by Erin Huss
Then I thought about the number of times I'd gotten my hopes up only to be crushed. I thought about the hundreds of women who had woken up beside him, and that thought made me mad.
I slowly flipped to my stomach and looked at Tom. It was hard to be mad at that cute mug. He really was handsome. His nose was the perfect shape for his face. Not too big or too small, it had a sloping tip that blended perfectly down. His lips were full. The light freckles dotting his nose. The single worry line creviced between his brows. The giant spider crawling across his face—
The giant spider crawling across his face!
It's back!
"Tom," I panted. "Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom."
He squinted one eye open. "What?"
"Don't panic. But there's a massive spider on your face. Don't. Move."
Tom soared out of bed so fast you'd think he had wings. He smacked his head on the ceiling fan and danced around the room while I searched under the sheets.
"Where did it go?" he yelled.
"I don't know. Your dancing scared it off."
We hunted through the covers and tossed the comforter to the other side of the room, then the sheets, then the pillowcases, then the pillows, then the fitted sheet, then the pad, and then the mattress.
"It looked like a tarantula," Tom said from the floor, looking under my bed.
"It was here yesterday, and I put him outside." I moved the nightstand.
Tom pulled the bed frame away from the wall. "Why didn't you kill it?"
"I was trying to be nice!"
"Daddy?"
Tom and I froze. Me with the picture of the Los Angeles landscape over my head, Tom with the box spring hoisted up.
Lilly stood in the doorway with a seriously confused face on. "Why are you here, Daddy?"
Tom lowered the box spring. "I came to…to…"
We shared a look.
"Kill the spider," I said.
Lilly's eyes went wide. "Did you catch it?"
"Erm, no." I involuntarily shivered.
Her eyes went from Tom to me, and back again, with a mistrustful scrunch of her forehead. "Did you come 'cause you her boyfriend?" she said to Tom.
"No," Tom and I said in unison.
"Not at all," Tom added for emphasis, and I rolled my eyes. "Why don't you go play, and then we'll have breakfast together."
"You'll eat breakfast with us?" Lilly slapped her hands to her cheeks. "Best day ever!" She skipped to her room, not before stealing another look back with the biggest smile I'd ever seen.
Tom and I simultaneously exhaled and winced in pain. I felt like one big bruise with legs. My room was a mess. I heard my phone buzzing from…somewhere. We rummaged around until I found it under a blanket with a cracked screen.
Great.
I had two missed calls from Amy, nothing from Chase, and one alert: Trustee meeting today.
Today?
Today.
Today!
I freaked. "I have a meeting with Patrick and the trustee in a few hours!"
Tom put the mattress back. "Can you reschedule? Say you were in a car accident yesterday and need a day to recover?"
"Are you crazy?" I ran to my closet. The purple shirt was mangled on the floor. A quick sniff of the pits told me it was OK to wear again. I slid on a grungy sports bra (hello, uniboob). I had no other clean options. "Patrick would kill me, only after he fired me, if I canceled it." I buttoned up the shirt and slowly danced into a pair of black pants. "His only request was that today runs smoothly with no surprises. The trustee is over most of the properties Patrick manages, and this is the McMills' favorite place." I went to the bathroom and applied deodorant—six swipes. "I've worked too hard to get ready for this visit to let anything get in my way. This is my shot!"
"But aren't you sore?"
"My sternum hurts. Other than that, I'm fine." And by hurt, I meant it felt like it had snapped in half. But who needed a sternum?
Tom stood in the doorway and watched me brush my teeth. "I think you should tell Patrick that you need the day off."
"I can't." Actually, I probably could, given the circumstances, but I was determined to get my golf cart. A golf cart meant more money. More money meant more security for my kid. More security meant less therapy for her later in life—I hoped. "This meeting is too important for my career." I spat into the sink and wiped my mouth with a towel.
Ouch. Muscles I didn't even know existed hurt.
"So be it," Tom said with a shake of his head. "I can move a few things around and take Lilly if that will help."
My shoulders dropped in sweet relief. "That would be amazing."
Amazing!
Tom leaned against the doorframe, with his arms crossed, and took me in. "I had fun last night."
"Even if your dry spell continues?"
"I feel it coming to an end." He released his flirty side smirk. I knew that side smirk. It was the same one he gave me four years ago.
Tom (with side smirk): What's your name?
Me: Cambria, what's yours?
Tom: Tom. Can I buy you a drink?
Me: I guess. But I'm not going home with you.
Fast-forward nine months: Hello, Lilly.
Oh geez.
Tom went to make breakfast, and I called Amy. She answered on the third ring.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm freaking out! Put it over there, thanks," she said to someone in the background. "Cambria, Zahra is dead!"
I gasped because that was my go-to, someone-famous-has-been-murdered reaction. Except, "Who is Zahra again?"
"She's Jessica's assistant! She was found early this morning at her home. Killed the same way. Multiple gunshot wounds."
Oh crap. No wonder I hadn't heard from Chase. This was getting serious. "Are you OK?"
"No! I've never been more stressed in all my life. Holed up here while people are dying. I'll do the cucumber peel," she said.
"How much longer are you there?"
"I have no idea. The egg white omelet, hold the spinach, add tomato. Someone is clearly upset with Jessica and taking it out on everyone in her life. And they tried to peg the whole thing on me."
I'd be freaking out too. "Did they find any more information about the key or the phone call?"
"I don't know about the phone call. But they brought my car for CSI to examine and found a gun in my trunk, Cambria. A gun! Please make sure the towels are steamed to 103 degrees. I've never owned a gun. I've never fired a gun. Chase said they're running prints, or dusting for prints…something with prints."
I rubbed my sternum.
"Also this Dirty Dan blogger is at it again! Please be sure the food doesn't touch. He's saying that the detectives were at my door yesterday. Spencer thinks I should talk to Tom for legal advice in case this turns against me," Amy said. "But the turd isn't answering his phone."
"That's because his phone was stolen. He's here. I'll have him call you on my cell."
"Hold on. Tom is there at seven o'clock in the morning?" Amy's voice perked. "Tell me everything."
"It's not what you think. Nothing happened, happened. He was going to take me to see Wicked, but we got into a car accident before we got there. His car is totaled, so he stayed here, and his cell was stolen yesterday at the courthouse."
"His phone was stolen, and you two were in a car accident?" she drew out the words.
"Yes. Why? Do you know something?"
"Yes. It's all the urn's fault. Is there kale in this? I told you, Cambria. The eggs and cheese can't touch. The deceased has been disturbed, and now you're cursed. Your life will continue to be a series of unfortunate events until you die."
There was a lovely thought.
"I'm not cursed," I said. "I don't believe in all that. But let's just pretend I did. How might I un-disturb the dead?"
"Ask her what she wants. You'll also want salt and a black tourmaline crystal. It creates an electrical force field around your aura. Unless the spirit was sent
to you intentionally. Then the black tourmaline won't work. Let me do some research on what crystal you should use."
Yeah, OK. She lost me.
"Are you listening to me, Cambria?"
"No."
"You…pssshhhhh…and…psssssshhhh…trust me. Spencer, honey, can you make sure they didn't put pepper on my omelet?"
I plugged one ear. "Amy? You're breaking up."
"This is…you'll need a recorder…spirits speak at an octave we can't…You can set up the massage table over there…I better—"
My phone turned off. "What the heck?" I held down the Power button until the Apple logo flashed on the shattered screen. Even though I had ninety percent battery left, the phone turned off again.
So now I could add buy new phone to my to-do list. Great. At least Amy was safe and well pampered.
I finished applying my makeup and put Einstein in a low bun. I spritzed myself with perfume and took a step back, bumped into Tom, and let out a yelp.
"Tom, you scared me." I clutched my chest. "You can't be sneaking up on me like that. Not when there's a crazy killer out there and everyone is dying."
"Who died now?" Tom asked.
"Zahra, Jessica Wilders' assistant."
"The one who found Jessica dead?"
"The very one. She was at home. Multiple gunshot wounds." I grimaced. The whole thing was too horrible to comprehend.
Tom put a hand on my shoulder. "I know it's hard, but try not to stress. I'm sure they'll catch the guy soon."
"Or girl."
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Girls can be murderers too."
"Darn right. But this isn't an equal rights thing. A woman called Amy pretending to be EJ Ryder's assistant. They should be looking for a woman. Also, Amy wants to speak to you. She needs legal advice. They took her car in and found a gun in the trunk."
"Is it her gun?"
"Amy has never owned a gun. They give her the heebie-jeebies."
"Is that a technical term?"
"It is now…wait, what are you hiding?" Tom's left arm was curled behind his back, and his side smirk had morphed into a mischievous grin.
I tried to see what he had, but he turned around. Could it be the sparkle? Lilly had been right about the evil play. Why not the rest?
"Let me see," I demanded.
Tom shook his head.
"Thomas James Dryer, let me see what you have behind your back."
"Close your eyes," he said.
"Fine." I did as instructed. "But last time you had me close my eyes, we almost died."
"We're not moving," he said in a low husky voice, and my insides clenched. "Now, hold out your hand."
I held out my hand and waited. Tom placed a light cardboard box into my waiting palm, and my breath hitched in my chest. What could the sparkle be? A necklace? Earrings? I didn't like wearing jewelry, but I'd made an exception for him.
"Now, open," Tom said.
Feeling excited, I opened my lids and looked down at the box in my hand. "Are you kidding me?" I threw the box of Thin Mints at him. "Freaking Tom. Why were you in my nightstand?"
Tom laughed and picked the cookies up off the ground. "I was looking to see if you had protection and found this instead."
With a grunt, I snatched the box from him. "You drive me crazy. I'm not ending your dry spell. Get out of my bathroom. And there better not be a single cookie missing," I said and winced. The stress of all these murders and Tom's flip-flopping around wasn't helping my post-crash pain.
"It was a joke." Tom turned me around and dug his fingertips into my neck.
It felt good last night. Then it felt like he was stabbing me with shards of glass.
"I'm sorry. I was just trying to lighten the mood. You don't have to stress about this right now," he said. "I'll take Lilly. You'll get through the meeting. It will all be alright." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tom wasn't a worrier. It wasn't in his DNA.
For the record—it was in mine.
Tom worked his way down my arms. That felt good. "I do need to borrow your car so I can get a new phone," he said.
"My car?" I spun around and came face-to-face with his chest. "I would feel better if you used an Uber." Tom began to protest, and I cut him off. "What if someone did something to my car? I would be on edge all day thinking of you and Lilly driving around."
"No one did anything to my car, Cam. It was an accident."
"Accident or not, I won't be able to concentrate if you take my car," I said, unyielding.
"Fine, but only because you said please."
"I didn't say please."
"You should."
The man drove me crazy. "Please?"
"OK." Tom leaned down and kissed me. I stiffened. What is happening? Tom and I didn't do kissing. But his lips were warm against mine, and I allowed myself to enjoy the contact. He then kissed me again. And again. And again. Each time harder and more fervent. His mouth tasted like mint and chocolate. His hands traveled down my back. I found myself pulling him closer. Our tongues met. My hands were on his face, in his hair, on his chest.
Tom hoisted me up onto the counter. I wrapped my legs around him. His mouth traveled down my neck, and I panted.
"Can someone turn on the TV?" Lilly yelled from the living room.
No!
Tom and I parted. Our chests pumped and faces flushed, desire swirled. He placed his forehead against mine, and I closed my eyes.
"It's not working!" Lilly yelled. "Never mind. It turned on"
Tom cupped my cheek in the palm of his hand and looked me square in the eyes. Hazel on blue. My heart hammered in my chest. I thought he was going to kiss me again, and I licked my lips, waiting. Tom gulped and traced his finger along my jawline. I closed my eyes, ready…and…and…aaannnnddddd…nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Tom turned around and left, closing the door behind him.
What. The. Hell?
I let out a grunt and winced. It wasn't going to be a good day. I could feel it. I could feel it deep in my sore twenty-nine-year-old sexually frustrated bones.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
See also: Garbage Man
And I was right.
"Strong winds expected to blast Southern California today," the local newscaster announced during the Early Morning Show. "Winds or gusts of 35 mph are anticipated, making travel difficult and causing possible widespread power outages. High wind advisory in effect until 5:00 PM!" He flashed a megawatt smile and performed his signature fist pump.
This is why I don't watch the news.
I slid open the blinds and gazed out the window. All I saw was trash. So. Much. Trash. Fast-food containers, flyers, receipts, debris, soda cans. Trash scattered across the grass. Trash in the walkways. Trash in the pool. Trash stuck in the trees. The trash can itself had blown over. A tumbleweed rolled by.
A tumbleweed!
We lived in the middle of the city. Where did a tumbleweed come from? Dorothy and Toto should be here any minute, I thought.
My original plan for the day—let's call it Plan A—consisted of Lilly and me going for a stroll through the property, to be sure all was in order. Which of course it would be because this was Plan A. I'd skim over reports and wipe down my desk. After, we'd go to Noah's Bakery down the street and purchase half-a-dozen fresh-from-the-oven bagels, along with three different types of cream cheese (strawberry, regular, and chive) because options were important. We'd then swing by Trader Joe's for a spring arrangement of roses and Peruvian lilies. Come eleven I'd have the bagels stacked on a glass platter in the middle of my kitchen table (because we no longer had a lobby), along with the variety of cheeses and small bottles of water with Elder Property Management labels on them, 'cause in Plan A I was crafty. The flowers would be in a glass vase next to the brochures. I'd be sitting at my desk, with my ankles crossed, wardrobe pristine, smile in place, like a wild-haired June Cleaver, very much the perfect hostess.
Plan A blew away.
Moving on.
Plan B: Run like a mad woma
n through the property to be sure there were no obvious infractions. Pick up as much trash as possible. Deliver Three-Day Notices to those who had yet to pay rent.
Should that go south, there was always Plan C: Fake my death to get out of the meeting.
At least I had options.
Tom actively avoided eye contact for the rest of the morning.
Whatever.
There was a golf cart with my name on it.
Once Tom and Lilly left, it was time to get to work. Equipped with a trash bag in one hand and my Three-Day Notices in the other, I ventured out into the wind and—wowza! Good thing I had the extra pounds to keep me anchored, or I'd be flying over Santa Monica. Einstein broke loose and swirled around in front of my face, sticking to my glossed lips and poking at my eyeballs.
In the first courtyard, Daniella was on all fours again, examining the lawn. Her glasses were on the tip of her nose, lips pursed, nose scrunched, dark hair flying, little fingers parting blades of grass.
I stood over her, fighting the wind to say upright. "What are you doing?"
"Get off, or you'll kill him!" she yelled at me, in both English and Spanish.
I jumped off the grass. When Daniella barks, you moved.
She poked.
"Are you looking for the dog poop?" A Domino's Pizza flyer smacked me in the face.
"No. I lost Gary."
"Who?"
"My Grammostola pulchra," she said, as if it were obvious.
"Is that Spanish for a dog?"
She looked at me as if I were stupid. "No, it's my tarantula."
Tarantula? My subconscious summoned imaginary spiders to crawl up my back, and down my legs, and across my neck. "Is it…um…big, black, and furry?"