Two
Amelia
I hated that stupid cat.
I hated her from the first day Ben Allen brought her in from the dumpster where she had been living for months, hissing at me whenever I went to toss my trash and swatting her nasty little cat claws at my shoes, usually managing to leave some scratches around my ankle. She was a she-devil but, for whatever reason, she took to Ben in a sort of disinterested just-feed-me-and-leave-me-alone way only cats can pull off.
In general, I stayed clear of her. But Ben had been gone for two days and I couldn't keep going into his apartment to take care of her. His relatives were sure to start showing up and they didn't need to see me there. So I had every intention of letting myself into his apartment one last time, grabbing the demon-cat, and taking her back to my apartment until I could figure out what to do with her. She was, of course, not too keen on my plan and as soon as I bent down to pet her, slashed at my arm and flew under the kitchen cabinet.
"It is too darn hot for this," I hissed as I fanned myself, annoyed that the AC unit was busted. It was the middle of August and there was no escaping the stifling heat in Ben's apartment. I sighed, lowering myself down on the floor and reaching under the cabinet. "I'm gonna get you sooner or later, Millie. You might as well just give in now. I have a big ole can of cat food just sitting on my counter waiting for you." I sighed when she hissed and moved further out of reach. "I'm talking to a cat," I murmured to myself, feeling the edge of a furry paw and closing my hand around it. "Come on you stupid, evil thing..." I cooed at her.
The sound of a man's throat clearing had two effects: one, Millie raked her nails over the back of my hand, and two, my heart flew up into my throat as my body automatically jerked. My head slammed into the bottom of a open cabinet door as my body twisted and I landed down on my butt hard.
My eyes landed on his shoes first, my brows drawing together. He had on black and white checkered creepers. Who the heck wore creepers anymore? And, further, who the heck wore creepers in the middle of summer in Alabama? My gaze slid up, taking in the tight (but not too tight) black skinny jeans and the faded black ZZ Top tee over a body that looked fit, but not excessively so. His bare arms were covered in bright, colorful tattoos and I started to have a sneaking suspicion of who was in Ben Allen's apartment. My eyes shot to his face and, holy heck.
His face was on the thin side, his eyes a familiar dark green. His hair was toeing the line between blond and light brown, cut short at the sides and slicked back in the middle. His ears were gauged with black plugs in the holes. He was, well, he was hot. He was way hot in that he's a bad boy who will roll you around the sheets and never call you again way that most women went all gaga for.
"Hey there, angel," he said, his lips quirking up and making his already handsome face devilishly so.
He had one of those voices too; one of those panty-melting voices. I'd always heard voices like his described as 'smooth like butter', but that wasn't right. It was smooth, yeah, but it came with a kick too. Like an Irish creme liquor.
Oh yeah. I knew who he was alright and it didn't matter how good looking he was, he was a real sonova...
I pushed myself up off the floor, having the sudden need to be level with him. At my full height, I was still several inches shorter, but at least I didn't have to look up at him.
"Johnnie Walker Allen," I said, my brow raising in a way that I knew was haughty and didn't care. "It's about time you showed your face."
His head cocked to the side slightly, brows drawing together for a second. "You know who I am?"
"Oh yeah, I know who you are," I said, crossing my hands over my chest, suddenly really self-conscious about my outfit. It didn't exactly do any favors for my body. It wasn't that I was insecure, I just had no illusions either. I wasn't a skinny girl; I would never be a skinny girl. It didn't matter how much I worked out or ate right, I always had a little extra padding. And, for whatever reason, a lot of that padding seemed to wrap itself around my thighs. And it was hot and I wasn't planning on seeing anyone that day so my shorty shorts were doing nothing to flatter my figure- my thunder thighs were on full display. Great. Okay. So they weren't exactly thunder thighs but they were thick and I freaking hated them. I especially hated them when I had them on display in front of this guy. Why, exactly, that mattered was beyond me. I wasn't trying to impress Johnnie Allen. I loathed him. But, somehow, I didn't want to look like a slob around him either.
That had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was the best looking man I had ever talked to in person before. Nope. Nothing to do with that at all.
"And, what exactly, have you heard about me, baby?" He asked, the smooth voice of his going positively silky as he took a step closer to me.
"I'm not your baby," I snapped, holding up a hand as he kept advancing, "and, trust me, I know all about you."
"About how devilishly handsome I am?" he asked, smirking. "Or how clever or how..."
"Or how little respect you have for recovery," I cut in, eyes shooting daggers at him.
The smile fell from his lips and he took a step back, his brows lowering. "Say again?"
"What? Did you think it was a secret that you kept sending Ben cases of scotch every month? Do you have any idea how insensitive that is to do to someone who is trying to stay clean? Who does something like that?"
Like a weight suddenly landed there, his shoulders slumped as he took another step in retreat, leaning his back against the counter. "Pops was clean?"
"Two years," I said, nodding for emphasis. "No thanks to you."
His gaze went to his feet and, for a second, I thought he was feeling guilt or shame. But then his head came back up and his green eyes were dancing, a smile tugging at his lips. "What happened to all that scotch then? 'Cause none of it ever got sent back."
"I intercepted it," I said, lifting my chin a little. It always came right on schedule, the tenth of each month. I always made sure I got up early and grabbed it before Ben could see it. Two years was a long time to be clean, but even with that kind of time in, a huge case of scotch could have been too hard a temptation to fight.
"You intercepted it? What a little secret agent you are," he chuckled. "So who are you, Detective? You belong to my Pops?"
"Belong?"
"Yeah, honey. You and him... were you a thing?"
"What? No!" I almost shouted, my hands flying out and gesticulating like they always did when I got riled. "Just because you're a horndog doesn't mean your father was. And, just in case you haven't noticed, I'm a little bit young for him."
"A horndog?" he repeated, looking like he was trying to fight a smile.
"Yeah, horndog. Player. Ladies' man. Womanizer. Lothario. Slut."
He stopped fighting the smile and it stretched across his handsome face in an all too charming way. "Spend a lot of time reading your thesaurus, huh sugar?"
"Oh my gosh. What is with all the cutesy names? I have a real name you know."
"Yeah, honey, I'm sure you do... but you haven't told me it yet."
Oh. Right.
"I'm Amelia Alvarado. I live next door."
He kept the smile in place and extended his hand. And, well, I had no real choice but to take it. "Well, Amelia Alvarado from next door, I'm Shooter. It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, leaning down to kiss the back of my hand. I repeat: he kissed the back of my hand. I did not feel a shock of desire at the contact either. Nope. Not at all.
"The pleasure is all yours," I growled, snatching my hand from his.
Not offended, he just chuckled. "What happened to your hand, darlin'?"
I looked down at my hand, too frazzled to remember what he was talking about. The scratches were superficial, just a couple bright red marks that would probably fade by morning. "Your dad's cat," I said on a shrug.
"My dad's... cat?" he repeated like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard before.
"Yeah. Millie. She's evil and hates literally everyone. I was trying to get her from underneath the cabinet to bring back to my apartment until I figured out what to do with her."
He rubbed his brow and, for a second, he looked almost lost, unsure of himself. It was quickly brushed away and he clapped loudly, making me jump. "Alright. Let's get her out of there," he said, moving over toward where I had been kneeling a few moments before. His shoulder brushed mine in the close space of the small kitchen and I jerked away. His brow raised at my reaction, but he said nothing.
"Go ahead and try," I said, chin raising. "She'll probably claw that pretty face off."
"You think my face is pretty, huh?" he asked, smiling over his shoulder at me and I felt my cheeks start to heat. What the hell was wrong with me?
"No. But you obviously think pretty highly of yourself. Just figured I would warn you."
He winked at me and lowered himself down to the floor, reaching one of his arms under the cabinet. He made a weird tisk tisk tisk sound under his breath and not more than a few seconds later (a few seconds!) out slid Millie, Johnnie's arm wrapped around her back. I had been trying to get that cat out of there for like... twenty minutes. Millie was a fat, ugly as all sin white cat with big patches of brown and gray all over her coat. One of her eyes was blue, the other brown and I swear her mouth was perpetually set in a kitty-frown. She looked up at Johnnie for a minute, her head cocking to the side. "Who's a pretty kitty?" Johnnie asked, running his hand down her back and she purred. The she-devil spawn of satan actually purred at him.
"She's the ugliest cat I've ever seen," I said, shaking my head as I watched him bundle her up and cradle her to his chest and she just... let him.
"Maybe that's why she doesn't like you," Johnnie said, stroking her head as he smiled at me.
"So that's what you do? Compliment everyone, even the... unfortunate looking ones, and you get what you want?"
Johnnie shook his head, his smile turning more into a smirk. "Do you need to excuse yourself to the bathroom for a minute?"
"What?" I yelped, thrown off.
"Well with an attitude like that, I figured you must have your panties in a bunch, darlin'. Maybe you need to excuse yourself to... remedy that situation."
Oh, what a jerk! Who the heck said things like that to relative strangers?
Well, he wasn't going to get away with it, that was for darn sure.
I lifted my chin. "I'm not wearing any panties and you're a jackass," I said, brushing past him, making sure to slam my shoulder into his as I went by. I stomped toward the door. "I hope you like cats, because she's yours now," I said, slamming the door hard behind me.
I let myself into my apartment, slamming my own door for good measure, and started pacing. Alright, so maybe I was easy to rile. My temper could fly off the handle at any moment. But darn if that man didn't deserve it.
Fact of the matter was, I knew a lot about Johnnie Walker "Shooter" Allen. I probably knew more about him than most of his family did. I knew what I knew because I had been neighbors with his father for three years. I was there in the mornings, watching as Ben would open his door to find the case of scotch there each month, a look of disdain and need in his eyes so great it hurt me somewhere deep down in my soul. I had been the one to get the super to open his door when there was a loud crash one night, only to find Ben passed out on his kitchen floor, his head busted open from hitting the edge of his kitchen cabinet while stumbling around in a drunken stupor. I had been the one to visit him in the hospital; I had been the one to talk him into getting help; I had been the one sitting with him after his meetings and listening to him tell me all about the ways he messed up his life. He told me his biggest regret was losing the love of his son.
From what Ben said, Johnnie moved to the East coast and became a killer for hire. He was, apparently, really good at his job because Ben said he had some expensive place and a fancy car. Despite his son's seedy lifestyle and his adolescent need to still 'stick it to' his father with the scotch, Ben still always wanted to get back in touch.
Apparently the only thing that could bring him back was his father's death. And then he had the gall to be a jerk to the one person who had been there for Ben like he should have been? It didn't matter how good looking he was on the outside. There was no amount of charming smiles that could make me overlook his ugly soul.
I sighed, forcing myself to stop worrying the wood floor as I looked up. My apartment had the same layout as Ben's. The living space formed an L around the small square kitchen with its generic white cabinets, fake brown, black, tan, and red swirl marble counter tops. I had two chairs butted up against the outside of the kitchen counter. I didn't need a dining room table; I never had company. My living room was unapologetically feminine. I had a floral throw rug, plush off-white tufted sofas, shabby-chic end and coffee tables, and the walls were painted a soft barely-there hint of lavender.
Glancing into my kitchen, I spotted the supply of cat food I had run out to get that morning. Great. I might not have had any intention of seeing Johnnie again, but I couldn't exactly let Millie go hungry because of my disdain for him.
With a growl, I grabbed the cardboard tray full of cat food and stalked back toward my door. Pulling it open, I flew back a foot on a surprised yelp. Because there right out front my door, was Johnnie.
"So the no panty thing," he started, his eyes warm, "is that an everyday occurrence?"
My eyes lowered as I bit the inside of my cheek. "What are you doing creeping outside my door?"
"I can see you're jealous of Millie's love for me," he teased, his smile charming enough to make a nun reconsider her vows, "but you can't blame her. I've always had a way with a pussy."
"Don't be coming to my door and talking nasty to me," I snapped, shoving the box into his chest, making his hands move up to grab it. "There's Millie's food. Please feel free to never speak to me again." I grabbed the edge of my door, meaning to slam it shut, but he slipped his body sideways into the doorway and forced his way into my apartment. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Aw, angel," he said, shaking his head as he looked around. "I get you now."
He got me? What the heck was that supposed to mean? "What?"
"You know, my grandmother is a big gardener," he said, tucking the flat of cat food under one arm and running his hand over the back of my sofa.
"That's wonderful. Now get out of my apartment."
"She's won awards 'round here for her roses," he went on his weird speech. His attention suddenly turned back toward me, pinning me into place. "She used to tell me that the prettiest roses have the biggest thorns. It's a defense mechanism. So," he said, coming closer toward me and running his finger across the side of my jaw, "I get you, Amelia Alvarado."
And with that, he was gone, the door clicking quietly behind him, leaving me feeling almost exposed, vulnerable. That made no sense, but it was how I felt. Because when he looked at me in the middle of his little speech and told me he got me, it felt like he did; it felt like he somehow got a peek at my soul. My hand moved up to scrub his touch off my jaw, somehow feeling like there was a lingering tingling from his finger there.
Okay, so he was right; I had thorns. That didn't mean that he understood me. I hadn't exactly been friendly to him. It wasn't intuition on his part, it was an impression. The fact that he guessed that I wasn't that hard and sharp underneath the surface meant nothing. Most women were soft somewhere inside, no matter what kind of armor they wore on the outside. And given his reputation, it went without saying that he spent a lot of time with women. He just picked up on that fact.
"What is wrong with me?" I asked my empty apartment, moving down the hall toward the bathroom, deciding I needed a cold shower. The heat was getting to me, muddling my brain or something.
I stripped out of my clothes and climbed under the cool spray, cringing away from it for a second before settling in. Fact of the matter was, I was grieving. I didn't have a lot of people in my life. I was standoffish. In this small town, I was an outsider. Granted, I had been around for years, but I never quite felt like I fit in. Maybe it was because I didn't know everyone's histories like every one else did. It didn't help that I didn't go out of my way to learn all those stories either. Maybe it was just another form of self-preservation. I was worried that if I tried, they wouldn't accept me; so I didn't even bother. I had a few people I kept professional interest in, but Ben had been the only person around that I had a sort-of friendship with. He was all I had 'round these parts and he was gone. I might have put on a brave face, but I was hurting.
The fact that I had a strange urge to slap his son and then throw myself into his arms, well, I guessed that was just my unusual way of grieving. It had nothing to do with actual interest or attraction. And chances were, after the funeral, I would never see Johnnie Walker Allen ever again.
Why that realization gave me a strange sinking feeling inside was completely beyond me.
I climbed out of the shower and slipped into a pale yellow, lightweight cotton sundress. I brewed water and poured it into a giant jug with a box of teabags. Opening my sliding glass door, I went to place it on the balcony to steep in the sunlight.
"Fancy seeing you here."
Holy heck.
I couldn't escape him.
"Are you going to offer me some of that when it's done?"
My head snapped over, my eyes wide. He could not be serious! My eyes landed on Ben's balcony to see Johnnie lounging back in Ben's Adirondack chair, his feet propped up on the railing, Millie laying contentedly on his chest.
"No."
"Aw come on. Now that isn't very neighborly, is it?" he asked, pushing a button he knew would depress in a small town: hospitality.
Unluckily for him, I wasn't raised in the South. "You're not my neighbor."
"Baby, I'm right here next door."
"You don't live there."
"No, but I am staying here."
"Why? The AC is broken," I pointed out.
"Yeah. I'm gonna have to fix that. Or maybe I will just walk around naked," he added with a teasing smirk. I did not picture him naked. Nope. I didn't even have a passing thought about whether or not those tattoos on his arms snaked across his chest or back. The one across his throat, an eagle with his wings spread outward toward his ears, was not positively distracting me every time he swallowed or anything. "The motel doesn't allow cats, honey," he clarified when I forgot to speak.
My eyes snapped up guiltily. "I'll take Millie then," I said automatically, shrugging.
"Careful, Amelia, you might just bruise my fragile ego," he chuckled, the sound low and deep.
"The last thing your ego is, is fragile," I said, rolling my eyes.
"You know what I think, sweetheart?"
"No. And I don't care to know what you think either."
He uncurled slowly from his seat, Millie jumping down with a loud, offended meow, and he moved toward the side of the balcony where it almost butted against mine. "I think you have the wrong idea about me."
"Hardly," I scoffed, refusing to move back from my position, despite him completely invading my space. If I leaned forward slightly, I would feel his breath on my face.
"Wanna know something else?" he asked, his eyes dropping down in another leisurely inspection that made it feel like my dress melted off.
"No."
"Look at me," he said, holding his arms out to show me, presumably, his tattoos. "I'm pretty accustomed to being stabbed with sharp objects. Honey, those thorns of yours practically tickle."
I sucked in a breath. Those words... they meant something to me. It was silly, but after spending your life noticing your sharp edges driving people away, it was really powerful to find someone who wasn't phased by them. Unfortunately for me, that person was someone I wanted nothing to do with. My awful karma strikes again!
"It's no surprise that someone so heartless would feel no pain," I said, finally taking the much needed step back.
The jocular lightness seemed to drain from his face, leaving his eyes looking almost haunted. He shook his head as he watched me retreat toward my apartment door. "What the fuck poison was that bastard slipping you?" he asked, but it was more toward himself than me and I took it as a cue to leave.
I closed the door and pulled the curtain but stood there staring at the outline of Johnnie as he stayed leaning on the railing of the balcony, staring off into the distance. I couldn't shake those words. I couldn't get over the way in which he said them, like they hurt, like they were honest. But they couldn't have been. Ben had been nothing but good to me. One time, when the doohickey on my shower broke off and water was spraying everywhere and I didn't know what to do, he had come rushing over, drunk as a skunk, and fixed it for me. And once, when I had broken two fingers falling on a run in the woods, he had insisted on coming over for dinner and cutting up my food for me.
Everything I knew about Ben Allen was good and selfless. Even when he was drunk, he had nothing but nice words for me. There was a deep well of loneliness in him that I felt drawn to, perhaps because it matched my own.
It was absolutely ridiculous that I was second-guessing my own opinions based on years of evidence because of one sentence uttered by a man I didn't know and whose reputation hardly recommended him.
I just had to do my best to avoid him until after the funeral. Then he would be gone for good and things could go back to normal.