by Kelly, Hazel
They were cute kids, though, with heads covered in curls and light blue eyes. For a split second, it made me wish I had a bigger family- not now of course- but someday.
Someday when I had my shit together.
Anyway, I decided if the opportunity arose again, I might like to have a chat over some freshly squeezed lemons. Not that I was there to meet people. On the contrary, I was there to do a job and enjoy some quality thinking time.
Cause I had plenty of things on my mind, but I didn't usually have the luxury of quiet time at home. Frankly, I was starting to understand why my mom used to go out of town with her sister once a year to get away from us, leaving my dad with a fridge full of frozen pizzas and a pantry full of juice boxes.
I was putting my tools in the back of the truck when my phone buzzed in my back pocket.
"Hey," I said, wiping my hands on my pants.
"Jonesy," Marv said. "How are ya?"
"Fine, you?" I asked, opening the door and climbing in.
"Fine-fine as usual," he said, clearing his throat. "I just wanted to call and make sure you got the specs for that new song."
"The Titanic one?" I asked, turning the key in the ignition while my eyes scanned the ground alongside the house one last time to make sure I hadn't left anything behind.
"Bingo."
"Yeah," I said, looking over my shoulder as I backed down the driveway. "I'm actually working on it right now."
"That's what I want to hear," he said. "You think you could have something to me in a week or so?"
"A week?" I asked, pulling out on to the road. "That's not much time, is it?"
"I know, but the studio called and put the pressure on, said the other two people they've asked to draw something up agreed to the deadline."
"Fucking hell, Marv. When were you going to tell me that?"
"I just got off the phone with them."
"After you agreed to the new deadline?"
"I didn't outright agree," he said. "I left it kind of open ended."
"Uh-huh."
"But you know these guys. They hear what they want to hear."
I sighed. "I figured I had at least a month," I said. “I never would've agreed to do it if I’d known I had so little time.
"Limitations are the artist's friend."
I rolled my eyes.
"I have faith in you, Jonesy. All your best stuff was created in a short amount of time."
"I hope you still feel that way in a week."
"I'm sure I will."
"Is that all you called to tell me then or is there something els-"
"I wanted to warn you about your royalty check this month."
"Oh?"
"It's the lowest it's been in years."
"I see."
"Don’t get me wrong, it's still fuck you money, but I didn't want you to be surprised."
"Right."
"It's only a temporary dip though."
"Oh?" I asked. "You sure about that?" I glanced in the rear view mirror to make sure no one was coming up behind me and continued to let the car inch along towards the next house.
"Pretty sure," he said. "I just read on Twitter that one of the Kruzinsky sisters is going to use “My Heart is Yours” as her wedding song."
"Which one?"
"Which Kruzinsky or which wedding?"
I shook my head. "Never mind.”
"One retweet even said they were going to try to get the band back together to play it live on the day."
"Well, that's a great example of why you shouldn't believe everything you read on the internet."
"You could probably name your price."
I laughed. "My self-respect isn't for sale."
"Everything's for sale."
"I have to disagree," I said. "In my experience, there are things that can't be bought."
"Like what?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Like the love of a good woman."
He laughed. "Ahh, the ignorance of youth," he said. "Must be nice."
"You were young once too, Marv."
"And even then I knew that the love of a good woman could be bought."
"If you say so," I said, turning the wheel into the next driveway. "For the minute, though, I'm going to focus on writing something the studio will buy."
"And maybe think about the Kruzinsky wedding a little more."
"Don't hold your breath," I said, putting the car into park. "There's nothing to think about there. I'm glad they like the song, but I'm not doing it."
"Even if Johnny's up for it?"
"Even if the slutty one calls me herself."
"That's fucked up."
I turned the ignition off. "So is you telling me I've got a week to pull this new song out of my ass."
"I wouldn't ask you to do something you couldn't do."
"Yeah right. You'd ask me to eat kangaroo dick if it would make you money."
"You're absolutely right," he said. "I'm glad we're on the same page."
I popped the door open. "Goodbye Marv."
"Bye Jonesy," he said. "Call me when you've got a million dollar melody."
I hung up the phone and dropped it on the seat, letting my head fall back against the headrest. What a fucking joke? One week to write a hit song?! Like I'm fucking Dylan.
I shook my head and glanced up at the next house for a second before reaching for the clipboard on the seat. Another porch repair.
A half hour later, my shirt was wet with sweat, but I’d finally sawed enough pre-sanded timber to do the job.
I pulled my shirt off, mopped the sweat off my brow, and slung it over the side of the truck bed. Then I carried the wood to the side of the house, wondering how the heck I was going to turn this DIY adventure into a song that would melt panties and pluck heart strings.
Cause I sure as hell wasn't about to become a fucking wedding singer.
Chapter 10: Addison
Clearly, Debbie let people stay at her cabin all the time. Or at least I could only assume that was the case since it was hard to believe that the chick lit on the bookshelf was hers.
Still, I was desperate for anything that might pass the time, and it had been too long since I allowed myself the luxury of sitting down with a good book, though it had been one of my favorite pastimes as a child.
In fact, one time I finished all the books in the foster home I was in and only then realized how shitty all the people in the house actually were to each other.
If they had more books, I might've stuck around or behaved a bit better. But since that wasn't the case, I encouraged their youngest biological kid to set a small fire in the garage and was promptly removed for being a bad influence.
Over the years, I learned all the tricks for how to get out of a bad house as well as all the perks enjoyed by foster parents so they could be manipulated for my benefit. Of course, the few times I actually employed these tactics weren't exactly events I was proud of, but survival was my main priority.
Plus, I genuinely believed that most of the families were better off without me. I mean, if my parents thought they were, why should other adults feel differently?
Except teachers. I realized early on that they were different.
Their strategic favoritism was easy to understand. All I had to do was work hard and demonstrate an interest in learning. So I did. And I found comfort in trying to impress them because I trusted that they wouldn’t give up on me. Or send me away.
Though to Mrs. Collins’s credit, she was the first foster parent I ever had that made me feel like more than a means to an end- that end being a regular government check. Of course, she was a retired teacher herself.
Anyway, I’d just lied down on the bed and opened my book of choice when a woodpecker started going for broke right outside the window.
At first, I laid the book on my chest and stared at the ceiling, willing it to stop.
But this little guy seemed hell bent on giving me a migraine so I got up and walked to the window, pulling the
sheer white curtain away so I could get a better look.
If the window had been open, I probably could've reached out and shooed him away, but I could tell it wasn't for opening because even the lock itself had been painted over. Plus, I didn't want to get pecked.
He was interesting for a moment, though, with his fierce eyes and his red head. But I blinked again when he started pecking, shocked at the sheer violence of it.
I mean, I'd hit my head against the wall before- as recently as the previous week- but I'd never banged anything with that kind of intensity, especially not with my nose.
"Are you done?" I asked when he stopped. It was the first time I’d spoken out loud since I got off the phone with Holly, and I wondered how crazy I would go after two weeks talking to nothing but critters.
Naturally, he answered me by pecking away again so I left him to it, taking my book to the bedroom down the hall and attempting to start again.
But as I read the first sentence for the second time, there was a bang so loud I shot back up into a sitting position, my ears perked up like a wary cat’s.
A moment later, there was another large thwack sound. Like wood on wood.
I ran to the window, pressing my forehead against the glass and trying to get a look at what was going on outside, but I couldn't see anything. Then another thwack echoed through the forest.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the next one, and I braced myself as I opened the door, flinching in the direction of the next smacking sound before hurrying down the steps and flip flopping my way around the corner.
"What are you doing?" I asked, approaching a shirtless man on a ladder who appeared to be taking the house apart. His hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and I wondered how long it was when it was down. Too long to be corporate anyway.
He turned towards me. "Hi," he said, his stomach muscles rippling as he caught his breath.
"Hi," I said, watching a drop of sweat disappear behind the top of his jeans where they pulled across his hip bones.
He smiled. "I didn't know anyone was home."
"And I didn't know someone was coming by to take the house apart today."
The sound of his deep laughter was startlingly low. "I'm not taking the house apart," he said. "I'm just fixing the porch."
I crossed my arms in front of me and took a few steps back to make sure he couldn’t see down my shirt. "Can you come back and do it later?"
"That depends," he said, turning back to unscrew another slat from the porch.
"On what?"
"When’s later?"
"Three weeks would be perfect."
"No can do I’m afraid."
"But I'm trying to relax up here."
He turned towards me and leaned back, his arm flexing as he grabbed the ladder. "And I'm trying not to let beautiful women distract me from my job, but sometimes life is cruel."
I shook my head. "Are you almost done at least?"
He turned back to face the porch. "I'll stop right now if you offer me a cold drink."
"Are you serious?"
"Hey," he said, turning back towards me and wiping his brow with his forearm. "I'm just trying to be polite."
"By making a bunch of noise?"
"By making sure you don't regret not offering me a cold drink later."
I laughed. "Unbelievable."
"Is that a no?"
I sighed. "I'll see what I have."
And as I walked back inside, trying to think over the racket he was making, I swear I felt my blood pressure rise.
Chapter 11: Wyatt
My jaw nearly dropped when I first saw her.
For a moment, I thought she was Cherise. She had the same dark red hair falling around her shoulders, the same porcelain skin.
But it couldn't have been her.
After all, the real Cherise- whose name was probably something far less exotic- was probably in her fifties by now. Plus, the Cherise I remembered from that well-worn magazine looked up for it… in every picture.
No matter what compromising position the cameraman caught her in, she looked sexy and inviting.
But this woman didn't look nearly as happy.
Despite her striking green eyes and her shapely lips, she just looked annoyed, as if her patience was already worn as thin as the straps of her skimpy tank top.
And yet her beauty took my breath away.
One pouty face from her was enough to make me forget what the heck I was doing up a ladder with a pry bar in my hand.
"Your choices are water or cranberry juice," she said when she came back around the corner.
I was hoping her attitude would soften after her trip inside, but her arms were crossed when I looked down at her.
"Well?" she asked, cocking her head.
"Cranberry juice would be great," I said. "With ice if you have it."
She made a face like I'd asked her to whip up a batch of cookies, but after she turned on her heels, I suspected I knew what was going on.
I had enough experience doing odd jobs for Austin that I was used to all kinds of receptions when I showed up without warning. And this was a typical type A reaction. It made perfect sense.
Earlier, the mother of four hadn't even flinched. As soon as she determined that I wasn't a threat to her kids, she went about her business completely unfazed. And no wonder. It had probably been years since she'd tried to control more than how many seat belts she heard click when she got in the car.
But this woman obviously wasn’t expecting me or anything else unexpected either. And unfortunately, it was too soon to tell how hard it would be to get her to relax… though I suspected it wouldn't take me long to get hard enough to help her out.
But as she was treating me with pretty blatant hostility, I figured I should just accept the drink and not get my hopes up. So I climbed down the ladder and set my tools next to the pile of scrap wood, figuring the least I could do was keep her from having to come all the way around the house again to help me get hydrated.
At least she was single, though. I clocked that right away. It was practically second nature to me now. It had to be. Women were just as crafty as men. They, too, could slip off their wedding rings in the blink of an eye.
Not that she was coming on to me. Though she might as well have been. Whatever she was doing was working me up all right- all that acting like she didn't want it. Fucking hell she was hot.
I felt like I finally understood what guys saw in that moody girl from those vampire movies. She wasn't my type, of course. Too young, too thin. But now I understood the attraction. It was all about the challenge of trying to fuck that pout right off her face.
But I was getting ahead of myself. So I wiped my hands on my pants and climbed the stairs to the front door.
She'd left it open a crack, but I wasn't sure whether I should open it more. After all, just because she wasn't married didn't mean this wasn't her boyfriend's house or something.
Though if she did have a boyfriend, he clearly wasn't a keeper because I’d never met a woman more in need of some dick.
Which was weird.
Usually when I met women who gave off that vibe, there was an obvious reason for it. Like an appalling sense of style or a physical handicap. But this woman didn't have anything wrong with her except for a chip on her shoulder the size of Manhattan.
And yet all I could think about was how I might get her icy exterior to melt.
And right in my mouth if I was lucky.
"Oh," she said, stepping back when she saw me outside the door.
"Thought I'd save you the steps," I said, noticing her shorts looked about as thick as tissue paper and could probably be torn off with one hand.
"Here," she said, extending the glass in my direction.
I couldn't be sure, but it felt like she was struggling to keep her eyes off my chest, which was the first encouraging feeling I had about the whole situation.
"Do you mind if I sit and drink this on the porch?" I asked. "I
could use a short break."