Summer Girl (Summer Girl #1)

by S. Love

  I wonder if anyone who lived here killed that themselves, or if they bought it already dead and stuffed. I’m grossed out by both scenarios. I could never have a dead animal staring at me from a wall hook. That’s not what animals are for.

  The taxidermy’s forgotten as Ozzie pulls cut logs from a pile beneath the unblinking game hanging above him, throwing it into the mouth of the unlit fire.

  I turn as he walks past me and out of the living room, but he’s back soon enough with a handful of old newspapers. Crouching down in front of the fireplace, he sets them aflame with his lighter. He chucks the burning papers on top of the wood and then stands up, waiting for the fire to catch and spread.

  We’re here for the night, and that means we’ll need heat. Which reminds me, I’m freezing now.

  Grabbing his white T-shirt at the back of his neck with one hand, Ozzie tugs it over his head and spreads it out on the rug in front of the fire.

  “No power, no hot water or dryer,” he says, glancing over my wet clothes. “Take your shit off and lay it out here. I’ll grab you something from upstairs.”

  Yeah, I’m not doing that. I leave it all on until he comes back to the living room with a patchwork comforter and a bundle of white sheets.

  “These are clean. Fucking old as dirt, but they were in a closet in one of those vacuum-sealed bags.”

  I watch from by the fire as Ozzie covers the seat cushions on one of the brown leather couches with the white sheets, tucking in the edges underneath. He straightens, gaze coasting to me standing shivering fully clothed.

  He leaves the comforter by my feet, puts his back to me, and starts unbuttoning his jeans. Before he can finish, I quickly pull off my T-shirt and wiggle out of my skinny black jeans that mold to my legs like they’ve been papier-mâché-d on. My bra and panties are damp, my bra the most severe casualty to the storm.

  Deciding Ozzie isn’t exactly going to pounce on me just because I’m topless, I unclasp my bra and put it on the rug with the rest of my stuff, leaving space between mine and Ozzie’s things so it all dries efficiently and equally.

  I grab the quilt and cover myself in hot-dog fashion, then amble over to the couch and curl up. My body’s now aware of how late it is. I’ve left my phone in the car, so I don’t know the time, and the cuckoo clock on the mantel stopped ticking a long time ago, but exhaustion creeps in now there’s a fire blazing and heat going, and my situation becomes all too real.

  Like dying monsters in distress, the woods groan outside, the wind howling at the windows. I expect the lace curtains to whip away from the glass, but the seals are airtight.

  A flash of white lights up the room, then the thunder bellows. It’s getting worse. The rain heavier, the wind stronger, the lighting and thunder coming quicker

  In just his black boxer briefs, Ozzie stays by the fire. He does have his phone with him, and I relax my eyelids while he occupies himself with that. If I were here with anyone else, I’d hound them with questions about what we’re doing here and why the house is empty. But I’m not here with anyone else, I’m here with him, and after the video he sent me on Friday, there isn’t much I feel like saying.

  As I’m dozing, familiar noises dredge me back to consciousness. I turn my head sideways on the cushion, at Ozzie watching the screen of his phone. There’s no smirk on his face tonight, just a bland, unreadable expression as Garrett primes another girl after he’d whispered words of bullshit to me. Or was it before? Does it even matter now?

  “Why did you send me that?” I sit up and ask, sleep falling away as the noises from the video intensify. “And why are you watching it when I’m right here?”

  “I was doing you a favor,” Ozzie says to his screen. “You’re ungrateful, you know that?”

  I’m ungrateful? Has Ozzie looked at or heard himself?

  “That doesn’t deserve any kind of acknowledgement. Turn it off. Now. I’m serious. Or I’ll sleep in the car.”

  Ozzie looks at me now, chiseled cheekbones and aqua-hazel eyes chiding me in the backlight from his phone as he says, “Sleep at the bottom of the lake if you want.”

  I narrow my eyes, holding the comforter to my chest. “Turn it off!”

  It’s as though doesn’t see me, doesn’t hear me. Too fucking involved in his own ego to see past himself.

  “Normally, I’d keep away from nasty shit like this with a ten-foot pole, but well…” He gives me a look that makes me want to dive off this couch and shove him with two hands into the roaring fire. “Masie’s a kinky fuck. Don’t understand why Garrett doesn’t hang on to her when he goes on tour. I bet the phone sex would be out of this fucking world.”

  “Why are you like this?” is all I can think to ask. “So damn spiteful? You have a good life, a nice house. You took nearly every heat in the South Beach Open. You have everything anyone could ever want, and you appreciate none of it. You don’t deserve it.”

  “You don’t think so?” He hits pause on the video, putting the phone down. “Which part do I not deserve? Since you know me so fucking well.”

  “All of it,” I say, less boldly. I meant the house and the cars and the money. But I know Ozzie’s thinking about the rest of it. The less glamorous side to his life that money can’t fix or sweep away. The Osbornes have so much to boast about, but love isn’t one of those things. There’s none of that. Ray and Cindy throw money at their sons and expect them to raise themselves. Now whichever poor, unsuspecting woman ends up with any of the Osborne heirs is tasked with the unfortunate role of instilling some manners and etiquette into them.

  I’d rather be living hand to mouth, paycheck to paycheck, than have no principles or basic respect for other human beings.

  “What do you suggest then, to conquer this selfishness? That I be more like you? Little Miss Perfect when it suits.” Anger trickles through Ozzie’s words, his cold side freezing to ice. “Bury my head in the fucking sand and act gullible as hell. Because you’re full of fucking shit, Lyla. You only act like that when the time fucking calls for it. What did Falcon even have to do to get you into bed? Did he buy you Taco Bell? Tell you you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen? Or were you just fucking wet for him from the beginning and he didn’t have to lift a fucking finger? Because who the fuck is it, Lyla? Is your pussy dripping for Jardine or can anyone with balls slide in? Can you just not tell the goddamn difference between Topher’s fingers and Falcon’s?”

  Before I can get my mouth open and defend myself, rip this rich idiot a new one and give him a taste of his own vindictive medicine, Ozzie snatches up his T-shirt and stalks out of the room. The storm blows in as he opens the door and then slams it shut so hard the foundations creak.

  I retrieve Ozzie’s phone from the rug. It’s past midnight and Ozzie hasn’t come back. I haven’t heard the Jeep’s engine, or anything drastic like churning through flooded potholes, but he’s been gone for at least an hour, and honestly, this big, empty, creepy house scares me. The deer hasn’t stopped staring at me, its soulless black eyes tracing every muscle I move. My brain’s registered the thing isn’t alive, and has no torso for Christ’s sake, but my heart still twitches in alarm every time we make unexpected eye contact.

  When I can’t take any more of slumming it alone, I wiggle off the chair with the comforter wrapped around me and hobble to the door.

  A far-away rumble of thunder greets me as I open the door, but I don’t see lightning. Maybe the storm’s moving on, terrorizing the next town over. It’s still raining, though, and the wind blows in beneath the porch roof, lifting my hair from my shoulders and caressing my shoulders in its icy kiss.

  Standing this far back, I can’t see Ozzie or his Jeep, so I step out onto the porch, the weathered deck spongy under my feet. I walk to the side of the porch where the Jeep should be parked, slowing at the wooden railing when I see it below me tucked in front of the trees. No interior lights are on, and I can’t tell if there’s anyone inside or not.

  With a resigned sigh, my inner confl
ictive turmoil raging, the comforter drags behind me across the deck and I dump it in the living room. I pull one of the white sheets free from the couch, since there’s two, and wrap that around myself instead. My tennis shoes are still wet, but I push my feet into them anyway, tugging on the soft backs to get them over my heels. In fact, looking at them, these shoes are destroyed. Caked in mud and dirt. If I make it out of tonight alive, they may have to go in the trash, but I’ll do what I can.

  Before I change my mind and choose the invasive, departed deer over finding Ozzie, I hurry out the door and down the porch steps, mud squelching underfoot as I let out tiny squeaks from the shock of the rain on my re-heated body and my recently dry hair.

  I’m a few feet from the Jeep when the driver’s side door opens and Ozzie gets out, head ducked against the rain. When he lifts his head, he looks utterly surprised to see me. And why wouldn’t he? I’m wrapped in a sheet and my panties, my hair plastering to my skull the longer I stand here in this faceoff. I’ve found him, what the hell am I waiting for? Get back in the damn house, Lyla. Move.

  My feet stay where they are, sinking into the boggy ground. Chunks of hair whip into my face and I’m blown back a step. I wrestle with the corner of the sheet that’s come loose, ripped from my grasp underneath my arm. It blows up.

  “I didn’t know where you’d gone,” I shout over the rain and wind. Out here it echoes, like it’s swallowed the world, and Ozzie and I are the only two people left in the destruction.

  I blink, my eyes stinging from the rain. The T-shirt Ozzie just spent twenty minutes drying contours to his chest and stomach, flat surfer’s abs distracting and defusing the anger he’d built up in me. I don’t even want to fight with him. I want to understand why he’s developed such a diversion to me. Why my happiness brings him so much fucking misery.

  His eyes, steeled since seeing me, drop to the sheet at my chest then dip lower. “It’s more than you wore when you let Falcon maul you, so I’ll give you that.”

  The rain lashes us, and then Ozzie strides toward me, pissed as hell, and grabs my wrist. We run to the house, foregoing the living room where the fire continues to warm the mainly empty space. There’s a square landing halfway up the staircase, the oval-shaped window taking a beating from outside.

  Upstairs, Ozzie takes me into one of the bedrooms, letting my wrist go to fling open the doors on a standing wardrobe and pull out more sheets. I idly wait while he starts making the double bed, then walk over there to give him a hand tugging the sheets over the mattress. I straighten out the sheet while he goes downstairs. I don’t ask him what’s down there, just sit on the bed and listen to the storm rage on around the house.

  Cabinet doors bang downstairs, and then Ozzie’s pounding back up the stairs. He drops the comforter on the bed and disappears again.

  When he returns, he’s carrying one of the pillar candles and a glass bottle of something, brown liquid sloshing inside. He’s also brought my T-shirt.

  “Bathroom’s through that door. Take this candle with you.”

  I sit up in the wet sheet and take the candle and my shirt. I don’t mess around in the bathroom, because even with the glow from the candle flame, and Ozzie on the other side of the door, I don’t like it in here. The rain beats hollow against the roof and the windows, the swaying tree branches at the glass forming mangled shadows across the walls and the bathtub.

  I swing my head around when the door bursts open. Eyes almost as wide as my own, Ozzie stands inside the bathroom with a towel in his hand. Aside from my small panties, I’m standing perfectly naked, the sheet I was wrapped in draped over the sink. I bring one arm up to cover my breasts, then snatch the towel out of Ozzie’s hand.

  “You can leave,” I say sharply, replacing my arm with the towel. “This isn’t some peepshow.”

  I give him my back, adjusting the towel around me so it covers to my thighs.

  The door closes, and I dry myself, slipping into my T-shirt when I’m done. I hang the towel over the tub in case Ozzie wants to use it, pick up the candle and head back into the bedroom.

  Ozzie’s shirtless on the edge of the bed, in the process of pulling his jeans down his legs. I know I should look away. Give him the privacy I expected from him, but my eyes stick to his muscled back, the rolling flex of his deltoids as he stretches and leans forward, tugging free his jeans.

  Tossing the pants to the floor, he picks up the glass bottle and unscrews the lid, downing a long swig. It must be strong because he hisses on the burn, then tips his head down, raking his long fingers through the hair at the back of his head.

  I want to ask him what’s on his mind. What’s making him so crazy hostile. But I’m the last person he’d open up to, and I can’t let myself forget he’s treated me like I’m a pay-by-the-hour whore.

  Placing the candle on the decorative, dark fireplace, I stare into the flame, contemplating why I’m so interested in what makes Ozzie tick. Why I’m giving him a second thought at all when he’s earned nothing from me.

  There are no more answers in the burning flame than there is in Ozzie, and I walk over to the bed and climb onto it, pulling the comforter over my bare legs. I’m tired, and I push Ozzie to the far recesses of my mind, turning onto my side so I’m facing the door. It stands wide open, the hallway gaping blackness that unsettles me. I close my eyes, listening to Ozzie swallow more alcohol. Think about Mariah and Cindy as the storm ravages the house and hope that wherever they are, they’re safe.

  Chapter 23

  “Dad!” I close the front door and toe off my sneakers. Wrap my hand around the banister and run up the stairs. A stupid smile splits my face as I tackle the last stair and my gaze swings to my parents’ bedroom door.

  The door creeps open at the tips of my fingers, and I voice his name again before barging in.

  My smile falters and slips off my face when I get no answer from him.

  “Dad?” I say, quieter this time, listening to the silence escaping the gap in the door. Aside from me, the house feels still and empty, and my unconscious brain begins the connective stages of piecing together the next scene.

  Doing something I would never do, I push the door until it swings open. Reality blurs with lucidity, and the room changes slightly, my parents’ furniture a mismatched mix of their stuff and strange pieces I’ve never seen in the house before.

  The silence grows a voice, and the deathly quiet rattles with vibration.

  Someone’s knocking at the front door. The knocking gets louder, but I don’t react to it. I step inside the bedroom, and I instantly feel something isn’t right. Wake up, I tell myself, my feet carrying me deeper into the bedroom. Sunlight shines through the window, and I walk toward it.

  As I approach, the sun darkens, and clouds gather behind the glass. Rain hits like bullets, and I watch in fascination as the first crack splinters and grows, until the entire window is webbed, holding its breath against the pressure.

  Through the remaining tiny fragments of untouched glass, I see it.

  Don’t turn around.

  Reality slithers in and whispers for my hand, but before I get the chance to face him, the glass finally gives way to the rain, and the window shatters and bursts around me.

  Someone’s crying, their panting breaths lulling me quickly back to the surface. The darkened room clears into focus, and I realize the frantic breathing and the tearless whimpering belongs to me. Ozzie’s face hovers over mine as he repeats my name, telling me to wake up.

  “I’m awake,” I say, my mind and body swirling together in a confused state of disorientation. My breathing doesn’t slow, and I look up into the safety of Ozzie’s eyes. A life buoy that floats me smoothly into the room.

  “I was dreaming.” It was a nightmare.

  “No shit.” Ozzie watches my face for any more outbursts. I lie beneath him, allowing my heartrate to settle and my body to stop shaking. The house groans and yawns in answer to the sweeping wind, and for a while, those are the only noises we hear. My
skin’s flushed and hot, but the bad vibrations wringing my insides gradually eases. I still feel shook, but at least I came out of it. At least I’m awake. Thankful to be in this abandoned house with no power—with Ozzie.

  “Con still comes here sometimes.” Ozzie’s eyes lift from my face, anchoring to a spot on the far side of the room. “To fish, or just get away. No one’s living here now, but one of us will drive out to restock every couple months. Throw a party once in a while, but not often.”

  “Where are your grandparents now?” I look into his eyes that are focusing on nothing while he talks to me.

  He blinks, black, sweeping lashes lowering as he shakes off whatever emotion had been growing. “Dead. Both of them, in this house.”

  The gory, flashing image of two corpses belonging to people I’ve never met sears my mind. “How?”

  “Grandma Penny was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease about six months before she died. Lewis, my pops, wouldn’t listen to Mom when she pushed for a nursing home. Convinced us all he could look after her on his own. He couldn’t,” Ozzie says on a deep sigh. He lifts his weight from his elbow and lies flat on his back beside me, bending one arm and sliding his hand behind his head.

  “She got worse quick, and then he found her at the bottom of the stairs in the middle of the night. She’d forgotten how to walk down them the doctors said. So Pops took one of his hunting rifles and shot himself in the mouth. Mom brought us to visit about three weeks after and there they were, a heap of stone-cold bodies in the foyer. House fucking stunk. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  A stray tear rolls down my cheek as I tilt my head to look at Ozzie, but I’m not sure which one of us I’m crying for. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”