by Kristie Cook
He returned to the staircase, studying the braces that had been anchored into the wall not five minutes ago.
“Ah, man! What the hell did you do to my stairs?” My astonishment and embarrassment quickly turned to anger and frustration.
“Seems I did you a favor.”
“Excuse me? You ripped my stairs from the wall! Nearly killed me!”
“An eight-foot drop likely wouldn’t kill you. And they fell from the wall.”
“You said it was your fault I fell. What did you do?” I put a hand on my hip, shook a finger at him and ranted on. “And I do know you. I recognize you, anyway. Your hair’s shorter, but it’s only hair. Not much of a disguise. You were at the show in Charlottesville. You pulled me out of the fight. All the way up in Virginia. And now you’re here, right where I am. Again. You better start explaining, or I’ll call the cops.”
He smirked again, eyeing my wagging finger. I didn’t know whether to admire the grin—a hint of dimples showed when his full lips lifted like that—or hit it right off his face.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Especially for such a little thing,” he said, and my hand balled into a fist in natural reaction to his condescending tone. He lifted his hands in the air in surrender. I couldn’t help but notice his smooth, tanned skin stretched taught over the long and strong muscles of his hands and tried not to think about what they would feel like against my body again. I shook my head, erasing those errant thoughts.
“Explain,” I repeated, now through gritted teeth.
He rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles straining against his black Guns N’ Roses t-shirt.
“I heard you wanted to know what it would take to fix this place up. Thought I’d check it out to get an idea of what it needed.” His dark gaze darted over to the old, rusty staircase lying on its side, then back at me. “I’d say the stairs need to be replaced, for starters.”
“Is that your game?” I spewed. “Come over and wreck everything so I’ll pay you to fix it? What kind of split does Buck get? He probably told you to start with the stairs, knowing I was up there and now have no choice but to fix them. I mean, my stuff and my dog are up there. Oh, man.” I turned to look up at the door. “Sammy? You okay, boy?”
Sammy wagged his whole body and let out a happy bark. I pushed my hand through my tangled hair and realized for the first time I still wore what I slept in—an old t-shirt and boy’s boxer shorts.
“I’ll get my ladder,” the guy said, turning for his truck parked in the overgrown lot. He returned with a long ladder and leaned it against the building’s side, having no problem with reaching the door upstairs.
“Hold up a minute,” I ordered. He started up the ladder even as I continued. “Is this part of your charges? Because this is totally bogus. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even know if I want to fix anything. I’m not sure I can even afford it. So don’t be—”
He reached the top, pulled Sammy under one arm like an oversized football—and Sammy let him—and shimmied his way down one-handed.
“No charge,” he said, setting Sammy down. “I dig dogs.”
My arms fell limply to my side, and no words came. His dark eyes gleamed as he surveyed me, making my thoughts go to inappropriate places, especially under the circumstances. Then he cocked his head, and it was all I could do to not become putty in his hands.
“Can we start over?” he asked. He held his hand out to me. “I’m Micah. I do a little work for the locals here and there. They call me the village handyman. You won’t find anyone better—or cheaper—but if you want me to go, I’ll go.”
I looked at his hand and back up at his face. “And what about my stairs?”
His hand remained in the space between us. “I gave them a shake before trusting my weight on them to go knock on your door. They fell right off the wall. They were about to go any time, so you’re lucky it didn’t happen while you were on them. Or, worse, someone else who would be happy to sue you.”
“And what’ll this cost to fix?”
He rubbed his square chin covered in dark stubble, as if he hadn’t taken the time to shave this morning. “Tell you what. You buy the supplies, and I’ll put up the new stairs for only a thank-you for saving your life.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Guess I feel a little guilty, even if they were about to come down anyway. Besides, you’ll get a sample of my work before deciding to hire me.” He stuck his hand out again, and a real smile spread across his face, fully displaying dimples more heart-stopping than I’d expected. His grin grew even wider at my expression.
Blowing out a breath of both reluctance and embarrassment, I reached up for his hand. As soon as our palms touched, that strange jolt flipped my stomach and my head spun. Micah must have felt something, too, because his eyes widened, although his hand tightened around mine.
“Um ... fine,” I choked out, extricating my hand from his before the bones in my legs began to melt.
“Excellent.” He seemed to recover himself, and the smirk returned. “Of course, your other options are a retired dude from New York who charges you as if he were still there although he prefers fishing to working so he never shows up, and a sixty-nine-year-old who’s usually drunk and likes to work in his speedo and nothing else.”
My nose wrinkled involuntarily at the visual. If this were a beauty pageant, I didn’t have to see the others, even if they weren’t old, swindling wrinkle-bags. I doubted anyone here—or anywhere, really—compared to Micah. He was the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Ever. But this wasn’t a pageant and even though I felt like I’d known him before—really known him, not just recognized him—I still questioned his intentions. If he thought he could take me for a ride, he had another thing coming. Well ... unless it was a ride of the naked kind .... I blinked. Man, where were these horn-dog thoughts coming from?
“If we book it to the lumberyard, I can probably have your stairs done by the end of the day,” Micah said as Sammy came running up to him after doing his business. My dog nudged his nose against Micah’s hand and received a scratch behind the ears. Sammy loved this stranger. Traitor, I couldn’t help but think, although I knew if Sammy liked Micah, the guy couldn’t be too bad. “You can use the ladder to get your things, though.” His eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Like some clothes, maybe?”
I looked down at myself. Awesome. I was totally nipping out through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. I crossed my arms over my chest and my face heated to the temperature of hell. I made a beeline for the ladder.
“I mean, I don’t have a problem with what you’re wearing,” Micah called after me. “Could even get us a discount at the lumberyard. Up to you.”
My face flushed even hotter, and I nearly missed the first step of the ladder. Then I rushed the whole way up, once again angry and embarrassed, now with myself because I let him get to me. No guy had ever affected me like Micah did. I was reacting like a schoolgirl, and I hated it. The fact that he hadn’t explained how we’d “coincidentally” run into each other in two different states at two different times had even slipped my mind, which was unacceptable. Whatever Sammy thought of the guy, it was a little creepy he’d show up again so randomly.
After an awkward sponge bath since I had nothing to clean the shower insert or even a shower curtain, I dressed and returned to the ground, my mind changed. I had decided last night if I had any work done, it would be by someone I trusted, not some dude who freaked me out so much, let alone was the one sleazy Buck pushed so hard on me. Micah probably made up those bogus lies about the other two so I wouldn’t even think about them, but I wasn’t falling for it. No, I would make my own decision, not be forced into this. So when my feet touched the ground, I pulled the two business cards and scrap paper out of my jeans pocket, and turned, ready to announce my decisio
n, only to find Micah playing fetch with Sammy.
“He’s an awesome dog,” Micah said as Sammy ran up to him with a stick in his mouth. Micah sank into a squat and scrubbed Sammy’s neck and patted him on the back. “Aren’t you, boy?”
Sammy licked Micah’s cheek.
“Sammy,” I said, trying to sound stern because he wasn’t supposed to lick people’s faces, but the word came out as more of a jealous whine. Sammy came bounding over to me, sat at my feet and looked up at me with a smile in his eyes. I dipped down and hugged him. “Of course you’re a good boy. You’re my boy.”
Micah eyed me again. Making me feel self-conscious. Again.
“What?” I asked.
“You just, uh . . . never mind. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“What?” I demanded again.
“You’re a little overdressed is all.”
I’d put on another pair of ripped-up jeans (I didn’t have any other kind), a loose, black top and a black tank under it, which was necessary because the top often slid off one shoulder or the other. I wasn’t into showing off bra straps. Since destroying most of my punk clothes, not much remained of my wardrobe, and this was one of the last clean outfits left.
“Overdressed? For the lumberyard?” What kind of place was this?
“No, for the heat. There’s a reason most people around here wear as few clothes as they can get away with.”
I cocked my head. “You’re wearing jeans.” Which he looked very good in.
“I’ll be working. Trust me, those clothes will be coming off you soon enough.”
My cheeks heated again.
“Not likely,” I muttered. I wasn’t like the locals with their deeply bronzed skin. I had typical redhead coloring with fair skin and freckles, and others would be blinded by the sun reflecting off my flesh if I exposed any more of it. This had always been my excuse anyway when the talk of bathing suits ever came up, and I stuck to it now. Micah didn’t argue, but simply shrugged, as if he knew he’d be proven right soon enough. Whatever.
“You ready? We’ll take my truck,” Micah said.
I waved the small papers in my hand. “We’re not going. I changed my mind.”
Micah stopped in his tracks, and his lovely smile slid off his face, replaced by disappointment. Dammit. I didn’t like that look on him. I had to mentally kick myself, because I shouldn’t care. He was only disappointed because he wouldn’t be taking my money.
“Okay, then,” he said amicably enough. “So which one are you going with? Butch? His orange card matches his speedo. He also happens to be Buck’s brother. He’s your real estate agent, right? I’m sure he really talked Butch’s work up. Or will it be Paul, the one with the fancy card? He’s probably already out on the boat, so you’ll have to wait until this evening to even get a quote.”
“Neither,” I said all smart-assish as I waved the scrap paper in the air. “This one. Humphrey. So you can—” I paused as his words fully registered. “Wait. You’re not orange-card-dude?”
Micah wrinkled his nose and forehead. “Not even.” Then he held his hand out again. “Once again. Micah. Micah Humphrey.”
His dimples showed as he took in the expression on my face, then pulled his hand back to his side. Were we both a little scared of what happened when we touched?
“So,” he said, once more moving toward his truck. “If we put Sammy in the bed, will he stay?”
I didn’t answer at first, but nibbled on my inner lip. The coincidences were stacking up, making me wonder if this was good kismet or bad karma. I had asked Pops for a sign last night, but never expected to actually be given one. Getting into a truck and going somewhere with a guy I’d met less than an hour ago didn’t seem very smart. Not something Pops would condone.
“Your Jeep won’t fit everything we need,” Micah said, noticing my hesitation. “And it’s a bit of drive to take two cars. If you’d rather Sammy get in front with us, that’s fine. I just thought it’d be a little crowded.”
When Micah opened his truck door—the passenger side, as though being a gentleman—Sammy followed him over and jumped right in. As if to say Micah could be trusted. Jeez, Pops, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re really screwing with me. With a sigh, I climbed in after my dog. At least Sammy was big, creating a decent barrier between Micah and me. I only hoped he hadn’t gone completely traitor and would still protect me if Micah made a suspicious move. I tried to ignore a certain part of me that envied the dog because he got to sit so close to the hot dude on the other side.
“So . . . UVA?” I asked as we turned off the road the bridge was on and into the traffic of “town.”
“UVA what?” Micah asked, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Guess not,” I muttered. I didn’t think so—he didn’t appear to be UVA material. Probably not James Madison either. “Radford? Virginia Commonwealth? Um . . .”
I wracked my brain for other colleges I knew within an hour-or-so drive from Charlottesville. Of course, he could have come from farther away like Bex and I had, but I doubted it. Only girlfriends and groupies did that, especially in the dead of winter.
“Should I know what you’re talking about?” Micah asked.
“Just trying to figure out where you go to school. You never said what you were doing in Charlottesville that night and now you’re here, so I figured you go to school around there, and you’re down here to work for the summer. You from around here?”
“No. Across the board.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not from around here. Not from Virginia either. And do I really look like the scholarly type?”
“Do I?”
His eyes cut over to me, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Touché.”
“But you’re not? You don’t go to college?”
“Not exactly. Do you?”
He was being evasive, so I thought I should be, too. “Not exactly.”
It was true—I’d basically dropped out last semester and still hadn’t finished registration for the fall—even if the plan was to return in a couple of months.
“So what were you doing there?” I asked.
“What were you doing there?” he countered.
“Seeing the band, of course.” I didn’t go into details about why that particular band. He didn’t need to know anymore about my life at this point of our, er, relationship. Or whatever you call it. “Wanted to check it out.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Micah didn’t elaborate either, and my frustration grew.
“How’d you get from there to here?”
“I drove.” He patted the dashboard as I let out a groan of frustration. Before I could complain, though, he continued. “You have Sammy. I have Ginger. This truck is my best friend. We’ve been through a lot together, including a lot of states.”
“So you’re a drifter?”
“You could say that.”
“But why here?” I pressed.
“I heard there was work. Was hooked up with a cool place to live. So I’ve been here for the past few months.” He peered sideways at me again. “I could ask you the same, you know. What you were doing there and here, right where I happen to be.”
“I have good reasons. For both.”
“So do I.”
“Well, you know mine. I didn’t show up here for the hell of it. I didn’t have a choice. You know that. So what are your reasons?”
He looked at me full-on now, over Sammy’s back, with a big smile on his face and a gleam in those mocha eyes. My stomach dropped like it had when I’d fallen from the door this morning. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine? Is that what you want to play? Because there are much more fun versions than this.”
My mouth might have fallen open a litt
le. His grin growing wider, Micah turned his attention back to the road.
“Last I checked, coincidences aren’t a crime,” he said. “That’s all it is. A weird coincidence.”
Reluctantly, I nodded in agreement. What else could I do? He obviously wasn’t going to give me any other answers, and I certainly didn’t want to piss him off since Sammy and I were currently at his mercy. Who knew what he could to do to us? Sheesh. What had I gotten myself into? I needed to be very wary. Alert. I patted my pockets for my switchblade and pepper spray I always kept with me. Both were in easy reach.
“So, didn’t like the skinhead thing?” I asked, changing the subject.
“What the hell are you talking about now? Do you ever speak English?”
“I am! The last time I saw you, you had long hair. Now it’s extremely short, as if you’d gone skinhead but changed your mind.”
He snorted. “Definitely not skinhead. Those guys are assholes.”
Agreed. I’d never met one I liked. “Then what? Some kind of makeover?”
He chuckled. “Once again, I could ask you the same. You look different, too.”
I swallowed. He was right, and for some reason, I felt the need to explain. Maybe something inside me wanted to trust him. I ran my fingers through my straggly hair that barely reached my shoulders. Trudy had helped me return the color to natural, but we’d had to cut it pretty short. At least I hadn’t shaved any of my head for over a year, or she probably would have sheared it all off and given me a wig. Apparently, Micah had noticed the change, as well as the lack of heavy eyeliner. In fact, I’d been going with the natural look lately, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible these days. I inhaled a deep breath and let it out.
“My grandfather was my last living relative.” I swallowed again to keep away the lump trying to form in my throat. “When he died, I wigged out at first. Practically drank myself to death. When I finally came out of it, I knew I couldn’t go back to that whole punk scene. So here I am, trying to be a grown-up.”