Callie wants nothing to do with Nash. His rock hard body and piercing blue eyes are hard to resist but he's the last thing she needs right now.
Or maybe he's exactly what she needs. Just like Callie, Nash went there to get away, but why? And why is he trying so hard to help her?
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Callie
One, two, three, four. I continue counting the steps in my head as I walk to the mailbox. I don’t know why I do it. Why I constantly count. I didn’t used to. Three hundred and eighty-five days ago I only counted when I needed to. In fact, counting used to be a good thing. Only four days until Christmas. Six days until my birthday. One week until I’m home on summer break.
Ten, eleven…
“Twelve,” I mumble to myself as I reach the mailbox. It takes exactly twelve steps to get to the mailbox and twelve steps to get back. I never knew this until a few days after it happened. Before that, I wouldn’t have cared. I still don’t care. And yet I keep counting, each and every day.
I put my electric bill in the box, then turn and walk back. One, two, three…
My gaze is focused on the concrete path that leads to the house. It’s cracked and crooked, the ground seeping through, making it uneven and dangerous to walk on. That’s why I always look down, making sure I don’t trip.
Seven, eight—
An engine roars behind me.
“What the…” I look over and see a large, black, rusted-out pickup pulling in next door. It’s going way too fast and jerks to a stop. The loud rumbling engine idles a moment, then turns off.
A shot rings out and I trip on the sidewalk and drop flat to the ground.
What was that? Did someone just shoot at me? I freeze, waiting to see if they’ll shoot again. I hear the door of the truck squeak open, then slam shut. I keep my gaze low to the ground, afraid to look up and see the person who I’m now assuming is a raging lunatic who just randomly shoots his gun at strangers.
I’m shaking as I stare at a pair of black work boots which are now planted in the driveway next to mine. The owner of the boots is not moving, his legs in a wide stance facing the house. Did he come here to kill my neighbor? If so, my neighbor’s already dead. Old Man Freeson, as I used to call him, died last year and his house has been abandoned ever since.
The boots take a step forward, then stop again.
“Oh, shit,” a deep voice says, and then the boots stalk toward me at a rapid pace.
‘Oh, shit’ is right. He’s coming to kill me! And I’m so frozen with fear I can’t get up.
“Hey. Are you—”
“Stop!” I yell, crawling backwards on my hands. “Get away from me!”
The boots are in front of me now, as is a man’s face. He’s crouched down, staring at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He looks older than me, maybe 24 or 25. “I was just seeing if you’re—”
“What do you want?” I ask, scooting back more, landing in the wet grass. I feel it soaking through my shorts but that’s the least of my problems right now. I point to my house. “Take what you want.” My voice is shaky, my heart pounding. “Just please don’t hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” He cocks his head. “What are you talking about? I came over to help you. And it looks like you need it.” His hand touches my leg and I freeze again, then glance down and see my knee is bleeding. I must’ve scraped it when I fell. It’s more than a scrape. It’s bleeding a lot and it hurts like hell.
“Don’t touch me!” I yank my leg back. “Get out of here!”
He’s staring at me and his lips slowly turn up. “Are you always this friendly to your new neighbors?”
“Neighbors?” I scrunch my face up in confusion.
He rises to standing and holds his hand out. “Here. Let me help you up.”
I gaze up at him. For a deranged lunatic, he’s really hot. Over six feet tall with a deep tan, short dark hair, and rugged features. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt that stretches over his thick shoulders and clings to his biceps. He’s a big guy and all muscle. He wouldn’t need a gun to kill me. He could do it with his bare hands.
He’s still waiting for me to take his hand, but I won’t do it. This is obviously a trap. Shooting me on the ground is too boring. Too easy. Instead he’ll drag me to the neighbor’s house, torture me for hours, then kill me.
Oh, God. What if that’s his plan? Why me? I don’t even know him.
“Hey.” He’s crouched in front of me again and puts his hand on my arm.
I yank it back. “Stop touching me! Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to kill me?”
He laughs a little. “Kill you?”
I huff. “You think this is funny? Seriously?” I keep my eyes on his face, specifically his eyes, because you can tell a lot from a person’s eyes. This guy’s eyes are calm, relaxed, and a rich blue color that reminds me of those postcards from the Caribbean of the white sand beaches that lead into crystal clear blue water that doesn’t even look real. I always assumed a deranged lunatic’s eyes would be dark and bloodshot, fluttering at a frantic nonstop pace. So now I’m confused. Is he a lunatic or not? I’m still going with lunatic. After all, he shot a freaking gun at me!
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“So now you want to know my name before you kill me? Why? Is it part of some sick game you—”
“Hey.” He touches my arm. I flinch and he removes his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is low and soft. “And I’m not trying to kill you.”
“You’re not?” I ask suspiciously.
“No.” He laughs a little. “I saw you over here on the ground and I came over to help.”
“I don’t need help,” I say, my gaze dropping to my knee which is now bleeding all down my leg.
“Actually, I think you do. Your knee’s really banged up. I got a first aid kit in my truck. Let me go get it.” He stands up.
“No!” I try to get up but my knee is throbbing and I’m afraid to put pressure on it. I didn’t realize how hard I fell. “I’m fine. Just go away.”
“I’ll be right back,” he says, casually walking back to his truck. I shouldn’t be staring, but damn, he has a good body. Wide shoulders, tapered waist, and an ass that nicely fills out his jeans.
What the hell am I doing? I should be trying to get inside my house, not drooling over the guy who shot at me! But maybe he didn’t shoot at me. Maybe he just shot a gun to scare away whatever critters he thought might be hiding in the overgrown weeds that used to be Old Man Freeson’s lawn.
I scoot back onto the walkway that leads to my house, but before I even make it a foot closer, he’s back, holding a small white box with the words ‘first aid’ written on it in bright red letters.
“So why did you think I shot at you?” he asks, kneeling down in front of me.
“Because you did,” I say, watching as he opens the box. “I heard the gun go off.”
He looks to the side and his brows furrow like he’s thinking. And then he smiles back at me. “That must’ve been my truck. Sorry about that. I’m so used to it I don’t even notice it anymore.”
“Your truck? That sound came from your truck?”
“It’s old as dirt, and for some reason it always makes that sound when I turn the engine off. I’ve brought it into the shop and the mechanics can’t figure out why it does that. So I just live with it.” He points to my knee. “We need to clean that off before I bandage it up.” He rises up and offers me his hand. “Let’s go inside.”
I reluctantly take his hand and let him pull me up. “Just help me to the door. I can clean it up myself.”
“Let me do it.” He smiles at me as he wraps his arm around my middle, supporting my weight. “I’m a professional.”
“A professional what?” I ask, hobbling toward the door.
“EMT. I’m not anymore, but I was for almost a year. I’m an expert in emergency medical treatment, so a scraped knee is nothing.”
My mind flashe
s to the many nightmares I’ve had about the accident. I wasn’t there so I don’t know what it looked like but based on what the police told me, my mind fills in the images. And I always see the EMT workers, who are faceless in my dreams but wearing uniforms; dark blue pants and matching shirts. They’re the first to arrive at the scene and I’m always yelling at them to hurry up. To save my family. But it’s too late. It’s always too late. Why didn’t they save them?
I shove him away. “I don’t need your help.”
“What’s wrong?” He turns to me. “Why are you yelling?”
I’m yelling because he was an EMT and EMTs killed my family. Well, they didn’t kill them, but they didn’t save them which in a roundabout way is like killing them. But that’s not this guy’s fault so I really shouldn’t yell at him.
I sigh. “Could you please just leave me alone?” I turn and take a step toward the door, but I wasn’t looking down and my foot catches on a piece of broken concrete that the ground has pushed up. I’m always super careful not to trip on it. Except for today.
Strong arms encircle my waist right before I hit the ground and raise me up to standing.
“What were you saying about not needing help?” he asks. Before I can answer, he reaches under my legs and scoops me up and starts walking to the door. “Is it unlocked?”
“Put me down!” I say, pushing on his chest, which is rock hard.
He ignores me and keeps walking, stopping at my door.
“You’re not going in my house,” I say.
He ignores me again and walks right in. As he’s shutting the door, I glance back at the walkway and realize I forgot to count my steps. I didn’t finish. Dammit! I always finish. I’ve counted every day since the accident but today I didn’t. Anxiety takes over the fear I had earlier of my deranged-killer-EMT-neighbor, and my mind starts racing. I should’ve counted. Why didn’t I count? Dammit!
I take a deep breath. Why am I reacting this way? Why do I do this to myself? When did I become so obsessive and how do I make it stop?
“Do you have a washcloth in the bathroom?” the guy asks.
I notice I’m now sitting on the couch and my lunatic neighbor is walking down the hall to my bathroom.
“What are you doing?” I yell at him. “You can’t just walk around my house! I didn’t even invite you in!”
He’s in the bathroom now so I don’t know if he heard me. Moments later, he returns with a wet washcloth and a bottle of peroxide. He sits down next to me and lifts my leg up, resting it on his lap.
“You went through my medicine cabinet?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“And your linen closet.” He dabs the wet washcloth over my knee. “You have a lot of towels for one person. Or do you live with someone?” He glances around the room, then back at me. “You live with your parents?”
He asked because the house still looks like they live here. It’s been over a year and I still haven’t cleared out their stuff. My mom’s knitting basket is still sitting by her chair with a half-knit scarf inside. The James Patterson novel my stepdad was reading is still on the side table next to the couch. And although this guy can’t see them from where he’s sitting, my little brother’s toys are still in a plastic bin in the corner.
God, I’m messed up. Who lives like this a year later? Any normal person would pack up their dead family’s stuff and get rid of it. But me? I leave it all out, pretending they never left, waiting for them to come home. What is wrong with me?
“It’s my parents’ house,” I say, “but they’re not staying here right now.”
“Where are they?”
“It’s none of your business,” I snap. “Just hurry up and finish this.”
“You get up on the wrong side of the bed today?” he asks, smiling. He has a nice smile. Nice teeth. Very straight. I have a thing about teeth. Crooked teeth really bother me. But this guy’s teeth are very straight.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just not turning out to be a good day.” It’s true, but it’s true for every day, not just today. From the moment they died, every day has been bad. A constant stream of bad days that repeat over and over as time continues on.
“Well, hopefully we’ll get this knee fixed and your day will start going better,” he says, focusing back on my leg. He uses the washcloth to wipe the blood off the front of my calf. My eyes go to his hand, which is large and tan, and there’s a scar that runs between his thumb and forefinger.
“How’d you get the scar?” I ask, pointing to it.
“Nail gun. My idiot brother wasn’t watching what he was doing and nailed my hand to a two-by-four.”
“That must’ve hurt.”
“It wasn’t too bad, but the nail went in at an angle and I thought I might lose my thumb. Luckily the hospital was nearby.” He sets the washcloth down and grabs the peroxide, but then puts it back down. “Do you have some cotton balls?”
“Under the sink in the bathroom.”
He gets up and as he’s walking there, I remember that all my tampons and pads are under the sink.
“Wait!” I call out, but it’s too late. He’s already in there. Oh, well. Maybe he won’t notice.
He comes back with a handful of cotton balls. “Why are you blushing?” He sets my leg back over his lap.
“I’m not blushing.”
“Your cheeks are bright red.” He wets the cotton balls with the peroxide. “Is it because of what was under the sink? If so, you don’t need to be embarrassed. My girlfriend always kept that stuff at my place.”
So he has a girlfriend. Or maybe it’s an ex-girlfriend, but he didn’t add the ‘ex’ so it’s hard to say. But he said she used to keep that stuff at his place, like she doesn’t anymore. Or maybe he meant that she did when he lived at his previous place, which he doesn’t now. What am I doing? Why do I care if he has a girlfriend? I’m not interested in him that way. I haven’t dated anyone in over a year and I’m perfectly fine being single. In fact, I prefer it.
“Oww!” I yell as he dabs my knee with the peroxide. I try to yank my leg away but he holds it in place.
“Stop moving,” he orders, leaning down to inspect my knee. “You really scraped this bad. How’d this happen? You just tripped or what?”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “I tripped when your truck shot at me.”
He laughs. “It didn’t shoot at you. It’s just a piece of shit truck. Sorry about that.” He sets the cotton balls down. “Now I feel bad. I didn’t know that’s what made you fall. How can I make it up to you?”
“You don’t need to. Just forget it. Besides, it wasn’t completely your fault. That sidewalk needs to be repaired. I’m surprised I haven’t tripped on it before.”
“You want me to fix it?”
“You can fix a sidewalk?”
“I can fix most anything, except for that stupid truck.”
“Um…no. That’s okay.”
“Let me fix it. I have to do something after scaring you half to death.” He takes a large bandage out of his first aid kit.
“No. Really. Just forget it.”
I don’t want this guy hanging around my property. I still don’t even know who he is or anything about him. So why did I let him in my house? I didn’t. He just barged in, carrying me like I was Jane and he was Tarzan. He would make a good Tarzan with that dark hair and that body.
“There.” He secures the bandage in place. “I’ll leave you some extra bandages. You should change it once a day.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I lift my leg off him and sit up straight.
“I don’t think I ever introduced myself.” He holds his hand out. “Nash Wheeler.”
I shake his hand. “Callista.”
He smiles. “That’s a nice name.”
“I go by Callie.”
“Also nice,” he says, still smiling. “So are you home on college break?”
How do I answer that? I don’t want him knowing too much about me, especially about what happened last yea
r. I don’t like talking about it, which is why I never do. In fact, nobody in this town even knows about it except Lou, my boss.
“Yeah. I’m home for the summer,” I say, hoping to leave it at that.
“So you grew up here?”
“No, I’m from Chicago.”
“Oh, yeah? Me too. So you just come down here for the summer?”
“Yeah.”
“So where do you go to school?”
Too many questions. He needs to leave.
“I don’t really have time to talk,” I say. “I have some stuff to do, but thanks for your help. I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe we could talk later. You’re the first person I’ve met here and I don’t really know much about the town.”
“There’s not much to know. It’s a small town. It’s pretty boring.”
“There must be something to do around here.” He snaps the cover closed on his first aid kit.
“Not really. We have some bars downtown. And there’s a state park close to here if you like to hike. That’s about it.”
“Drinking and hiking?” He smiles. “That’s all there is to do?”
“Pretty much.”
“I passed a bowling alley on my way into town. And I think I saw a golf course.”
I shrug. “Well, there you go. There’s all kinds of things to do. So why are you moving here?”
“I’m not moving here, at least not for good. I’m just here for a few months. I’m fixing up the house next door. It might get kind of noisy at times with the equipment, but I’ll do my best to keep it down.”
“And you’re going to live in it while you work on it?”
“That’s the plan,” he says, leaning back on the couch.
I can’t imagine anyone living in that thing. It’s a dilapidated house with peeling paint and missing shingles. Why would anyone try to fix it up? It should be condemned.
“What are you doing to it?” I ask.
“Renovating it,” he says confidently. “Top to bottom. The inside, outside. It’s going to look great when it’s done.”
With Every Breath Page 27