CHAPTER 3
Kyle
I rest the tip of the shovel into the ground, put my boot on the edge, and punch it down into the soil. Pushing on the wooden handle, I pop up a chunk of earth, lift it up, and turn it over to dump it back down again. I repeat this process down the entire flower bed that runs the length of my back porch, and when I’m done with that, I use the shovel to break up the clods of dirt.
Standing up straight when that’s finished, I wipe the back of my gloved hand over my forehead and huff out a breath of frustration.
This fucking sucks.
While I didn’t expect there’d be anything glamorous about hiding out from my enemies, I really didn’t envision a life that consisted of gardening. And yes, while I knew the parameters of the job Joe had found for me, I guess I didn’t realize just how much I’d hate some of the domestic shit I’ve had to do around this place. I mean, it was one thing to pressure wash and paint the light tower last week because that’s a manly job, but come on… planting a flower bed was not on my bucket list of things I wanted to try out.
I knew fuck about gardening, but because making the lighthouse grounds pretty and inviting to tourists was part of the job description, I had to man up and learn how to do it. I spent a few days watching YouTube videos because I didn’t want to go to the local library to check out how-to books, and then I made a quick trip to a local gardening center and nursery that Gus recommended to me last night when I stopped in for a drink.
And here I am, fucking gardening, and the only thing that would make me look more ridiculous was if I were wearing overalls and maybe a straw hat.
Snickering to myself, I imagine what any one of my Mayhem brothers would do if they could see me now. Well, the obvious answer is they’d kill me since I was an undercover agent, but, outside of that, they’d probably stomp the ever-loving shit out of me to know that one of their tough, badass brothers was gardening.
What really blows about the work I’m doing is that, in a few weeks, the town of Misty Harbor is going to open up my home to tourists who want to see the lighthouse. It’s only on Saturdays from ten to four, and I don’t have to be here because one of the members of the town’s historical society will give the tours, but still… this is my home and it’s been my sanctuary. The thought of strangers trampling through pisses me off like nothing has in a very long time. On those Saturdays, I figure I’ll be spending my time getting shit faced at The Lobster Cage.
My phone starts vibrating in my back pocket, so I shove the spade into the ground to free my hands. I don’t even bother glancing at the caller ID because there’s only one person who has my number, and he’ll be calling me from a burner phone anyway.
My handler… Joe Kizner.
“What’s up?” I ask as I connect the call.
“Just checking in,” he says cordially. “Case has been set for trial to start on September ninth.”
That’s a little over three months away. Hopefully then, I get my life back.
“What’s the scoop on Latner?” I ask as my eyes drift past the back of my cottage to the Atlantic Ocean that’s as smooth as glass today.
“He’s looking for you,” Joe says softly.
This is no surprise. Senator Lyle Latner of the great state of Colorado had been impeached from office once he was arrested and charged with a list of crimes that involved conspiracy, collusion, money laundering, and a whole host of other charges that would ensure he went to jail for the rest of his life. If he’s convicted, he’s going down and never coming back up again.
Since I’m a key element to his conviction, I expected he’d put his list of criminal contacts in use to try to find me so he could eliminate me, which would solve most of his problems. While I was not directly privy to his dealings with Mayhem’s Mission, I am the main witness who will bring the club down. Once they go down, the senator is going down as well, particularly because of the wiretaps.
“You good?” Joe asks, and I know what he’s really asking. My thoughts go to the cache of weapons I’ve got hidden around my cottage, as well as to the security system I’d installed. I was as ready as I’d ever be if someone came after me.
Of course, they’d have to find me first. I wasn’t sure how that could happen. Again, only Joe and two others in the ATF know where I am hidden, the two others being bosses above Joe’s pay grade.
“I’m locked and loaded,” I assure him, because I do know he worries. My refusal to go into WITSEC meant I was protecting myself with no other agents to watch my back. “You think the trial will start as planned?”
Joe huffs out a breath. “You know how it goes. Everyone’s saying they’re ready to go, but continuances happen all the time.”
I can do another three months, but the thought of much longer here is not setting well. “Then you relay to the prosecutor not to agree to any continuances.”
“You know that’s not how it works, brother,” Joe chastises.
My frustration boils over, which doesn’t take much nowadays, and I growl back at him. “I’ll give it a few more months here, Joe, but then I’m coming out of hiding. I want my fucking life back. I want Andrea to know I’m alive.”
“Take it easy,” Joe says in his attempt at a soothing voice. “There’s a process, and we have to go through it.”
“I gave over three years of my life to our government,” I say in a low voice bristling with anger. “I want it back, and I want it ASAP. Don’t let them continue it.”
“It’s out of my hands and you damn well know it,” Joe retorts back, losing patience as well since I’m being a dick. “Besides… you’re in a good place, Kyle. Think of this as a much-needed vacation. It’s beautiful there, right? How about trying to enjoy it?”
Yeah, it’s fucking beautiful all right. Beautiful ocean, beautiful spring weather, and a goddamn beautiful neighbor who never misses an opportunity to give me a cheery wave and a breathtaking smile if we happen to be outside at the same time. I never smile or wave back as that would encourage her, and I don’t need any complications in my life.
I certainly don’t need any more of her muffins, which were awful and had to be tossed. I should have kept them as weapons, but I figured they’d attract ants.
“I’ll check back with you in a few weeks,” Joe says, jarring me out of my thoughts. “Sooner if anything else happens.”
“Yeah, man. Talk to you later.”
After I pocket my phone, I head back around to the front of my house. My truck is in the gravel driveway, loaded with flats of flowers that I need. When I turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks. Crossing the dirt road that separates our properties is my neighbor, and she’s walking straight toward my cottage.
My motherfucking gorgeous neighbor, who, as she gets closer and closer, is even more beautiful than I was able to discern from a distance. She’s got golden-yellow hair that hangs in loose curls past her shoulders. While she’s dressed sort of primly in a flowered dress of pinks and yellows along with a white cardigan, it’s offset by the fact she’s wearing a pair of beaten-up gray Chucks without any laces.
I get all of that in a cursory glance, because I’m trained to absorb details quickly, and then I turn my back on her as I go to my truck. Maybe she’ll get the hint and veer off her current path.
Determined to ignore her, I stalk to my truck and grab the first flat of flowers. My shoulders lock tight when I hear her say right behind me, “Hey.”
I grit my teeth for a brief moment before unclenching them to mutter a return, “Hey” without even looking at her.
When I turn toward the back of my house, I hear a scraping sound behind me and immediately look over my shoulder to see her grabbing a second tray of flowers from my truck.
I curse under my breath and practically stomp around the house to the flower bed I’d just turned over, dropping the tray in frustration. When I turn around, she’s right there, giving me a big smile that does nothing to diminish the fullness of her lips. “Need some help?”
“I’m good,” I mutter as I pull the tray out of her hands and drop it beside the other one.
I start to brush past her, but she steps into my path and I come up short.
“I’m Jane Cresson,” she says as she sticks out her hand. “Thought I’d introduce myself since we’re neighbors.”
My eyes flick down to her hand before coming back up again, but the only thing I give her is my name. “Kyle.”
“Well, pleased to finally meet you, Kyle,” she says cheerfully, and fuck… she almost emanates goddamn sunshine she’s so perky and radiant. “And actually… I came over to get my basket back from you.”
“Basket?” I ask dumbly.
“Basket,” she affirms with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “The one I left on your doorstep eons ago with homemade muffins. I’m sure you remember.”
Yeah, I remember them. The miniature assault weapons.
“So I’d like to get it back if you don’t mind,” she prods me gently. “And then, I don’t know… maybe you could ask me out to dinner or something?”
My entire body jerks. I blink at her several times, trying to figure out if I just heard what I thought I did. “I’m sorry… what?”
“Well, you know,” she says as she clasps her hands in front of her and looks at me sweetly. “I made you homemade treats to welcome you, and I thought you could thank me by taking me out to dinner. Or just coffee would be fine, too.”
“I’m not following,” I say, my mind actually reeling with the thought that she’s essentially asking me out by goading me into asking her out.
Jane grins at me. “What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”
I just blink at her.
“Cool Hand Luke, 1967,” she says as she waits for me to recognize the movie line.
I ignore her attempt to win me over with her personality and cute-as-fuck quote of a very appropriate movie line by moving past her to head back to my truck. “Sorry. Not going to take you out to dinner. Or coffee.”
If I thought that would put her off, I was sorely mistaken. She falls into step beside me as I walk, and Christ… I can smell her perfume. The scent totally fits her. It smells like coastal sunshine… salt air and sweet coconut oil.
“Well, I thought you might say that,” she says slyly, and I don’t dare look at her. Instead, I reach into my truck and pull out another flat of flowers. She does the same, and we both turn back to the cottage. “So I’m inviting you to dinner at my place tonight. I’m making a pot roast.”
“No thanks,” I mutter even as my stomach gives a slight grumble. I haven’t had a decent meal since I’ve come here because I can’t cook worth a fuck and I’ve not really ventured out much.
“Dinner’s at seven,” she says firmly.
I turn to her and glare. “I said… no thanks.”
She beams that smile at me, and I note her teeth are white and her lips a delicate shade of pink.
Fuck… when did I start noticing or even caring about those things?
Jane steps into me, her smile still wide and dazzling. She leans up on her tiptoes and whispers, “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Casablanca, 1942.”
Goddamn it, she’s cute. That makes her seriously dangerous to a man like me.
Taking a step back—for her preservation or mine, I’m not sure—I ask, “What’s up with the movie quotes?”
She shrugs. “Just a hobby. I love movies. Some I love so much that I watch them over and over again, so I tend to memorize lines.”
“Well, Houston,” I drawl as I narrow my eyes and give her my fiercest glare. “We have a problem. I’m not coming to dinner. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a fuck of a lot to do today and I’d like to get back to work.”
“Sure,” she says sweetly with a nod of her head. “But dinner’s at seven. Hope to see you then.”
I growl low in my throat but don’t respond to her. Instead, I toss the flat of flowers down and stalk to the side door of my cottage that leads into the small laundry room. It’s just easier to leave the battlefield than continue to engage with her. I’ll finish planting when I’m assured she’s gone.
♦
A soft knock at my door has me tensing up, and I close the book I’m reading. The prior caretaker had a pretty good collection of classics that he left here, and I’ve been reading them in the evenings. Tonight, I’m doing a re-read of Call of the Wild because it was my favorite in high school.
Setting the book down on the cushion beside me, I glance at the clock on the wall that sits adjacent to the fireplace.
Eight-thirty.
Leaning forward, I reach under the couch and grab my Ruger 9mm pistol, but I don’t make a move from my seat. I listen and wait.
After a few minutes, with not another knock sounding, I push off the couch and go to my front door. I always leave the porch light on. As I pull the curtain away, I don’t see anyone.
I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open, leaning out slightly to look left and right.
No one.
As I start to shut the door, I notice something on the stoop.
A basket, covered with a red-and-white checked linen cloth.
Bending over, I pick it up and flip the cloth back. Inside is a plastic-wrap covered plate filled with what looks like pot roast, potatoes, and carrots, with another smaller plate beside it with what looks like chocolate cake.
I turn my head to look at Jane’s house and can just make out her form moving across her darkened front yard.
With a sigh, I back into my house. Taking the basket with me, of course. I’m not about to pass up a home-cooked meal, though I can only hope she cooks better than she bakes.