by JB Salsbury
Even though it’s close to eleven at night, the place is lit up and welcoming: two stories of stone and wood, big windows with a soft yellow glow that spills out to light the surrounding trees. The porch light and the outdoor furniture have been updated to super classy shit with big overstuffed cushions and a porch swing covered in pillows.
I pop the door of the car open and meet the driver at the trunk as he’s reaching for my duffle bag.
“I got it.” I snag it and slip the guy a twenty, thanking him before I head toward the house, up the few steps and to the front door. The key is right where Cam said it would be, just under a rock by the welcome mat.
I push open the door and am hit with the scent of rich buttery meat and sweet vegetables. Closing the door, I drop my bag and move toward the back of the house where I assume the smell is coming from. I expected the place to be dark, smell of dirt and stagnant air, but it’s the exact opposite.
If I didn’t know better, I’d expect to turn the corner into the kitchen and see my mom pulling a roast out of the oven and fresh baked cornbread piled high in a basket. My stomach roars with hunger, and my mouth waters as my heavy feet fall on the hardwood floor. When I finally make it to the kitchen, I zero in on the source of the aroma: a big pot plugged into the wall with a little note lying beside it. I pull the lid off and steam billows into my face. Fuck yeah. The note in plain handwriting says, “Beef and vegetable stew.”
“Now you’re talkin’.” I rummage through the cupboards for a bowl and utensils, finding another note next to a breadbox that reads, “Biscuits”. I open the box to find a half-dozen homemade biscuits.
I open the fridge, and it’s stocked with food, bottled water, and Gatorade. Even the pantry is filled. How the hell did Cam pull this shit off?
Who cares?
I grab my heaping bowl of stew, two biscuits, and a bottled water, and open the sliding glass doors that lead to the lakeside porch. The moon is bright and stripes the glassy water. I take a deep breath and sit down with my dinner.
After living in England in a house full of fighters, this solitude is exactly what I need to prepare for my fight.
Coming back to Hope Town was the smartest thing I’ve done in a long time. These next three weeks are going to be epic, and once I win this fight, I can go back to Vegas and plan my next move.
Two
Honor
Still no movement.
I’ve been sitting on my front porch steps, staring at “The Wall” as I like to call it, aka the big monstrosity of a house that blocks my view of the lake, for at least an hour and still . . . nothing.
The current renters, supposedly some kind of VIPs, were due to arrive late last night. I thought for sure I’d hear the slamming of car doors and voices when they came in. After all, my bedroom window is just across the road from their huge driveway, but I didn’t hear a thing. I expected them to be up already. Hope Town summer vacationers are always on the water as soon as it’s warm enough to be outside, which this time of year is at sunrise. If the sun doesn’t force people into the water, the humidity eventually will.
I have strict orders to go introduce myself to the tenants. “Make myself useful” was the exact directive used. I figure I baked enough biscuits yesterday for breakfast, but I’d need to get over there to prepare lunch and get a head start on dinner.
I drain the last of my coffee and head inside to feed the cats. The dilapidated old door creaks and works as a dinner bell, bringing all the sleeping piles of fur to life.
“Come on now, boys and girls. Chow’s on.” The pitter-patter of padded paws follows me to the kitchen, which is only a few steps from the door. I could toss a coin and hit almost all four walls of the shack I grew up in. I fill cat bowls with dry kibble and run my hand down their backs before leaving them to their breakfast.
One more peek out the front window, and still no change. Maybe I should just head over there and knock. They could be keeping a low profile to avoid being recognized. It’s not often we get celebrities in Hope Town, but it’s not unheard of. The town is small enough that they’re usually able to get around without being hassled, but big enough to boast decent restaurants and an active nightlife.
Not that I’d have first-hand experience with either of those things.
I grab a small bag of items I’ll need for today: curry for the chicken-salad sandwiches and some fresh apples for the cobbler.
I weave my way around loose floorboards in the living room and head outside. The air is still and the sun bright, but I don’t feel much heat as I walk through the trees to the road. I look both ways before crossing and wonder if I should’ve put on something nicer. Surely Jay-Z and Beyoncé or Kim K and Kanye wouldn’t appreciate the help showing up in cut offs and a tank top. At least my hair is clean, and I managed to put on some mascara. That’ll have to do.
Once to the other side of the street, I peer up at the house and try not to curl my lip. It is possible, I’ve learned, to hate something beautiful.
This house represents too many things I despise.
Extravagance. Entitlement. A glaring reminder of everything I don’t have. And the worst part is it sits empty for six months out of the year, just taking up space with its big ole fat ass.
I stomp up the steps but try to lighten my feet as I reach the door, just in case the renters aren’t up. I rap lightly on the solid wood and wait. Nothing. I knock a little harder. Still nothing.
Is it possible they didn’t get in last night?
They won’t mind if I sneak in and get started on meals. After all, it’s just hours away from lunch time, and I still need to poach the chicken and let it cool.
I twist the handle and the door clicks open. Unlocked. So, they did get in last night, because I specifically remember locking the door after I left. Maybe they did that on purpose so I could get inside and do my job.
Quietly, I step in and pause at the base of the staircase, listening for movement. The only thing I hear is the typical creak of an old house.
I slip off my shoes and walk soundlessly on bare feet to the kitchen. The crockpot is still plugged in, and there’s a dirty bowl and spoon in the sink.
I rinse them and place them in the dishwasher then go to put the stew in a Tupperware when I notice there’s hardly enough to save.
I peek back to the sink. “One person ate all this?” Wow. I unplug the crockpot to let it cool before I wash it and get started on lunch.
Cooking in this kitchen with the lake view is bittersweet. Granddaddy told me that one day he’d buy this house and tear it down so we could get our view back. Granddaddy made a lot of promises before he died and took all his promises with him to the grave.
Forking my fingers through my hair, I pull it up and away from my face, securing it with a hair band from my wrist. As quietly as I can, I prep lunch and dinner, wondering about the mysterious occupants sleeping just over my head.
Maybe they’re druggies. That would explain all the food being gone and the late sleeping in. I’ve heard that marijuana makes people hungry. Hmm, a VIP that smokes marijuana. Would Snoop Dogg have a reason to spend time in Hope Town?
Moving through memorized recipes, I go about cooking, more and more convinced I may not see who the renters are today. Peeling apples in the sink, I watch a speedboat buzz by filled with men and women my age, laughing and cheering on the wake boarder they’re towing. A pang of jealousy stabs my chest and—ouch! “Shit!”
My finger bleeds from where I sliced it with the knife. “Dammit, Honor. You know better,” I whisper as I run my finger under cold water, making sure to keep it far away from the apples in the opposite sink. I wrap it up in a paper towel and wonder if I should search for a Band-Aid here or just run home.
The doorbell rings.
A loud and obnoxious rendition of Dixie.
My finger throbs along with my pulse as I imagine a very angry VIP storming down the stairs. I race to the door and look up the stairs to see no one approaching. Maybe I can
cut this off before—the doorbell rings again.
“Crap!” I fumble with the doorknob in my rush to get it open and then instantly wish I hadn’t when I see what, or rather who, is waiting for me at the door.
A man—one whose shoulders are as wide as the doorway—stares back at me through narrowed green eyes.
“Hi.” I wave, and the bloody paper towel that was wrapped around my finger falls to the ground. I snag it quickly but not before I see the man’s eyes take in the blood-stained towel.
“You okay?” His voice is deep and commanding.
“Fine, yes, I cut myself with a knife.” I motion behind me, and when I do, he looks over my shoulder to the staircase.
He takes a step closer.
“Not up there. No, I was . . .” I point down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Cooking. The kitchen. I cut my finger—”
“No one told me there’d be a welcoming party.” The deeply male and sleepy-sounding voice comes from behind and above me. The top of the stairs. The VIP. “I never got an invitation.”
The big man in front of me grins up at the guy and steps inside the house. “Check your phone. I texted four times before I came.”
I turn just in time to see the VIP come down the stairs, and I suck in a breath and instinctively step back. It’s like two giants in a dollhouse, and this house is far from small, but these guys are huge!
Something happens, a handshake, maybe a fist bump, and words are exchanged between the two men, but I’m helpless to catch any of it as I stare at the bare and golden tan torso of Mr. VIP. He has two tattoos, one on his chest and one on his ribs. I squint, trying to make out what they say but can’t figure it out. I’d need my glasses to see clearly from this distance. My contacts are good enough, but my prescription hasn’t been updated in years.
“And you are?”
I feel two sets of eyes on me, and I blink between the men, trying to figure out which one just spoke. Unable to tell since they’re both wearing WTF-expressions, I blurt, “I’m the help.” Oh God, Honor! You idiot. “I mean . . .”
“The help?” The shirtless one comes closer, and oh man, I wish he wouldn’t as it only accentuates his size. I see now the tattoo on his pec says, “One Life, One Chance” in a thick, manly script. He crosses his big arms at his chest, his eyes roaming my face. Insecurity at his scrutiny has me shoving a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. “So, you’re the one responsible for my dinner last night?”
I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.” It feels so strange calling him sir as he can’t be much older than I am, but good southern etiquette requires I do. “I take care of the house, um . . . meal prep. It’s, uh . . . my job.”
He tilts his head, making the square angle of his jaw seem more extreme. His thick lips tug up on one side as he continues to study me in a way that makes me wish my hair was down so I could hide behind it.
“Axel Reid.” The other guy, the one who isn’t half naked, shoves a big hand my way. I take it and force as much confidence into the shake as possible.
“Nice to meet you—”
“Wait a second.” This is shirtless guy talking, and now he’s pulling at his bottom lip, his eyes shining with recognition. “I know you.”
“No, I don’t think so.” And even though I say the words, I notice something vaguely familiar about him—like I remember him from a dream or a past life. It’s so weird. Because surely if I’d ever met this guy before, I’d remember.
He smiles, snaps his fingers, and points. “Bug, right?”
That word is like hot molasses poured over my shoulders as I resist the urge to curl in on myself. My eye twitches from the force it takes to keep from glaring, and I fist the paper towel around my finger so fiercely it makes my cut burn.
“You’re Bug!”
Stop calling me that!
“From across the street.” He puts his hand out. “Caleb Dean.”
Caleb fucking Dean.
He’s the VIP?
The Very Important Person?
He looks so . . . different. Same in some ways but more filled out. The Caleb Dean I remember was tall and lean, his hair longer, shaggy. This Caleb has all that and much, much more. His body is swollen, the angles of his face more defined and dusted with dark stubble, and his hair is shorter, although still long enough to blow in the breeze.
No wonder I wasn’t told who was coming. Caleb was the nicest of the group, but he was still part of the group that tormented me my entire life.
“I’m sorry. I have to go finish up in the kitchen.” I smile at the other guy. “Mr. Reid, it was nice to meet you.”
“Call me Axel.” He seems to notice the weird tension between Caleb and me, but that’s not my problem. Caleb’s the motherfucking VIP after all. I’m just the help.
“Mr. Axel, if you’ll excuse me . . .” I don’t spare Caleb even a glance as I stomp back to the kitchen and bury my head and my hands in cooking so I don’t accidently throw a knife across the room at Caleb.
Axel and Caleb go around the house while Axel points out different security features and shows the VIP how to access it all on his phone. I wonder if there are cameras. I casually gaze up at the vaulted ceilings, the high cutouts with decorative items including a half-dozen stuffed roosters. Could they turn a rooster into a camera? Guess that means poisoning the VIP and getting away with it is out of the question.
A small voice whispers in my head that Caleb is a good guy. That he’s not like the others.
He had shown me a kindness that summer he rescued my kitten. I wondered if maybe he was different. But then I watched from my porch as he hung out with the jerks who continuously hurt me my whole life. They went boating, fishing, played basketball in his driveway. I saw it all. I cursed myself for being stupid and decided Caleb was just like them. So maybe he had a heart, heart enough to save an innocent animal, but that didn’t make him safe.
No. Caleb was just as bad. I’d be smart to keep my head down and stay out of his way until his time in Hope Town is over.
~*~
Caleb
Tweety Bird.
The entire time Axel takes me through the house, showing me all the high-tech shit he set up, all I’m seeing is that yellow fucking bird.
Bug is all grown up.
And what a knockout she’s become.
What I remember of her from the last summer I was here was she was blossoming into a beautiful woman. The last fourteen years took her from beautiful to full-blown sex on legs. I always thought those glasses she wore made her eyes huge, but she isn’t wearing them now, and her eyes are still big, gorgeous pools of blue that, if I’m not mistaken, shine with disgust.
“You can access the mainframe from the blah, blah, blah . . .” Axel stabs his finger onto the screen of an iPad, and I know I should be paying attention, but hearing Bug slamming around in the kitchen is drawing my thoughts to her. “The rest is self-explanatory.”
“Huh?”
His gaze moves from me to the woman in the kitchen, and when it comes back to me, he’s glaring. “Thirty minutes. That’s all I ask. Then you can go back to eyeball fuckin’ the help.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.” I shake my head, thinking he’ll buy my nonchalance.
His glare gets tighter.
Alright fine, I’m caught. I smile and shrug. Hey, he’s a man . . . with eyes; he can’t blame me for being preoccupied. I motion for him to have a seat on the big L-shaped couch. “How do you and Cam know each other?
He sits and props an ankle on his knee. “I served with his cousin. We were both stationed at Pendleton.”
“Small world.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” He leans forward. “Listen. We need to discuss the protocol for when you want to go into town.”
I shake my head. “That ain’t gonna be a problem. I won’t be out much.”
“It’s only a matter of time before the press gets word you’re here. They’ll swarm Hope Town, camp outside, shove cameras
in your face.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He grunts and leans back but doesn’t seem convinced.
“You want something to drink?”
“I’d kill for a coffee.”
I nod and move into the kitchen to brew a pot, but by the time I get there, Bug already has the K-cup in the fancy coffee machine and she’s pressing buttons. “Thanks.”
Her answering huff of annoyance blows a strand of hair from her face.
“Black okay?” I call into the living room as Axel watches me with a curious glare.
“Yeah.”
I grab another mug and move to put it to the machine only to have it ripped from my hand.
“I got it,” she hisses.
I hold up my hands. “Whoa . . . easy there, darlin’.”
Slowly, oh so slowly, she turns her head, and her once big blues are now tiny slits of icy fire. “I am not your darlin’.”
Aw, fuck, I can’t hold back my grin. Her fierce eyes, full mouth, and venom pouring from her lips ignite my blood. If she only knew what her attitude was doing to me, she’d be repulsed, more so than she already is.
She snags a cocktail napkin covered in multicolored flowers from a drawer and hands me back my now full coffee cup before taking Axel his. I’d like to say I stayed put to sip my coffee because I wanted to test its temperature, but I’d be lying. I watch in fascination as Bug moves on bare feet to the living room, long legs and swinging hips, and when she bends down to place Axel’s coffee on the table, at least he’s a gentleman and looks away. Not me. I soak in the visual of her full cleavage and catch a glimpse of her white bra. When she’s back to upright, she catches me looking and tugs up her top and pulls at her shorts then shoves past me to the sink.
“Thank you,” I whisper, grinning like a complete asshole.
“God,” she whispers back. “You’re all the same.”
~~~
After Axel walks me around the exterior of the house and the detached garage, I’m able to focus on his instructions and get a hang of the government-grade security shit he wired up all around the place.