by Amanda Perry
My professors were equally understanding when I talked to them about the missed classes. They suggested I take the rest of the semester off and pick up where I left off next semester. It gives me a few months of free time I don't normally have, and I'm already bored out of my mind.
Evelyn can't come hang out because her mother finally announced the good news of being cancer free, and their whole family decided to take an extended vacation. They'll be gone for a few months, first on a cruise and then spending some time traveling around Europe.
Michelle ditched me also. She and Dylan decided to fly to Michigan to surprise his parents and tell them the news about the baby. Neither of the girls wanted to go after everything that happened with me, but I refused to put a damper on their fun. They had their plans before I caused an uproar, so they need to stick with them. With the promise I'd be fine, they felt better about leaving, and we all agreed to get together for our usual girls’ night when they both get back.
Grumpy finally started talking to me again. It took him about twenty-four hours to cave after our little tiff in the hospital. It wasn't a coincidence Michelle and Evelyn kept calling and texting to check up on me—Grumpy made them do it. I finally told them I wouldn’t answer them unless they promised not to report back to Grumpy, and they agreed. About an hour later, Grumpy called me to bitch and complain about it. Since then, he and I are fine. He refuses to speak to me about Dr. Lenny; although, he did slip up and call her Trish. My curiosity is piqued, but I don’t press him. He’s happy as a clam I'm not going to work or school for a bit. Though, the conversation didn't go his way, at all.
"Maybe ya oughta stay in yer house 'til them boys catch that bastard, Tayter-Tot." Grumpy's southern drawl thickens when he's upset. It's only because he's worried, but he should know me better by now.
Even though he can't see me, I shake my head. "It ain't gonna happen, Grumpy. I already agreed to have a babysitter sitting outside my house at all times. I'm not going to become a hermit, too."
"You could c’mon back home, just fer a while," he suggests casually. I'm smart enough not to fall for his tricks.
"Grumpy, if I move back home, you'll never let me leave. So again, it ain't happening. I like my freedom, and I plan to keep it. Besides, you might want your freedom soon, too."
He ignores my dig for information, and after a few more half-assed attempts at convincing me to come back home, Grumpy finally gave up and let me win for now. He's sure to try again next time we chat, but he won't convince me.
"Which one is it this time?" Evelyn’s voice is muffled as she talks through a bite of something. Her family had to fly to Alaska for the cruise, and they have a four-hour layover, which she used to call me and Michelle.
A quick glance out my living room window gives me an answer. The new guy still sits in his car. He isn’t my favorite. "It's the new guy who picks his nose, gross. I wonder if these people know they can be seen. It isn't like they have some Harry Potter invisibility cloak bullshit going on."
Every day, I sit in my living room and watch the officers in their cars, and every day, I find it more entertaining than any show on television. With tomorrow being Wednesday, I only need to get through a few more days before I can go back to work and keep myself busy. I've told Grumpy and the cops outside more than once that the protection and constant vigilance over my apartment wasn’t necessary. None of the assholes listen to me, which shouldn't shock me. They're men, after all.
The thought of men brings images of my four heroes to mind. No matter how hard I struggle to push them from my mind, they pop up like unwanted porno ads on an old DSL computer. Most of the time, the images I conjure up are similar to those of a porn ad, too, which is equally as disturbing and creepy. Even with a date with Tim scheduled for next week, I can't get excited about it. I'd rather be going someplace with Maverick, Marak, Syn, or Allistar.
"Have the sexy SWAT superheroes contacted you yet?" Evelyn's question brings me back to the present, and I plop down on my butt, facing away from the window.
"Alas, no." I sigh dramatically. "I wish, though. Would a simple text saying hi be so much to ask? I mean really?"
Michelle snickers. "You're impossible, Taylor. Did you not just text me and Eve to tell us you have a date with Tim next week?" Michelle arrived in Michigan two days ago. The three of us couldn’t manage a three-way call until now.
My cheeks darken. "I did."
"Then, why are you pining over the hot cops?" I can practically hear her perfect brow arching as she scolds me.
"I'm not talking to you anymore." My lip juts out in a petulant pout.
Michelle snorts. "Now, you sound like Grumpy. You really need to find something to do, or you're going to start talking with a southern drawl and using weird curse words and phrases."
"Shut up and go enjoy your stupid vacation without me." Michelle knows I'm only kidding. I could never be angry with her, but I can sure as hell pretend. My acting skills must be as shitty as I think they are because Michelle only laughs and promises to text and call while she's out of town. Evelyn hangs up a moment later, ending our too short call.
After quickly checking my phone for any messages from Grumpy—or any hot men I can't stop thinking about—I decide to get my butt moving. The house is clean, and the laundry washed, dried, and put away. With nothing else to occupy my short attention span inside, a trip to the grocery store seems more necessary than ever.
Grabbing my keys and purse, I lock the door behind me and skip to my driveway, only to skid to a halt in front of my beetle when I realize she probably isn't up and running since the last issue with her. Pursing my lips, I pull out my phone and tap my foot while debating whether I should make the call.
The need to get out of the house outweighs the lecture the call will bring me, so I hit Grumpy's name and wait for his lively greeting of, “What?"
Three hours later, my fridge and pantry are stocked full, and Grumpy finally left my apartment. He spent the first hour of our grocery store trip bitching about my car and my need for a new one. Then, he complained about the unhealthy selections of food in my cart. He soon moved on to grumbling over the amount of people in the store on a weekday.
To most, it would probably be an embarrassing or annoying way to spend an afternoon. For me, it brings back memories of my childhood, and a smile tickles my lips for the majority of the day. When Grammy was alive, she'd constantly tell Grumpy to hush and stop all his bitchin' and moanin'. He never did listen to her, though. She'd turn to me every time, roll her eyes, and say, "It’s like talkin' to a fence post, I swear."
After getting the last of the groceries put away, I decide to reward myself with a nice cold Diet Coke. While taking a long sip of the ice-cold beverage, I go about closing the curtains and blinds in the house. Every morning, I open them up to let the natural light in, and every evening when the sun starts to set, I close them again. When I reach the living room window, I glance outside to watch the cops change shift for the night. They’re laughing about something one of them said. I stand still and watch them for a few minutes, wondering what they might be talking about. The reader cop is back to let the nose-picker off.
When we were kids, Eve, Michelle, and I used to make up stories about strangers while we people-watched. If they were here, they’d help me come up with an elaborate story about how the first cop always dreamed of being a stand-up comedian and he tries out his bits on the other cops. The other cop can only think of the date he has tonight with the hot girl he pulled over for speeding. Little do they know the hot girl is the comedian’s wife and things are about to get really awkward around the station.
Crash!
The sound of something being broken outside my backdoor causes me to squeal and spin around, abandoning the open living room blinds and the cops with intermingling lives. The first thoughts to run through my head are of the men who kidnapped me and Jenna. They’re easy to dismiss as suspects of the crash because I was told none of them survived the raid. Thou
gh, the mystery man who wanted me still roams free.
The sound probably came from a squirrel or a possum, but my heart continues to race as I tiptoe over to my coat closet. If Grumpy made sure to teach me only one thing growing up, it was how to shoot. Of course, he’d never trust me with a real gun on my own, which I can’t blame him for, but he would take me to the range and let me use his while under supervision. When I moved out, Grammy gave me a crockpot as a housewarming gift. Grumpy gave me a pellet gun and a crap ton of the little metal pellets to go with it. The crockpot may get used more, but I want to kiss Grumpy for his gift right now. There’s a good chance I’m about to shoot an innocent possum, but the little bastard shouldn’t be breaking stuff on my back porch.
With slow, measured steps, I make my way to the back door and peek outside, pushing the closed curtains minutely to the side. No signs of animals or people show right away, but the flower pot sitting on the handrail now lays in pieces on the concrete floor. The flower pot wasn’t a small one, and it was full of dirt and a few sad, half-dead flowers. Grammy might have had a green thumb, but I kill any and all plants I come across. The only exception being the cactus Grammy bought me as a last-ditch effort to get me to keep something alive in my house. The sucker will not die, no matter how many times I knock it over, forget to give it water, overwater it, or simply stick it on a closet shelf.
Just before I let the blinds go, a shadow across the grassy area past my patio draws my attention. The silhouette of a person tells me a possum won’t be getting a pellet in the ass.
Logically, I know I should call the police, but as I pull my phone from my pocket and my fingers fly over the buttons, I somehow end up sending a message to Maverick since his name pops up first.
Taylor: Someone is sneaking around outside my house. What should I do?
Anger bubbles in my gut. Some asshat is snooping around my home, and it pisses me off. This is my safe place, and they can’t scare me off. Without thinking through my actions rationally, I flip the lock on the back door and slide it open with a little bit too much force. The door bumps against the frame hard, causing the rollers to come off the track. My phone drops from my hand, and the pellet gun comes up, aiming straight in front of me. Rushing through door with a loud war cry, I swing around the corner of my porch and open fire on whoever has the balls to snoop around.
A loud yelp comes from my victim, and a satisfied grin graces my lips.
“Ouch! Ouch! Fucking ouch! What the fuck?”
The familiar voice roaring at me wipes the grin away, and I drop the pellet gun in shock. It hits the grass with a loud thud and fires once more, hitting Syn in the thigh. He jumps at the bite of pain and covers his newest wound with his hands.
“Holy crap. Syn?”
9
Maverick
My brothers never learn. Every single time this shit happens, I get on them for it, and every single time, the dickheads ignore me. Grabbing the offensive item, I stomp into the living room and stand in front the television where Marak and Allistar have their full attention on the football game.
Marak jumps to the side of the couch, craning his head to see around me. “What the fuck? Move, Maverick!”
“How many goddamn times do I have to tell you guys to put a new roll of paper towels on the holder when you take the last one?” With a flick of the wrist, the empty cardboard tube flies across the room and knocks Marak in the forehead with a satisfying pop.
Allistar snickers and points to Marak who tried to duck away too late. Marak pins me with a fixed stare. “Did you seriously just do that?”
My only reply is a single nod. He stands, probably ready to fight me, but my phone pings with a text message before he can. Marak pauses as I pull my phone out to check it, knowing it might be work and far more important than his shitty attempt at payback.
Shock runs through me when I find Taylor’s name as the sender. My heart squeezes, then picks up speed. Part of me hopes she only wants to chat, but I’m smart enough to know whatever she has to say probably isn’t good.
Taylor: Someone is sneaking around outside my house. What should I do?
My feet move before I finish reading the text from her. “Son of a bitch.”
At my exclamation, Allistar and Marak jump to their feet and follow me, calling out questions as we go.
“Taylor texted me,” I tell them, and they immediately shut up, waiting for me to elaborate. “Someone’s sneaking around her place, and she doesn’t know what to do.”
“Taylor Lewis? The girl from the raid?” Marak is a smart guy, sometimes he’s too smart for his own good. Yet, he can say the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.
Allistar sighs heavily as we all pull on our boots. “No, Taylor Swift. Who the hell else would it be?”
“You know Taylor Swift?” Marak’s comment earns him a smack upside the head by Allistar as he walks out the door.
Keys already in hand, I swipe my wallet from the table by the front door and rush to my truck. The three of us haul ass down the road toward Taylor’s apartment. We had to call a few friends to swing twenty-four-hour watch on her place, but it was worth it. There also may have been a time or two since we said goodbye I’ve driven by her place to make sure nothing suspicious was going on.
The only lead we managed to get on the guy after Taylor is an alias he uses. He’s gone by Paul Pearson for the past year, but we can’t find any record of him. We know it’s a fake name, but we can’t find any other information on the guy. When we released the sketch that Taylor did of the prick, the calls started to flood the bureau. People from Alaska, to North Carolina, and down to Texas claimed to know him or his whereabouts. None of the leads panned out, and we found ourselves back at square one.
Thinking of the text message from Taylor, I wonder if this Paul Pearson guy found her. Realization dawns that I never answered her message. While reaching into my pocket and grabbing my phone, I bark at Allistar who sits shotgun with me. “Text Taylor back. Tell her we’re on our way. Make sure she’s in a safe spot, and the doors and windows are all locked and tell her not to go near the windows. Ask if she’s able to call. Check if she called the police yet. Tell her—”
“Mav, calm down. I’ll see if she can call. If not, we’re only three minutes away now. We’ll be there before anyone can dispatch additional officers,” Allistar says as he texts, his eyes focused on the phone even as he helps me rationalize the situation. It isn’t often I have to be reined in by Allistar, but something about Taylor brings out my protective instincts and turns me into a fucking mess.
The final moments of the ride are silent. Allistar taps his thumb nervously on the side of my phone, frowning at the screen. As he waits for Taylor to answer, the worry in his eyes is enough for me to know that she hasn’t yet. Marak finally shuts the hell up with his rambling bullshit and remains silent in the back seat, staring straight ahead at the road. My knuckles turn white as I grip the wheel, swinging the truck half-assed into the driveway outside of Taylor’s apartment.
The three of us jump out on silent feet, drawing our weapons. The cop sitting on her house jumps from his car with his pistol drawn. He halts in his tracks when I hold up a hand to him. His eyes lock with mine and recognition dawns. He retreats to his patrol car, his attention going to the apartment windows and his stance on the defense. If anyone he doesn’t know comes out of Taylor’s apartment before we can get to them, he’ll take them down.
Marak and Allistar flank me as we silently make our way around the apartment. My hope was to sneak in the back entry. But the door has been knocked off track, and the screen is wide open—all indications that whatever went down, happened back here.
Upon entering, we scan the immediate area for any threat. To the right is a small kitchen with light wood cabinets, dark tile flooring, and dark laminate countertops. Aside from the lone coffee cup in the sink, the dishwasher swishing around as it runs through a cycle, and the quiet hum of the fridge, it appears that the kitchen is cl
ear.
On the left, a round wooden dining table with four matching chairs sits covered in papers and textbooks. A can of Diet Coke rests abandoned in the middle of the table. Moving farther into the apartment, we enter the living room. It’s small, but a decent size for one person. The full-sized couch takes up the largest wall. With a large canvas painting of a moon over a body of water, the signature in the bottom corner catches my eye for a split second. It shouldn’t surprise me that Taylor painted the picture. She has incredible talent, which I remember from her sketch of Pearson. It must have taken a lot of time, and I can’t help but wonder if she’d paint something for our place.
A small flat screen television is mounted on the opposite wall. Pictures of Taylor with Evelyn, Michelle, Dylan, and her grandfather hang on either side of the television along with an older woman I don’t recognize, but I assume it’s her grandmother. A large window with drawn curtains takes up most of the far wall.
Marak gestures to the couch, and I follow his line of sight to a pellet gun lying across the cushions. Is she fucking serious? What was her plan, give the intruder a few pellet pokes while he comes to kidnap or murder her? I need to teach Taylor how to shoot a real goddamn gun. She needs to know how to defend herself.
We freeze in place when some screeching sounds come from down the hall. It didn’t sound like a female, but we don’t hesitate to rush toward the noise as another howl echoes through the apartment. We dash past a bathroom, a quick glance showing it empty. The last door in the hall leads to a bedroom. Pistols drawn, the three of us swing around the doorframe. My feet stop moving instantly at the sight before me. Marak and Allistar nearly run into my back, but luckily, they catch themselves and stumble around me instead. My eyes don’t leave the two people in front of me, but I know Marak and Allistar are just as shocked as I am.