Page 2 of Mercenary
Yep, sad but true. The majority of boys in my life are friends from my classes. More interested in organisms than orgasms; which biologically speaking, the latter is highly unlikely to happen from simply kissing, though I’m curious to test out this theory and, if luck will have it, prove it wrong. Something I intend on pursuing once I’m settled down beneath the warm Californian sunshine. Pursue my degree yet not be such a lab whore. Hit the beaches, conduct research outdoors and in the San Diego waters. Take a chance. Live a little. Kiss. Have orgasms. I’m looking forward to the possibilities my roaring twenties will bring.
I fiddle with the clean bowl, turning it upside down then upright on the dish rack.
Then tap my foot.
Thinking about all the reasons why I shouldn’t.
Until a healthy dose of curiosity grasps hold of me once more and I return to the door, and to spying on the stranger.
I don’t understand how he knows I’m here—a sixth sense or something—but this time, he turns.
His head lifts.
Our eyes connect.
The heavy, humid air inside the trailer thickens like fog. Leaving me lightheaded. Breathless.
His hood is now pulled up over his head, adding to the dangerous vibe that seems to seep from his pores. His eyes cut straight through me, piercing me with their intensity. High cheekbones framing a crooked nose that’s likely been busted a time or two. There’s scruff on his chin like he’s forgotten to shave. His lips are full, yet pulled tightly into a firm, no-nonsense line.
I feel unbalanced. I had a similar feeling earlier, after being woken up from my deep sleep on the living room sofa by three loud pops. I lay there, stiff and still and a bit unnerved. Wondering if a kid had gotten hold of some fireworks. Or worse, his hands on a gun. Happy Times might not be the Ritz Plaza but it’s typically quiet and peaceful. I’d peeked outside but nothing seemed amiss. I waited to fall back asleep for what seemed like an hour, listening for any and all suspicious sounds, ready to dial 911 at the slightest noise. Until I was certain whatever had awoken me had passed and promptly gave into my sleepiness.
The next time I looked outside, the stranger was on my stoop.
What if he’s waiting for my sister?
I should find out. It’s not like he’s oblivious to how I’ve been studying him from behind the thin lace curtain.
I swallow hard, still staring at him. Aware of him and the fact that he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And for some strange reason, I feel compelled to talk to him. I crack the door open.
“Are you here for Kylie?”
He shakes his head ever so slightly. Is that a yes or no?
Thunder sounds off in the distance. It’s definitely going to storm. “You can wait inside for the weather to pass,” I murmur, making up my mind and throwing caution into the wind, the kind that comes rolling through Oklahoma like hell on a high breeze. “But I need you to prove you’re my sister’s friend. Otherwise, I highly suggest you seek shelter somewhere else.”
“‘Never mind the bollocks,’” he mutters in a low voice.
I blink, then burst out laughing. Oh sweet Heaven. He is a friend of Kylie’s. He’s quoted a line from one of her eclectic rock-’n-’roll T-shirts. I open the door wider. “Come on inside.”
Either he doesn’t hear me or he’s ignoring my offer. Hard to say.
It thunders again.
I watch to see if he notices. Or cares.
Trouble, I think, brewing right on my front step, much like the angry gray clouds rolling in.
Will he ignore them, too?
“Suit yourself,” I say. Yet I hesitate as my fingers skim across the door’s cheap lock. Ridiculous ever believing this tiny bit of metal would keep danger at bay. Still I don’t lock the door, leaving my offer open in case common sense kicks in and urges him to come inside and out of harm’s way. Whoever he is, if he doesn’t move soon he’s going to get soaked to the bone, even if he lives close by.
I return to the kitchenette, tidying it. Waiting. Waiting for the storm to pass or kick up in intensity. Waiting for him to move on . . . or inside. Waiting for the oven to chime, which it does exactly twenty minutes later.
If you want moist yet fluffy cupcakes, baking time is half the battle. Tonight is special. Monumental. Not an occasion to be nibbling on overbaked cupcakes that’ll crack your teeth. Moving to the oven, I remove the cupcake tray and place it to cool on the carving board I’ve laid out on the tiny countertop. I’m working on meticulously spearing a second cupcake with a toothpick when the lights flicker. He’s got to be long gone, right?
I’m testing a fourth cupcake, one on the end, when a loud boom echoes across the trailer park. The lights flicker. Then the rain begins. A deluge, from the sound of it.
Not a time to be outside. He had to have run for cover after that last big boom.
