CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shayla wasn’t used to driving a vehicle this enormous, and it was a little scary, but she focused instead on the positives. Being able to look down on all of the other drivers as she pushed past the edge of the speed limit was pretty cool.

The exception to that were the people driving the big rigs. They still looked down on her—and had a clear shot of the nearly naked Navy SEAL lying on his back in the bed of the truck, trying not to puke. He’d kept his underwear on—white boxers, which really, when she thought about it, was the only option under white uniform pants.

He had an angry red mark on his back from where the bucket had made contact, but it hadn’t broken the skin.

His right elbow, on the other hand, was shredded. Shay didn’t want to think about whatever it was in that bucket making contact with an open scrape, but it had. And the sooner she got him home, the faster they could get him cleaned up.

He’d had a pack of utility-size trash bags—thick black plastic—stashed in one of the locked compartments in the back of the truck, and at his instruction, she’d gotten out a few. One for his clothes and her trashed sweater, and a second to contain the bucket.

So far, Peter had resisted her suggestion that they call the police. She knew he desperately wanted to get home to wash, so she hadn’t pushed, but it was possible there were fingerprints on that bucket, so they took it with them.

Traffic was heavier than she liked, especially since she was piloting the Millennium Falcon, but she finally pulled onto their street.

And oh, good. Mrs. Quinn was out watering her flowers, and yup, she’d perked up into hyper-nosy mode as she realized that Shay was driving the SEAL’s truck.

Harry popped in, already laughing his ass off. Mrs. Quinn’s gonna shit a full flock of Canadian geese when she sees…

Yup, even before Shay had completely braked to a stop in Peter’s driveway, he was up and out of the truck, a flash of mostly tanned skin and golden hair, beelining for the backyard.

That, Harry finished with a chortle as yup, in the rearview Shay saw that Mrs. Quinn had dropped her hose. It must’ve been locked into an on position, because it kept spraying and it danced around wildly—causing Mrs. Quinn to shriek and run for cover.

Shayla waved to the woman as casually as she could as she locked Peter’s truck with a beep from the key fob.

Harry hovered. Now what? Follow him back there to help? He’s no longer nearly naked, FYI.

Shay confirmed the obvious—Peter had, indeed, left his boxers behind in the truck. He probably would’ve left his poop-matted hair if he could’ve.

He was probably using his own hose to, literally, hose himself down. Odds were that he didn’t need any help.

But you have his keys, Harry pointed out.

She looked down at them—the chain included the keys to his house. She had his phone and wallet, too, pulled from his pockets before the slime had contaminated them. She had to go back there to give it all to him. And while she was there, she could offer to get him a towel from inside.

Yeah, Harry said as he followed her down a neatly swept path that led around to the back of Peter’s house. That’s why you’re going. To get the SEAL a towel.

And to help him clean out that scraped elbow after he was done with the hose-down. She could hear the sound of water running—Peter had, indeed, turned on his hose.

You want to get a good look at his elbow, because you’re the witty neighbor, so you definitely didn’t bother checking out his ass as he did his streaker impression.

He had been running pretty fast.

Right.

Okay so, naked, the SEAL was an eleven on a scale from one to ten. And yup again, there he was, holding up the hose with one hand as he used the other to attempt to comb the crap out of his hair.

He’d done an all-over rinse, so now his mostly-tan-and-goldenness was covered with shimmering droplets of water.

Harry whistled. Well, my, my, my, my-my-my my! Isn’t he well—

“Shh.” Women didn’t focus on superficial things like that. Shayla tried to see if the bucket-impact mark on his back was still as angry looking.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. Oh, wait. Your pants are also on fire for another reason.

Peter straightened up, squeegeeing his hair back as he rinsed his face, and all of his muscles rippled and moved and…Oh, my goodness.

“Goodness” is putting it mildly. Lordy, Lordy, woman, I can feel the heat from your pants afire—the non-lying kind—from here.

“Shh!”

That man saved your life back there. I think it’s okay to thank him with a neighborly hug. A special, naked neighborly hug with your vagina around his oh-my-goodness—

“Shh!” Oh, crap, her hushing Harry had gotten so loud that Peter’d heard her even over the sound of the water, and he now turned to see her standing there, practically ogling him.

Practically? Harry drawled.

“How can I help?” she asked the SEAL a tad too briskly, in a voice that was somehow supposed to signify that she hadn’t been enjoying the view. “I have your keys. Should I get towels from inside? Soap? Shampoo?” She felt herself slip into the vortex of full-babble. “A scouring brush? Do you have a nail brush? You should really use a nail brush, and we’re absolutely going to want to scrub that elbow with some kind of antiseptic, so—”

“A towel would be great,” Peter interrupted her. “And maybe you could get me a pair of shorts. Running shorts, please. They’re in the top basket in my closet. You can’t miss ’em.”

“Absolutely,” Shayla said, briskly crossing to the back door that led into the laundry room just off his kitchen. She fumbled the keys and dropped them—oh dear God—as Harry continued to just laugh and laugh and laugh.

She finally made it inside. The house was warm—he’d clearly turned off the air-conditioning before leaving this morning. That was the kind of thing that made a man more attractive to real-life, nonfictional women like her—the fact that he was both environmentally conscious and economical—not his physical attributes, as nice as they might be.

Shayla set his keys on the kitchen counter with his phone and his wallet, and headed for the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She’d given one bedroom a peek last night—it was the first door on the left, right across from the bathroom. It was small, with a utilitarian, narrow twin-size bed against one wall, and a single chest of drawers. She’d assumed it was the guest bedroom—it certainly didn’t belong to any teenaged girl she’d ever met—but as she now went farther down the hall, she realized that there was only one other doorway at the very end.

It led to the master, with its own attached bath, and…“Holy crap.”

Harry said the obvious. Peter gave the master bedroom to Maddie.

Teen girls weren’t at all different from teen boys when it came to both laundry and life’s clutter. The room was a mess, with about a dozen cardboard moving boxes scattered about. Most weren’t even close to unpacked but all were definitely rummaged through. Peter had bought his daughter some lovely furniture, including a big, wooden bookshelf that held maybe ten books total on a single shelf, and a dresser that had still-empty drawers.

It was textbook passive-aggressiveness, and Maddie’s subtext was clear: I’ll live here, but I’ll hate both it and you, so I won’t unpack.

Damn, Harry said as Shayla went back to the smaller bedroom where Peter’s running shorts—the lightweight kind with the mesh underwear sewn in—were right where he’d described them. In a white wire slide-out basket that was part of a tiny but carefully organized closet.

She loved her boys like crazy, but no way would she ever, not in a million years, give them the master bedroom in any house.

You’re not a near-total stranger to them, Harry pointed out as she went into the hall bathroom and found a stack of clean towels in the linen closet. You’re also not a male near-total stranger and your kids aren’t female.

Shay started to take from the bottom, assuming those would be the oldest, but they were all clearly brand-new. She grabbed a washcloth, too, then headed back into the kitchen as Harry continued, Father-on-daughter sexual abuse is common enough to be a thing. Your SEAL was thoughtful enough to try to make Maddie feel as safe as possible by giving her the privacy that comes with having her own bathroom.

Harry had a point.

This guy is pretty freaking amazing, he said as he followed her out into the yard, where Peter was still working on his hair.

“Here,” Shay said, holding out the shorts. “Put these on, and then I’ll work on your hair, make sure you got it all.”

“Thanks,” he said. He let go of the pressure handle, and the water shut off as he effortlessly caught the shorts that she tossed him.

Shay politely turned her back and pretended to be fascinated by the roofline of the house as he pulled them on.

“But I think I got it all,” Peter said. “You don’t need to—”

“I’m pretty sure you still have a little in your ear,” she said.

“Fuck. Really?”

“It’s not like you could see it,” she said, turning back. “I mean, even with a mirror, it would’ve been easy to miss.” He was clearly feeling discouraged, so she pointed to one of two sling-style lounge chairs that were artfully arranged on the pavers that made up the patio, a little table between them. “Let’s move that onto the lawn—well, whatever this is that you Californians think makes a lawn, and may I just say that you are so, so wrong—and adjust it so it’s more flat. So you can lie back, dangle your head off the edge, and let me get the last of it.”

He was not happy. “There’s no way you can do that without getting wet.”

“That’s okay.” Shay put the towels down on the second chair as she started to move the first herself.

As expected, Peter came to assist. “No, it’s not.”

She told him, “If you think for one second that after I help you, I’m not rushing home to bleach the hell out of these clothes and take an extra-exfoliating shower myself…? You are greatly deluded, my friend.”

He smiled at that. “Still…”

“You have shit in your ears.” Shayla went point-blank as she also pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

Peter sat.

“Stay upright for a sec,” she ordered. “I want to get that last bit out before we do a final pass with the hose.”

Shay got the washcloth a little damp while Harry walked in a circle around them.

He likes being ordered around. That’s good to know for when you have screaming animal-sex, he commented as she leaned down and gently wiped a clump of god-knows-what from Peter’s ear. It’ll make it extra hot.

“Shh,” Shayla hissed at the exact moment that the SEAL looked up at her and their eyes met. “It. Shit. Indeed. In your ears.”

Harry laughed, because God, she sounded like an idiot.

“These are skills that I haven’t practiced since Frankie grew out of that toddler put-your-dinner-everywhere-but-in-your-mouth phase,” she said while she used a different part of the cloth to briskly but thoroughly clean the entire rest of Peter’s ear. “But some things a mother just never forgets.”

Oh, good. Compare him not just to a two-year-old, but to your own two-year-old, Harry said. Way to create some real sexual tension, Mom; get it sparking and popping.

Shay clenched her teeth as she pushed Peter’s hair back from his other ear. Creating sexual tension was not what she was going for here. God, this man had nice ears, nice hair, nice face, nice neck, nice shoulders and chest…God.

Peter cleared his throat. “I’m keeping you from your writing.”

What? It was such a non sequitur, she laughed her surprise. “Nah, you’re really not,” she said, stepping back a bit and checking to make sure both of his ears were clean. She tapped his shoulder. “Come on. Lie back and let me do your hair.”

Again, he obeyed, but he moved so that his shoulders and head were down at the end where the lounger’s feet normally went. “I’m afraid if I go the other way, I’ll tip it over,” he explained, and yes, he was probably right.

As he let his head hang off the end, he’d pulled his legs up so that his knees were bent.

To hide his boner.

To support his back, she corrected Harry. And of course, Peter didn’t let his head actually dangle, he used his incredible eight-pack of abs to hold it up.

He met her eyes again and said, “Please be careful not to hit yourself with any backsplash.”

Shayla picked up the hose. “I can see what I’m doing, remember. We’re definitely past the backsplash phase.” She’d already reset the hose nozzle to a slightly gentler stream in order to wet the washcloth she’d used on his ears. “It’s cold,” she warned as she squeezed it on and crouched down next to him to run it through his hair.

She used her other hand the same way he’d done, combing her fingers through hair that was both soft and thick. But unlike him, she could see what she was doing.

He’d closed his eyes—he had long, thick dark lashes that had no doubt induced jealousy in every girlfriend he’d ever had, and probably his mother, too. But the muscles in the side of his jaw were jumping, so she asked, “You okay?”

He opened his eyes. Smiled. “My day has included a literal bucket of shit.”

Shay laughed—whatever it was she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. And it was true. How often could you say that? Not that she’d want to repeat the experience. Ever.

“So compared to that,” he added, “I’m very okay. I really appreciate you doing this, and um—bonus. It, uh, feels…really nice.” He whispered the last words.

Shayla froze, because, yes, he had absolutely just said that. To her. While looking into her eyes.

Kiss him.

She didn’t move.

Kiss him!

She found her voice. “Well, that’s…good, at least,” she said as she shut off the hose and stood up.

What are you doing? Are you crazy? Kiss him! Kisshimkisshimkisshim! Ahhhhhhh!

She ignored Harry’s total meltdown and backed away instead. Grabbed a towel and got just close enough to hand it to Peter before she backed away again as Harry moaned, What is wrong with you?

Peter didn’t mean what he’d just said. He’d simply slipped back into—what had he called it before? His bar hookup pattern.

Peter sat up, rubbing his head with the towel.

Shayla pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “I’m gonna…go shower myself now.”

“Right,” he said. “Of course.”

“It’ll take me about forty-five minutes,” she said. “To get ready to go to the lawyer’s office—Fiona’s aunt—Susan Smith?”

“Oh,” he said. “No. Don’t. You don’t have to. I got that. I’ll be ready myself in just a few minutes, so I’ll just…do it. Myself.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Harry muttered. You are so stupid, it was contagious and now he’s caught your stupidity, so he’s being stupid, too.

“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her dismay. “I thought…Well, I could hurry—”

Peter cut her off. “Really, Shayla, it’s okay. I don’t expect to get any information from the woman anyway and…You should be writing. You’ve already gone above and beyond.”

He didn’t want her to go with him.

Yeah, because he wanted you to kiss him, and you didn’t, so now he’s all “Let’s not spend an awkward hour in the car together, ’kay, thanks, bye.”

“Will you let me know if Izzy and Hans find anything in Van Nuys?” Shay asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Sure. I’ll, um, text you.”

Jesus, he was stupid.

As Pete stood in his shower and washed his hair with a second handful of shampoo—for the first time in his life, he was following the directions to lather, rinse, and repeat—he marveled that he’d managed to stay alive for closing in on four decades. Someone as stupid as he was should’ve been eaten by a tiger by now. After stupidly jumping into the tiger’s enclosure at the zoo. Because that’s what stupid people did. They did a stupid, stupid thing, despite all of the signs that warned them, Don’t Do That Stupid Thing.

Shayla Whitman wanted to be friends with him. Period.

She’d made that very, very, very clear.

And just because he loved spending time with her, and just because he thought she was both cute and hot as hell, and just because the idea of her running her fingers through his hair had given him a raging hard-on…

She’d posted the sign, he’d seen it, he’d heard it, and he’d jumped in with the tiger anyway. What a fucking stupid idiot.

And his dick was even more stupid than he was. It was still at high alert. Like painfully high. Like Jesus, I’m gonna come just from her running her fingers through my hair high alert.

He’d had to close his eyes and clench his teeth, but God, he’d wanted her hands on him, all over him, wrapped around him…

As he rinsed his hair again, he looked down, and yeah. His dick was like one of those one-legged, happy air dancers, bobbing in front of the local used-car dealer. If it could talk it would be shouting, Yo, bro, we had the foreplay, it was awesome, but where’s the fucking sex?! Come on, come on, come on!

Pete closed his eyes and breathed as the water washed over him and made his elbow sting. He’d scrubbed the crap out of it—literally—as Shay had suggested.

Shay. Sit, she’d ordered with that commanding conviction that he found so utterly attractive. Ah, Jesus, thinking about her was not helping.

He focused instead on Maddie and Dingo—on his daughter maybe making him a grandfather before he turned forty, and on Hiroko who was still angry about injustices she’d faced when she was a child, on Lisa shouting that he didn’t give her what she needed, that it was his fault that she was packing up and leaving and taking Maddie with her….His sweet little Maddie, whom he loved more than he’d ever thought he could love anyone…It was his fault, his fault, his fault….

No wonder Shay had backed away.

And yeah. That did it.

Pete shut off the water and dried himself off, vowing that he would not make that same mistake again, but knowing that he was so stupid that he just might jump back in with the tiger, if he was given half a chance.

As Izzy approached the house in Van Nuys, he saw that it was locked up tight.

It wasn’t just a gone-to-work locked up, but more like gone-to-Spain-for-six-months. Shades were pulled down and dry leaves, dust, and cobwebs adorned the little porch outside the front door. Of course, not everyone used their front entrance, but as Hansie Schlossman followed him around to the back of the house, it was clear that no one had been through the kitchen door in a long time, either. The spider who’d made a web back there was big enough to give them the middle finger.

Hans exhaled something that sounded a lot like a sigh of relief, and Izzy glanced at him.

“I was not looking forward to confronting Maddie,” the younger man admitted. “I mean, yeah, she lied to me, but…” He shrugged. “I remember how hard it was. Losing my mom.”

Izzy’s bullshit meter trembled. Just a little. “Didn’t I meet your parents? At the party after Hell Week?”

“Yeah,” Hans said. “My dad came. With my stepmom.”

“She seemed nice.”

“She is,” he said. “She’s also not my mom. I mean, I love her, she’s great. And she loves the hell out of my dad. He’s happy. Maybe even happier than he ever was. I don’t know, I don’t like to think about it too hard.”

“I get it,” Izzy said. “Because…Whoa. That’s…deep.” Years ago, Eden had lost a baby, extremely late in her pregnancy. Pinkie—his in utero name—had been stillborn, which had been awful. Add postpartum depression into the mix, and…Eden had suffered intensely. But lately, Danny and Jenn’s procreation had triggered a bit of impatience in Izzy. Baby-fever was highly contagious. But he could tell that Eden still wasn’t ready, despite the years that had passed.

Maybe it was because she was afraid that they’d be happier, and that would somehow dishonor Pinkie’s memory…?

“It’s weird,” Hans agreed. “You get kinda crazy when someone dies. I mean, my dad was, like, forty when Mom died. What’s he supposed to do, just lock himself away, and be alone forever? I didn’t want that for him. But at the same time…You know, my stepmom—Doris—she always identified herself as my dad’s second wife. And she talked about my mom—she didn’t try to make her disappear. The first year—and really, all the years—she was like, how did your mom celebrate Chanukah? Which plates did your mom use for Thanksgiving dinner? What was your mom’s favorite song?” He smiled. “She didn’t try to erase her.”

“That’s freaking brilliant,” Izzy said, as his cellphone rang, and he pulled it out to check….

It was Grunge. Izzy hit answer and put the call on speaker. “Greetings from Van Nuys, where Schlossman and I are bonding. I may have to embrace him.”

The lieutenant’s voice was flat. “Any sign of Maddie?”

“Nope,” Izzy said. “And no one’s been here for a while. Like weeks at least.”

“Fuck. Daryl Middleton’s address was a dead end, and the lawyer aunt is gonna be in court all day.” Grunge sighed. “I’m thinking about flying up to Sacramento.”

“You want company?” Izzy asked. “Or prolly not, ’cause you’ll want to go with Shayla. I like her, by the way.”

Grunge sighed. “Yeah, I like her, too, but…Thanks again for making the trek to Van Nuys.”

“De nada,” Izzy said.

“Lemme know what I owe you for gas.”

As the connection to Grunge was cut, Hans exhaled, and Izzy realized that the younger man had been holding his breath.

“I know we just bonded,” Izzy said, “but if you’ve been lying, and all this time you’ve really been fucking around with G’s daughter? I will kill you. With my bare hands.”

“I haven’t, I wouldn’t, I…No,” Hans said. “But FYI? Kids whose moms die? They sometimes lie.”

“So…are you cryptically saying that you have been lying?” Izzy asked.

Hans pointed to himself with both hands. “Not a kid anymore.”

“Good point,” Izzy said. “I’m hungry—are you hungry? Let’s get a pizza for the road.”