by Alice Bello
It felt like a hunk of my chest had been ripped out with a hole digger, but besides that I was fine.
Of course my fellow co-workers would beg to argue. I’d snapped each of their heads off that first day after I’d…
Hell, could I even say I’d broken it off with her—with Hope? Had we even been together? Wasn’t there some sort of time frame for these things?
Where had we been: past the one-night stand, the first and second and third dates?
Insanity, pure and simple insanity. It had to be.
There hadn’t been time for something to really happen between us, and yet, there we’d been, close, so freaking close. And she’d smelled so good. And I’d had a crush on her since high school.
The fact that she still didn’t remember me, her own brother’s best friend, was a pretty big blow. I mean, it wasn’t like I was the quarterback like her brother, but I was a senior starter when she was a freshman.
And she hadn’t even noticed me. Even though I’d been to her house, eaten with her family and even (just once) made fun of her lack of a chest.
Yeah, it had been stupid, and I was only following her brother’s lead, but I had it on good authority that girls liked being teased.
Obviously I had never made even a blip on her radar, because there had not once been a hint of recognition in her eyes. I was just a new guy she seemed to really like.
Hell, she’d seemed to like me just as much as I liked her.
Shiiit! It had gone way past the “like” stage.
I knew it the moment she got beaned in the noggin with that enormous beach ball. The way she’d hit the dirt... and then gotten back up and shook it off with such good humor.
Of course, her t-shirt had been wet… maybe that had helped kick my infatuation into the next gear. Or had we skipped a few gears?
Whatever it was, she was all I could think about—all I wanted to think about.
And then that business with the picture happened.
I didn’t even know she’d taken it. I guess, neither had she, but between when I left and when I came back after work, she’d found it and sent it in as… as a freaking romance novel cover?
I knew that’s what she did for a living. Sure. And I knew that she was under pressure to get something “spectacular” to her boss to save her job. But it had never, not once, occurred to me that she would…
Betray me?
Yeah, that’s what it had been, a betrayal.
Someone I’d known since she was fifteen, had crushed on since she was old enough to ignore me, someone I’d let my guard down for and had…
It had been so much more than sex… it had been…
We’d made love.
I think I lost a few ounces from my ball-sack just having that thought cross my mind.
But it had been so much more than sex. I had never felt so much with any other woman, even—especially—my ex-wife.
Whatever it had been, it was over now, shot down and tilled into fertilizer before it had a chance to grown into something that could endure.
So… why was I driving down her street one week later, trying not to feel like a stalker, but unable to stay away one moment longer?
It had been one crazy day at work. More oil changes and tire rotations than you could shake as stick at, and I’d had to fix three of my fellow “mechanics’” mistakes. One had crammed the wrong oil filter into a Miata. Another had accidentally cut a brake line when he was trying to pry the oil pan off a Saturn. And then Benny had somehow “unplugged” a Silverado’s entire electrical system.
So I’d been stressed, harassed, and over-worked—and I still couldn’t get Hope out of my head.
So there I was, rolling down her street at a quarter to four in the afternoon. Talk about fucking pathetic.
But then I’d seen people out on Hope’s lawn. Hope was out on her lawn.
I stopped and was about to throw my truck into reverse when I realized she was nose to nose with a tall, dark, stranger.
Another man…
Don’t know why, but that set off a switch inside me. It took every ounce of restraint for me to stay in the truck and not go out there and deck the asshole.
What the hell was going on?
There was Hope, the asshole stranger—getting way too close to her for comfort—Hope’s nosey neighbor, Bette, and three other young women I’d never seen before.
Looked like Hope and the asshole were arguing… but he was too damned close… and he kept moving closer!
Looked like Bette and “the girls” were their audience.
And then Hope leaned in and whispered something in the guy’s ear.
Shiiit, goddamn it straight to hell!
She was so close she might as well have been touching him. And he’d frozen like a deer in headlights.
I knew that look. How he felt. It was how I’d felt every time the woman had looked at me.
She moved past him, and sauntered around for a few beats. I couldn’t hear what she was talking about…
But then I saw the chainsaw in the asshole’s hand and I suddenly opened my truck’s door. I was going to beat the shit out of him. What the hell was he thinking brandishing a goddamn chainsaw at my…
At Hope…
I froze though. Bette had turned around and was staring at me, a wicked smirk on her pretty face.
I was busted. The nosey neighbor had spotted me, and now she would tell Hope I was hanging around, doing drive-bys like…
Like the pathetic little stalker I was?
Just then Hope started to walk away from the strange, chainsaw wielding asshole, and my nerve crumbled like a rusted out exhaust system.
I pulled the door to my truck closed and hit the gas. Not hard enough to make the wheels squeal—I wanted to get away without alerting Hope, even if Bette would undoubtedly tell her all about it.
But I ended up stopping just past Bette’s property, looking through the back window to see Hope and Bette and the pretty blonde all troop up onto Hope’s porch and then into her house.
I stayed for about thirty seconds longer, watching to make sure the asshole—shit, he really was good looking!—didn’t follow Hope to her house. He didn’t. He and the two other women all headed to the dwelling on the other side of Hope’s house.
Well fuck me all to hell! He was her new neighbor.
That wasn’t good…
That wasn’t good at all.
Chapter 6: Hope
Clive was lying on my head when my alarm went off.
Eight a.m. Plenty of time to shower, get dressed, and set up for the shoot.
I already had decided to use the bed in the guest room again. It had worked out so much better than the couch in my studio had. I’d probably have them use the couch for a few shots anyways.
I had a red hooded cloak too. I thought it would be interesting to have her wear it in at least a couple shots.
As he said, Billy showed ten minutes early, wearing a t-shirt that read “Tequila Makes My Clothes Fall Off.” I fed him powdered donuts and hot coffee. After Georgia was twenty minutes late, Billy called her on his cell phone. He smiled and told me she was running late.
“Girls…” he said in a put out yet eager voice.
He still looked too damn happy for his own good. I took it that Georgia hadn’t told him she didn’t want to go any further with him.
When she did, I had a feeling Billy wasn’t just going to shake it off with his usual cocky jauntiness.
So I decided to take a few solo shots of Billy, up on the couch.
I needed to keep him busy and engaged until Georgia got here. Otherwise his sugar/caffeine high would peter out, and then I’d have a yawning, sleepy Big Bad Wolf on my hands.
Billy, shirtless and beguiling as all hell, his long, strong body sprawled across the couch, was any woman’s wet dream come true. And that look he had on his face; like he wanted to eat you up, and he just knew you’d like it.
That you’d beg him to do it, and to do
it again…
I had to wipe the sweat from my brow more than a couple times. Even with my air conditioning cranked up on high. Central air my ass. I felt like I was trying to take pictures in a pizza oven.
Okay, either I was having sexy hot flashes over AAA tow-truck guy Billy, or I was suffering from low blood sugar. Because I couldn’t figure out if my mouth was watering because of the well-built wolf-in-smoking-hot men’s clothing… or because I was starving?
I’d eaten with Billy, hadn’t I?
I excused myself, used my downstairs restroom and then snagged a powdered donut on my way back up stairs.
The world had changed in that short span of time.
Georgia had arrived, and stood before Billy with her head down. Billy’s swagger and cockiness were gone, and in their place was this sad, lost little boy.
His eyes were glistening, and his breathing was rapid. A thin sheen of sweat shone on his skin, and his arms were slowly dropping to his sides, defeated.
Georgia raised her hand and touched the side of his face. “I’m really sorry, Billy. I truly am.”
She turned and started toward me and the door. She stopped and gave me a long, beseeching look.
Oh, hell...
I hadn’t even thought she’d wait and spring this on him here. She’d hoodwinked me, and crushed him. And now I was stuck with what could be a pretty messy young-man-in-love breakdown.
Shit…
That’ll teach me to give any more “good advice.”
That’s what you get for sticking your nose in other people’s problems.
Georgia left, and Billy stood there, looking down at what was in his hands: the red hooded cloak Georgia was supposed to wear.
He looked down upon it like it was his own torn out, broken heart. Or possibly what was left of a dead loved one.
It was one of the most poignant images I’d ever seen, and part of me wanted to grab my camera and capture it on film.
But I couldn’t.
It was too personal; too real; too damn painful.
And hadn’t I caused enough pain by taking portraits that were too intimate already?
I grabbed Billy’s button down cotton shirt and helped him on with it. I took the red cloak out of his hands and led him downstairs to the kitchen. There I made him a cold-cut sandwich—thinly sliced ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese on wheat bread with Hellman’s, and poured him a sarsaparilla.
It had looked good last night at the Piggly Wiggly, the sarsaparilla, and when Billy absently took a drink, and then smiled with surprise, it had been worth the trip to the store.
“I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.”
I smiled and touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He coughed uncomfortably and blinked away the shine from his eyes. Then he shrugged and gave me a pale impersonation of one of his old, devil-may-care smiles.
“I’ll find another girl—probably prettier, with better teeth and bigger implants.”
A roar of laughter erupted from me.
The handsome letch would be just fine… eventually.
But God help the female population as he did his rebound thing. He’d set them up and knock ’em down like bowling pins.
***
Bette invited herself over that night, and we ordered in pizza. My half had extra cheese and pepperoni; hers had ham and pineapple. I cringed at the thought.
I was beginning to wonder if our food tastes would ever find a place to converge.
But we’d both loved the gyros Darla had brought, so there was at least one place we could stand together.
She’d brought a Meryl Streep movie I’d missed: It’s Complicated. I wasn’t a big Streep fan. I’d liked The Bridges of Madison County, and her ice queen turn in The Devil Wears Prada, but mostly her movies were depressing as hell. So I just didn’t get her.
But as I sat down and chomped on my pizza, I just fell right into the movie. I laughed my ass off as her ex-husband (Alec Baldwin) got her drunk, got her dancing, and then unceremoniously got her into bed. He was irresistible… for an old guy.
Not only did the movie have us in stitches, but it made us unbelievably hungry—Meryl’s character is a chef, and well… we raided my fridge and made nachos with cheese and sour cream, and blended what was left of my secret stash of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ben and Jerry’s into two large milkshakes.
I laughed hardest, though, when Steve Martin’s tightly wound architect toked on some weed and morphed into Steve Martin from the Wild and Crazy days of his career.
Filled to the gills with pizza, nachos, milkshake… and half a bag of Swedish fish I found hiding behind a bag of brown rice in my pantry, I waved goodbye to Bette from my couch, unable to even pull myself up to walk her out.
I sat there, snuggled up with a throw pillow, watching a rerun of Law and Order, when I fell asleep.
***
I woke to the sounds of hammers and circular saws.
At first I thought it was coming from the TV, but Rachel Ray was frying up something in a big, ugly green pan.
My heart suddenly leapt into my throat.
Was that asshole trying to cut my sycamore down again?!?!
I pushed up off the couch, hit my shin on my coffee table, slipped as I stepped on the empty pizza box from last night, and staggered for my front door. I clawed at the knob, wrenching the door open, and ran out onto my porch, down the steps, and headed toward the new neighbor’s house.
But there was no one near my tree.
I sagged in relief. That was until the hammers and saws were overwhelmed by the sound of a meteor crashing to earth.
Well, it was a backhoe beating its mechanical arm into the ground, but it sounded like a meteor strike.
There were half a dozen men in Raphael Morales’ backyard. They had on hardhats and tool-belts, and they were working on something at the back of the house.
I walked slowly toward my backyard, irritated yet curious as to what they were doing.
The backhoe blocked my line of sight, so I was creeping closer and closer, going back further on my property to try and catch a glimpse.
I stopped when I realized there was a barrier of opaque plastic hanging over what the contractors were working on. I stood there for a moment, squinting to try and make something out.
“And here I thought the redhead was the nosey neighbor,” a smooth, calm male voice said from right beside me.
I jumped, made a squeak more suited to a cartoon mouse—and about fell over my own feet.
Raphael Morales stood there in torn jeans and a blazing white tank top, showing off his long muscles, luscious skin, and silvery tattoos. His jet-black hair was wet and casually spiked up into an impromptu Mohawk, and his feet were in a pair of black plastic shower thongs.
How had he snuck up on me in freaking shower thongs?
And he had a steaming, absolutely delicious smelling mug of coffee in his hands.
“Ah… I was… um…” That’s me, master of the witty comeback.
“So do you threaten to shoot and spy on all your neighbors, or am I special?” He smiled maddeningly, his eyes never looking at me, but at what his construction crew was doing.
I bit my lip. The man was a monster.
“Your work crew there woke me up with their hammering, sawing… and that backhoe pounding the ground. I should have called the police.”
His smile became deeper, even more infuriating. “It’s after eight in the morning, which is past the legal time constraints of the city of San Antonio’s noise ordinance, thus the police will do exactly nothing.”
He finally looked at me and his dark eyes sparkled with wicked delight. “But if you’d like to call them and confess to creatively threatening me with a shotgun, then by all means, go ahead.”
Anger welled up in my stomach; swirling, rising into my throat. “You think you’re so damn funny, don’t you?”
Slyly he glanced down at me, meeting my eyes for a heartbeat before his gaze rose p
erceptibly to take in my hair. He looked back to the workers at his house, took a sip of his coffee, and smiled with satisfaction.
“I’d say I’m only the second funniest thing standing out on this lawn this morning.”
That jackass…
I turned on him, my hand rising to point a finger accusingly at him, and took a breath to yell at him with… when it dawned on me what he’d been looking at.
My hair…
Now, I’m not a vain person… really, but I’d fallen to sleep on my couch after a late night pizza/movie bender. And I had taken my hair out of its usual ponytail when Bette had come over.
I could only imagine what my hair looked like.
Shit…
“Stop by for coffee,” Raphael said as he sauntered over to his house, still smiling, “anytime.”
I clenched my hands into fists, clenched my teeth until they were grinding, I even closed my eyes hard enough to start seeing green clouds form in the darkness.
That bastard!
I shook my fist in his direction in impotent rage, but he was already back inside his house.
I stood there, wanting to start screaming obscenities at him—I mean, I’d never had anyone tick me off so badly so quickly—but then I remembered there were about a dozen workmen only a few yards away. If I started yelling, then they’d stop what they were doing to look my way…
And then they’d see what my hair looked like too. Since I didn’t even know how bad it looked, I turned on my heel and haughtily stalked back to my house, up the porch steps and back in the front door.
I stopped by an old mirror in the foyer that an even older aunt had given me when I graduated high school. It had no frame, and had beveled edges that swooped into antique looking, pretty lines… and it was so old the silver backing had started to peel off in places, making dark shadows here and there.
I loved it because of all these things.
But even with the extra shadows it still reflected the horrid state of my frizzed out curls just fine.