“I ... I’m sorry.” I pull Maverick back. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I live across the street.”
Great idea. Tell the nice murderer where you live.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t introduce himself. He just keeps hitting me with that unwavering glacial stare. It’s too much, too powerful to withstand, so I lower my gaze and take in the rest of him.
Strong shoulders span wide, adding to his towering height. His shirt is taut around his upper-body. The muscles in his arms are well-defined striations, more than just swollen biceps and triceps. He’s carved from stone, detailed and unforgiving. A work of art that people travel from all over to stand in front of in admiration.
This man is beautiful.
Then again, that’s probably what every woman said about Ted Bundy right before he killed them.
I should leave. Flee back to the safety of my home.
But I’m frozen, sucked in by the enigmatic energy surging around him like a tornado of rage and agony.
And I’m standing right in his path.
I swallow, my throat thick with apprehension. “I, uh, we’re in need of a new landscaper. I saw you come back here and figured I’d come ask for your card.” I swallow again, my gaze flicking to the beer bottle glinting in the sunlight. “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think? I mean, you shouldn’t be impaired while operating heavy machinery. Don’t want to lose a foot in the lawn mower.”
I choke out a laugh, desperate to make light of the situation, but it comes out strangled and strained.
The man doesn’t laugh with me. He doesn’t crack a smile. Not sure his facial muscles would know how if he tried to. One massive hand is curled at his side, as if he’s gripping the leash on his composure, his self-control ready to snap.
“You’ve got some nerve coming back here like this.” The man’s voice is gruff with a sharp edge, like he gargles with a throatful of razors every morning.
My eyebrows lift in a flash of irritation. “Me? I’m a potential customer. One who wants to pay you for your landscaping services. Or I did, before I caught you getting drunk on the job.”
Why am I arguing with the scary man?
He folds his arms over his chest, accentuating the corded muscles in his forearms. “And you assume I’m a landscaper because why?”
“Your truck, for one.” I wave my arm in front of him. “You’re too dirty to be pool maintenance. If you were a roofer, you’d have a ladder.” I shrug like it’s simple addition. “And this isn’t your backyard, so unless you’re here to rob the place ...” My fingers touch my lips. “Oh, God. You’re not here to rob them, are you?”
He edges closer, the look of disgust twisting his features—the look he’s directing at me.
I lift my chin and try not to flinch.
I’ve learned that flinching only makes it worse.
Maverick strains against his leash, his eager nose in the air, wide eyes begging the stranger to pet him. I have to use both hands to tug him back.
Some guard dog you are, Mav! This man is about to kill me, and you’re trying to sniff his crotch and make friends.
The man points his index finger at me, revulsion rolling off his tongue with each syllable. “You self-righteous, pretentious little princess.”
My mouth falls open, and my stomach bottoms out.
“You stand there in your designer clothes, your shoes that cost more than a month’s rent, scrutinizing everyone behind your ridiculous fucking sunglasses, and you’re gonna judge me?” He shakes his head. “My clothes are dirty because I work my ass off. My truck’s a piece of shit because I have more important things to pay for. And I’m a grown-ass man, so I’ll drink whenever the fuck I feel like drinking. All you rich motherfuckers act like you’re better than people like me, but I know the sickening truth. I can lay my head down at night with a clear conscience because I’m not living a lie. I’d rather look ugly on the outside than be ugly on the inside like you.”
His words pack a physical punch, hitting way too close to home. A tremor rips through me, and before I can stop it, a tear escapes from under my sunglasses.
It’s time to go.
“I’m sorry.” I whip around and bolt out of the backyard, dragging Maverick behind me.
My legs carry me across the grass as fast as my wedges will allow. I bunch my dress in my fist, hiking it up over my knees so my strides are longer.
When I reach my house, I slam the door closed behind me and press my back against it. My chest heaves as I gasp for air, my heart racing. A sob gurgles in my throat, but I swallow it down.
Maverick.
California king bed.
Walk-in closet.
Dream kitchen.
Yard with a pool.
Mercedes.
Maverick whimpers, nudging me with his cold nose. I sink down to the floor and fling my arms around him, burying my face in the comfort of his soft fur.
“It’s okay, Mav. I’m okay.”
Everything’s okay.
I shouldn’t have confronted him like that.
It’s my fault for making him so angry.
My speeding pulse returns to normal after a few minutes of deep breathing, and I push off the floor. Maverick follows me into the kitchen as I swipe my purse and my car keys off the counter.
“Sorry, bud. You gotta stay here. I’m running to the store. Making a special dinner for your dad tonight.”
I kiss the top of his head, and then I’m back out the door, head down, without so much as a glance at the pickup truck out front.
“Mmm. So good, babe.”
My lips spread into a smile. “Figured I’d surprise you with your favorite dish tonight.”
Paul’s hand slides across the cherry wood table, and he entwines our fingers. “I love it. Thank you.”
“How was your day?”
He tugs on his tie, loosening it, before popping his collar and slipping the loop over his head. “Good. Meeting went well. I think Haarburger’s going to sign with us.”
“That’s great.”
He dabs the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “How was therapy?”
“It went well.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Did you, uh, tell her what we talked about last night?”
“I told her about our decision to stop trying to have kids. She thinks it’s good that we’re on the same page, that we’re able to move on together.”
“Not what I was referring to, Cal.”
“Oh.”
He’s asking if I told her about the bruises he left on my arm.
I look down at my spaghetti. “No, I didn’t mention it.”
“Good.” He sets his fork down beside his plate. “Because I meant what I said last night. It won’t happen again.”
I nod, unsure of what he wants me to say to that. It wasn’t the first time he put his hands on me, nor was it the first time he promised that it won’t happen again. I want to call him out on that. I want to ask him why he feels the need to hurt me in order to get his point across. I want to ask him why he can’t control his temper. I want to ask him what happened to the sweet man I met in college. I want to ask him to get some help.
But sometimes, silence is easier than navigating around all the egg shells lying at my feet.