone with her? I smoothed myself out and tried again. “Do you want me to come with you?” Damnit, that was no good either.
“I’ll be fine, Andrew,” Michelle said. “But thanks.” Her eyes connected with mine and softened, warmed. Chet faded from the room. “I’ll call you—at your garage. For the total on my vehicle.”
“No, no,” I replied casually. This was simple common sense. “You can call me on my cell any time you’d like.” I gave her the numbers and watched her put them in. “Take care of her, Chet,” I said as I passed him with a firm pat on the shoulder. “You can text that number, too.”
Chapter Four
Michelle
Perspiration bloomed on the back of my neck as I scrubbed burnt pancake off a griddle with the spatula. Wisps of stray hair frizzled out of my ponytail and curled around the cherry-colored, cordless kitchen phone pressed between my shoulder and ear.
“They didn’t trash the place, did they?” my mother’s voice squawked through the receiver.
“They didn’t touch a thing,” I told her. “It’s eerie. The place is fully furnished. It’s got a brand new television set. Brand new kitchen appliances. Surround sound. But they didn’t take anything!”
“Maybe it wasn’t that kind of a thief,” Mom sniffed. “We had a series of break-ins in my neighborhood when I was a girl. Panty raids. Eventually, they found the culprit. He was the custodian at the high school. Ugh.”
“Mom,” I chastised her naïveté. I rinsed off the griddle and sat it on a towel to drip dry. “If you want used panties, you can just get on Craigslist now.”
“So, you think it’s more likely that someone just walked through your house for the hell of it?”
“I don’t know!” I snapped, stripping off my yellow plastic gloves. I tried to keep a tight lid on my anxiety level most of the time, but my mom could get an almost chemical reaction out of me. She always had to be right. She always got her way. Every conversation was a battle, winding me as tight as a turnkey monkey with cymbals. “The cop next door saw my house open and looked through it for me. No one was here.”
“At least there’s a cop next door,” she allowed. “I can’t stand the thought of my baby in a ghetto.”
I hesitated as I crossed from the kitchen to the living room. “It’s a gated community, Mom. I have a security system. What else am I supposed to do? Get a professional bodyguard?”
A brief, faded flash of Andrew Bogart played through my mind, his gray overalls sagged on his hips, shirtless. Watching my every move. Protecting me.
“Allison has those dogs,” Mom volunteered. “Ask her for a puppy next time.”
“I’m allergic,” I fumed, marching across the living room. I gripped the drapes and tugged them open, enjoying the splash of morning sunlight and the opportunity to yank out my frustration. Mom was always forgetting me, but I bet she knew the names of Allison’s two Doberman Pinchers. “I should go,” I added, partly out of sheer resentment. I tried so hard because of her. I wished Dad were still here. “I need to make some calls for work, anyway.”
“Didn’t you say that the break-in occurred after dark?”
“It was getting dark outside,” I allowed. I moseyed toward the front door. I liked to open it up and let a little fresh air circulate every morning while I swept the hardwood floors.
“Where were you?”
“I had a meeting that ran late.” Mom wasn’t getting anything more out of me than that. If she knew anything about Andrew, she would lose her hair. I was already the poor daughter, the daughter with the thankless job, the daughter who chipped away at her degree for ten years. All I needed was a swarthy boyfriend to complete the peasant package. “And then my car broke down on the side of the road.”
“Again?” Mom sneered. “I keep telling you to get a new car.”
“That isn’t an option right now.” I closed my eyes and wrenched open the front door. The screen was still shut, but birdsong and the smell of cut grass could filter into the house now. “I really do have to go, Mom. I need to make a call for a client, and I can’t let the day get away from me.”
“You would have more money if you had more clients,” Mom slyly interjected into my farewell.
“The clients are appointed by the court,” I reminded her. “I can’t get any more than I have.”
Mom cleared her throat. “You could if you were a private attorney,” she intoned for the millionth time since I had first told
her my plan to work as a public defender.
“Mom.” I bulged my eyes at her, even though I knew she couldn’t see me. “This is my job. And it’s working out fine. And you said you were going to be more supportive.”
“All right. All right. Well, if you need a little money—”
“I don’t need any money from you, Mom,” I told her. She didn’t have as much as she liked to pretend she had, either.
“I was actually going to suggest that you ask Daniel.”
My ex?! I fumed, head pounding.
“I’m fine! Thanks!”
“His firm is doing quite well—”
“Love you, too! Bye!”
I hung up the phone, shook out my tight shoulders, and performed a quick breathing exercise to wash my mother’s influence out of my body. I couldn’t believe she’d actually suggested that I borrow money from Daniel.
I called the Pelham County Sheriff’s Department. I was still sitting on hold, waiting to request the May 15th dash-cam footage from Deputy Browntooth, when knuckles rapped on the front door frame. I whirled with a gasp.
Chet peered through the screen at me. “I saw your door open again,” he pointed out, sliding the screen away without asking if he could come in. I supposed that was all right. He had friendly brown eyes and any man with hair so impeccably styled must have cared how people felt about him. He would respect the place. “I had to come check. Thought I might be able to get ‘em if old Ace wasn’t going to tackle me this time!”
“I appreciate that,” I said, unable to disguise the little furrow developing along my brow. I batted down the urge to defend Andrew to this guy—and then I remembered how Andrew had described his relationship with Chet to me. “Asshole” and “dickweed” sprang immediately to mind. “But I do leave my front door open all the time. I love the fresh air.”
“Oh, yeah, I noticed,” Chet assured me. “You’re a real naturalist under all the... wrapping.” His eyes trailed thoughtfully over my olive green slacks and heather gray t-shirt. I didn’t realize that this outfit was too revealing until Chet’s eyes crawled over my curves, and I felt the distinct urge to cover myself or get behind something.
“Sometimes I even leave it open at night,” I informed him sternly. I loved the chirp of the insects and the sense that the outside world was within reach, that I could pass onto the porch and be immersed in the country with one breath.
“Are you hinting at something?” Chet asked, grinning.
“You never checked before. So, why did you check last night?”
Chet opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. “There was always the closed screen,” he answered in a sudden rush. “But this time, the screen was wide open with the door.”
“Huh.” That made even less sense. Why would someone just go into my house like that? Prop open the screen and then not move out any of these bulky, expensive electronics? Were they in the process when Chet interrupted them? Would they be back?
Just then, a deputy returned to the line and distracted me from the conversation with Chet. He told me that the dash-cam footage would be sent on a secure line through the county work server to my work email.
I pressed the button to end the call and my eyes tipped up to Chet, still lingering. In my foyer. Staring at me expectantly. “Well, I’m, uh, glad you’re watching my house so closely, Deputy Brown—”
“Chet,” he corrected me quickly. “Call me Chet.”
“Chet, right,” I repeated, shaking my head. “It’s such a coincidence that you would come over here right now. I just called in a request for some evidence from the night you arrested Andrew—Mr. Bogart.”
“Yeah, Ace,” Chet said. His demeanor shifted into a more macho posture. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. Well, he tries to be, anyway. Sure was sorry that I had to take him in, but I had a job to do that night, too.”
“He told me that you got into a fight about his daughter.”
“No, no, that’s not exactly true,” Chet said. “We technically got into a fight when I mentioned, incidentally, that his ex-girlfriend, Lola, cheated on him when they first got together. Sore spot. He turned into an animal on me. He’s just so jealous, so obsessed with Lola. They’re not together right now, but the poor son of a bitch can’t get over her. It’s just a matter of time.”
Chet kept rambling about this other woman, but the floor folded out from under my feet at his words. Andrew was in love with someone. No girlfriend, he’d said. But what did that really mean?
I fell into a series of new, dark realities.
In one, some poor, unknowing woman waited for him to come home on the night that he brought me to orgasm on his office desk. And I was guilty, too. I hadn’t asked if there was anyone else. I’d just... let him in. Of course there was someone else. Men who looked like Andrew Bogart weren’t just single. Oh, my god, and he was a dad... He was a dad the whole time.
In another scenario, Lola waited for him to come home and tell her about the random customer he’d fucked. She masturbated and then he climbed on top of her and I watched in horror from the corner. I was the unknowing woman here. I was the third player, the fool.
In another, he planted himself into me, then pulled away and wondered why he still felt the sting of longing for Lola. He wandered beneath the full moon and thought only of her and if she texted him at any time, he’d look at me, swallow, and bail.
“—date him, that’s all,” Chet said, and my eyes flicked over to him.
“What?”
“A business relationship is understandable,” Chet repeated. “But I would never date a man like Ace. This isn’t the first time he’s had a run-in with the law—been to jail for theft himself, you know, he’s too good at cracking systems and has no moral compass at all—and he’s got that daughter, too. Connie. Hey, though, that’s none of my business. I just thought I might let you know, since you were here with him last night. I don’t know if you normally bring clients by your house or what.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, cheeks flowering with heat. Chet must have thought I was such a floozy. “My car broke down. It’s a long story.”
“Always is with that kid.” Chet winked at me and suddenly grinned. “I’m gonna get out of your hair, Michelle. It would just break my heart if I didn’t say anything, and then you got hurt because of it. You seem like a nice girl.”
“I am,” I agreed. I braced my hand on the screen door and imperceptibly ushered him forward by crowding his space. “Thanks again, Chet.”
“Any time.” Chet turned and crowded into my space in return. I recoiled subconsciously. He loomed over me, smelling strongly of some laboratory-brewed pheromone concoction, something he must have sprayed liberally all over himself. “Glad I finally had an excuse to introduce myself to you, darling.”
I shuddered as I watched Chet saunter back to his own house. My mother calls me darling all the time. I’ve always hated it.
* * *
I shoved every thought of Andrew to the back of my mind, deep into an incinerator specifically crafted for unhealthy desires. Each time a flash of his eyes or a snatch of his smile would come to me—always unbidden—I cast it away with a twinge, letting it burst into flame. And I descended into a mild depression without even meaning to. A tiny, stupid part of me had actually been excited to see Andrew again. There was an innocent, hopeful girl in me—the same girl who ached at the end of love poems—and she had wanted to stretch up on her tiptoes and kiss him in that darkened bedroom the other night.
I shimmied out of my olive pants and gray t-shirt. Even those cotton garments took too much energy to wear around the house. I changed into flimsy, mint-colored boxers and a sheer, white tank top before the sun had even set. I collected a stack of ‘80s feel-good movies to spend the night tearing through. I put a pizza in the oven. I didn’t want to look good. I didn’t want to feel sexy. I wanted to wallow in full-blown self-loathing.
Maybe Andrew was a gorgeous tease, but John Hughes never was.
Joh
n Hughes was over all his ex-girlfriends.
John Hughes would never lead someone on and try to have as many side chicks as possible.
I sank deep into my couch cushions and curled around Bubba, a well-worn teddy bear from my childhood. I dragged a blanket over to the couch and cloaked my bare legs. I tossed my bra onto the floor. Fuck it.
The credits for Breakfast Club were still rolling when a pair of bright lights washed over my living room wall, bleaching out the television set. I sat up straighter and scowled out the window.
Those massive Dodge truck headlights were filling my living room like a UFO.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I sprang up from the couch and stormed over to the front door. He’s here?
In spite of my disgust with Andrew right now, I still brushed my fingers through my hair, adjusting its kinks and wisps, then tugged my tank top a little higher over my cleavage.
The doorbell chimed neatly, and I glared at the front door.
How dare he be polite?
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I gripped the doorknob and pulled it open.
I’m going to take the bill from him and then slam the door in his face. He’s not going to cross this threshold.
Andrew stood there in blue denim pants and a dirty white t-shirt, splattered with oil, dirt, and grass smudges. The shirt he’d worn to our appointment had been clean and soft; but this one came straight from work. He reeked of solid effort and the sweat it would bring. A worn leather belt pinned the loose jeans to his muscular hips. He smelled like he did the first time we were together.
When our eyes met, he grinned down at me and swept his hand to the side in a deep bow, displaying for me the Volvo attached to the tow hook on the back of his truck. “Your carriage awaits, my lady,” he announced as he came to a full stand again. His grin was so self-satisfied, I boiled at the sight of it.