“Stay put. I’ll check for you.” He has zero luck.
“Why don’t you try breaking in?”
He glares at me as if I’m a moron, and apparently I am.
“I’m not doing that.” He holds out his phone. “Call your friend.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
I grimace and it sounds so stupid, but it’s true. “I don’t know her number.”
His hand furrows a path through his hair. “Unbelievable.”
“It’s in my favorites, and I’ve never memorized it.”
“That’s ridiculous. Even my six-year-old has my number memorized.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Oh, my head is starting to hurt as much as my ankle throbs. I stand and hop past him to my porch. “Look, I’m fine. I’ll stay here until she gets home, and everything will be good.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“No, but I’m not making much sense right now. I’ve had too much to drink, and my head and ankle hurt. I just want to sleep.” My words are definitely slurred, even though I’m doing my best to enunciate them.
“What about your parents? Surely you remember Mommy and Daddy’s number?” His sarcasm is so sharp I flinch.
“No,” I say in a soft voice.
“You can’t be serious. You don’t even remember your home phone number?”
“I don’t have any parents, and this is my home.”
Suddenly, I feel crushed. Even in my drunken state, I note that he doesn’t acknowledge this. Usually, people tell me they’re sorry or something, even if it’s lame. He says nothing.
“Get back in the car.”
“No!”
“You can’t stay out here all night. It’s not safe.”
“So, where will I go?”
“Maybe I should take you to the hospital to have that ankle checked. You can’t put any weight on it.”
I weakly wave my arm. “Nah. It’s a sprain. I’ve had a ton from when I ran track and cross-country. I’m good. I swear.”
“Then I’m taking you home with me. It seems there is no other option.”
“I can’t go home with you. You have a child. And how will that look if her teacher comes over drunk?”
“Yes, how will that look?” he asks snidely. I know I deserve a good chastising, but he doesn’t have to add the super mean undertones to his comment.
“I won’t go. Besides, you’re mean.”
We have a stare down for a few seconds before he admits, “You don’t have to worry about English. She’s with her grandparents this weekend.”
Giving in, I hobble back to the car a few steps when he picks me up again. “If you won’t go to the hospital, then you need to ice this ankle, too.”
Don’t I know. I really do hope I didn’t break the dang thing.
The motion of the car makes it impossible for me to stay awake. He shakes me when we arrive, and I’m surprised to see the size of his place. It’s a craftsman style home that’s lovely. There’s an entrance from the garage, and he helps me inside, as I insist on walking. His large kitchen opens to the living area where there is a huge sectional sofa. He hands me a big baggie filled with ice and props my leg up on the coffee table, telling me to put the ice on top.
“You should take one of those to bed with you.”
“Um, I can sleep right here.”
“No, I have a guest room.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
His brows shoot up. I know. That was dumb. I’ve already put him way out. “Really. This couch is bigger than my bed.”
“What do you sleep in? A crib?”
That’s the first thing he’s said that’s remotely funny, and I laugh. Then I laugh harder, and it’s uncharacteristic for what he said, but it’s one of those things that I can’t seem to stop. Tears roll down my cheeks because I’m dying.
“It wasn’t that funny.” His straight-laced persona is back.
“Yes, it was. Because you rarely speak, and when you do, you never say anything funny. Someone must’ve stolen the fun right out of you. Then you come up with that, and even though it wasn’t that funny, it was, because it came out of your unfunny mouth.”
“I do say funny things.”
“Do not.”
“Do, too.”
“Shut up. That’s stupid,” I tell him.
He reaches for my foot and unzips my bootie.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m frying an egg. What do you think I’m doing? Taking this contraption off your foot.”
“Contraption?”
“Yes. Had you been wearing something normal, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself.”
“Normal, huh? I suppose you want me to walk around in grandma shoes.”
He moves his attention away from my foot to my face and asks, “Are you trying to pick a fight?”
“English didn’t know what that meant—to pick a fight.”
“Hmm. Well, I hope she never learns what fuck me hard and fast, rotten dicks, getting butt fucked, sucking a giant boner, and double fucking a big fat dildo are.”
My face heats from instant mortification. “Oh, gawd. That was awful. You weren’t meant to hear any of that. I’m so sorry. And English will never hear that from me. I swear.”
“Hmm, yeah, do teachers always run around and get drunk and talk like sailors on Friday nights? Do I need to worry about my daughter?”
My hand flies to my chest as I practically wheeze, “No. Oh my gosh, never would I do anything to put those children in jeopardy.” And that’s when I see the corners of his mouth turn up. “Oh, my. He smiles.”
“Of course, he smiles. You have this opinion of me that I’m nothing but an ogre.”
“Well, you are. The first time I met you I nearly had my head bitten off.”
“Because you basically accused me of using sexual words around my daughter, and now I come to find out you’re nothing but a trash mouth.” He’s jesting, and it’s hard for him to keep a straight face.
But still, I gasp. My mouth opens and closes several times, but I have no adequate response because he’s right. I took my frustrations out on him for losing control of the class. English was playing the alphabet game and calling out words she didn’t think a thing about. I was the one who became flustered. Grabbing a pillow on the couch, I cover my face.
“Ugh, it was awful that day. None of the kids had heard those terms, and it got out of hand.”
I watch as he rises and moves to the kitchen where he takes out two glasses and fills them with ice water. It’s then I glance around the room and take in the surroundings. Everything is clean lines yet comfort. There are signs of English here and there—a stuffed bunny, shoes, a sweatshirt, and some coloring books with crayons. But the walls are what grab my attention. Photo after photo of her in a collage that dates back to her infancy. And the pictures are definitely not amateurish. And then I remember her telling me that her dad took pictures.
“You’re a photographer?”
One nod. He hands me the glass of water.
“Listen, there’s a guest room upstairs with a bath.”
“No, I really don’t want to put you out. This is more than fine.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going to bed then. I’ll get you a blanket.”
He returns shortly after that and hands me a blanket and pillow before walking down the hall, but then he stops. “There’s a bathroom just off the kitchen.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks. Night.”
There is some impressive photography on these walls as I sit here and glance around. It appears as though he’s well traveled and whatever he does, it must pay well because this is a very nice house. But I need to rest, so I lay my head on the pillow he gave me, and sleep takes me to dreamland.
The smell of coffee wafting under my nose awakens me, and I groan because my head throbs. I roll over to see a set of gorgeous eyes looking at me. A yawn the size of a bottomless pit hits me, and his lids w
iden to enormous proportions, reminding me of a Pekinese we used to have when I was a kid.
“Did you leave any for me?”
“Any what?”
“Oxygen.”
“Smartass,” I mutter.
He hands me the mug, and I take it. “I hope you like it black.”
I scrunch up my face.
“By the looks of your face, I take it that’s a no.”
“I’m a cream and sugar girl.”
He grabs the mug out of my hand and walks away with it, only to return moments later. “Here, princess.”
“Thanks.” And it’s divine. But it hits me how awkward this all is. “Um, thanks for rescuing me last night. I didn’t mean to crash your party.” I rub my eyes because they burn like hell.
“I know.”
Lifting up my butt, I pull out a stuffed bunny. “Tell English thanks for letting me sleep with her friend,” I say, grinning.
He grabs the stuffed creature out of my hand and sets it onto the table. His eyes grow dark, and his mouth hardens. “I’ll do no such thing, and she is not to know you were here. Am I clear?” His tone is clipped as though I’ve pissed him off.
“I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” And I am because I have no idea why he’s so angry.
Our gazes lock, but he says nothing further.
“If you don’t mind too much, I’d like a ride home, please.”
His head tips up and down once, and he disappears down the hall. I need to use the restroom, so I get up to go, but my ankle is next to impossible to put weight on. Doing my best, I hop to the bathroom, and when I get a good look at myself, I nearly croak. Raccoon eyes meets bird’s nest on steroids. My eyes are on fire, and I figure out why. I slept in my contacts. Holy shit. I’m surprised he didn’t scream when he saw me. My hair is one huge knot. It’s plastered to the side of my head, and then … well, I’m not sure what the heck I did on that couch, but it couldn’t have been good. Or safe. I can’t even run my fingers through the snarls to untangle them. I get my face a bit cleaned up, but oh, brother, am I scary.
When I return, it takes me a while. His back is toward me, and he says, “Thought you fell in.”
“Nah, I had to do damage control, and it took a while. I forgot to take my contacts out, and now they feel like potato chips.”
Without an acknowledgement, he heads to the door leading to the garage. I hobble-hop behind him. Maybe it was the noise of me walking that clued him in, but he finally turns around and says, “Christ. You better get that thing looked at today.”
Really? You better get that thing looked at today? I want to flip him off, but I can’t because he has to drive me home. There are elements to this man that are nice. I mean, there have to be. But I’m trying very hard to find them right now. Impatience coats him as he waits for me by the door. I hurry as much as I can, but it’s a bit hard with this stupid foot. Then I have to go down several stairs. There isn’t a railing for me to hold, and he’s already headed to the car. No offer of help coming from him. So I sit on my butt and scoot down the steps one at a time. The garage door opens, and he opens the driver’s door of his expensive SUV. A BMW, I believe. I’m not into cars, mostly because I’m poor and trying to pay off my student loans. My car is old, and I pray it lasts me another ten years.
But then he turns my way and looks pissed off. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m taking too long or what. In a few long strides, he’s at the foot of the steps and says, “Don’t move another inch. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Going to the car. What else?”
He mutters something and then reaches underneath me and picks me up.
“I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience,” I say.
He grumbles something that I can’t quite make out, but it’s about over imbibing. And he’s right. I should have never drunk so much last night. Boy, did I mess up.
After he deposits me in the seat, he jogs around to his side and then backs out of the garage. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. It’s a bad habit from wearing glasses. Usually I do it because my glasses drive me crazy after a while, but now it’s because he’s making me turn into a head case.
I take some long deep breaths, and then I say, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden to you. But thank you again for letting me stay with you.”
No response. We pull up in front of my house, and before I can I get out, he’s there to help. After we get to my porch, I thank him again. I don’t want it to be said that I wasn’t grateful. Without his assistance, I would’ve been forced to walk home, and that would’ve been very dangerous.
“You really did a good deed, you know.”
Again, nothing. I give up. “Well, see ya.”
Chapter Ten
Sheridan
Mr. Mysterious drives off, and that’s that. It’s then I realize we never called each other by any name.
When I get to the door, Michelle is still not home. Great. Excellent. How long will my wait be? I never thought to look at the time, and I’m not wearing a watch. There’s a small wicker settee on our porch, so I have no other choice but to sit and wait.
Oliver brings her home, and they’re having a grand time as I watch them both get out of his car from my little perch. When she sees me, she asks, “What are you doing there?”
By this time, my blood is simmering. I would think she would’ve checked her purse and would’ve seen my phone and other stuff.
“I’m not sure I can even tell you. Can you unlock the door, please?”
I see it all register on her face. “Oh, shit. I had your stuff. I’m so sorry.”
I stand and almost trip because of my damn ankle.
“What happened?” she asks, looking down.
“Just unlock the door.”
When she does, I make straight for the shower. Cleaning up is number one. Number two is food, then three is the medical clinic for an X-ray, where I get the bad news. I have a fracture accompanying my severe sprain, so I have to wear one of those stupid boots until the orthopedist, whom I will see on Monday, decides the time is appropriate to stop. Best news ever—except for the crutches to go along with the effing boot.
As I drive up to the house, Michelle and her newfound love, Oliver, are leaving. I was hoping she was going to be around so I wouldn’t have to go to the store. Now that plan is blown.
“So?” she asks.
“I have a fracture, and I’m on crutches and wearing a boot.”
“Oh, no. That’s awful.”
“Yeah. My luck.” I try to laugh it off, but the fact is it pisses me off, and when I’m pissed like this, I cry. And that pisses me off even more.
She looks at Oliver and says, “We’re going to a movie, so we’ll be out of your hair. Call if you need me.”
Call if you need me? I want her to say—“Hey, Oliver, let’s cancel our plans for tonight. My roommate needs me, and we can go to a movie another time.” But she doesn’t, so I’m stuck with heading back out to the store, feeling overwhelmed with these crutches and boot. At least it’s my left foot so I’m able to drive.
It’s very difficult navigating a grocery cart and a pair of crutches by yourself. I get to the Publix, and am trying to figure this whole thing out when I nearly topple over the apple cart. Literally. I’m standing there and trying to juggle my crutches and the bag I want to drop my apples into when one of my crutches starts to fall. As I reach for it, my grocery cart rolls a bit. I panic, hop to get it to stop, and I begin to fall. My hand latches on to the apple stand to halt myself, and the whole thing crashes. Apples roll every which way but Sunday, and all the produce people come running to help. But the worst part of all is I look up and there he is. The jerk of the century. He stands there shaking his head. And don’t I look like a fool?
Two strong hands reach under my armpits, which I’m sure are sweaty, and set me on my foot. He then hands me my crutches and pulls my cart to me.
“Thanks. You’re always in the wrong place at the right time,
” I mumble.
He saunters off as I watch. It’s quite a view, and I really wish it wasn’t. I wish he were an ugly man. A very ugly nasty icky looking thing with warts and pimples, and I wish he smelled bad. Like poop. Or farts. And now his hands smell like my sweaty armpits. Gawd. What else can happen?
The poor produce workers get the apple stand put back together again, and I move on to the salad stuff and bananas, careful not to let things get away from me. By the time I have everything I need, I’m exhausted.
As I get in line at the checkout, you know who is right in front of me with his cart filled to the brim. My God, he has enough food in there for the entire neighborhood.
I’m not gonna lie. I scope out everything he’s buying, and I have to say the man didn’t load up on the junky crap. Bonus points for him.
“Hungry?” he asks. “I think you have a bit of drool on your chin.”
Smartass. In actuality, I haven’t eaten since six the night before, and it’s about two. “Starving. I haven’t eaten since last night.”
A pretty pink blush blooms on his cheeks. Hmm. I’ve embarrassed him. I didn’t mean to insinuate that it was his fault. I didn’t bother to grab anything when I left the house.
“Why didn’t your roommate come with you?”
“She had a date.”
One flick of his head, as usual.
He pays and walks out. No wave, no good-bye, or fuck me, you, whatever.
One thing about Publix is they always help you out with your groceries. So once my car is loaded, I’m on the way home. Now I’m trying to figure out how I’ll lug them inside. Maybe I can hang them around my neck. Much to my surprise, Mr. Bridges is waiting for me when I arrive.
“Thought you might need a hand.”
I get out of the car with the intention of unlocking the front door, but he holds out his hand. The man simply doesn’t talk. I drop my keys into it and off he goes with several bags. He unlocks the door, and by the time I get up the stairs, he’s back for the next and last load. He’s set everything in the kitchen, and then he hands me my keys and tells me to lock up, and he’s gone before I can thank him. Weird.
From Ashes To Flames Page 38