Pepper is as old as the hills, but she’s been healthy since the day we found her at a kill auction. And Venus is our very first rescue and arguably my favorite after Billy. She’s a paint mare that taught thousands of kids how to ride and was thrown away like garbage when she got too old to work. Thinking about it makes me want to karate chop a stack of bricks.
I fall into the big, stuffed, distressed-brown leather armchair and throw a curious glance at the flat screen TV above the river rock fireplace. Some strange sounds are coming from there. “What movie is this?”
“9 1/2 Weeks,” says the woman more than twice my age and a mother figure to me.
I jump right out of the armchair. The last thing I want to do is watch a lorno, otherwise known as light porn, with Mona and her kinky lover. Not my idea of a good time.
“I’ll pass. See you tomorrow.”
“Night, Smokey.”
“Night, Bandit.”
Upstairs, I run a bath with lavender Epsom salts. My muscles ache from stacking hay bales and sometimes a girl just has to soak. On autopilot, I drop trou and panties, ditch the sports bra, and go in search of my paperback as the tub fills up.
I love paperbacks. I love the smell. I love the feel of them between my fingers. You drop that in the tub and there’s no risk of permanent injury. Try that with an e-reader and see what happens to you. This is why some things will never go out of style.
Searching the box I packed with books when I moved out of the guesthouse turns up nothing. I’m shocked to discover that my well-worn copy of Simply Sinful by Kate Pearce with the cover ripped off is not amongst the other books. My heart starts to pitter-patter a little harder when I check the only other box and it’s not in there either.
Holy fornication.
I like my literature dark and sexy and I won’t apologize for it. There can never be enough rough sex and dark undertones in what I like to read. So the fact that my book is missing sends a bolt of cold sweat up my back. If it’s not in the box with the rest of my books, I can only assume it’s in one other place: the guesthouse. The guesthouse which is occupied territory at the present moment.
A million scenarios run through my mind and none of them make me look good. The next three months will be a living hell if I have to endure having Shane Hughes cast judgmental stares in my direction. Something must be done to correct this monumental error ASAP.
Grabbing the binoculars which have increasingly come in handy, I check to see if the lights are on in the guesthouse and they are. I throw on an old t-shirt I sleep in and shorts I made out of old sweatpants I’d worn into smithereens.
Minutes later, I’m standing in front of the door of the house I once called my home, palms sweating, while I devise a plan. I knock lightly and surprisingly hear, “One minute,” almost instantly.
Shane opens the door in a fresh white t-shirt that hugs his chest and shorts, long silky ones like basketball players wear. Hair wet, he looks like he recently stepped out of the shower. And if he keeps looking at my mouth with that same intent and focus for much longer, I’m going to need a shower myself.
“Hi, uh, hi. I need to check something. I mean I left something here when I moved out. I mean I left something here by mistake.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion.
Great. I’m doing a great job so far. If he doesn’t get a restraining order on me tonight, I’ll consider myself lucky.
Without a word, he steps aside and lets me in. Then my eyes go wide. I’m embarrassed to say the place is hardly recognizable. For one thing, it’s super clean––clean like it’s never been clean before––and tidy. If you don’t know that those two things are not the same, then you’re as bad at housekeeping as I am.
The drapes have been washed. The floors polished. The furniture rearranged a little. Not even a throw pillow is out of place. It even smells different, a nice mix of detergents, fresh pine, and sandalwood. Very masculine.
“Wow. I don’t know what to say… except, how are you enjoying my home?” I throw a semi-embarrassed smile at him over my shoulder. He doesn’t return one. Nope, that stony façade hasn’t budged.
“Bathroom’s a little tight, but it serves its purpose.” He crosses his arms and his biceps bulge. So do my eyes.
Have mercy. Put those guns away, almost comes out of my mouth. It can’t be helped. The running commentary in my head goes at Mach speed when I’m a little nervous.
In the corner, a guitar rests against the wall. “You play?”
“Hmm,” is all he offers. He must be touchy about his skills, so I drop the topic.
I walk further inside and my attention averts to the open kitchen. It’s sparkling clean. A few new pans sit in a new dish drying rack. All the changes have knocked me off-balance.
“New pans?” He’s still watching me closely, as if I’m a thief casing his property.
“You didn’t have any.”
“I don’t cook.” I walk over to the shelf where my books once lived and all I find are a few of his. Two on the history of war and a biography on General Patton.
“At all?” he sounds genuinely surprised for once. I tear my eyes away from the books to see him rub the scruff on his face. There’s a thin line of hair missing on his chin where he probably had stitches at some point.
“No. I’m no good at it. They should make it a crime actually.”
His eyes do this thing where they turn into chocolate crescents, smiling even though his mouth remains at rest. “You can’t be that bad.”
“I am. Don’t ever eat my cooking unless you’d like an enema free of charge.” Then I catch my mistake. “Not that I’m offering to cook for you.” That didn’t sound right either. “I mean… it’s a joke, never mind.” I think I almost see his mouth curve up a little, but I may have imagined it. “What do you do? For a living, I mean. Or do you work for your brother?” I open the drawer of the side table next to the couch. Nothing there either. It may be time to panic.
“I’m a writer…” He runs his fingers through his hair and mumbles, “At least, I try to be. Haven’t done much of it lately.”
“Writer’s block?”
He nods.
I feel for him. Growing up in L.A., I’ve known more failed writers and actors than I care to. The entertainment industry beats a person down. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. If I had any enemies, I mean.
“That’s a tough business…” I muse out loud. Dropping to all fours, I look under the couch and find the absence of my book and the dust bunnies that once lived long, happy lives under there until Mr. Clean moved in.
“But you can’t give up if you really love it. Just keep plugging away and one day you’ll get your shot. My cousin wanted to be a director and he did it. Took ten years and a bankruptcy, but he’s doing commercials now.” Then it dawns on me. “Hey, maybe your brother can help.”
I look up and find his gaze directed over my head, avoiding eye contact. Shit, maybe he’s touchy about it.
“Maybe,” he says. His glances back down and gives me a funny look. Maybe I overstepped again. It’s not like they’re very close. Or maybe it’s a brotherly rivalry. One super successful and the other scraping by. I should just shut up now. I can’t do anything right with this guy.