That was the day Miranda and I became best friends. I could narrow it down to that exact moment and the way her eyes watched me warily as I told my friends off. It was also the day I lost those other friends and was shunned, but that was fine by me. Miranda was enough. She was a handful, in fact, and to this day... I still have no clue what those other girls were saying. As far as I know, they could have been discussing the weather at the moment I walked up to them, but I don't regret a moment of my actions.
The funny thing is... Miranda and I are like night and day. She's a pessimist, and I'm an optimist. She's wild and crazy, and I'm calm and sedate. My humor is quirky and adorable, hers is biting and sarcastic. She's got hair the color of midnight, while mine's the color of the sun. But the one thing we have in common despite all those differences is love and loyalty, and it's never wavered since eighth grade. Even when I went away to college--which was really only forty miles away so I was home often--Miranda and I never drifted apart. I made new friends at college while she went to cosmetology school, but we never let distance or new interests drive a wedge between us.
So when she looks at me and honestly tells me this painting is worth three hundred and fifty dollars, I totally believe her, because she believes it about me.
"Three fifty it is," I say as I neatly print out the new price and then rest it against the easel.
When I'm seated again, Miranda says, "This is pretty fucking boring, Janey. We've been here for hours and only sold four paintings."
Chuckling, I lean over and nudge her shoulder with mine. "I know, and I love you for keeping me company."
"Let's talk about Kyle then," she says, and my insides immediately go warm at just hearing his name. Of course, because Miranda is my bestie and I tell her everything, she's very much aware that I'm crushing on my elusive neighbor who I haven't seen hide nor hair of since he helped me with my pipe problem earlier in the week.
Obviously, I had to hear every dirty innuendo from Miranda, but my favorite was, "So Janey... did he really plow your pipes?"
Sadly, he did not, and I didn't learn much about him at all. The next morning, my two baskets were sitting on my front porch, so he effectively removed any reason for me to go over and knock on his door. This was disheartening, and I know it's foolish to even be thinking on these things. He's totally out of my league, as completely scary as he is sexy, and would probably hurt me very badly in the long run.
Still, I can't resist her offer to gossip like silly girls. "So, I told you about his tattoos, right?"
Miranda shakes her head. Clearly, I missed some crucial details. "Are they bad ass?" she asks.
"So bad ass," I tell her. "He's got this really scary-looking skull on his chest with the words 'Fear Me' written underneath, so I'm thinking that's probably a valid warning. I should stay away."
"No way," Miranda says knowingly. "As you well know, I've been with lots of men--"
I roll my eyes at her because she really hasn't... I mean, not comparatively to some of the looser women in our town.
"--and men who have tattoos just know how to fuck. And they know how to do things with their mouths. Oh, and they're usually really hung."
Just as Miranda says that, an older couple strolls by my booth. I give her a sharp nudge. We both turn our heads and give them a welcoming smile. They in turn glare at us as they walk right by, not even giving my paintings a glance.
"Okay, we are changing the subject," I hiss at her. "You're going to drive away any potential customers."
"Nah," she says dismissively with a wave of her hand. "Just the prudes. Anyway, men with tattoos are where it's at. Trust me on this."
"I trust you on most everything, but I don't know," I tell her dubiously. "It's seriously not normal for someone to be that reclusive and shut off from society. What if he has mental issues?"
"What if he has a big dick?" she counters.
"Okay, we are now absolutely changing the subject," I growl at her as I push out of my chair and turn to face her with a mock glare. She just looks back up at me with a knowing grin.
Knowing that I'll now be wondering about the size of his--well, you know.
"And what were you two just talking about?" I hear a distinctly male, distinctly annoying voice ask from behind me.
I slowly turn around and stiffen my spine as I lock eyes on my ex-boyfriend, Craig Bartles. My asshole ex-boyfriend, I should clarify.
And true to his sleazy form, he's standing there with Patty Dubois, the floozy he was cheating on me with. He's got his arm draped casually over her shoulder, and she's pressed into his side with her arm clinging tight around his waist. She gives me a nasty smile as she smacks at her gum.
We broke up over a year ago when I found him in my house, in my bed, giving it hard to Patty Dubois. When I gave him a key to use, I honestly didn't think he'd use it like that.
Weirdly though, it wasn't a difficult breakup. At least, not in the long run. While I had fashioned myself really in love with the man, it was about three days after our breakup that Miranda observed, "You know... you're not even sad that Craig is gone."
And I realized... she was right.
I was mad at what he did. And, as a woman, I was very hurt that he betrayed me. But I didn't pine for him. In fact, I almost felt light and free after we parted ways.
I moved on and didn't look back.
Craig couldn't seem to do the same.
Because this is a small town, we run into each other a lot. And every time, he has something nasty to say. Most times, he's with Patty, and he enjoys flaunting her in my face. I can't figure out what I did to deserve his ire, other than breaking up with him, but I always tried to take the high road.
So I lift my chin up and prepare to polite the two of them to death when Miranda sneers at them. "Sorry... you two are going to have to move it along. We don't serve patrons who have crabs."
Craig just smirks, but Patty takes great offense. "I do not have crabs."
"Yes, you do," Miranda says. "Henry over at the pharmacy told me that you routinely have to get a prescription medication for your problem. So, if you would just move it along... I don't want your creepy crawlies anywhere near me."
Patty screeches in outrage, but Craig merely removes his arm from her shoulder and steps up to the table. His gaze goes to the Gray Birch Lighthouse painting, and he studies it for a moment.
"Nice work," he says as he picks it up from the easel. My body immediately goes tight as he puts his grubby fingers on my work. He turns to look at me, holding the painting up. "I'll give you five dollars for it."
I don't take the bait because he wants me to verbally clash with him. His tongue is sharper than mine, and he knows he'll cut me down. Instead, I step around the table, push past Patty, who's glaring daggers at Miranda, and I jerk the painting out of Craig's hands. The move is so forceful that he's caught off guard, and it easily comes free.
"It's not for sale to you," I tell him firmly.
And that should have been the end of it. But I'm completely stunned when his hand flies out and he jerks it right back out of my hands. He gives me a superior smile, and then purposefully lets it drop to the ground. I watch it tumble end over end until it falls facedown on the dirty pavement.
"Oops," he says with a shrug of his shoulders as he raises his eyebrows innocently. "My bad."
Normally, Miranda would be the one in this situation who would go apeshit. Instead, a wave of fury and frustration sweeps through me and I slam my hands into his chest, pushing him back a step. "You asshole," I hiss at him. "You motherfucking asshole."
"Tell him, girlfriend," I hear Miranda egging me on.
Craig's eyes narrow at me, but not so much that I don't see a glint of malice shining through. I'm unprepared when his hand shoots out and grabs me by my upper arm. He jerks me toward him and snarls, "Better watch out who you hit, Janey, because I'm likely to hit back."
CHAPTER 7
Kyle
I argued with myself that there was
no sound reason to go to the grocery store this morning. My freezer was stocked with enough frozen meals to last more than a week, and I had beer in the fridge.
I was good.
It absolutely had nothing to do with the fact that the Misty Harbor Music and Art Festival, that just happened to be set up on Main Street, coincidentally intersected with Haven Street where the grocery store was located.
I went in without so much as a glance over at the festival booths that lined the street for two blocks on both sides, all the way to the town square. Didn't care about it or anyone there. I bought some bananas and orange juice because I just happen to like both of those things and walked back out of the store. But rather than turn right to where my truck is parallel parked a few spots down, I turn left and scan the booths.
The one closest to me seems to be hawking wind chimes made of seashells and other various little knickknacks in a coastal theme. The one across from that has pottery.
And the one next to that one... has Jane Cresson.
I just stand and watch for a moment as she sits in a chair behind a table and talks to another woman who I vaguely recognize as maybe being a waitress at The Lobster Cage. Not sure.
The one thing I am sure about is that Jane gets more beautiful every time I see her. Or perhaps it's the more I stay away from her, the more beautiful she gets when I finally do see her again. I watch like a complete creeper as she seems to change her mind about something on her table. She pulls a card away from a painting, writes out a new one, and puts it back in place. I watch her sit back down and appear to have an amusing conversation with her friend, their bodies leaning in toward each other as they speak.
I'm a total creeper.
Then my hackles rise when some asshole and his woman go up to the booth and have words with Jane. I can't hear what's said, but I don't need to either. The guy's posture is cocky and Jane's is stiff. Her face is guarded, and I even notice her fists are clenched as they exchange words.
It's when I see her fists tighten that I decide to walk that way. I cut across Main on the diagonal, walking straight toward her booth. I walk faster when I see the guy pick up her painting. Jane takes it right back from him, clearly not wanting anything to do with him. I walk even faster when he jerks the painting back out of her hand, and I break into a trot when he drops it to the ground. I start charging by the time she slams her tiny hands into his chest. When he reaches out and grabs her arm, I'm on him.
My hand latches onto his scrawny throat and my fingers curl viciously inward around his windpipe, a move that's not only painful, but also breath-robbing. He immediately releases Jane, who stumbles back in surprise. I vaguely hear Jane's friend say, "Fuck yeah... this is going to be good."
In my days as a brother of Mayhem's Mission, I would have proceeded to beat the shit out of someone who would dare touch a woman such as Jane. Sweet, funny, and unbearably alluring. I would have beaten him to unconsciousness and never thought twice about it.
But those days are over, and I can't afford to call attention to myself. So I merely turn the douchebag around and march him backward down the side of Jane's tent, up onto the sidewalk bordering the street, and right into the brick wall of Chib's Hardware Store. Leaning in close to him, I say in a quiet but no bullshitting voice of menace, "Get your tramp and get out of here. If I see you even look sideways at Jane again, I will end you."
I release my hold on his throat, and the guy frantically nods his head in agreement. I watch as he leans to the side and holds his hand out. His woman runs up to him, takes his hand, and they start scurrying down the sidewalk together.
I watch until they round the corner and are out of sight before I turn back toward Jane's booth. I walk along the side and find her squatting down to retrieve her painting. Her hair has fallen forward as she leans over, and I watch as she turns the painting face up.
Jane lets out a gasp of dismay, and I let my eyes slide to the painting she holds. It's beautiful. I mean, stunningly beautiful. While serene seascapes aren't really my thing, I definitely have an affinity toward it since it's a painting of my current home.
I also happen to take in the fact that there's a hole in the bottom of the painting, probably from a rock, and dirt is smeared over the left side.
She stands up. As her gaze lifts to meet mine, I ask her, "You okay?"
"It's ruined," Jane murmurs as her eyes slide back down to the painting. "I should have taken the time to put glass on it."
"But are you okay?" I ask her, because I saw the way that dude grabbed her. It was done violently. Man, what I wouldn't give to have kicked the shit out of him. Hearing the despondency in her voice, though, maybe an ass kicking wasn't good enough.
Jane lifts a shaky hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Jane's dark-haired friend comes out of from behind the table. When she sees the painting, she coos, "Oh, honey... I'm so sorry. That motherfucking asshole."
I don't know this woman, but I really do like her. Couldn't agree with her more.
"It's no biggie," Jane says, but the tone of her voice says otherwise. She's devastated her work is ruined. "I think we should get packed up and call it a day, Miranda."
She doesn't spare me another glance, just turns to the table and tosses the painting on top of it next to the easel it had been setting on. My gaze goes to a white index card sitting there with the price of three hundred and fifty dollars.
Renewed rage sweeps through me as I realize that motherfucker not only hurt her feelings and her arm, but he just fucking hurt her livelihood with his malicious actions. I have to fight the urge not to track him down and give him a taste of my brand of justice.
Instead, I set my grocery bag down on the table beside the painting and reach into my back pocket to fish out my wallet. I open it up and flip through the cash, pulling out four one-hundred dollar bills. While this painting is a luxury I would not normally buy, particularly not in my immediate past life, it is certainly one I can easily afford. I was paid very well by the ATF while I was undercover, and every bit of that money was socked away into savings.
"I'll take the painting," I say gruffly as I set the cash down on the table and pick up the framed watercolor.
Jane spins around, her eyes wide with surprise. Her gaze flicks down to the cash, up to the painting in my hand, and finally up to meet mine. "Absolutely not. No way. It's ruined."
"It's got a little dirt on it," I say in a brush-off.
"It's got dirt on it and a hole in it," she grits out.
"It gives it character," I tell her with a shrug as I look down at the painting in my hands. It really is beautiful despite the dirt and hole, and besides... looking at it will remind me of the satisfaction I had by nearly crushing that guy's windpipe.
"Kyle," Jane says in exasperation. "It's ridiculous for you to spend money on a ruined painting."
I'm not going to sit around and argue with her. However, I do get the distinct impression that despite how sweet and bubbly she is most of the time, she'd be a hellion to argue with if she really got mad. On top of that, I had no intentions of crossing paths with Jane again, and this certainly went against said intentions.
I tuck the painting under my arm, grab my groceries, and turn away from her booth to cross back over to the other side of Main Street.
"Wait," she calls out.
I stop and look back over my shoulder at her.
"I need to get your change," she huffs at me in exasperation.
"Keep it," I tell her, to which I immediately get an eye roll back.
I turn my back on her again and cross the street. She calls out after me again, "Kyle... seriously... it isn't right for me to take this."
I don't respond, and I don't look back.
CHAPTER 8
Jane
I don't even bother to unload my car. I leave the leftover paintings I hadn't sold and my pride sitting in there. Instead, all I take is my purse and the six pack of beer I'd picked up at Ernie's Grab-N-Go
three minutes ago.
My driveway runs east along the side of my house, so after I close my door and lock it, I walk straight past my house and across my front yard. I cross over Cranberry Lane and enter Kyle's front yard.
But I don't go up to his front porch. I walk along the side of his little cottage, past the walkway that veers off to the right that leads to the lighthouse door. Before turning left to walk up his back porch steps, I notice that the flowers he planted the other day look really nice. At the top of the porch, he has a small, round wooden table flanked by two Adirondack chairs that face out toward the Atlantic Ocean.
Perfect.
I set my purse down on the porch, the beer on the table, and smooth my hands over my hair. I'd worn a summer dress to the festival today. I paired it with my standard white cardigan, which is appreciated right this moment as a chilly evening breeze is coming off the ocean.
Reaching an arm out, I sharply knock on his back screen door, then immediately clasp my hands behind my back to wait for him.
I hear movement inside and can see his form moving toward the door through the sheer curtain that covers the glass panes. Just like when I disturbed him a few mornings ago with my water pipe catastrophe, he answers without a shirt but in those really, really great-fitting jeans.
He doesn't say anything, just cocks an eyebrow at me through the screen door.
I tilt my head to the right, indicating the beer on the table. "I'm commandeering your back porch. I'm going to drink a few beers and enjoy the amazing ocean view that's blocked by your house when I'm on my front porch. Join me if you'd like."
I don't wait for an answer, just turn and serenely walk to the furthest Adirondack chair from the door. I ease down into it and perch my feet on the bottom of the porch rail, tucking my skirt in around my ass so it keeps my legs covered.
I have no clue what Kyle will do. If I go on past experience, he'll shut the door, lock it, and ignore me. But I can't worry about that. I truly am here to borrow his ocean view and drink a few beers because I fucking deserve them after what happened with Craig earlier.