Dirty Stranger (The Dirty Suburbs Book 3)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  He chuckles softly then whispers back. "I just want you. I don't care."

  “Reuben…” I’m silently begging him to let this go.

  He holds my gaze and I feel like an ice block melting under the heat of the sun. This is intense. Too intense. I need to put some space between us and to kill the intimacy buzzing in the air. I push off the windowsill and walk the short distance to flick on the light switch. Sudden luminescence floods the room.

  I turn back to him, trying for a casual vibe despite the sex screaming its way through my veins. "So was there a reason you stopped by?"

  He pushes a defeated sigh at my attempt to change the topic but he goes along with it anyway. He lifts a shoulder. "Just wanted to see you smile."

  "Well, you picked a bad time because I really don't think I'll be smiling any time today." Those rainclouds look more menacing than ever. I come to terms with the fact that a major downpour is inevitable. It’s supposed to be January for god’s sake. Couldn’t it just snow?

  "What's wrong?"

  I point up at the ceiling. "You see that gross-looking tile right there? The one with the big brown stain?" He looks up and nods. "That's where the water pours in every time it rains."

  Mild shock covers Reuben's face. "Have you told your landlord about that?"

  "A million times," I sigh. "I'm not too high on his priority list right now. He's selling the building so he doesn't care if the roof caves in on my head."

  "How long has it been like that?"

  "Since last fall. I have to cancel my classes every time it rains."

  An expression bordering on fury covers Reuben's face. "What a fucking rat!" His fists clench at his sides. He grabs his empty cup from the windowsill and now he's making his way to the door. "I know a roofer. I'll send him to look at this mess immediately."

  I laugh bitterly. "Ha! I can't afford a roofer or else I would have fixed this problem a long time ago."

  "Don't worry, Isla," he promises. "I've got you covered."

  "Reuben..." The guy is a freaking barista and a bartender. He can't afford to pay a roofer, either.

  He pins me with a look. “I’ve got you covered, Isla.”

  Before I can protest he's already stomped out of the building.

  Chapter 8

  Isla

  The door swings open and my cousin Annaleigh stands there barefoot, cuddling a bag of chicken wing flavored corn chips to her chest. She braces a huge textbook under her arm.

  “Hey Isla,” she says through a mouthful of junk food before turning back toward the small dank living room.

  "Hey bug." I close the door behind me and walk into the apartment. “How are y—?” before I can get the question out of my mouth, I lunge forward and nearly face-plant after I go tripping over the combat boots carelessly kicked off in the center of the hallway.

  “Careful," Annaleigh scolds sternly, glancing over her shoulder at me.

  Because her shoes clearly have every right to be sitting right in the middle of the pathway.

  I have to chuckle. “Uh, sorry?”

  Annaleigh is too immersed in reading her textbook to notice my hitched eyebrow and the sarcasm in my tone. She shakes her head causing her curtain of thick black bangs to sway rapidly. “No worries, cous. Just be careful. It’s a bit of a mess around here.”

  No shit.

  I take in the unkempt state of the living room. “I’m guessing that it’s your turn to clean?” I try not to smirk as I say it. I know Blakely. She's a clean freak. None of this mess is hers.

  "Yeah. After I'm done studying.” Annaleigh waves the thick book at me. “Organic chemistry," she explains. The, she slips in her earbuds, muttering under her breath. “I’m so fucking stressed.”

  Annaleigh’s whole world revolves around her ambition to become a lab technician. Her life goals are basically snagging every scientific scholarship and academic award that comes within her vicinity. She doesn’t make time for much else. Socializing isn’t high on her list of priorities.

  “I’ll let you get back to your studying,” I say as I head down the hallway to my sister’s bedroom, dodging around books, random articles of clothing and other objects I might trip over. I push the door open an inch and stick my head inside. Blakely is sitting on her bed, eyes on her computer. “Knock, knock.”

  She startles, snapping her laptop shut and shoving it under her pillow. “Isla!” She wears the expression of a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

  “Hey Blakes,” I say with furrowed eyebrows. “Is now a bad time to talk?”

  She pulls her fluffy, pink comforter over the pillow where her laptop is hiding. “Uh…no.” She swallows guiltily.

  Now, I’m curious about what my little sister is up to. I glance around. Her immaculately-clean bedroom is a stark contrast to the rest of the tiny apartment. Strawberry-scented candles burn in a cluster on the dresser and soft ‘90s R&B pours out of her small stereo. A glass of red wine sits on the table next to her bed.

  It looks like somebody was ‘getting in the mood’.

  “Blakely, were you on CheekyChat talking to a boy?” I question with amusement. I’ve heard that the new dating app is even more addictive than Tinder.

  Her freckled cheeks turn hot pink as she turns down the music and Toni Braxton’s voice fades away. “No. I, uh, I’m just, uh, writing…a paper. I’m on a deadline.”

  Although she’s an English major with only a few semesters left until graduation, I know that she’s lying to me right now but I won’t press the issue. My sister is a good kid. She’s proven that to me time and again. I just hate that she feels she can’t be honest with me. But that’s Blakely for you. She’s painfully bashful and very discreet. I think that’s why she and Annaleigh make such a great duo. Blakely’s too shy to cause any trouble and Annaleigh’s too preoccupied to even notice.

  “I won’t be long,” I tell her, leaning against the doorjamb. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

  She gives me a little, innocent smile. “Yeah, sure.” She yanks her Reyfield Community College zip-up sweatshirt over her tank top as she slides out of bed. “I could use a break. I’ll make you a smoothie,” she offers as she walks past me, careful to pull her door shut as she goes.

  She tugs her fiery, red curls into a ponytail as we make our way to the kitchen, passing Annaleigh twisted up on the couch surrounded by her textbooks and her junk food. I pull out a chair, pushing some dirty dishes out of the way.

  “Sorry,” she says in a whisper, rolling her eyes before pulling the blender from the bottom of the overflowing sink and sponging it off. “It’s Annaleigh’s turn to clean.”

  I snort a laugh. Filth is the one thing that my sweet little sister hates. And it’s the one thing that she and her roommate fight about.

  “No worries,” I whisper back.

  “So, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asks as she reaches into the fridge for berries, spinach, bananas and almond milk. She sets it all on the counter then digs through the cupboard for some nuts.

  I sigh. This isn’t the type of conversation I want to have with my sister. I’m the older one. I’m supposed to look out for her. She’s supposed to be able to rely on me. Not the other way around. But right now, I have no choice. Instead of beating around the bushes, I pull off the Band-Aid in one swoop. “I can’t pay you this week, Blakely.”

  Her movements still for a beat, then she dumps the fruit into the blender along with some walnuts and pumpkin seeds and turns to look at me. “Okay, then,” she says calmly her lips pulling into a compassionate smile.

  The loud whirr of the blender fills the room and in that moment the tears come streaking down my face. There’s no way to sugar coat it; I’ve failed. Not only myself, but now Blakely, too. What would mom and dad say? They’d be disappointed in me, no doubt. I can’t even take care of myself, let alone my sister.

  “Hey, hey! Stop crying!” Blakely scolds softly. She sets down the drink in front of me and wraps her arms
around my trembling shoulders.

  I don’t think she’s seen me cry since our parents’ funeral. I’ve always remained cool and collected in front of her. It was my way of protecting her from the world crumbling all around us. Now, I’m the one crumbling.

  “It’s okay that you can’t pay me this week.” She rubs soothing circles into my back. “Don’t worry about it, sis.”

  I pull away and look at her. Her eyes twinkle kindly at me. “You’re not upset?”

  She shakes her head, her smile growing. “Not at all. I know that you’ve been having a hard time, especially now that you have to give money to Zayn every month.” Her venom wraps itself around his name. She never felt comfortable around him. I suspect that that’s why she moved in with Annaleigh instead of staying with me and my then-husband until she finished her studies. It seems that everybody was able to see Zayn for the parasite he was. Everyone except me.

  “I’m sorry, Blakes. The electricity bill was overdue and I didn’t have a choice.”

  “It’s okay. Really. I don’t need the money anyway. I’m just happy to help you.”

  Blakely is so sweet. Of course she needs the money. What college student doesn’t need extra cash? But she’s lying to me, just to spear my feelings.

  I sniffle, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I swear to you. I’ll pay you soon. I have a meeting with some investors in a few days and once I get that money, I’ll pay you.” At this point, not getting that investment simply isn’t an option. It’s my only way out and I’ll do everything in my power to get it.

  “It’s all right, Isla.” She squeezes my hand as she sinks into the chair opposite me. I continue to sniffle. “Okay, enough moping. I’m changing the subject now,” she announces. I look up at her and giggle because her bossy side hardly ever gets to see the light of day. It’s cute.

  I wipe my wet cheeks and sit upright in the chair. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

  A glint of mischief twinkles in her eyes. “Reuben from the coffee shop,” she states excitedly. “He really likes you.”

  My eyebrow darts up. I did not foresee that she’d broach this topic. Blakely and I don’t talk about dating. I think our age difference makes her a bit reticent to ask me about relationships. As I said, she’s a very private person. Plus, I haven’t dated that many guys anyway. I got married five seconds after I left high school, after all.

  My sister scans my face for my reaction. “Huh?” I try to play dumb but she isn’t buying it.

  “Don’t you dare pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about,” she says on a giggle. “He’s been hanging around the studio every day for the past week.”

  Reuben has been all kinds of charming over the past few days. He’s been delivering my coffee every morning. When I step out of my 9 a.m. yoga class, my hot latte is waiting for me on the edge of my desk without fail. Now, I think about him every time I have coffee. (And I’m sure that’s the effect he was going for.) Plus, he hung around the studio giving orders and being all bossy (read: sexy) while his roofer-friend repaired my leaky roof. He even rolled up his sleeves and gave Betty a push start when the poor, old clunker refused to start the other night after work. And when mortification almost killed me, he simply brushed my hair out of my face and complimented me on owning such a beautiful, classic vehicle.

  Flattery, bold-faced flattery, I tell you.

  I’m still not sure whether he was just trying to be funny. I love Betty, but she’s anything but beautiful and I can assure you that there won’t be any car collectors beating down my door, begging to buy that old thing and add it to their fleet of vintage models. Still, it was sweet of him to say those things just so I wouldn’t feel bad. Anyway, now Blakely is completely on Team Reuben

  …But I think he's been sneaking her coconut cookies so he isn't exactly playing fair.

  Anyway, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t caught myself daydreaming about him. Several times. Every day. It’s getting harder and harder to keep him at arm’s length. But the timing is all wrong for me. Even though Reuben is a good guy and even though he wants to take things further between us, I’m not in a position to do that right now.

  My sister stares at me, waiting for an answer. I shrug. “I’m not too sure what he wants but I’m not interested. I don’t have the time or the energy to devote to figuring a man out right now.” I take a gulp of the smoothie.

  Blakely looks amused. “Ha! You like him, too!” she says excitedly. “That’s why you try to avoid him!”

  “I don’t try to avoid him!” I state defensively.

  She tips her head back on a restrained, little laugh. “Yeah right. You used to stop at Herbivore every morning. Now, you flinch every time you walk by their front door. And I see the way your face gets all dreamy when he comes around.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to fight back a smile. “My face gets ‘dreamy’? Are you serious, Blakes?”

  “You know what I mean, Isla,” she says on a sigh. “Anyway, you’ve had some really awful stuff happen to you over the past few years and I just want to see you get a break. You’ve always put my needs and Zayn’s needs and everybody else’s needs ahead of your own. You deserve to enjoy the company of a nice young gentleman.”

  “You sound like an 85-year-old agony aunt,” I tease.

  She flings a paper napkin across the table at me. “Stop playing around, Isla. Reuben’s one of the good guys. I can tell.”

  I feel heat prickling my cheeks. Okay, this conversation is over. “Well thanks for the unsolicited advice, Ann Landers. I’ll keep an eye out for your next advice column.” I suck down the rest of my drink and slap my glass down on the table as I stand. “Now, get back to your ‘studying’,” I say making air-quotes around the word.

  Blakely cringes, face hot pink again as her eyes dart away.

  I laugh, tugging playfully on the curls of her bright red ponytail. “Enjoy CheekyChat, you sneaky, little freak.”

  “I wasn’t on CheekyChat!” she protests as I head to the door.

  “Oh, okay.” I slip into my coat, ignoring her unconvincing protests. I glance over at Annaleigh who’s so lost in her reading that she doesn’t even notice me getting ready to leave. I just shake my head and slip out the door.

  Chapter 9

  Reuben

  I snatch the newspaper sitting under my glass of orange juice and read the headline again.

  Marquette Breaks Ground on New Condo Project; Expands Real Estate Empire

  I grit my teeth.

  We aren’t moving fast enough. Here I am holed up in this dingy hotel room. Meanwhile, that man continues to sink his claws deeper into this town. I should be doing something.

  I spear another cold potato wedge with my fork and reach for the phone beside the room service tray. I search through my contacts and punch in my older brother’s number.

  “Hey there, Reuben.” His gruff voice roars into the phone as I lean back against the headboard and force myself to swallow the bland-tasting potato. Fiona may be a nice lady but she’s a terrible cook. I really feel bad for her husband. Anyway, she needs to hire someone else to manage the kitchen. ASAP. I scribble a quick note of that onto the stationary sitting on the bedside table. “Mom was starting to get worried about you. She was sure they’d come to the door any day now and to say you were dead.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. Our mother tends to be overdramatic, overbearing, over…everything. That’s why I haven’t been taking her calls. I need to keep a clear head right now.

  “If that’s your way of asking how I’m doing, then I’m doing fine,” I say making no attempt to veil the snark in my voice.

  Griffin chuckles heartily. He loves ruffling my feathers. “Oh, of course you’re fine, Reuben. You’re always fine,” he exhales roughly. “It’s Ryan she’s worried about.”

  “Isn’t she always worried about him?” I say giving up on the potatoes and taking aim at something that resembles breaded shrimp. Hunger
and excitement renew in my stomach because no one can mess up breaded shrimp. Not even Fiona.

  “At least when she’s worrying about Ryan she isn’t picking fights with dad’s new wife.”

  I chuff bitterly as I stab into the morsel of food and shovel it into my mouth. I struggle against its rubbery texture and its sharp, cheesy taste takes me by surprise. “It’s a stale-ass mozzarella stick.” I scowl as I spit it onto the side of my plate.

  Oh, Fiona. Bless your heart.

  I’m no Gordon Ramsay but I could teach her a thing or two in the kitchen. And to think she serves this crap to her customers. No wonder this hotel is on the verge of shutting down.