by S. M. Shade
I was able to find financial information on the dead gunmen that the authorities missed. Millions of dollars they’ve taken from their followers and collected by pretending to be an environmental charity. Apparently, no one had access to it but them, since it has sat in accounts, untouched since their deaths. I’m not sure what I want to do with the information yet, so I’ve just been monitoring the accounts.
The little bonfire party slash brainwashing attempt is weeks away, so I have time to think through my strategy.
#
A knock at the door pulls me away from my work. I know it’s not the guys this time since I’ve been keeping in touch with them. I haven’t drank since that catastrophic night with Melissa. I’m surprised to see an older lady staring back at me through the peephole. I’ve seen her next door lately, so maybe she’s living there.
When I open the door, she walks in uninvited and glares at me. Great. I’ve found a way to piss off females without even leaving the house.
“Come on in,” I scoff.
A bony finger points in my direction. “You. Do you have any decency whatsoever? That girl has no one, and you’re abandoning her with this responsibility?”
What the hell is she talking about? Maybe she has dementia or something.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Melissa is a sweet, young, trusting woman who has had a hard way to go. She shouldn’t have to raise a baby alone just because she got knocked up by a selfish jerk.”
Her words slowly sink in, and pure terror grabs hold of me.
Staggering back to sit on the arm of my couch, I take a deep breath. “She’s pregnant?”
“No fooling you.” The woman rolls her eyes.
“I—how—”
Her eyebrow cocks. “I’m fairly sure you know how babies are made.”
One night. The only night in my entire life that I didn’t use a condom. At least, I’m assuming I didn’t. I can’t remember a thing.
A baby. I can’t have a baby. I’m barely taking care of myself.
Scrubbing my hand over my cheek, I ask, “Who are you, again?”
“My name’s Agnes. I’m a friend of Melissa. I’ve been staying with her, but I’m moving to Florida with my boyfriend soon and whether she likes it or not, she needs someone to look out for her.”
“She never told me,” I breathe, still trying to wrap my head around the huge mess I’m in. I just saw her yesterday, and she sure didn’t look pregnant. Closing my eyes, I do the math in my head. She’d only be about seven weeks. Women don’t show that early, do they? Fuck, I don’t know. I should’ve paid more attention when Dare’s wife, Ayda, was pregnant.
Agnes heads toward the door. “I figured as much. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her I let the cat out of the bag. She’s a good friend. She’ll tell you when she’s ready. I’m just trying to do what’s right for her.” She pauses before leaving. “And your child.”
I don’t know how long I sit there after she leaves. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do. Part of me wants to barge into her house and demand she explain why she didn’t tell me, but really, why would she?
I treated her like shit, threw her out the morning after we slept together. I doubt I’m the guy she’d want to father her child. Even if she needs help, I’m sure I’m not the one she’d come to. The kid would probably be better off without me anyway, and it’s not like anyone else would know. Hell, when my job here is done, I could head back to Indy and pretend none of this ever happened.
Maybe. But I’d still have a kid out there, and I couldn’t live without knowing he or she was taken care of. I need to know more about Melissa. I need to make sure she’s financially prepared for a baby, but I don’t want to get too involved and have her expect things from me I’m not capable of providing. Agnes said she has no one.
Well, she has someone now. She just won’t know it.
By a stroke of luck, a package addressed to Melissa sits on my porch when I head outside the next day. Her last name is Sanders. I’d put her age around twenty-three or so. It shouldn’t be hard to find her information now.
First things first, though, I scoop up the package and walk next door. I’m sure she isn’t going to be thrilled to see me, but she’ll just have to deal with it if she wants her package. The steps leading to her porch have seen better days. They’re half rotted and soft in spots. If I weighed any more, I could’ve put a foot right through. They’re dangerous.
It takes her a few moments to come to the door when I knock, and she hesitates before reluctantly opening the door. “What do you want?” she demands.
Yeah, she hates me. Fair enough.
“This came to my place by mistake,” I explain, holding up the box.
Before she has a chance to answer me, a very hyper wiener dog darts through the door and runs around me in circles, barking his head off.
“Woody! Get back in here!”
A snort of laughter escapes me. “You named your wiener dog Woody?”
“I didn’t name him. I just wasn’t going to change it.”
Woody growls and bares his teeth when I reach for him, and Melissa smiles, picking him up. “At least I know you have good instincts,” she says to the pup, placing him back inside the door. Taking the package from me, she mumbles, “Thank you.” Before I can say anything, she retreats inside and shuts the door in my face.
I guess I don’t have to worry about her wanting too much from me. Still, as I walk back down those rickety steps, I know I need to do something. She’s little now, but once she’s got a big pregnant belly the steps won’t be so easy. She could fall and hurt herself or the baby.
I may not be a master craftsman like Tucker, but I can build some damn steps. A trip to the hardware store is a necessity though, since I don’t think there’s a tool anywhere in my house. I’m glad I at least have a tape measure so I can see what size boards I need. I have no intention of knocking on her door again, so I just grab the tape measure and quickly jot down the numbers before the yappy mutt gives me away.
It's nice to have a project to work on that isn’t driven by hate and retribution. Since Justus and Tucker came and pulled me back into the world, that has been my singular focus, but I can feel how much I need another outlet. I also need to be busy and keep myself from thinking about the horrible mistake I’ve made. Melissa needs help, and I need a distraction. It’s perfect.
My credit card gets a workout for the first time since I moved here as I shop for tools and general hardware supplies. I end up finding a pre-cut kit for outdoor stairs that looks easy enough to build, so at least I don’t have to Google how to go about it.
By the time I get all the supplies and make it back home, it’s dark out. A faint light shines from Melissa’s front window, and I can hear music playing inside. For the first time, I wonder about her. Who she really is and how she ended up here all alone. I suppose tonight is as good a time as any to find out.
The rest of my night is spent on the computer, spying on my neighbor.
#
I’m up early for a change and when I peek outside, Melissa’s car is gone. This woman just becomes a bigger mystery the more I research her. She’s been completely off the grid for years, and that’s no easy feat to manage. When I hacked into her financials, I thought maybe I had the wrong person, but, no, it’s her.
Before her disappearing act, she was a successful artist, known to everyone as Melly. A child prodigy who had paintings hanging in galleries across the country by age twelve. There was public speculation about her when she stopped working or being seen in public, but nothing was considered suspicious.
She told her friends and associates that she was moving out of the country with her sister. Since they had just lost their father—their only parent—to a heart attack, and had no other family, it made sense. But there’s no record of either of them until a few months ago, and the sister is still in the wind.
I may look into her w
hereabouts a bit more later, but for now, I know what I need to know. Even without my money, my child won’t do without anything. That doesn’t mean I won’t contribute, but it’s a relief all the same. Considering the way I’ve treated her, and the fact that’s not going to change much since I don’t want to be any more a part of this situation than I have to, it’s possible she’ll refuse any money I try to give her anyway.
I’ll just have to keep an eye on her throughout the pregnancy and make sure she isn’t putting herself and the baby in any danger. Today, that means building steps.
I grab my phone and find some suitable music to get motivated, then back my truck up her driveway and unload the wood and supplies. She could be back at any time, so I move my truck back to my driveway where I won’t get blocked in, then set to work.
Her old steps may be rotting and soft, but they’re a bitch to tear out, and I’ve probably sweated off twenty pounds by the time I have them demolished. The kit makes everything pretty simple, and by the time I hear Melissa’s car turning into the driveway, I’m using the long timber screws to attach the framing to the house.
I don’t get a chance to explain what I’m doing before she flies out of her car.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I calmly pick up a riser and position it before responding. “Fixing your steps. They were a death trap.”
The electric screwdriver whirrs too loudly for her to answer me as I attach the riser, but when I turn, her mouth is hanging open.
“Are you drunk? This is my house! You can’t just tear up my house!”
“I had to tear out the old ones. They couldn’t be repaired. Had to be replaced.” The screwdriver jumps to life again as I affix the next board.
“I know they needed to be fixed! It was on my list! What the hell does this have to do with you? I’m sorry if my house doesn’t live up to your spoiled, rich dick expectations, but just because you’re loaded doesn’t mean you can do whatever the fuck you want to other people’s property!”
My knee pops as I get to my feet and face her. “What makes you think I’m rich?” Nothing about my income or family came up the night we spent together, as far as I remember anyway.
Her eyes reach for the sky, and she huffs. “Believe it or not, most people don’t just throw fifteen hundred dollars on the ground like it’s nothing. Only a spoiled, entitled asshole behaves like that.”
What is she going on about? Fifteen hundred dollars? It strikes me that’s how much I found in my mailbox.
“Are you the one who put the money in my mailbox?”
She crosses her arms and a little line appears between her eyes as she frowns. “Of course I did. How many other people have you thrown money at so they’d stop the fucking racket?” she says, using air quotes around her last words.
The confused expression on my face really frustrates her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You don’t even remember, do you? Let me refresh your memory. I was trying to have a yard sale and you stormed over, drunk off your ass, and demanded I stop. Then you told me if I was so hard up for money, to take yours. You proceeded to pull a wad of cash out of your pocket and throw it at my feet.”
Shit. No, I don’t remember that.
“But, that was before you spent the night with me.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Some lessons I have to learn the hard way, but I do learn them. I don’t know what you’re doing, if you’re bored and screwing with me or what, but you need to leave me alone.” She glances down to the half-built stairs. “After you fix what you tore up.”
She spins around and stalks to the side door. The lock clicks and she says, “No. Woody. You’re not coming out yet.” She returns to her car and starts carrying in bags. I get back to my work, but I can’t seem to stop myself from watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She sneaks a peek at me every time she stalks past, and that little line between her eyes deepens. She’s fuming and it’s fucking adorable. I used to love the smart, sassy, take no shit women, but the last thing I want to do is get involved with anyone now, especially since I’m not fit to be anyone’s father, and she obviously agrees since she hasn’t even told me about the baby.
I have no intention of letting on that I know. I’ll be helping her when I can, to make sure they’re safe, but it’s the same as I would do for any woman all alone in her condition. If she decides to tell me, then I’ll discuss setting up support payments, but unless or until that happens, I’m just sticking money into an account for the child when it’s grown.
She slams the car door and leaves a fifty-pound bag of puppy food on the ground near her rear tire while she carries in the last of the grocery bags. Without thinking about it, I get up and grab the bag. She shouldn’t be carrying heavy stuff right now. Her eyes widen when I step inside her door and ask, “Where do you want this?”
“Where I left it! What are you doing?”
It’s going to be a long nine months if she’s going to keep asking me that. “It’s heavy. Where do you want it?”
“Under the cabinet.” She opens the cabinet doors and Woody comes barreling around the corner, yapping and hopping around. He freezes as soon as he sees me and growls. Little bastard.
I put the dog food away and head back outside without another word. She doesn’t come back out of the house again, and no cops show up, so I guess she’s going to let me finish the steps.
Chapter Five
Melissa
Sweat drips down his forehead as he screws the last board into place. Every instinct I have says to go out there, take him some water or something, but I’m not going to do it. For one, the man is certainly unstable, if not outright insane. I mean, he tore out my steps and rebuilt them without saying a word, like he owned the place. Who does that?
I have too much on my mind right now to deal with a man who jumps from being a massive dick to doing nice things and back again like the flip of a switch. It’s the mistake I always make, being drawn in by assholes, but I can’t keep repeating that cycle. It’s not just me anymore. I have another little life to protect.
That doesn’t keep me from enjoying the view from my front window though. It’s a little pathetic, but I watch through a tiny gap in the blinds as he cleans up after he’s finished and gathers up his tools to take home. As if he can feel my gaze on him, he looks right at me, and I drop the blind slat, stepping back with a startled squeak.
Did he see me? Why do I really care? I can look out my own damned window if I want to. Woody dances around my feet, then dives into my lap when I sit on the couch. He may be hyper, but he’s also very loveable, and I could use a cuddle about now.
“Things are going to be hard, Woody. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m so afraid,” I murmur against his fur. He looks up at me and licks my cheek as if he understands. Maybe he does.
My phone dings with an email alert, and I feel a little of my stress fade as I read the message from the local gallery owner. They want me to come in with some of my new work, so we can discuss working together. I waste no time replying and they get right back to me with an appointment for the next day.
“Well, Woody,” I grin, getting to my feet. “It looks like something is going to go right today. Let’s go decide what to take with me tomorrow.” Yeah, I need to make some friends. I’m talking to a dog like he may actually answer me.
Woody follows me to my art studio, pausing at the door since I usually don’t let him in. “One scratch or tooth mark on my canvases, and you’ll never be in here again,” I warn, before gazing around at my work.
I have been really busy. After all the time that I couldn’t express myself, not out loud or through my art, it’s all come pouring out of me. I want to choose three to take with me that showcase my different abilities. I choose a watercolor of the lake at dusk, and an oil painting of a hummingbird that always visits the feeder on my back deck.
My gaze lands on the portrait of Jeremy. It’s good, but for some reason, it feels private. The pain
and humiliation that live within the paint strokes belong to me, but the agony on his face is all his. If it were anyone else, I’d ask them how they’d feel about such a painting being publicly displayed, but I have no desire to talk to him.
Screw it, this is the best work I’ve done in years. I’m taking it. I’ll just let them know it isn’t for sale yet. I wrap the paintings and get them ready to go before heading to the kitchen to make myself some dinner.
A big dinner. The sick feeling has passed, and now I’m starving. My palm caresses my stomach. “I hear you little one. How about a big, fat, frozen pizza?”
Somehow talking to my unborn baby doesn’t feel as crazy as talking to my dog. I feel a little lonely for the first time since Agnes left. I still talk to her often, and I’m happy she’s found someone. I couldn’t resist teasing her about shacking up when she told me she was moving to Florida with Amos.
After dinner, I only make it through a few minutes of television before my eyes start falling shut. I swear, all I want to do is eat and sleep. Woody follows me to the bedroom and curls up at my feet as usual. My last thought before I drift off is Jeremy and what possessed him to fix my steps.
The man is an enigma.
#
I wake feeling energized and ready to get on with the day. After a shower, I take a moment to stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hands wander over my belly that’s now beginning to curve out. Not so much that it would be noticeable to most people, but enough to make my jeans slightly uncomfortable. Maybe I’ll go shopping for some maternity clothes after my meeting with the gallery.
The weather has turned windy and raw, so I choose a warm sweater and comfortable pants. I pop the hatch on my car, stack the three paintings on the porch, and turn to lock the door. I’ve just put the first painting into the car when I turn and slam into a warm chest.
My heart rate triples, and I step back to see Jeremy frowning down at me. “I’ll get them.”