Fourteen
ASH
Throwing a hissy fit wasn’t on my list of things to do today, but my f-bomb monologue had three motivating factors. First of all, I’m high as a kite. Not from drugs, although hell, if ever there was a time to start drugs, this would be it. I was high from all the adrenaline building in every cell in my body. For the past hour, I’ve been holding it together, driving on autopilot, while fear has been the glue keeping me from falling apart. Now that I’m semi-breathing again, I’m forced to face the withdrawals.
The second motivating factor in my speech was to address Calla’s disappointment. I’ve felt the sharp sting of disappointment all my life. If I fell apart every time someone was disappointed that I wasn’t my brother, I’d be like that scarecrow from Oz. But something about risking my life for someone, and then having that person voice her disappointment, makes me feel entirely too much like Shrek rescuing Fiona. For the record, I have never felt like Shrek a day in my life.
The third motivating factor was the most obvious one. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
Unfortunately, with the release of some of the adrenaline, I have just enough room for guilt to slither in and mess with my head. Calla was just hiding on a pile of rat shit with no protection except a dog with serious halitosis. On top of that, she’s been hiding from her life, and I just screamed at her like she was two-years-old.
I’ve always been a selfish bastard, and I’ve never felt much guilt about it. Even before my father’s fortune, the world has always revolved around me. Though Cole was born with the athletic skills, I was born pretty. The minute I turn on the Sanders charm or flash my winning smile, I get everything I want, from my grandmother down to the lunch lady at school. My mother always told me that beauty was only skin deep and that it wouldn’t get me anything in life. Respect kept me from disagreeing with her, but I knew the truth. While Cole had to fight for everything, I never had to lift a finger. Someone was always there to do it for me. Whether they thought I wasn’t capable or thought it would just be easier to do it themselves, it never mattered. All it took was a please, and the world always said sure.
Something tells me real life is knocking, and I don’t have any locks to keep it out. I’m not even sure I want to anymore.
***
Two very quiet and tense hours later, Calla stares up at my cottage with her hands on her waist. My twelve spotlights reflect off of her blonde hair, giving the illusion that she has a halo of light surrounding her head. In truth, the halo is actually tangled knots of hair that make her look a lot like Medusa.
Putting down the top of my Maserati convertible may not have been one of my better ideas.
While I loved sneaking glances of the way Calla’s hair flowed behind her, I didn’t give much thought to what she might look like when the wind stopped. I try not to stare too long, but I think I see a fly struggling to break free from her hair’s clutches. Her wrinkled, dirty sundress clings to her curves at odd angles, and her mascara has melted so that she looks like Marilyn Manson gave her a makeover.
She looks over at me and then points up to the building. “A church?”
Since this is the first time either of us has spoken in the last hour, her voice sounds raspy and oddly alluring despite her appearance.
I survey the tall steeple and stained glass windows. “An abandoned church, if you want to be specific.”
She points between me and the church. This goes on for a few seconds before she finally asks, “You brought me to an abandoned church?”
I smack my forehead. “Shoot. Are you Jewish? I could try to find an abandoned synagogue, but I don’t know of any in North Carolina. We could drive a ways up the road and see if we can find—“
She holds up her hands and then bends as if to crack her back. “No! No more driving.”
My eyes accidentally study every single line of her body from the peaks of her chest to the flexibility of her waist, cataloging them away for future reference. While women have always flaunted their bodies in front of me, I get the impression Calla isn’t bending to show off anything except how tense the car ride was.
As always though, the minute the cottage came into view, I was able to breathe out a long-overdue sigh of relief. This church has been the only sanctuary I’ve ever known. No matter how strung out I let myself get, this rehab property plays me like a fiddle, loosening every string until I’m once again calm.
I pop the trunk and grab Calla’s bag while Simba does his business over by my mums. Calla hasn’t moved from her place by the decaying water fountain which is probably a good thing since I haven’t disarmed the security.
Although I might not be the brightest Sanders, I am the most paranoid, especially about things that mean a great deal to me. The million dollar security system I dumped on this property is evidence of that.
“You might not want to take a step forward.” Tilting my head, I consider the size of her feet. “On second thought, stepping forward should be okay. Just don’t step to the right. I installed a cartridge trap due north from where you’re standing.”
Her entire body stiffens like I just told her the county was under a pterodactyl watch or something. “Cartridge trap?”
I rifle through my key ring to try to find the right key. “Just an old school security measure. Someone steps on it and lands on a sharp piece of bamboo. That’s a pretty big splinter you don’t just walk away from.”
“Is Simba alright?”
I roll my eyes and peek around the trunk. “Of course. The traps are based on weight…” Considering the size of Simba, I snap my mouth closed. “We should probably get going.”
I slam the trunk door and walk around the side of the car. Coming up next to Calla, I stare up at the beautiful old church like the proud papa that I am.
“You might want to step back. My booby traps can get a bit obnoxious if they’re not handled right.”
Her eyes widen again as she holds her hands out in front of her. She scans the front stoop and steps back, shaking her head and pissing off the fly trying to escape from the rat’s nest on her head. “Uh…Booby?”
My eyes drop down to her chest, loving her train of thought. “Not right now, thanks. We only have thirty seconds until the alarm engages. But I will definitely take a rain check.”
She folds her arms across her chest, visually telling me that the rain check is out of the question.
I open the door and step over the trip wire with a high knee, thinking Calla isn’t the type who likes scythes swinging back and forth in front of her face. The blades are plastic, but the heart attack she’d have when she sees them would probably be pretty painful.
I disappear inside the house and put in the sixteen-digit code to disarm the system. Simba takes off running down the hallway like he’s fangirling over a real estate property while I turn on the lights. I hope he doesn’t start picking out curtains without my say so. Committing to a color isn’t something you should do half-assed.
“Holy shit,” Calla mutters behind me.
I smile with pride. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to curse in a church, but you did say ‘holy’ so that probably softens the sin.”
Her jaw sits unhinged as she points at the columns dotting the open floor plan. “This is a church.”
I take a deep breath. “Aye, it is.”
She glares at me out of the corner of her eyes, making fun of my fake Irish accent. “You converted a church into a house.”
I nod solemnly. “Aye, I did.”
Even though I think I sound spot on, she rolls her eyes. “This is insane.”
I drop my bag onto the long L-shaped couch and then walk into the kitchen, turning on the rest of the lights. “You religious?”
“What?”
“I think you said you’re Jewish, right?”
“You said that,” she reminds me.
Shrugging, I tap the picture frame of me and my aunt hanging on the wall of the dining room. “When I was a kid my aunt used to take us to church every Sunday. Our priest, Father MacDaniels, was a great man, but he had a Scottish accent that was almost painful to the ears. Cool as shit now, but at eight, I couldn’t understand a damn word he was saying.”
I chuckle, remembering the translations Cole and I used to make up during Father’s homilies.
“You said shit and damn in a church,” she points out, gloating.
I shrug it off and take stock of my cabinets, thrilled to see them full. I have someone local on standby for these impromptu visits, and she’s never once let me down, no matter how late the notice or odd the request. She didn’t even bat an eye when I told her to buy thirty-two boxes of Jello. (It’s a long story that should never be repeated in a church. Bad enough it was performed in one.)
Pointing to the vaulted ceiling, I frown. “I said shit and damn in a kitchen. Not the same thing. Where was I? Right. So my aunt was a fantastic woman, but she was a bit controlling. Like she wouldn’t let me run up and down the aisles or wash my face in the holy water.”
“That must’ve been tough,” Calla says, dead-panning.
I shrug. “Emotional baggage. We all have it. Anyway, I used to spend the fifty-seven minutes every week imagining what it would be like to actually live inside a church. Well, on my eighteenth birthday, my dad presented me with this.”
I hold out my arms and watch as her eyes slide across my chest. Thinking she’s checking out my pec’s, I draw in a breath and puff out my chest. A twinge in my back tells me I’m not only vain, but too out of shape to be so vain.
She looks confused as she bends forward slightly. “Presented you with what exactly?”
I gesture to the living room. “There’s a bit of a legal, moral, religious ramification with the holy rollers, but enough time had passed that the diocese was willing to work out a deal with us. Together, we worked on the floor plan and everything came together. We bought up the acres around the place to keep it private, and we’ve been coming out here ever since.” I pat the column next to me, remembering how often I used to lean against it in Church to try to sleep. “This was my first joint project with my dad. Apart from the skeletons buried in the Catacombs in the basement, I think it came out pretty good.”
Calla hasn’t moved from the foyer. Her back is ramrod straight like she’s trying to figure out the furthest point from the catacombs.
I walk around the marble countertop and offer her a bottle of water. “I’m kidding. It’s all legit. After a heavy donation to their children’s center, we were given their blessing.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
She wraps her arms around her waist, hiking the hem of her dress up slightly. “Seems like a lot of people know about this place.”
“My immediate family, three friends, the diocese, and now you. You’re safe here,” I say, bending down slightly so that we’re eye to eye. “Told them I needed to get away for a bit and no one batted an eye.”
I walk past her to make sure the thermostat is set at sub-zero temperatures. Even though Calla tried to nix the rain check, nippleitis is one of my favorite examples of God’s work of art. Since we’re in a Church, I feel like I should honor the big guy upstairs.
“Wait.” She says as if she’s just figured something out. “You’re not staying here.”
I look over my shoulder. “Eh?”
She steps forward and points. “You can’t stay here. I’m planning on staying for one night, two nights tops until I figure out a plan. I don’t know who those guys were back at my place. They could’ve just been hunters, journalists, whatever. Either way, you are not staying with me.”
I turn around and look back and forth between the front door and Calla. “I’m not staying in my own house?”
She sighs and taps her toe like an impatient teenager. “Your ego takes everything so personal. This has nothing to do with you, and I’d like to keep it that way. You have a life. You’re not going to sit out in the woods, babysitting me and my dog. After a warm shower and a good night’s sleep, we’ll move on.”
I’ve heard of brains exploding before. Some call it strokes, others call it aneurysms. Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to be airlifted to the local emergency room. Not only are my thoughts jumbled with curses, but I can’t seem to find a single word that won’t offend the girl in front of me.
At this point, I don’t actually give a shit if it does.
As if on cue, Simba runs down the narrow hallway, practically dragging his tongue on the floor. He comes up and thanks me for my hospitality with a long lick up my outstretched hand.
I point down at him triumphantly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“What?”
Grinding my teeth together, I lower my chin. “Your dog has better manners than you do.”
She narrows one eye. “He probably just shit in your shower.”
“Well at least he said thank you.”
Her eyes widen and she points at herself. “You want me to shit in your shower?”
I hold out my hand. “A lick wouldn’t hurt. No. No, you know what I really want? For you to get off your fucking high horse, but I suppose you’d have to dislodge the pole out of your ass before you can dismount.”
I close the distance between us in a few short steps, and belatedly realize that she hasn’t backed up. “I get that you’re resentful that I have penthouses and yachts—two of them if you have a little shit list tally going on. You hate to show vulnerability in front of a man who you think has never been vulnerable a day in his life. You hate that you have to ask others for help when all you really want to do is hate them for not having to hide. But guess what? I fucking hate it, too. I hate that you’re vulnerable. I hate that you’re resentful. I hate that you’re scared, and I hate that this is the life you’ve been living. But most of all, I hate that you’re standing there, hating me, and all I want to do is pick you up, slam you against that wall, and fuck that pole right out of you.”
Her hand flies to her chest like my words knocked the breath right out of her lungs. The down-curve of her mouth twitches like her lips don’t know whether to laugh or scream at me while her gaze blazes a trail from my eyes down to my lips. Her cheeks blaze a dark crimson as she matches me panting breath for breath.
Just when I think she’s going to smack me across my face, she grinds her teeth together and narrows her eyes. “Can I take a shower first?”