by Beth Orsoff
Jake leaned his head back and stared up at the cloudless sky. “I don’t understand. One minute I’m scoring with every attractive woman I see, and the next…” I’m a puddle of neediness checking my phone every ten minutes hoping for a text. Which reminded him—he pulled his phone out of his pocket, but still no message from Samantha. He shook his head. Even if she didn’t want to talk to him, surely she wanted her car back. It was still parked in his garage because he’d insisted she take a cab home.
“Welcome to the club,” Mark said. “Although the good news is, after you’re married the balance of power shifts again, at least some of the time.”
Jake was glad he hadn’t taken that swallow of beer, because if he had, he surely would’ve choked on it. “Whoa. Who said anything about marriage? I haven’t even slept with her.”
Mark laughed. “Now who’s being naïve? Did you really think you’d get to bed a different woman every night for the rest of your life? It was only a matter of time until the axe fell on you too. You just escaped it longer than the rest of us.”
“Why does everyone think I sleep with a different woman every night? I haven’t done that since college!”
“Because some of us didn’t even get to do it in college. Face it, Jake. You’re screwed.”
“Well, if I’m screwed, shouldn’t I actually be screwing someone?”
Mark pulled his baseball cap down low on his forehead, shielding his face from the sun, but Jake could still see that his friend was sporting a huge grin. “And therein lies the irony.”
Jake wasn’t nearly as pleased with this paradox as Mark. Drunk or not, Samantha had made her intentions clear. She wanted him. And he wanted her too. It was time they consummated this relationship.
It took some persuading, but Jake eventually convinced Michael that he should invite Whitney over for dinner that night rather than take her out to a restaurant. “She made a lot of effort cooking for you,” Jake had told him. “You need to reciprocate.”
“But I can’t cook,” Michael had said.
Jake sighed and wondered again how Michael had managed to interest a girl like Whitney. Not only was he a very average-looking guy but he had no clue how to handle a woman, especially one like Whitney. She must’ve been the aggressor.
“You don’t have to,” Jake had said. “You just need to make it look as if you did. You order the food ahead of time, then have it heating in the oven when she gets here. If you don’t do anything stupid—”
“Like confessing after the fact?”
He’d never even considered something that stupid. “I meant like leaving the delivery containers somewhere she can easily find them.”
Michael nodded. “Right. I need to put them in the trash before she gets here.”
Jake sighed again. And he’d thought Mark was book smart and real-life stupid. “No, you need to take them down to the dumpster and bury them. You wouldn’t want her catching sight of them in the trashcan if she, for example, offered to help you clean up after dinner.”
“I feel like I should be writing this down. You’ve got it down to a science.”
“Years of practice,” Jake said, but it was really trial and error. He’d made the mistake of leaving the delivery boxes in the trash once himself. The woman had laughed it off and spent the night with him anyway, but Jake doubted Whitney would do the same. She was beautiful, and he had no doubt that she could play sweet and innocent if she chose to, but inside she was just as tough as her sister. In fact, Jake believed, despite her hard-charging façade, Samantha was actually the softer of the two.
Jake waited until Whitney called Michael to say she was on her way over before he left the condo. He didn’t want to risk being grilled by her again—not at his place, and especially not at Samantha’s.
All day he’d been hoping to hear from Samantha. At five o’clock he finally broke down and texted her. She hadn’t replied, but he was undeterred. He checked her friend Jenna’s tweets and posts—he could happen to show up wherever the two of them happened to be—but Jenna was in San Diego for the weekend. He was confident Samantha would’ve mentioned it if she were going to San Diego too. Without her car, and without the company of her sister or best friend, Jake thought the odds were in his favor that she’d be home tonight. Home alone. Or alone until he got there.
Chapter 51
Samantha
I glanced over at Whitney, who was speeding as if we were on a straight, well-lit highway instead of a twisty canyon pass. “This feels wrong.”
“Why?” Whitney asked, briefly taking her eyes from the road.
“It’s like I’m stealing my own car. Maybe I should just text Jake and tell him I’m coming with you to pick it up.” He’d sent me a text a few hours earlier, and it had taken all of my willpower not to respond. Despite my knowledge of Lydia’s existence and Whitney’s exhortations that she and Jake were definitely more than friendly exes, I still wanted to see him again. He was the first man I’d met in ages who I actually wanted to go on a second date with, let alone sleep with. I couldn’t write him off just because he and his ex still met for booty calls. Did that make me pathetic? Maybe.
“We talked about this, Samantha. No calls, no texts, no emails. You need to go cold turkey. Besides, he’s not home tonight anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“Michael said Jake had a date tonight so we’d have the place to ourselves.”
A stabbing pain shot through me, but I tried not to let it show. Of course Jake had a date. It was Saturday night. No reason to think he’d be home alone watching Netflix, which is where I’d be.
“That’s why Michael’s cooking,” Whitney continued. “We’ll have our privacy.”
“I didn’t know Michael could cook.” It wasn’t an indictment. I could barely do more than boil water myself.
Whitney laughed. “Me either. He must really want to get laid.”
It was nice to know someone would be, because I sure wouldn’t. I stared out the window for the rest of the drive, and when Whitney turned onto Sunset, I would’ve sworn I saw Jake in a convertible headed in the opposite direction. I started to speak, then stopped myself.
“What?” Whitney asked.
“Nothing.” I knew if I told her I’d spotted Jake, she would’ve just said I’d imagined it, and I probably had.
Chapter 52
Jake
He shifted the bottle of wine to his other hand, the one holding the pizza box, and knocked on her front door. After a minute of silence, he knocked again. Then he leaned over and peered through the living room window. The lights were off and so was the television. Shit.
He walked back to his car, tossed the pizza and wine into the passenger seat, and in a last-ditch effort to save the evening, called her again, this time on her landline. He could hear the phone ringing from outside her house, but no one picked up.
Now what? He couldn’t go home. He’d told Michael he had a date tonight and assured him that he and Whitney would have the condo to themselves. He glanced over at the pizza box and inhaled the scent of fresh dough. One wouldn’t be enough for six people, but he could always stop and get another. He reached into his pocket.
“Mark’s phone,” Rita answered.
“You can’t answer his cell phone! The man needs some privacy.”
She laughed in his ear. “The day I start taking marital advice from Jake Jensen is the day I…” After a long pause, she said, “Wow, that’s how ridiculous the thought is; I can’t even come up with a metaphor. Good job, Jake!”
He rolled his eyes. “Is Mark there?”
“He’s giving the twins a bath. Do you want me to have him call you when he’s done?”
He glanced over at the pizza and his stomach growled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Maybe he should just sit here and eat it himself, then go to a movie. Sure, he’d look like a loser alone at the theater on a Saturday night, but did he care? He doubted he’d run into anyone he knew. Most of his friends, at leas
t the single ones, spent their weekends at clubs and parties.
“Forget it. Tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Rita sighed. “You boys and your golf.”
“Hey, it could be worse. It could be another woman.”
She laughed. “I trust my husband. But if I ever do catch him cheating on me, I’ll know who to blame.”
Jake reached into his glove box and unearthed the tricked-out Swiss Army knife he’d gotten as a Christmas gift from a long-ago girlfriend. At the time he’d almost tossed it. What the hell did he need a Swiss Army knife for? He wasn’t an outdoorsman. But the girlfriend had stuck around for a while, so he’d decided to keep it in his car instead. He was glad he had. That corkscrew really came in handy.
He took a swig from the wine bottle, then helped himself to a slice of pizza. He’d only taken a few bites when an old man in a red sweat suit with white stripes down the arms and legs walked past his car. Jake didn’t think much of it until the same man passed him again, this time from the opposite direction. On the third pass, Jake stuck his head out the window. “Can I help you?”
“I was going to ask you the same,” the old man said as he stepped closer so he could peer inside Jake’s car.
“Just waiting for a friend,” Jake replied. “She should be back soon.”
The old man, who Jake assumed was a nosy neighbor, nodded toward the pizza box sitting open on the passenger seat. “So you thought you’d have some dinner in the meantime?”
He didn’t need to make it sound so suspicious. “I guess you could say that.” Jake turned his body in an attempt to shield the uncorked wine bottle from Nosy Neighbor’s prying eyes, but his movement dislodged it from the spot where he’d jammed it between his seat and the gearshift, spilling wine all over his jeans and the floor of the car. Great.
Nosy Neighbor placed his hand on Jake’s doorframe and leaned in. “You know we have open container laws here in California.”
Not just nosy but a wannabe cop too. Jake sighed. “Yes, but I’m not driving.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re sitting in a motor vehicle with an unsealed alcoholic beverage. That’s illegal.”
Maybe he really was a cop. “I’m sorry, Officer, I’ll spill it out right now if you’d like.”
“All that’ll accomplish is bring out the raccoons. Who’s your friend?”
“Excuse me?”
Nosy Neighbor leaned down so his face was just inches from Jake’s. He could see the man’s five-o’clock shadow, which at one time had probably been black but now was all white. “This friend you’re waiting for. What’s his name?”
He wasn’t going to be intimidated by a man twice his age in a tracksuit! Besides, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Even if it was technically illegal to drink in a nonmoving vehicle, he’d only had a few sips. He wasn’t anywhere close to drunk. “Why?” Jake said, matching Nosy Neighbor’s belligerent tone.
Nosy Neighbor reached into his jacket pocket. For a moment Jake thought he was going for a gun, but it was just a mini-flashlight, which he shone in Jake’s eyes. “Place your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Now!”
“I’m not—” Before he knew what was happening, Nosy Neighbor had reached in through the open window and pinned his head against the steering wheel. Jake tried to free himself, but Nosy Neighbor had his elbow wedged against the back of his neck. He was surprisingly strong for an old geezer. Then he felt something metal encase his left wrist. Was that a handcuff? Who was this nut job?
They were still struggling—Jake wasn’t going down without a fight—when headlights approached, and they were both briefly blinded before the car turned into Samantha’s driveway. He heard a door slam shut, then a woman’s voice.
Chapter 53
Samantha
“Mr. Marsh, what’s going on? Are you all right?” He was leaning into a parked car, but it wasn’t empty. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel thrashing like a fish caught on a hook.
“I’m apprehending a suspect,” he said without losing his grip. “Call the station. Tell them I need backup.”
I didn’t know what to do. My neighbor, Mr. Marsh, was, according to his daughter, in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. But he was also a retired police officer and the head of the Neighborhood Watch. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.
“What did he do?” I asked as I approached.
“Samantha, it’s me, Jake,” the suspect shouted.
Oh shit.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
“False alarm,” I said and hung up as I ran to Jake’s car. “Mr. Marsh, there’s been a mistake. He’s not a suspect.”
“You’re friends with this lunatic?” Jake shouted.
“Watch your mouth, punk.” Mr. Marsh yanked on Jake’s arm and he cried out in pain. Mr. Marsh didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. “Got it!” he said as he snapped the handcuff around Jake’s other wrist. Then he looked up at me. “Did you call the station?”
I kept telling Mr. Marsh that it was a mistake, that Jake was a friend of mine, but it wouldn’t sink in. I finally did call the police because I didn’t know what else to do. Thankfully one of the officers who showed up knew Mr. Marsh from when he was still on the force, and he managed to convince him that he and the other officer had the situation under control. He suggested Mr. Marsh come down to the station in the morning to give a statement, then he walked Mr. Marsh back to his house while the younger officer unlocked Jake’s handcuffs.
“Do you want to press charges?” the younger officer asked.
I looked up at Jake, who was rubbing his shoulder and likely didn’t even realize he had an ugly bruise on his cheek too. “Jake, he has Alzheimer’s. He thinks he’s still a cop.”
“But I was just sitting in my car minding my own business. What did he think I was doing?”
“There’s been a rash of break-ins in the area,” the older officer said. “He probably thought you were casing the house so you could rob it later.”
“He’s not a bad man, Jake,” I continued. “Really.” He was always the first to offer assistance if Whitney or I needed help with anything around the house. “He’s just confused.”
Jake sighed and shook his head. “Okay, let’s just forget the whole thing.”
The officers seemed relieved and I was too. I waited for them to return to their patrol car and drive away before I asked, “So what exactly were you doing parked outside my house?”
“Casing the joint, obviously.”
We both laughed. But I really did want to know. “Seriously, why are you here?”
Chapter 54
Jake
If he could’ve thought of a decent lie, he would’ve told her one. But he was empty. And if he was going to have to humiliate himself further, he needed a drink first. Perhaps several.
“Do you have any alcohol?” he asked.
“Wine,” she said, then sniffed the air. “But I think you’ve already had some.”
He looked down at his damp jeans. They were out of the range of the street lamp, so the wine stains weren’t visible. “My clothes had more than me. Would you mind if I came in and cleaned up a little?”
“Of course not.”
He followed her inside her house. As soon as she flipped on the lights, she said, “Oh my God, that’s not blood is it?”
He’d thought he’d only splashed his jeans, but the wine had spilled onto the bottom of his white shirt too. “No, only my pride was injured.” And his shoulder, which was killing him, but he was trying not to let it show. And his left cheek was sore too. He reached up and grazed it with his fingertips and felt the bump.
“And your face,” she said. “Would you like some ice?”
“If it comes with a splash of bourbon.”
“No bourbon, but let me get you that wine.”
She disappeared down the hallway, and he wandered into
the living room and collapsed onto the couch. He was studying one of the paintings on the wall—it might’ve been a flower, or it might’ve been something else, he wasn’t sure—when she returned with a goblet filled with red wine, a glass of water, and two white pills.
“Ibuprofen,” she said as she handed him the tablets. “I thought you could use them.”
He ignored the water and downed the pills with the wine. She left again and returned a minute later with a kitchen towel filled with ice, which she gently held against his face. He hadn’t wanted the ice, but he had to admit it felt nice being taken care of. It had been a long time since anyone had mothered him. Probably the last woman had actually been his mother.
“I could wash those clothes for you if you like.”
The ice and the pills were nice, but he didn’t want her to actually be his mother. “No, I’m good.”
“You really don’t want to let those stains set. Red wine is impossible to get out.”
He was about to turn her down again when it occurred to him that maybe she wasn’t being motherly. Maybe this was actually a come-on, a convenient way to get him out of his clothes. Perhaps this night wasn’t going to turn out so bad after all.
Chapter 55
Samantha
He still hadn’t told me why he’d been sitting outside my house, but I didn’t want to push. He was obviously in pain and I felt guilty. Whatever the reason, he must’ve been there to see me. And he’d been assaulted for it. The least I could do was get the red wine stains out of the man’s shirt.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” he said, but he was already unbuttoning.
I tried not to look, but I couldn’t help myself. Chest hair? Check. Flat stomach? Check. Boxers or briefs? Whoa, what the hell was he doing?