One Wild Weekend with Connor

by Lexi Hart

  I frown at her. “You dug up all that on her. Why?”

  Tessa wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “Partially because I wanted to make sure she was of solid character in case your dumb ass lawyer needed verification. Partially because I’m a nosy bitch who wanted to find out about the woman who tamed the beast.”

  I have no come back for any of that, even the beast comment. “You’re getting mighty close to trampling on her privacy.”

  She waves her hand in the air and snaps her fingers. “This woman has got you twisted six ways from Sunday; I just wanted to know what made her different. What’d she do to you?”

  I bark a laugh even though it’s not that funny anymore. “She’s pretty cool. But she’s also kind of...” Tessa is gaping at me, on the edge of her seat as I say way too much about a woman I’ll never see again. I search for the word and hate that my voice cracks when I say it out loud. “Unobtainable.”

  Tessa pulls a face. “Why?”

  This is turning into a pseudo-therapy session. “Well, this has been great, but I think we’ve officially passed your job description and entered into ‘none of your business’ zone.”

  She narrows her eyes and throws a stapler at me, which I dodge. “We passed that a long time ago. But okay, if you want to screw this up, be my guest.”

  “Good. Glad we cleared that up. I’ll be on my way.”

  I’m at the door when she throws a newspaper at me. “I circled a couple want ads. You should check with your guy at the halfway house, he might know of some work.”

  I wink at her. “Thanks for having my back.”

  She pulls a face and calls out as I open the door. “And don’t worry. If you can’t find work, there’s always the male strip club.”

  I raise a hand and wave as I head back out the door. I take a deep breath, forgetting how polluted the city is now. I hate the city. Hate the busyness, the noise, the crush of people all doing pointless things wasting the lives they have in jobs they hate. Like Evelyn. Working in her fancy realty office when she could be at her place with me.

  I curse aloud as I try to switch to think about something other than Evelyn. If her idiot neighbor hadn’t shown up when he did, we could be back there right now screwing in every room in her house. I have to direct my thoughts elsewhere so I try to think about how much worse it could have been. If Evelyn hadn’t been the one to find me and hadn’t saved my life, I’d be even worse off than that loser who escaped during his prison transfer.

  I’d be dead.

  Chapter 10.

  Evelyn

  I stumble through the door and head straight for the kitchen, still not sure of what I’m doing or why I took a sick day. I don’t even know what time it is. I drove around for two hours in a completely stupid desperate search for Connor.

  What I thought I would say to him if I managed to by some act of God find him, I can only imagine. My brain isn’t working, I’m off balance, and everyone in the office probably thinks I’ve finally succumbed to grief and had a mental breakdown.

  I grab the bottle of red and pour it out so fast I spill it over the counter. I guzzle the wine and stagger around the kitchen, exhausted and out of sorts as I try to find something to eat. I open the pantry and stare at the bag of microwave popcorn. I blink and grab the box of Oreos instead. I alternate between drinking my wine and gorging myself on cookies while I mutter like a mad woman trying to psyche myself up enough to go into the master bedroom again.

  When half the bottle and all the packet are gone, I picture Connor’s face and find enough courage to swing the door open with enough force to make the door smash into the wall. I stride across to the drapes and pull them open, disturbing years’ worth of dust and who knows what else in the process. I cough, trying not to breathe in as I try to push the window open. It sticks, but I manage to open it enough to let the cool air start to permeate the musty smell.

  I know my resolve is wavering when my hands start to shake, so I rip the bedding off and dump it, so it’s in the middle of the floor. I don’t stop moving until I’ve pulled everything out of the drawers and they sit on top of the bedding pile. I step back and survey the giant mess I’ve made, and instead of feeling even remotely proud, I just stare at it wondering what I’m supposed to do with all this?

  I scratch my head and mutter into the room. “I need help.”

  I turn, half anticipating an offer from Connor to help me take my clothes off. I gape, staring at the hallway, wondering what is wrong with me. Have I gone so crazy that I expected Connor to be standing there? I’m drunk, but I’m not that drunk.

  I back out of the room and head back out into the living room. As I stop to stare at the photo of Scott, realization snaps into me like a rubber band to the chest. I used to do that all the time. It’s been so long I’ve forgotten. All those almost questions, those laughs where I looked beside me to see if Scott was laughing too, only to be staring at empty space. But I’d known Scott for years. Shared everything with him. Built a life with him. Am I that lonely that a man I’ve only known three days imprinted that deeply on me?

  “That’s just sad,” I mutter to the photo. I pick it up and trace my finger over his face. “Is he right?”

  When I’ve looked so long at Scott’s smiling face and know he can’t answer me, I open a drawer and carefully place his photo on top of my high school yearbook and pull out a photo of my family instead. I close the drawer on Scott, on my guilt, my grief, and leave him locked up tight with all the other mementos that make up almost thirty years’ worth of living.

  Before I drag all of Scott’s things out, I tap out a text to Rosie.

  Hey. So, I think I quit my job, and I’m kind of tipsy and a complete mess right now, but this singles night thing on Saturday? I think it might be a good idea.

  I don’t know why I think I’ll hear from her immediately since texts can arrive hours later due to the spotty signal, but I stare at the screen for a few minutes before I give up and throw my phone on the sofa.

  It takes me nearly thirty minutes of unladylike grunting to bring all of Scott’s things onto the beach. I use my hands to dig a trench around the mountain and fill a bucket with water, so I create what I hope will be a fire stop. When I’ve figured the direction of the wind and am ninety percent sure I’m not going to burn anything outside of the circle, I strike a match and fling it onto the pile.

  Nothing happens.

  “Arrgh,” I scream at the sky.

  Gritting my teeth, I stalk to the pile and grab Scott’s aftershave and unscrew the cap. The scent seems weaker than I remember, but it’s still enough to bring back a host of memories that I’d ordinarily have to fight to keep down. I slowly pour the contents over one of his favorite shirts. When I think it’s saturated enough, I take a step back, make sure I haven’t accidentally poured aftershave on my hands, and strike the match again.

  This time when I flick the lit match onto the pile, it ignites with a whoosh and a blue flame. I watch it for a while, feeling the heat warm my skin as the day starts to creep closer to night. When the wind shifts and I suck in a lung full of air and start hacking from the smoke, I duck back inside, pull the deck door closed, and watch like a maniac as Scott’s belongings light up the beach.

  It takes me three hours to scrub every inch of the room, vacuum up cobwebs, and dust and polish. By the time the fire is starting to burn itself out, and my arms are aching, the room is empty, sterile, and the mattress is flipped to one side ready to be taken to the thrift store, along with its matching furniture.

  I catch myself smiling as I pass the newly polished mirror. And despite how exhausted I feel, despite looking like I’ve been up all night partying, I don’t think I’ve ever felt better. I pick up my discarded wine glass and slump into the couch, eyes on the photo of my family as I try to figure out if I want to rearrange the entire room.

  My phone vibrates beside me, and I smile as I see Rosie’s message. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Finally! You won’t regret this.

  I pu
t my feet up on the coffee table and stare at my reflection in the TV screen as I wonder what on earth is happening to me. I’ve never been prone to impulsiveness. Until Connor showed up, I don’t think I’d even broken the speed limit. Or broken the law.

  Broken.

  Connor said I wrecked him. Well, I’m pretty sure he’s done something to break me. And I’m pretty sure it’s a good kind of broken all things considering.

  I’m starting to doze, caught in my melancholy thoughts when a knock at the door makes me jump to my feet. My heart starts racing as I rush to the door, hoping that Connor will be standing there.

  Any hope of him turning up fades as I see the brown uniform of the smiling UPS man. He opens his mouth to speak, but as he looks at me, his smile collapses. “Er, Evelyn Jones? I’m sorry to call on you so late, but this is a priority package.”

  I try for a smile. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s not that late, just past six, I think?”

  He nods and doesn’t say a word about the state I’m in, just hands me a package and the signature device so I can sign my name. “Wasn’t sure if I was going to get through with the water damage, but it’s first class. Someone paid a lot to make sure that got here tonight.”

  I cock my head at him as I try to wonder who is sending me something that needs to get here so quickly. “Um, thank you,” I manage as he strolls away.

  I’m still mentally scratching my head when I rip the package open and take a seat at the kitchen table. A shirt, pants, and sweater have been neatly folded into tissue paper. I choke on a laugh as I recognize more of Scott’s clothing that I’ll need to burn. I search the packaging for a note and find an incredibly messy note obviously written in a mad rush that makes no sense whatsoever.

  This saved my life, then you did.

  Figured you should stay together.

  Connor

  I’m still puzzled when I notice a flat shiny silvery metallic bar with numerous markings. At the back of the piece of metal is a perfect cone-shaped dent, but it’s the words Palladium 300 grams that makes me screw my face up. What in the world is Palladium?

  Since I have my phone handy, I text an old friend who majored in geology and try my luck at getting a response. I turn the bar over in my hands, not sure if this is an incredibly sweet gesture or I’m handling stolen goods. I give up trying to figure out why he sent it and put it in the top drawer along with Scott.

  My stomach is growling at me, reminding me that Oreos and wine don’t qualify as food, so I fix myself a ham and cheese and sit on the counter, drinking a beer in the dark so I can look at the waves as they crash over the sand. I brush the crumbs from my clothes, yawning as I contemplate taking a shower before crashing for the night. I’ve halfway decided a shower is desperately needed when I hear my cell phone buzz on the sofa.

  Three messages have come in at the same time, which isn’t anything unusual. What is unusual is the message from my cell provider, letting me know they are finally looking at extending their towers to include one in Sanctuary Cove. The next text is from Rosie, telling me about a hot bartender she met, and the third is from Chloe.

  It’s basically a metal that can be used in anything from car parts to jewelry, and yeah, to answer your question it’s incredibly rare. About thirty times rarer than gold, so that makes it valuable. Why?

  I frown at the message and send her another one, making sure I ask all the questions I wish I had thought of in the first one. I tap my finger on the sofa as I wait for the message to come back. When it’s been over ten minutes, I give up and decide to take a shower.

  I scrub my face clean and wash the days grit off me as quickly as I can. I’m barely dry when I pull my robe over my body and rush back to check on my phone. When nothing has come through, I start to pace. I stretch my hands behind my back and try not to look at my phone as I tidy away the UPS packing and clean the kitchen counter to keep busy. I’m about to find something else to clean when I hear my phone. The first vibration hasn’t even finished before I scramble across the room to snatch it up.

  Conversion rate is about 1 oz to about 28 grams. I checked the market, and an ounce is selling for around $1400. Aside from this random interest in precious metals, how are you?

  I drop the phone and stare at the drawer. Fourteen hundred dollars an ounce and he’s given me a bar worth ten times that much? What am I supposed to do with it? Did he ever think about that? Did he think of how utterly useless a bar of metal is?

  The note is on the table where I left it, so I hurry back into the kitchen and see if I missed anything. After the third read through and nothing magically appears to explain why he’s basically given me an expensive keepsake, I check the clock on the microwave and decide to call it a night.

  I’m still shaking my head when I crawl into my bed confused, exhausted and desperately wishing Connor Slade was here to explain himself.

  Chapter 11.

  Connor

  The sunlight is reflecting off the table, highlighting that it needs as much work as the rest of the run-down joint does. The owner, Theresa, is waiting, so I answer her questions as honestly as possible.

  “I got into a bar fight. I overreacted.”

  The manager looks down her nose at me. Her face is all angles and bones. She looks about as uptight as anyone can. Hair pulled back, thin skin, eyes cold like she’s seen just about every kind of hardship under the sun, but she’s hearing me out, not something that happens a lot.

  “You broke the man’s jaw in two places. He was in hospital for a month. That is more than overreacting, Mr. Slade.”

  There’s nothing I can say to defend myself. It’s all true. “I made a mistake. I paid for that.”

  She picks up her pen and starts tapping it on the job application. “Mr. Slade. Let me be straight with you. Your parole officer and I go to the same church, so I know she thinks the world of you. The manager at the halfway house gave you a glowing recommendation, but I’m not about to go to the trouble of hiring you if you are about to up and leave.”

  I keep my face impassive as I think of an adequate reply. When I don’t really have anything, I go for brutal honesty. “I don’t have the means to leave, and if I did, I’d be in violation of the new conditions of my parole.”

  Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Alright, Mr. Slade. I’ll give you a chance. One week’s trial, then we’ll see where we are.” She pushes a form towards me. “Once chance, Mr. Slade. I don’t suffer fools, and if I get any inclination you aren’t able to control your temper, I’ll throw you out on your ass.”

  I nod, keeping my expression grim to match hers as I sign on the dotted line. “I don’t doubt it.” I exhale and release all the tension I’ve gathered in my muscles and follow her to the back room.

  “You can start by mopping the floor. And the windows need cleaning. We have an event on Saturday, and I need everything finished by then. I don’t have any other hands to spare, so this is all on you. Can you handle that?”

  I grin at her. “Yeah. I can.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, but she leaves me to it. I work through the morning, glad to be doing something to take my mind off the woman who keeps invading my thoughts. When I roll out of the door, I’m dog tired, my chest is aching, I’ve barely earned enough to cover the cost of a hamburger, but it’s a start.

  I smother a yawn as I crawl back to the halfway house, legs aching as I check in with the manager, thank him for the recommendation and head upstairs to my room. The halfway house is as sorry a sight as it always is. It’s falling down around us, but most guys inside here just want a chance, so they keep to themselves.

  I lie back on the lumpy mattress and fold my arms behind my head, flinching as my chest stretches taut, and stare at the water stains on the ceiling. The wallpaper is peeling off at a corner of the room. The windows don’t open; it smells like state cigarettes and sweat. The doors don’t lock, the manager does random drug tests and room searches, but it’s the closest thing to a home I have right now.


  I close my eyes and think about the beach house, about Evelyn’s soft skin, her lips, her tits, her ass, the way she moans. Then I start thinking about everything else I didn’t get to do with her, even stuff outside of the sack, all of which is pointless when I can’t do anything about it. I pull my cell out of my pocket and open the photo so I can look at her again. She’s a golden, tanned splash of color against the backdrop of grey in the room.

  When my chest starts to dully ache, and not from my wound, I can’t look at her picture anymore, but I can’t delete it either. It’s the only thing I have to remind me of one perfect weekend. I shove my phone back in my pocket, keeping my eyes shut as I try to ignore the noise and try to stop thinking about a woman I can never have again.

  When the house starts to quiet down, and I should be getting a snatch of sleep before what is likely to be another long day, the phone is in my hand again. My fingers are itching to text her to see if the package arrived. I have multiple ways to contact her. I know her home address, her work address, I have her cell number. I could probably even find an email address for her, and that I’m even contemplating any of that is not a good sign.

  Maybe it’s some sort of reverse psychology shit? Maybe if she wanted me to stay, I’d not be so crazy about her? I snort into the room. Whatever it is, thinking about it isn’t helping anything. I’m bone weary, but wide awake thanks to the thoughts banging about in my head. I give up all pretense of going to sleep and make my way downstairs. It’s too near curfew to risk going outside, and this isn’t exactly a good place to go out alone at night anyway. We’re pretty much in the armpit of the city, and I don’t need the hassle of some junkie or night crawler trying to get me to part with what little I have, so I head down to the rec room.

  The room is about as seedy as you’d expect in a state-run halfway house. The manager, Jeff, is better than most, and because I mostly stick to the dozens of rules they have here, he leaves me alone. A couple of guys are lounging about watching tv, looking about as pleased to be here as I am. No one likes halfway houses. Aside from the fact that we can leave to go to work and to eat, there are almost as many rules as jail. And given that twenty-five percent of what we earn goes straight back here to cover expenses, the state of the dump is what contributes to the general air of resignation and despondency.