by Lindsey Hart
I strip down in the bathroom, crank the cold water, and step under the spray. It’s an instant relief. I let the cold water revive me and wash away the sticky wetness clinging to my skin from the blanketing humidity outside. After a few minutes, when I feel human again, I turn the hot tap on and enjoy a half warm shower. The spray feels so good. I lather up and start scrubbing the sweat and grime away.
It’s probably the best shower I’ve had in a while, and I stay longer than I normally do. I’m just rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when I hear something in the house—something that sounds like a scratch and a bang.
I yank my head out from under the spray and listen. I’m starting to think I’m going crazy, or maybe I didn’t shut the door fully, and it swung open, but then I hear something again—something like a drawer opening and a distinct rattle.
Okay, I know I’m not going crazy. There is definitely someone in my house.
I kill the shower and step out. I let out a low curse when I scan the towel bar and find it empty. Of course, I didn’t check for a towel before I jumped in. There is a hand towel sitting on the edge of the sink, and I don’t think twice before I grab it. It covers absolutely nothing, but I figure whoever is out there is someone who got a lead on me. Maybe some horrible journalists. If they think they can just walk right into my house uninvited, they deserve to get a full-on preview of something also very uninvited.
Okay, a mostly full-on view, but I’m going to keep that hand towel in place. Thank you very much. I don’t need my junk to be out for the whole world to see.
Making my way out of the bathroom, I’m also kind of hoping to find a rabid squirrel or something harmless in my kitchen, but what I find is no squirrel, though I’m starting to think she might indeed be rabid. She’s not a journalist either, at least I don’t think so.
Nope.
What I find in the kitchen, rummaging through the things I’ve set on the table in boxes while I dismantled the cupboards, is my neighbor—the very same three in the morning spider alarm lady.
I clear my throat loudly, and she nearly jumps through the ceiling. She whirls, her eyes huge with fear. It only takes a second for guilt to filter into those big brown depths.
“Oh!” She claps a hand over her mouth in astonishment. Her eyes take me in. And that would be almost all of me because I’m just holding the hand towel over my nether parts. She gapes at me, and I honestly find it amusing to see the small gleam of appreciation edging in on the astonishment and guilt glistening in her eyes.
“You know, if you wanted to borrow a cup of sugar or a spatula, you could have just asked. Normally. By knocking on the door.”
“I—er—uh—I…”
“You what?” To my surprise, I’m actually enjoying this. If I thought the spider was amusing, this is a whole different animal. “Thought I wasn’t home? Wanted to do some snooping? Seriously really did want to borrow a spatula? Decided to look for an instrument of death for the spider you still haven’t killed?”
“I knocked.” She swallows so hard that it seems to echo in the kitchen. “Uh—the door was open a crack. I called out, but there was no response.”
“So, you just went over to help yourself?”
Her chin juts out, and I have to admire her attempt at bravery because her face is steadily growing scarlet, and I know she’s half ashamed and half afraid of me. If I were standing in my neighbor’s kitchen and they came out nearly naked and dripping wet, I’d be afraid too.
And maybe aroused.
Depending on whether the person naked and dripping wet was Lu-Anne if the situations were reversed.
There is some serious action happening under the towel, and I silently talk my dick down and wipe the thoughts of reverse situations out of my mind before she has a right to sue me for harassment.
“I was going to leave a note if I took anything,” she hisses. “For your information, I was looking for something to kill the spider with.”
“Because you don’t have a spatula or something at your own house?”
“I didn’t want to dirty one of mine. I was going to—uh—leave a note about replacing it the next time I went shopping.”
“You have got to be kidding me right now.”
Her eyes do another slow perusal. They stay above the waist, but they lock on my chest, and there’s a strange gleam there. Her blush becomes a little more furious. I’m on the verge of asking her if she needs a cold shower. By herself, of course. And not at my house.
“I can see this was a mistake. I’m—I’m really sorry.” She goes to try and make a fast escape, but for some reason I can’t comprehend, I find myself moving too. I step left as she does, blocking her way.
“That’s not good enough. You came into my house, uninvited. You were snooping through my things. That’s technically trespassing. Actually, I think it might really be breaking and entering.” The blush fades from her cheeks, and her face becomes deathly pale. There is absolutely no color there, and I start to worry about her passing out.
“So are you—are you going to call the cops?”
I roll my eyes at that, and she visibly breathes a sigh of relief. “If I wanted to call the cops, they would be here already.”
She absorbs that, and her eyes grow wide. Her color fades again, more to ashen this time, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why. I thought it was reassuring.
“What then?” she asks defiantly, and I can tell she’s forcing bravery. “Are you going to take care of me yourself?”
“Excuse me?” Nope. That statement wasn’t a bit suggestive. She looks seriously afraid, like I might actually cross the room and throttle her.
“I’m standing here in next to nothing because when I heard you nosing around in here, I was having a shower and got out to investigate. So no, I don’t think I’m going to take care of anything at the moment unless it’s getting my clothes back on. I just want an understanding from you that this strange behavior is going to stop.
“I—er…I’m sorry. The spider and the heat must be getting to me.” She sets a hand dramatically at her forehead, but I’m sure it’s just for effect.
“The heat?”
“My air conditioner conked out. It’s a thousand degrees at my place. The spider scared me, but I also haven’t had any sleep in a few days. I—yes. I mean, this won’t happen again. Definitely. I’m sorry for my momentary lapse of judgment, or temporary insanity from heatstroke.”
With that, she dodges past me. I angle, so she doesn’t get a full-on accidental mooning, and put the hand towel strategically between us. She doesn’t stop to look behind her, though. She picks up speed in the living room and practically flies out the door. She shuts it behind her, so I can’t see her running across her lawn, but I can imagine her doing it.
I give my head a shake. That has to have been the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Both times. Can a spider really drive a person to that kind of distraction? Maybe she wasn’t lying about the heat. It is brutally hot out. Maybe she is a little off her rocker.
Maybe I should just go over and get rid of the damn spider and take a look at her air con. It would make my life simpler.
Or maybe I’m looking for another excuse to see my crazy hot—maybe also just simply crazy—neighbor.
What the hell does that say about me and my own life?
I decide not to think about it or Lu-Anne, but that resolution lasts for all of two minutes. It’s not until I’m tugging on a fresh pair of jeans that I realize she was dressed entirely in black. Tight black yoga pants. Long-sleeved black shirt.
In the middle of one of the hottest days of the year.
I dress in black because I have something to hide, and I didn’t bring any other colored clothing with me. What was her excuse?
CHAPTER 10
Lu-Anne
A few hours to think about my actions did not make me feel any better. It was pretty stupid to assume that just because I saw Mr. Mob drive away in his car, he wouldn’t actually
be home. I’d watched him drive slowly down the block and immediately run to my closet. I threw on the first thing I could think of that was black, which was incredibly silly, given that it was broad daylight outside.
I was so convinced I needed to break into his house in order to find evidence to save other people’s lives that I didn’t even stop to really think about what would happen if I got caught or if Mr. Mob was somehow at home.
The only thing I can think of is that he drove his car somewhere and walked back while I was changing and didn’t see him. His front door was unlocked, which I found odd. I must have been in some kind of stupor, or maybe my heartbeat was so damn loud in my damn ears that I didn’t hear the shower running.
Mr. Mob scared the life out of me when he showed up out of nowhere like a freaking ghost—a really hot, insanely ripped, gorgeous, mouth-watering, delectable ghost.
Except he was real. All those muscles and bronzed skin and the dark hair that ran from his navel into the tiny little hand towel he had covering his—er—nether region was totally real. I don’t know if it was a regular-sized towel, and it just looked small on him or why the heck he couldn’t bother to cover himself up with something bigger. Oh, right. Probably because he panicked, thinking there was a crazed robber in his house.
Worse, I don’t know why part of me is still scared of him, and part of me is—well—not so scared. No, that part of me, a decidedly female part, is far from scared. Excited, maybe. A guy can’t look that good, be that nearly naked, and not be exciting. It’s basic anatomy at work. My body is betraying me while my brain is still on high alert.
The guy had tattoos. Not anywhere visible if he had clothing on, but he had tattoos on his chest and arm. And on his back. It’s just weird. And they were well done. I mean, it’s not like I stared or anything, but all that black ink especially on his chest just stood out. There was a tattoo along his ribs of some kind of angel with two red roses, and then on his back, I caught a glimpse of a full piece with a man who looked to be standing at a table with all sorts of tools. There was something written above it in big, black, block letters curling around his shoulders.
I didn’t get a good look at it, obviously, since I was fleeing the scene before the guy—who actually seemed amused by the whole thing—could change his mind about me. The tattoos on his back must be some kind of mafia thing, though. Probably the name of whatever organization he’s involved with.
It’s just further proof to me that the guy is sketchy.
Who the heck has those big design tattoos where no one else will ever see them, and who the hell seems so calm when they find someone invading their house? He didn’t seem ruffled at all. A little surprised maybe, but shockingly calm. He clearly didn’t want to get the police involved. Even standing there naked, he wasn’t threatened by me in the least. Then again, what could I, a small female, possibly do to him? Aside from whacking his balls with a damn spatula that I supposedly went over to borrow?
Yeah. I get why he was amused.
Maybe if I found some crazed-looking woman dressed in all black in my kitchen, digging around in my utensils and claiming to be looking for a spider-squashing tool, I’d be amused too.
Or maybe I’d think they had every right to be looking for a weapon because yeah, spiders are serious business and scary as hell. They are not to be messed with, and when they invade a person’s bed before attempting to murder them by jumping on their face and killing them with their hairy, gross, and frightening selves, they must die. That’s totally clear, right?
Anyway, no matter how many times I go over the incident, I still feel ashamed.
I’m in the middle of replaying the whole thing for the seven hundredth and eighty-ninth time—with the usual ripped muscles, smattering of dark hair, black ink, and tight pecks taking center stage—when there’s a sharp knock at the door. I let out a shriek and leap off the couch. Okay, so maybe my nerves are a little rattled. It takes me a few moments to realize I have a camera right there, and I run across the living room to the screen.
It’s him.
It’s freaking him.
Mr. Mob.
Oh god, he’s come to kill me and finish me off right in my own house. He knows I’m onto him, and he’s going to kill me. Well, the joke is on him since I now have evidence. That is if he didn’t notice the camera and won’t dismantle everything. But the security place has the footage of him standing there, right? It all gets monitored there, so he can’t destroy the evidence. Isn’t that how it works?
I watch him tap his toe impatiently. He has something in his hand. A can of something. Probably mace. Maybe that’s how I’m going to go out—maced and diced.
I shudder violently at the thought, but I can’t let my fears get the best of me. I have to face this. If he’s not out there to kill me right now, then maybe I can still make him believe my innocence. I could act crazier. Prattle on about heatstroke and spiders again.
What I can’t do is leave him standing out there. That would only make everything worse. I’m sure it would. It would make me more paranoid at any rate, and I’m not sure I need that at the moment. I have to find out what he wants.
Famous last thoughts.
That famous last thought itself crosses my mind as I pull open the door.
“H–hi.” I hiccup. It sounds anything but natural. My hand quivers on the doorknob, but I don’t release it in case I need to slam the door in his face.
Mr. Mob, dressed in his signature black t-shirt and jeans and looking like his normal, delicious self, holds up the can. I go to duck on instinct, maybe punch out and try and catch him in the ball bag area to cripple him so I can make a fast getaway, but then I spot a picture of a giant spider on the can. And an ant beside it. And some other creepy looking critter beside that.
“I brought you this,” he explains in his rich, deep tone. He actually has a nice voice. It’s probably the last voice a lot of people have heard, too. I can’t let myself think nice things about him.
“Uh—bug spray?” My voice wavers painfully. It’s far too high-pitched.
“Yes. It’s assured to kill spiders. So it says. You spray the area of your room that is infected, and there you have it. Once and done.”
Once and done? How many people has he “onced” and “doned”?
I reach out with my other hand, which is also trembling, and take the can. “Is this safe to spray on my bed?” Why did I just ask that? Shut the door and be done with this.
“Oh.” He suddenly looks uncertain. It’s strange to see him as anything less than composed. It’s strange how the frown marring his brow doesn’t look at all awful on him. He has the kind of face that is beautiful all the time. Like a resting bitch face, except for him, it’s resting handsome face.
Could I be any more pathetic? This guy is probably a freaking mobster!
“I’m not actually sure.” He studies the can for a second. “You know, it appears pretty toxic. Maybe don’t try it after all.”
“Okay.” I know I should shut the door, but I’m paralyzed. Not just with fear either. Because suddenly, Mr. Mob is smiling a little, and it is dazzling. Like I just got struck with lightning style dazzling or maybe tasered by a mobster style dazzling.
“I also thought I could come in and check your air con for you? You said it wasn’t working.”
Shit! That was a lie! Shit, he can probably feel the cool air rolling out towards him. Shit, shit, freakshit, shitstack, shit.
I’m apparently not good at thinking on the spot. Internal cursing? You bet. Actual thinking? Heck no. It’s so obvious the air is running. He can probably hear the unit buzzing away all the way from his house.
“You know, it actually kicked in,” I lie. “About an hour ago. I don’t know; maybe it’s going on its way out. It’s older.”
“I could still take a look at it for you.”
“Uh—I was kind of in the middle of something, but maybe tomorrow?” WHY? Why would I say that? I guess it’s less painful than blurting o
ut, please leave and don’t kill me. And don’t come back to kill me. Can we just forget about killing me altogether?
“Sure.” Mr. Mob gives me a blank sort of look. I’m probably giving a strange one back. I do my best to rearrange my face into blankness, but it probably just makes me look constipated. “What time?”
“At—er—ah—around six?”
“Sure. I’ll bring my tools just in case something is off. I’m not a plumber or a mechanic, but I am pretty handy.”
I’ll bet you are. Pretty handy at rolling people up in rugs and making them disappear—which makes me realize I haven’t even bothered to check if the rug is still in his yard. What kind of hecking detective am I anyway? Stealing sex toys, getting caught breaking and entering, and now letting the perp right into my house?
“Great. Uh—thanks.”
He nods, and before he can say anything else or do anything else or maybe murder me with the bug spray stuff, I slam the door in his face. And lock it—with a resounding click that he had to have heard.
Great. I have less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to survive this guy being in my house. Do they happen to sell tasers at friendly local big box stores?
CHAPTER 11
Wade
The next night, I dress in my best, which means a fresh black t-shirt and the only pair of jeans I brought with me that isn’t black. I find myself walking out the door at just after five and have to coax myself back in and warn myself to settle down. I seriously am not trying to impress anyone, and it takes all of five seconds to walk across the yard.
I don’t need this. I really don’t. Lu-Anne is a complicated complication I can’t afford. She seems a little…off, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not like I actually think she’s crazy. I know she’s not. She acted like a regular person when her friend and brother visited her all those times before. Maybe it really is the heat. It’s hot enough outside to scramble anyone’s brain a little. Maybe it’s just like she said. The lack of sleep because of the whole spider incident. Although I think it’s somewhat irrational, I can kind of see where she’s coming from if I try hard enough. If a porcupine or bear wandered into my house and got into my bed, I think I’d have an issue with that. Why should a spider be any different? Just because I don’t find them threatening doesn’t mean she doesn’t. It might be irrational, but phobias generally are.