by S. M. Shade
The way I always dealt with my emotions before was simple. Ignore, and find a willing woman to sleep with. The thought just isn’t doing it for me now. If I hadn’t been such an idiot, led by my dick, maybe Frannie and I would’ve—
No, not thinking about that today. I can’t.
“Happy Maids Service is sending a team in about an hour,” Justus says. “You’re going to kill their happiness.”
Tucker chuckles and grabs his keys. “I told them you’d leave the key in the mailbox.”
When I go to chuck the extra house key in the mailbox at the end of my drive, it’s stuffed with circulars and coupons. I never check it because no one has this address, and all my bills are set up to be paid automatically from my bank account.
Just as I’m about to throw it all in the trash can beside me, a one-hundred-dollar bill falls out of the pile and floats to the ground.
“What the fuck?” Tucker asks. “Did someone send cash through the postal service? That’s stupid.”
Climbing in the back seat of Tucker’s car, I sort through the pile until I locate the slim, white envelope. There’s only one word scrawled across the front in what appears to be feminine handwriting.
Asshole
“Yeah, it’s for you all right,” Justus quips, but his eyes grow wider when I pull out a stack of bills.
“Fifteen hundred dollars. Who the hell put fifteen hundred in cash in my mailbox without a name or anything?”
“Maybe someone got the wrong house?” Tucker suggests.
“Fuck if I know.” There’s nothing in or on the envelope to give me any clue where it came from.
“When was the last time you checked your mail?” Tucker asks.
“A week or two after I moved in. Didn’t see the point. No one uses snail mail anymore.”
“That’s weird. What are you going to do with the money?”
Shrugging, I shove it back into the envelope. “I’ll hang onto it for a while. If someone got the wrong house, I’m sure they’ll be back to get it.”
“Because that’s not shady at all. It was probably meant for drugs or some shit,” Tucker says. “Do you have your gun with you?”
“Yes, Dad. Locked and loaded. Now, let’s get a steak. I’m starving.”
#
Eight hours later, after a steak dinner, haircut, and a few games of pool at a local bar, we return to my house.
A minivan with Happy Maids scrawled across the side in pink paint sits in my driveway, and two young women are just coming out of my front door.
Justus stops and gives them a bright smile. Justus isn’t the type to cheat—and god knows Sadie would cut his nuts off if he did—but that doesn’t stop him from flirting. “Hello ladies, I just want to point out that this is not my house. I live in a nice, clean place—”
“With his wife,” I interrupt, and they both laugh. Reaching into my wallet, I pull out four hundred bucks and split it between them. I don’t know how much the agency pays, but it can’t be enough for what they had to deal with. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” one of them replies, giving me a green light look if I’ve ever seen one.
“Drive safe,” I mumble, and walk past the guys into the house.
They follow me inside.
Wow. The place is spotless and smells like lemons. They even did my laundry. “Dude, what was that?” Justus asks, as Tucker carries the cases of beer into the kitchen. He returns with three bottles and passes them around.
“What?”
“That chick was practically humping your leg.”
“Not interested.” I flop onto the couch and take a long pull from the bottle.
“No, it can’t be. Jeremy Martin cannot be the c word,” Justus says, shaking his head.
“Are you calling me a cunt?”
“I could see how you’d make that mistake, but I was talking about the fact that you’re now celibate.”
Grabbing the remote to the television, I shove Justus aside. “Fuck off, I passed on one woman. That doesn’t make me celibate.”
“Plus your neighbor,” Tucker adds. “You would have been all over that…before.”
The word hangs in the air, supported by the weight of the awkward silence. Before. Before the shooting. Before Frannie died. Before I missed my chance.
“Shit’s different,” I reply, shrugging.
Justus is usually good at knowing when to change the subject and he nails it this time. “I brought the new Call of Duty. Ready to get your ass kicked?”
The next few hours are the best I’ve had since I moved here. The mood lightens, helped along by alcohol, good music, and great friends. We move out to the back deck at one point and Tucker points down at the dock, where my neighbor sits with a drink in her hand.
“She spends a lot of time down there, doesn’t she? Does she live alone?”
“No idea.”
Justus gets to his feet and bounds down the stairs toward the dock. “Five bucks says she pushes him into the water,” Tucker chuckles.
“I got ten saying his drunk ass will fall in on his own.” It feels so good to laugh again. To feel like a part of the world again.
We watch as they talk back and forth for a few minutes. When Justus turns to go back up the stairs, she follows him. Shit. Did he invite her over? Just because I wanted to hang out with them doesn’t mean I want a neighbor bothering me.
“Guys, this is Melissa. Melissa, this is Tucker and Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, directing her words and smile at Tucker.
“Melissa agreed to join us for a drink,” Justus says, leaning against the railing.
“Can I grab you a beer?” Tucker asks.
She holds up a glass and shakes it. “Already have a margarita, but thanks.”
“Here we go,” Tucker murmurs, just before Justus speaks up.
“You have margaritas? And I’m drinking this fermented swill?”
Tucker laughs at the confusion on Melissa’s face. “Justus is fond of the girly drinks.”
“Hey, not every man is secure enough in his masculinity to drink a pink squirrel.”
Melissa’s laughter fills the night with music. Okay, that may have sounded a little lame, but her laugh is beautiful. It reminds me of the wind chimes that hung outside my window when I was young.
“Well, I have plenty more at home. I’m happy to share. Do you have a blender?”
“Afraid not,” I lie. This isn’t good. I don’t want to make friends with the neighbors. I want my privacy to…to what? Keep wallowing in self-pity and regret? Damn it, the alcohol is killing my ability to think straight.
Melissa considers it for a moment. “No problem. I can bring mine, and the drink mixes, if one of you wants to come and help.”
“Go grab the blender, Jer. We’ll move all our stuff inside,” Justus says.
Damn it. There’s no way I can say no without sounding like a total asshole and having both guys turn on me. “Let’s go,” I grumble.
Melissa doesn’t seem thrilled with the idea either, but she leads me to her back door and flips on a light as we enter the kitchen. Holy hell. This is the first time I’ve really seen her up close in the light, and she’s more beautiful than she is from a distance. Those eyes. I only get a glance, but they remind me of the lake just after sunset. Dark blue and mysterious.
The moment is ended when she shoves a blender into my hands. “You can carry this. I’ll get the rest.”
Her tone is totally different with me than it was talking to the guys. Like she’s tolerating me. I don’t know what possesses me, but I blurt out. “They’re married.”
Balancing a box with a few bottles of alcohol and drink mixes, she replies, “What?”
“Tucker and Justus. They’re married.”
“Okay. Cool.”
That’s all she has to say, and I follow her back to my place. It isn’t until a few hours and quite a few drinks later, that I realize how misconstrued my announcement was.
&n
bsp; Justus slops his margarita down him and over my couch for the third time, so Tucker reaches over and plucks the glass from his hand. “You’re cut off, man. Or else I’m going to find you a sippy cup.”
“Pshhh, I’m good. Not nearly as think as you drunk I am.”
Tucker sighs, and dodges Justus’s half assed attempt to get his drink back.
“How long have you two been married?” Melissa asks.
It’s one of those needle scratch across the record moments, where everything seems to freeze. Looking a little uncomfortable, she adds, “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious. You’re so…cute together.”
A second later, Tucker throws back his head and loud laughter echoes around us. Justus’s alcohol soaked brain finally catches up, and he jumps to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the arm of the sofa.
“Oh, hell no! I love pussy! I worship it! It’s like a religion!”
Tucker just laughs harder at his reaction, and I find myself joining him. “No! Seriously! Look!” Justus pulls out his phone and holds up a picture of Sadie. “That’s my wife! And she blows me every night!”
“I’m sorry.” Melissa giggles. “Jeremy said you were married.”
“Yeah, to other women,” I clarify.
“Well, how was I supposed to know? You sort of blurted it out when I didn’t ask, so I thought you were making sure I wasn’t homophobic or something.”
“Oh,” Justus says, stretching out the word as he sits back down. “That is a strange thing to announce out of the blue.” He turns to Tucker. “Now why would Jer want Melissa to know we were taken? It’s a puzzler.” His finger taps against his lips while I try to resist the urge to break it.
“I was just making conversation,” I reply, getting up to grab a shot glass and my bottle from the cabinet.
“Are we doing shots?” Justus slurs.
“Nope,” Tucker replies, and Justus lies back on the carpet.
“Kay.” It’s his last word before he’s snoring.
“Lightweight,” I scoff, pouring two shots and handing one to Tucker.
“What? You can’t do shots with girls?” she taunts when I don’t include her. She was so soft spoken and quiet at the beginning of the night, but I have a feeling this teasing, smart ass version is the real Melissa.
I fill another shot glass, and it’s the first of many, but the last I really remember.
#
My rise to consciousness is slow and filled with flashes of the night before. Whiskey. So much whiskey. I can still taste it, though it feels like my tongue is permanently attached to the roof of my mouth. My first thought when my eyes pop open is water. Thankfully, there’s a glass beside my bed. I’m pretty sure it’s been there for a couple of days, but right now, I couldn’t give a shit.
It isn’t until I shift onto my side to reach for the glass that I realize there’s a slight weight draped over my shoulder. Who the hell?
Ink black hair, straight and sleek, spills down my chest.
Oh fuck.
Shit. Damn. Hell.
It’s Melissa. She’s naked and in my bed, which can only mean one thing, and I don’t remember one second of it. Justus and Tucker and their damn intervention. Look where it’s gotten me. I have to get her out of here.
Sitting up, I grab the water and down it. My abrupt movement jostles her, and she blinks, trying to focus her bloodshot eyes.
“Morning,” she says, sitting up and pulling the sheet over her chest.
“You have to go,” I tell her, jumping out of bed when she reaches to touch me. My head pounds, and my stomach twists.
She glares at me, her lips thinning into a straight line before she spits, “Asshole. I should have known.”
She stomps around the room, collecting her clothes, and manages to knock a picture frame off the dresser. Snatching it up, she tosses it back onto the dresser, and the broken glass rattles. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Being nice to assholes has never gotten me anywhere. I’m a damn glutton for punishment.”
Jerking my underwear up, I tell her, “Last night was a mistake. We were drunk. I never should’ve had you here, but you didn’t exactly run away, so if you’re waiting for an apology, don’t hold your breath.”
I’m aware I’m being a dick, but I need to put a stop to this right now. Frannie has only been dead for six weeks. It doesn’t matter she wasn’t technically my girlfriend or that we were dating other people when it happened. We would’ve found one another again. I know it.
Her glare fades a bit and she shakes her head, grumbling, “Unbelievable. Fucking class act.”
“You’re searching for your panties under my dresser. Doesn’t exactly scream classy,” I remark, grabbing some clothes and heading for my bathroom.
“Go fuck yourself with that limp dick!” she yells as I close the door. With any luck, she’ll be gone when I’m done.
Chapter Three
Melissa
Rage takes over as I pull my clothes on. I thought no one could top the assholes I’ve been surrounded by the past few years, but this guy managed. The look on his face when he saw me in his bed was like a physical assault. Revulsion, that’s what I saw in his expression. Disgust and horror, like he woke up next to some deformed monster.
Well, fuck him. I don’t need another man around me who thinks I’m trash. The only reason I even agreed to join them last night was because his friends seemed so nice, and the months of little to no social interaction are beginning to weigh on me. I could feel the depression taking hold, and I thought maybe a night of fun and drinking would help.
Instead, I’m treated like a leper and doing the walk of shame. At least I only have to go next door.
Justus is dancing around the kitchen, singing about girls with big butts when I stalk by. He looks up at me with a wide smile.
“Good morning. How many pancakes can you eat? They’re chocolate chip.”
Shoving my feet into my shoes, I take a deep breath. No reason to take anything out on one of the two guys who have actually been kind to me. “No thanks. I need to get home.”
Tucker walks into the room and flops onto the couch. Justus glances at him before turning to me. “What did Jeremy do?”
“He just made it clear I needed to get out of his house before I infect him or something. Thanks for the drinks last night. It was fun. Nice meeting you both.”
All I want to do is get out of here and lick my re-opened wounds at home, but Tucker gets to his feet and lays a hand on my wrist. “Whatever that idiot said or did, it wasn’t about you.”
Yeah, right. They didn’t see the look on his face when he saw me in his bed. “It’s okay. I need to get home anyway.”
“His girlfriend died in July,” Justus says, joining us in the living room. “He’s struggling with it.”
“It’s still no excuse for how he treated you,” Tucker adds.
“But it explains a lot,” I reply. “Don’t worry about me, really. I’m good. I’ll see you later.”
This time neither of them stop me when I head for the door. Cool air blows across my face, drying the tears that have started leaking by the time I get home. At least I didn’t cry in front of him or his friends.
They said he recently lost his girlfriend. If there’s one thing I know and can relate to, it’s loss. I’ve had my heart torn out more than once, but I’ve never used it as an excuse to treat people like shit. If anything, it softened the way I interact with others.
I head straight for the shower to get the amazing scent of him off of me. When I woke, my face was buried in the sheets and the first thing I noticed was how wonderful they smelled. Now, it just makes me feel dirty.
My only plans for the day were to clean up the house and call Agnes, since I haven’t heard from her in a few days, but by the time I get out of the shower, all I can feel is the urge to paint throbbing through my veins.
I can’t forget the look on his face when he saw me in his bed and the need to capture wha
t I felt at that moment is overwhelming. One glance into my studio and I know that isn’t where I need to be. I gather all my supplies and set up on my back deck.
Laughter from Justus and Tucker rings in the distance, but it doesn’t really register with me. I’m in the zone. The place I go when I’m hurt, upset, or anxious. The ability to retreat there has saved my sanity countless times.
The overcast day matches my mood perfectly. All the while I’m working, the feelings of rejection and shame seep away, leaving me in a contented exhaustion. I’m surprised to look up from my work and see the sky has turned a deep purple. As usual, I’ve been completely immersed in my art.
Stepping back, I look over the painting. It began as Jeremy’s face, but became twisted into a portrait of despair and anger. Anyone who might see this would recognize him right away, but I’m not sure they’d see the layers of his personality bleeding through. I’m sure he wouldn’t like it, but I don’t care. Art doesn’t care. It just shows the truth and damn the consequences.
A rumble of thunder sounds in the distance so I quickly move the canvas and all the supplies back into my studio. It feels good to flip off the light switch and leave him there, in the dark.
I’ve just finished scrubbing the paint from my hands and arms when my phone rings. I recognize Agnes’s number. “Melissa, is that you?” she asks before I can say hello, and I know right away something is wrong.
“It’s me. Are you okay?”
“Well, I think I may have broken my ankle, and I can’t get a hold of my kids. I know it’s late, but do you think you could run me to the Emergency Room?”
“Of course! Is it just your ankle? Did you hit your head?” I grab my purse and keys.
“No, just turned my ankle coming down the stairs and I can’t put any weight on it. It looks like a puffer fish.”
“Don’t try to stand on it,” I warn. “I’m on my way.”
“Just use your key, dear.”
If I ever meet Agnes’s family, they aren’t going to like me one bit. She’s seventy-five years old. She really shouldn’t be living alone, especially if she can’t even count on them to answer their phones in an emergency.