Page 6 of Tear Me to Pieces
I shake my head. “No one.” Raking one hand through my hair, I survey the neighborhood, looking for a place my new camper will fit.
When we first found the place, it was nothing more than a block of run-down buildings and crumbling curbs. Everything was overgrown and under maintained. The nicest building—nice being used very loosely—on the dead-end street was an old firehouse. Everything else was a mess of broken windows and sagging rooflines.
But it was an area we could be self-contained. A place we could feel safe back when safety was something most of us could only dream of.
Now, nearly every building on the block has been brought back to life. Thanks to Christian’s profession—and many of us starting off working in construction—the large structures have been turned into the kind of homes we dreamed of those long years when we were fighting for survival.
But, while the neighborhood looks warm and welcoming, all the manicured lawns and fenced yards have left me without many options when it comes to parking my camper.
Looks like I might be parking at the warehouse. And honestly, having a little distance between me and Myra probably isn’t a bad thing.
“You got here earlier than I expected.” Tate braces both hands on his hips, looking over my new fifth wheel. “I was planning to clear out a spot behind my house for you to park, but this fucker won’t fit back there.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to set up.” My eyes start to drift to the house beside Tate’s. I can only see the roofline of it past my camper, but unless someone’s built a garage behind it, I know there’s plenty of room for my fifth wheel back there.
I also know it’s the last fucking place I should park it.
I could park at the warehouse—should park at the warehouse—but I really don’t want to. I spend most of my life alone, so when I’m home, it’s nice to feel like I’m a part of something. Even if I’m the odd man out.
I also don’t want to force myself on Myra. Being available if she wants someone to talk to is one thing. Sitting right outside her window is another.
Tate thumbs over one shoulder in the direction of the only vacant house left on the block. “You could park next to the empty place, but you’ll have to run electric somewhere else since it’s not turned on there.” He grins. “And if you’re planning to use my bathroom, you’ll have to run across the street in a towel after you finish taking a shower.”
Again, my eyes drift to the roof of Myra’s house, and this time I’m imagining finding my way into more than just her backyard. This time I’m wondering if the scent of her skin lingers in her shower long enough I’d be able to breathe it in while I fuck my fist under the spray.
“I’ll figure it out.” I give Tate a slap on the shoulder and force a subject change before I end up with a raging hard-on. “What about you? How’s fatherhood?”
He flashes me a wide grin. “It’s fucking fantastic.” Tate lifts his brows as he starts backing away. “You should probably get on that yourself. Don’t want to be an old man chasing around a two-year-old.”
The pain of loss jabs me from the inside. It’s nowhere near as sharp or biting as it once was, but that fucker lingers. Reminding me why I do what I do.
And why I can’t park behind Myra’s house. No matter how much I want to.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I tip my head toward my truck. “I’ll be out of your way in just a sec.”
“You’ll have to come over and see the baby later on. And tell Piper how good she looks while you’re at it.” Tate gives me a wave before ducking into his house.
He can’t hear me scoff as I shake my head. “Like fucking hell I will.” Tate’s wife Piper is a loose cannon, and I don’t want to be the one who pisses her off by dishing out manufactured compliments. I’m sure she looks great, but I’m not the kind of guy who would ever point something like that out. Not to a woman who wasn’t mine. If I came at her with that, Piper would immediately know something was up and she’d put both meandTate on her shit list before either of us knew what happened.
And ending up on Piper’s shit list could very well get me shanked. Or tased. Or spray starched within an inch of my fucking life.
After climbing back behind the wheel of my diesel half-ton pickup truck, I go to work maneuvering my thirty-four-foot fifth wheel across the street. I’ve pulled a camper of some type nonstop for the past six years, so I’m used to fitting it into tight places. Luckily, it’s early enough none of the kids in the neighborhood are out running wild yet, so my backwards trip to the last remaining vacant building on the street is uneventful.
Just like the rest of my fucking life.
Once I have the fifth wheel in place, I go to work separating it from my truck. Again, it’s a process I’ve done countless times, so it’s only a handful of minutes before my pickup is free. After looking over my options, it’s clear running electric from one of my brothers’ houses isn’t going to be an option. I don’t have an extension cord long enough. Even if I did, I’m not sure anyone has the power to spare now that they all have wives and/or kidssucking it down, and I don’t want to be tripping breakers all night.
“Fuck.” I rake one hand through my hair then scrub my palm over my face, pulling in a deep breath of the crisp morning air. It’s not cool, but it’s not warm either, and it drags me back to my earlier conversation with Myra. It hadn’t even occurred to me that she was probably cold standing there in a sleeveless shirt, and now I feel like even more of an asshole. Not only did I selfishly press her for more than she may have wanted to share with me, but I also let her stand there fucking freezing, never once considering how the temperature might be affecting her.
I was too busy being focused on how she was affecting me.
I should fucking hitch my camper back up and drive away. Leave everyone here—including Myra—behind to live their happy lives.
Except Myra didn’t seem all that happy. She seemed.
Sad. Like me.
I stand out in front of my fifth wheel, eyes finding their way to the building she calls home. The home she claims is a mess.
