I turn to leave so I don’t disturb Katy. The memories of what we once had suddenly feel suffocating. I close the door, shutting them out, not once wondering why Katy has a photo of me beside her bed but not a trace of Alec.
Chapter Five
SORROW
Finding out Banner had moved in next door lit a fire under my ass. I had hoped I’d be able to come back and sneak in under the radar, do what I had to do, and then leave before anyone noticed me. Now that seems unlikely.
I jumped in my van once he left and drove until I found a cheap motel on the outskirts of town. I didn’t have a plan beyond putting some distance between the two of us.
I want to say a good night’s sleep helped me get my head on right today, but I tossed and turned all night and woke up feeling more exhausted than when I went to bed. Of all the scenarios I could have predicted might happen, coming home and finding myself living next door to Banner was not one of them. That thought alone got me out of bed and down to the realtors as soon as their doors opened at 9 am.
It’s still baffling me why he bought that house of all houses. Banner’s family is a rich one—perhaps the richest in town. We’re talking old-school money. They live in the most affluent part of town and always have done. It always confused me why any ofthem showed interest in me, but they all welcomed me with open arms, long before Alec made his move on me.
With how things turned out, I can’t help but feel like it had less to do with me and more to do with them.Aw, look at the benevolent Bannerman’s, taking in someone less fortunate. They’re so good and wholesome.Okay, so maybe I’m bitter about it, but can anyone blame me?
Now, as I pull away from the real estate offices, frustrated and depressed, I wish I’d stayed far away from the Bannerman’s from the start.
Tom, the realtor who was all too happy to work with me until he found out who I was, turned out to be a condescending prick. He assumed that because I couldn’t speak, I was dumb. He then proceeded to tell me in no uncertain terms that the housing market was in a bad way and nobody would buy my mom’s place without me giving it a serious makeover. I earned a degree in graphic design while I was in prison, which I make a decent income from now that I’m out, but it’s nowhere near enough to renovate a house that I might not even be able to sell.
I drive back to the cheap hotel and park my van before banging my head against the steering wheel. What am I supposed to do now? I swipe at my tears of frustration, climb out, and head into my room, keeping my head down as I pass people. I throw myself down on the bed when I get to my room and try to devise a plan.
After an hour of mental gymnastics, I realize that my only option is to give the house a cosmetic facelift with a lick of paint and a deep clean. Everything else is out of my hands. I look at my watch and see it’s three o’clock.
I saw some paint cans in the garage when I parked the van, and although I’m sure most of them need to be thrown away, I might be lucky and find some things I can use, so I don’t spend more than I need to. I could see what paint was okay and makea start. Since I contacted the power company yesterday and sent them some money to make sure the lights stay on, I don’t have to worry about it getting dark anytime soon.
Fuck it.
I drag myself from the bed, splash some cold water on my face, and pull on a pair of black leggings and a faded gray T-shirt. I shove my feet into my beat-up sneakers and pull my hair up into a messy bun because I don’t fancy washing paint out of it later. Grabbing my bag from the foot of the bed, I make sure I have what I need before snagging my keys off the dresser and heading out.
I pull through the drive-thru on the way over and grab a chicken wrap and a Coke. I need to eat, regardless of how unsettled my stomach feels. With there only being a couple of drive-thru options, I don’t have to worry about being spoiled for choice, so that’s something at least and they didn’t make a fuss about reading my order at the window which was a bonus.
That’s the thing I miss about living in the city the most: the convenience of everything. Whatever I fancy at any time, day or night, is right there on my doorstep or available for delivery. Though it has to be said, Tempest having two drive-thrus is two more than most small towns, so I shouldn’t complain.
I eat as I drive back to the house that plagues me, trying to distract myself. The food ends up lying heavy in my empty stomach. The relief I feel when I pull up and find his driveway empty is huge. I hurry to get the van in the garage and the door down, hoping to stay undetected for another day.
Once inside, I open the door to the kitchen, sipping my Coke as I walk through and crack the windows open at the back of the house so nobody will notice. The damp smell isn’t as bad as yesterday, but it’s far from pleasant, at least down here. Other than the bathroom, I’ve not braved the upstairs at all.
I stare at the kitchen. Though it’s a dingy green, I don’t think it will take many coats of paint to cover it. The dark pine cupboards date the room, so I think I’ll give them a sand down and paint them white. The tiles are already white. A good scrub should clean those up nicely.
Walking back to the garage, I move over to the shelves on the back wall and find some protective sheets, a few brushes that look like they’ve seen better days, and a huge bucket of white paint. I drag it all down and carry it into the kitchen, happy when I finally manage to pry the lid off and find the paint looks good. I use an old wooden spoon to give it a good stir and look around as I decide where to start. With a curse, I realize wiping down the walls is probably the best thing to begin with, so I pop in my earphones, turn on my workout playlist to pump myself up, and begin.
I spend the next two hours cleaning the kitchen, then painting the walls of the house that was never really my home, the music blasting at a decibel loud enough to deafen me, but it keeps my troubled thoughts at bay.
I’m balanced precariously on the counter as I finish the ceiling, so engrossed in what I’m doing that when a hand touches the back of my leg, I spin around and lose my footing. I plummet to the floor, bracing myself for an impact that never comes, thanks to a set of strong, tattooed arms catching me.
I yank out my earphones, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest as I stare up into the stormy eyes of the very man I’ve been trying to avoid.
“What the fuck?” he yells at me, making me cower in response. It’s a move born of instinct and one I have been unable to shake off over the years. When no blow comes, I look up warily. His eyes move over my face for a moment, taking everything in. His arms tighten around me for a second before he remembers who I am and what I did. I’m the girl who killedhis brother. I’d bet anything right now he wishes he’d let me fall and break my neck.
He lets me go and moves away from me, as if touching me might somehow infect him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is devoid of the warmth it held when he spoke to his sister.
I don’t answer him, obviously. I stare at him, trying to take in the man before me who hardly looks like the one I ran from the day of his brother’s funeral. His hair is the same honey blonde, but longer on top than I remember. It falls into his eyes messily, like he’s been running his hands through it multiple times a day. His broad chest and thick arms show how much he has honed his body into a fighting machine. He’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but it’s the look of hatred in his eyes that keeps me rooted to the spot.
“Answer me!” he roars, making my legs shake, and tears spring to my eyes. I squeeze my hands into fists so hard that I can feel my nails split the skin of each palm.
“So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” He glares at me as I take a step back. His anger is so palpable it’s like a third person in the room. He picks up one of the mismatched chairs from the table and swings it into one of the cabinets, smashing the door from its hinges. I back up until I’m pressed against the far wall with nowhere to go. He swipes his arm across the counter, sending the paint can flying, splattering its contents up the wall.
“I told you to stay away.” He picks up the other chair and throws it. It hits the kitchen window, which miraculously doesn’t break, before it bounces to the ground. His chest is heaving as he fixes his glare on me.
