CHAPTER 9
Kyle
My shoulders burn and ache, but still I go harder, running the sanding paper briskly over the last picket on the fence that borders the walkway from my cottage to the lighthouse. The fence needs a new coat of paint. I could have taken the easy way out and just painted over the existing paint. It was in fairly good shape, but it definitely needed freshened up. But because I’m bored and feeling like a slug, I decided to sand the entire thing down by hand first. I could have also taken the easy way out and rented an electric sander from Chib at the hardware store, but it felt like a day where I should do something to expend all this excess energy I have.
I’m feeling restless from being cooped up for the few winter months I experienced here.
Anxious over the fact I’ve got a few more months left of hiding out. The days seem to go by slower than ever.
And I’m fucking wound up over my obnoxiously witty and drop-dead gorgeous neighbor who doesn’t seem to be scared off from me and my surly ways. Moreover, she’s managed to dig her way under my skin, not in a totally bad way, but in a way that makes me want to hand sand an entire picket fence.
Even though I doubt the temperature is past the mid-seventies right now, in between my vigorous sanding and the hot noon sun, I’m fucking roasting. I’d ditched my shirt less than an hour into the work, and then about thirty minutes ago I went inside and ditched my jeans, opting for a pair of old swim trunks I’d brought along with me when I heard from Joe my new destination was the coast.
Even though my muscles are screaming and sweat is pouring off me, I continue to scrub as hard as I can against the paint, operating under the theory that tonight I’ll be too exhausted to think about the shit storm that is my life.
And about Jane.
Mostly Jane as I’m years into this shit storm and used to it by now. It is what it is.
But I’m not used to Jane. I’ve never met a woman like her. I’ve been surrounded by tramps and club whores for the last five years, so I’m not even sure I’d know what to do with someone like Jane in my bed.
But fuck… the things I’d like to do to her in said bed.
Goddamn it, you stupid motherfucker. Do not go there.
Which is exactly why she will never—and I mean ever—be there. I would tarnish her horribly, probably scare the crap out of her and traumatize her for life. I’ve become so roughened over the years—so criminalized—I feel like I barely resemble a normal human being. So what little bit of morality I’ve seemed to keep deep down inside is demanding that I forget Jane Cresson. Fucking bar tramps in back alleys is all I’m good for and I’ll just have to be satisfied with that. Although, I can’t explain to myself why I haven’t been back to The Lobster Cage to take advantage of what Barb has to offer since I met Jane.
And as if just thinking about her causes her to materialize—
“I’ve been watching you work your ass off all morning from my porch, so I thought I’d come over to help,” Jane says behind me.
My head drops forward, and I clench my teeth in frustration.
Temptation keeps putting itself in my path.
I don’t stop sanding the last picket, even though I can’t see a speck of white paint left. “Funny you show up when I just finished the last one,” I mutter.
She gives a tinkling laugh that just two days ago would have annoyed the hell out of me, but instead, it sounds like music. “Well, of course I wasn’t going to help you with the sanding, silly, but you still have to paint it and well… I’m a painter.”
“You’re an artist,” I point out as I push up from my knees and turn to face her.
“Who paints,” she says brightly.
And yep… she’s glorious. White shorts that aren’t too short but still show a good bit of leg, a faded navy-blue t-shirt that’s seen better days, and flip-flops. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail and her lips are shiny.
Why the fuck are they shiny?
“I made you lunch,” she says as she holds out a brown paper bag that’s neatly folded down at the top.
I blink at her a moment before my eyes drop to the bag. Just two days ago, that would also have annoyed the hell out of me, but for some reason, it fucking delights me.
Not going to let her know that, though, so I merely take it from her with a rough, “Thanks.”
I walk over to my pickup truck that I’d backed up to the edge of the fence nearest to Cranberry Lane, and she follows me there. I open the bag up, reaching in to find a neatly wrapped sandwich that looks to be thick and piled high with turkey, lettuce, and tomato. Tossing the bag onto my tailgate, I unwrap the sandwich as I ask her, “Any chance our work can be done in companionable silence if I let you help me?”
“As if,” she says with an exaggerated whine in her voice. I know she’s quoting a movie, but I have no clue which one. She adds on, “Clueless. 1995.”
“Never saw it,” I say before I take a bite of my sandwich, and damn… that’s good. Just a simple sandwich made for me, because she’s kind and thoughtful, and I’m pretty sure it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I wonder what she tastes like?
I give my head a hard shake and swallow. She looks at me curiously, but I’m pretty sure she has no clue what I was just thinking.
“I could be very cruel, you know,” she says with a sly grin as she hops up to sit on the edge of the tailgate, “and tell you that Clueless is a must-see movie for you.”
“What’s it about?” I ask before taking another bite, and well… sort of enjoying this conversation.
“Oh, trust me,” she says with a laugh and a shake of her head that makes her ponytail swing jauntily back and forth. “You’d hate it.”
I do nothing but grunt my acknowledgment and take another bite. I’m halfway through it and dying for another already.
I’m also strangely not put out by Jane’s presence. Ever since Mayhem’s Mission was taken down and I reentered the mainstream world, it’s been hard for me to connect with normal people. Conversation was hard. Listening was hard. Just being in the presence of other people and looking at how very different they were from me, not so much on the outside, but mostly on the inside, and it’s all sometimes too much to handle.
But with Jane… it’s easy.
Well, easier.
“Since you don’t seem to like to get into deep conversation, I thought I’d just entertain you while we paint with some random movie quotes. Really my favorite ones.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask her.
“Because I don’t think you can truly appreciate my talent based on the little interaction we’ve had. And since conversation with you isn’t the easiest, I’ll just toss some random ones out to you.”
“For entertainment purposes only?” I ask as my lips do this very weird motion where they curve upward rather than downward.
“Totally for entertainment purposes only,” she assures me.
“Okay,” I challenge her as I point my half-eaten sandwich her way. “Let me see what you got.”
Jane pinches her chin between her finger and thumb, and then looks upward in contemplation for a moment. Her eyes brighten, and she brings her gaze to mine. “Okay… this is seriously a good one.”
I wait and watch.
She jumps down from the tailgate and clears her throat. Turning, she paces a few steps away before spinning back to me and saying, “My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions…”
She turns, stalks back toward me, and in an imperious voice, continues, “…and loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.”
I smile in appreciation for her wit… her complete lack of fear in putting herself out there… for her absolutely nutty personality that got an honest-to-God smile out of me, and, trust me… those don’t come easy.
“Very good,” I praise her, and shit… I want to hear more. “Gladiator. Not sure what year.”
“2000,” she provides with a grin.
I nod my head to the back of my pickup truck. “How about you start to unload the paint materials while I finish this sandwich, and you can throw a few more movie lines at me if you want?”
“Sure,” she says merrily as she reaches into the truck to grab the first gallon of paint. “And there’s another sandwich in there too.”
This day was getting better and better.
♦
The sun is hanging low on the western horizon, and it’s starting to cool off. We’re on our last section of fence. I’m on one side and Jane’s on the other. The sounds are relaxing. Brushes slapping against wood, seagulls crying, and the waves crashing against the jetty.
And Jane’s voice.
“Okay, here’s another one,” she says without preamble. “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.”
She does this in a singsong voice and sort of bounces up and down a little from her kneeling position on the other side of the fence. I try not to notice the way her breasts move under that t-shirt of hers.
“No idea,” I say.
“Seriously, your movie knowledge completely sucks,” she says with a huff. “We’ll have to rectify that.”
“What movie was that?” I ask, because I’ve been silently committing these movies I don’t recognize to memory to give them a try. Not even sure the last time I’ve seen a movie, as it wasn’t a generally popular activity to do in a biker gang.
“Finding Nemo,” she answers. “2003.”
Hmmm. That was definitely before I went deep undercover, but it still doesn’t ring a bell.
“What’s it about?” I ask, because while Jane has indeed been quoting lines, it’s led into other conversation, and that’s been… well, nice.
Definitely comfortable since the conversation isn’t exactly personal.
“Oh, it’s awesome. It’s about this fish, Nemo, who gets caught by a diver and put in a fish tank, and then his dad sets off to find him along with this really nutty fish named Dory that was voiced by Ellen DeGeneres. It’s absolutely hilarious—”
“Wait,” I interrupt her, my brush coming to rest against the picket. “Is this a cartoon?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s animated.”
“I don’t do cartoon movies,” I tell her seriously.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Yeah, I kind of got that from you when the only movie line you’ve recognized in the last hour was ‘Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”
I snort. “Die Hard.”
“1988,” she adds as a reminder to me.
And I remember that movie well because it’s one of my last great memories of my sister Andrea. She’d just graduated from the FBI Academy, and I went to visit her. Rather than go out to celebrate, we stayed in at her apartment and rented Die Hard. We did this because we hadn’t seen each other in forever and with both of our parents gone, we’d only had each other and valued the little bit of time we had together. I’d already moved out to Wyoming to start the hard task of infiltrating Mayhem’s Mission. In order to do that, I had to separate myself from Andrea a bit. She had no clue I worked ATF in special operations undertaking an undercover mission with the highest of stakes and the most extreme danger.
The trip to see Andrea for her FBI graduation was something I had to do, though, because she should have had a family member there to support her. I also needed to see her, because the chances were great that once I was in deep, I might not be coming out again.
We both loved that fucking movie, and that line has been tossed back and forth between my sister and me whenever we’d talk to each other on the phone.
It’s a nice memory.
With just a few more dips of the brushes into the paint, some quick strokes on the last pickets, and we are done with the painting. I push up from where I was squatting and look down the length of the fence. It’s shiny and white and looks pretty fantastic.
I turn back to look at Jane across the fence as she’s also stood up. She arches her back a little in a stretch, and I know she’ll probably be really sore tomorrow. “We did good work,” she says with a firm nod of her head.
“That we did,” I say as I take her in. She’s got paint on her right cheek and above her left eyebrow, with a little bit in the end of her ponytail. Not even sure how that happened. “I really appreciate your help.”
She beams back at me. “I was hoping you’d be appreciative. You owe me dinner.”
“I can’t cook,” I tell her flatly, my walls immediately going up, blocking her out and pushing her away.
It’s for her own good.
“Even better,” she returns with an even bigger smile. “You can take me out.”
“Jane,” I say in a low, warning voice, intent on telling her that it is not going to happen, because as much as I’ve enjoyed this day with her and the ease with which it played out, dinner out together is an entirely different matter. It’s too fucking personal. It’s a date for Christ sake. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She just rolls her eyes at me and says, “Wait for it… frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Gone with the Wind. 1939.”
“You did not just—”
“Pull out the most awesome movie quote ever?” she suggests as her eyes twinkle with triumph. “Sure as hell did. Pick me up in an hour.”
With that, she turns and starts flouncing back toward her house.
At least, I think it’s flouncing. Isn’t that the way Scarlett O’Hara moved in Gone with the Wind?
I’ll call it flouncing, because her ponytail swings back and forth as she crosses back over Cranberry Lane and marches into her house. Only after her door closes do I start to clean up the paint.
An hour is plenty of time to get ready. In fact, I’ll need about five minutes in the shower and I’ll be ready to go.
I think about Jane and that smile, those perfect breasts that stared at me through the picket fence all afternoon, and… maybe fifteen minutes in the shower.