The Intrusion: Baltin Prequel

by Melissa Riddell

  With a quick twist of her head, she glances at me from over her shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe so.” A deep line appears between her eyebrows.

  I toss an unopened bottle her way. “I’m gonna tell Daddy to get the fire started. Man, I love your omelets. Can’t wait to eat.” Eager to escape her worried gaze, I push open the door and practically streak down the deck steps.

  Daddy, now on his knees in the grass, hovers over a disconnected pump, holding white PVC piping in a hand. At the sound of my footsteps, he squints upward, shading his eyes from the strong sunlight slipping through the leaves overhead.

  “Well, what’s the verdict?”

  “Not good.” I plop onto the grass beside him and run my hands along the thick St. Augustine. Even though we live in West Texas, our lawn is always gorgeous thanks to the well. “Mamma tried to wash some dishes. It worked at first, but then stopped and only air blew out.”

  “Here, hold this.” He shifts the top of the piping into my hands. The rest of it disappears down a twelve-inch-wide hole. “I need to rig this so it doesn’t fall in until I figure out how I’m going to make this work.”

  “Make what work? The pump?”

  “No.” He straightens and pulls a cigarette from a half-crushed pack. “That pump is never going to work again.” With a flick of the lighter, he touches the flame to the end of the cancer stick and inhales deeply.

  “Those things are gonna kill you.” My free hand bats at the air and I give a fake cough. “You’re also going to kill your daughter, too. Hope you’re happy with yourself.”

  His callused fingers rub my head and he releases a happy laugh. “I can always count on you to keep me in line, can’t I?”

  “It’s not funny. Those things are mini-coffins.”

  Shaking his head, he rummages in a small toolbox until he finds some rope, then loops it around a bend in the piping and turns to connect to the pump, securing it to the nearby faucet.

  “There. That’ll hold it for now.” He stands and offers me a hand. “How’d your Mamma take it when the water quit?”

  “Uh, she looked a little panicky, but I told her to use some bottled water and reminded her omelets were one of my favorites.” I dust the bits of grass and dirt from my jeans. “She didn’t flip out and said to start the fire so she can cook.”

  “You did good, Tilly.” He motions me toward the grill. “Fire that thing up and let’s make your Mamma happy. I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.” One last stare at the broken pump, and then my thoughts shift to breakfast. “I could eat the ass-end of a horse right now.”

  “Shit, Half-pint.” Daddy snickers. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

  Even though he’s joking, something in his tone is serious underneath the laughter and a shiver skitters along my spine like hairy spider legs.

  Chapter Seven

  Two hours later, all three of us are stuffed. Like a food wizard, Mamma cooked omelets, sausage, bacon, and hash browns, and everything tasted delicious, especially with the outdoor grill adding the smoky flavor.

  Leaning into my chair, I avert my eyes from the little bit of food leftover. “Ugh. I’m so stuffed I feel like I’m going to bust open like a fat tick.”

  “Tilly, that’s disgusting.” Mamma wads up a paper napkin and throws it on her plate.

  Daddy rubs his flat stomach. “Whew, woman,” he shifts closer to Mamma, “I think that was the best breakfast I’ve ever tasted.” He nuzzles her ear. “Maybe I should marry you.”

  “Gross.” I chunk a napkin their way. “Daughter in the vicinity, remember?”

  A blush spreads on Mamma’s cheeks, taking away ten years from her face, reminding me how pretty she is. Even though their public displays of affection are mortifying, their love for one another is undeniable.

  He presses a soft kiss to her cheek. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass our daughter, now would we?”

  With an apologetic glance and soft smile toward me, she stands and clears dishes from the table.

  I snort and pitch in, stacking my plate onto Daddy’s.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Probably Mr. Miller.” I set the dishes down and head toward the front door.

  “Oh, invite him in, Tilly. There’s still leftovers on the counter and I don’t want them going to waste.” She tilts her head. “I’m a terrible neighbor. I should’ve invited him over for our impromptu brunch.” One hand filled with plates, the other with cups, she heads for the kitchen.

  “No.” Daddy grabs my elbow. “Let me.”

  “Okay.” I shrug. “But it’s Saturday, so I doubt it’s a salesman.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he whispers under his breath while throwing a furtive glance toward Mamma, who disappears into the kitchen.

  Again, those cold, prickly fingers of icy dread crawl through my veins to settle into my stomach. Before I can ask what he means, he stalks into the living room, grabs the Remington from its rack, and yanks open the door.

  With his fist upraised as if to knock again, Maximillian stands on the porch with a gun pointed at his face.

  “Oh my God.” I rush over. “Put the gun down, Daddy.” Embarrassment and irritation flare inside me. What the hell is he doing here?

  Daddy’s eyes rake over him, no doubt taking in the grungy black jeans with their wallet chain, biker boots, and simple black t-shirt.

  “Do you know this punk, Tilly?” Even though he speaks to me, his eyes never leave Max’s face.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Max, even with a powerful weapon shoved into his face, doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Tilly offered to help me with a project.”

  Lowering the gun, Daddy finally turns his attention to me. “Is that so?”

  No. What project? But I keep my thoughts in my head. I’m not sure if Daddy would shoot him or not, and I don’t want to find out.

  “Uh, yeah.” I widen my eyes at Max, as if to ask what project?

  “You ready?” He gestures out to the yard.

  “Hold on a minute.” Daddy takes me by the shoulder and shuts the door in Max’s face.

  “Oh my God—you just—”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be out of the house today until we figure out what’s going on with the power.” He scowls, shifting his eyes toward the door as if he can see through its wooden core. “Especially with that guy. He looks like bad news.”

  “Daddy.” I roll my eyes. “He’s a biker, like you, so you really don’t have any room to talk.” Even though he has a point, my curiosity is getting the best of me. I’ve never had a guy come over to my house, and honestly—the idea of getting away for a little while sounds good, no matter who I’m with.

  Probably realizing it’s a losing battle, Daddy shakes his head. “Just be careful, Half-pint.” He squeezes me into a tight hug. “And don’t go too far. I think everything will be okay for the next few days, but it’s hard to tell.”

  “What do you mean?” I let him go. “You said everything in town looked okay last night.”

  He scratches his neck. “I really don’t like the idea of you out alone before we know what’s going on.”

  “I won’t be alone—I’ll be with Max.”

  A small scowl, and he gives me a serious stare. “If anything, and I mean anything looks weird, you come straight home, you hear? And don’t go very far.”

  “I promise, Daddy.” I hug his neck.

  “Then go have fun, but if he tries anything funny, kick him in the crotch, you hear?”

  “Ha. Trust me, guys aren’t interested in me. He really does have some kind of project he wants me to help him with.” Hopefully, it’s not illegal.

  “Be home before dark.”

  “I will.” I kiss his bearded cheek and pull open the door, excitement replacing the ball of dread in my stomach.

  Max leans against a column, picking his nails with a small pocketknife.

  Seeing me, he flips the blade into the handle and shoves it into a pocket, revealin
g a wide smile. “Ready for some fun?”

  With the door firmly closed at my back, I give him a bored stare. “Your idea of fun and my idea of fun are probably two different things.”

  He laughs, and it’s one of those loud, lingering laughs. With a push off the column, he hops from the porch and heads toward the street.

  “Seriously.” I follow, my curiosity spurring me forward. “We better not be doing anything illegal.”

  My joke yesterday about robbing a bank wasn’t too far off the mark. Last year, he and another kid a grade above were questioned about breaking into the school and trashing Mr. Sanders’s office. Several laptops were stolen, but no one could ever prove Max and his buddy took them.

  A bicycle rests against the fence and he jerks it upright, straddling the seat.

  “Wow.” Unable to help myself, a snort bursts out. “Nice ride. Looks good with your angry biker attire. Too bad you don’t actually have your Harley.”

  His gray-blue eyes give a dangerous twinkle. “It wouldn’t start this morning, like everything else.”

  “Yeah, same problem here.” I walk closer but cross my arms over my chest. Does he expect me to trot beside him like a dog? “Where are we going, and how am I supposed to get there if there’s only one ride?”

  “We’re going to have fun.” He points a finger toward the back tire, where silver footholds flare out from the axle. “Put your feet on those and hold onto me.”

  “Uh, no thanks.” Taking a step backwards, my butt hits the fence. There’s no way I’m getting close to him—I don’t even know him very well.

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugs and grips the handlebars. “Stay safe in your house with your parents like a good little girl.” Two pumps of his legs and he pedals away.

  The bastard. He doesn’t know anything about me. Anger rises, but that thrill of excitement competes and overrides the other emotion.

  “Wait.” I step onto the road.

  A few people in the neighborhood tinker with their cars. One person bends over his water meter and scratches his head.

  Max’s black t-shirt stretches across his back, revealing a tight, muscular frame. He stares at me from over a shoulder, a brown lock of hair falling over an eye.

  When I reach him, he offers a hand toward me. “Well, come on, Lookout. Saddle up and hang on.”

  With a quick glance to make sure no one’s looking, I grip his fingers and throw myself onto the bike. Once situated, I place my palms lightly against his shoulders, fighting an urge to jump off and run inside the house.

  Am I really going to do this?

  Yes. I can’t bear the thought of sticking around the house all day and letting Mamma’s worry leach under my skin. Daddy’s better at comforting her, anyway. Besides, without electricity, there’s nothing to do besides read, and I didn’t pick up any new books from the library.

  “Here we go.” Max pedals, and the bike races down the street of my neighborhood.

  Wind whips against my face, throwing my hair everywhere. It’s eerily quiet, but it’s not as noticeable with the rushing breeze assaulting my ears.

  “Hang on, Lookout.” He goes faster, legs pumping manically.

  I crouch and grip him around the chest, his spicy cologne invading my nose. “Jesus. You’re gonna kill us on this thing if you don’t slow down,” I yell.

  “Well, at least we’ll die happy.” He lets go of the handlebars. “Look, Ma, no hands.”

  “You’re freakin’ crazy.” Great, I’m going to die by crashing on a bicycle. How embarrassing.

  A hoarse, unintelligible shout is the only response.

  Terror sets in and I squeeze him tighter, hiding my face in his neck, sure he’s going to wreck us. Imagine if he’d brought his motorcycle…

  Shudders course up my spine. “Dear God, please let me live and I promise to stop getting into fights at school. Amen.”

  Max laughs like a maniac.

  Chapter Eight

  Ten blocks closer to the outer city limits, and Max stops in front of a pristine home, complete with manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and an impressive stone fountain—minus the running water.

  “Hop off. I need to grab something on the way.”

  Letting go of his shoulders, I swing a leg over the bike and move away from him.

  With the toe of a boot, he pushes the kickstand to the ground and props the bike on the sidewalk.

  “Your house is nice. Looks new.” The garage is open, showing a sleek Volvo inside. “Where’s your motorcycle?”

  Ignoring me, he strides to the covered porch. Stopping at the ornate white and gold door, he digs in a pocket. “Forgot my keys.” He pulls out a couple pieces of slim metal and jabs them into the lock.

  “What the hell? Knock and get your parents to open it.”

  “Mom’s dead and Dad’s in another state with work.” He hunches closer, obstructing part of my view.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I never knew he only had one parent. Probably because I don’t know him—period.

  “It was a long time ago.” His brows draw inward, and he gives a half-shrug, keeping his attention on his hands. Tiny metallic scraping noises come from whatever he’s doing.

  “I’m kind of scared to ask this, but why do you carry lockpicks and more importantly—do you actually know how to use them?”

  A soft click answers my question.

  He lifts an eyebrow and grins, revealing straight, perfect teeth. “Nope.” A twist of the knob. “Don’t know how to use them at all.”

  Shaking my head, I follow. What a nut, breaking into his own house.

  The foyer is several feet long, and his fingers flip the light switch, but nothing happens.

  Turning to me, he swipes the hair from his eyes. “Still no power.”

  I shut the front door, which darkens the area. Now that I’m here alone in his house, my excitement ebbs and nervous flutters kick in. “What are we doing?”

  “I told you, I forgot something.” He leans around the edge of a wall to look at the large living room. “I’m going to head upstairs, but I need you to stay here and be my lookout—keep an eye outside and holler if anyone heads this way.”

  “What?” I plant a fist on my hip. “Why would I need to watch for someone?”

  “Just do it. It won’t take but a minute.” Before I can say another word, he lopes up the stairs and disappears.

  Still confused and not entirely sure what’s going on, I take a quick peek through the burgundy-colored curtains. The bike still rests on the sidewalk, and as far as I can tell, it’s quiet on the street.

  “This is stupid. Why would he need a lookout for his own house? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Soft shuffling noises float from upstairs.

  Narrowing my eyes, I abandon the living room and follow his trail.

  At the top of the stairs, the rustling grows louder as I approach the second open door on the right. When I peek inside, Max is bent over a slender, white desk, flinging papers out of a drawer, his hands running along the insides as if searching for something.

  On one wall of the room is a pink and purple unicorn poster. The four-post, queen-sized bed sports a pink, fluffy comforter. Gauzy white curtains drape from each corner.

  “Nice room, but it sure jars with your macho image.” I giggle. Must be his sister’s room.

  He jumps at least a foot. “Damn it. You’re supposed to be watching.” A flash of annoyance tugs at the corner of his mouth, causing a grimace. “Not creeping up on me.”

  “It’s stupid to be watching your front yard. Why don’t you let me help you find whatever it is you’re looking for?”

  Opening his mouth to speak, he freezes. “Aha.” One hand rises in triumph. When he opens it up, a gold high school senior ring rests on his palm. The band is thick with a topaz in the setting. A delicate chain loops through it so it can be worn as a pendant.

  “That’s what you forgot?” It doesn’t add up. Why would he not be wearing it on his finger? I’d want
ed one myself, but they’d been too expensive, and I knew if I asked Mamma and Daddy, they’d buy one anyway and I didn’t want to put the financial strain on them.

  He shoves it in his pocket. “Yep.”

  “Why’s it in your sister’s room?” I spread a hand toward the bed.

  His straight, brown eyebrows pull inward, and he gives the room a quick glance. “Not my sister’s room, that’s for sure.” When his gaze lands on me again, laughter dances in his eyes.

  “What?” My tone is flat, and I blink, feeling the beginnings of rage creeping through my veins.

  “In case you’re hard of hearing—” He moves closer and bends toward my ear. “—I said not my sister’s.”

  “Then who’s room…” Realization dawns. No wonder he wanted a lookout. Oh my God, I’m such a damned idiot.

  A quiet laugh shakes his chest. “Your face.”

  “You shitass.” I march out of the room, blood rushing between my ears. An urge to turn around and punch him in the kisser beats in time with my pulse.

  “Aw, come on. Isn’t the thrill of breaking the law fun?”

  “I’m gonna kill you.” When we reach the bottom of the stairs, two voices—a male and female—chatter in the direction of the front yard. “Oh, fuck.” Desperate, I look for a way out.

  “Come on.” He shoulders me aside, grabs my hand, and drags me through a hallway leading farther into the house, away from the front.

  The metallic sound of a key in the doorknob spurs my feet to a run.

  Still laughing, although quietly, Max throws open clear glass patio doors and pulls me into the backyard. Dragging me through a tropical garden, he stops at a tall wooden gate and presses his ear to the barrier, holding a finger in a shh motion.

  Only the call of birds and breeze can be heard.

  “Hey,” from inside the home, a female voice breaks the stillness, “someone left the back door open.” Emory. My heart races in my chest so fast it feels like it’s going to jump out of my throat.

  Max throws a wicked smile towards the back door, lifts the gate latch, and jerks me through. Letting go of my hand, he sprints to the front yard.