Two other guys cheer as a girl I’ve never met rolls her eyes.
“Hey, where is everyone?” I ask, not knowing anyone here.
“What do you mean?” Racer rips open the box and the telltale sign of cellophane being opened slices through the cool night air. “I invited my friends. Did you think I was going to invite anyone else? Pssh, the only person from high school I talk to is you.”
Of course.
Not that I talk to anyone else beside Racer either, but it would have been nice to at least know one more person. I’m a sociable guy, but there are times I’m not in the mood to make get-to-know-you small talk. There are times I just need to be Holmes, the lanky teen who likes hockey.
Gripping my shoulder, stuffing his mouth full, Racer mumbles, “Let me introduce you.” He brings me to the little circle around the fire. “Hayden, this is Tucker and his fiancée, Emma. They like to make out a lot, so look out for that. The big guy over there with the permanent scowl is Aaron, but we all call him Smalls, and there is a pretty brunette floating around here I don’t . . . see . . .”
“She’s in the bathroom,” Emma calls out just as she puts her hand on Tucker’s thigh. They’re snuggled up really close. They’re in love; that’s obvious.
“Thanks. The brunette is in the bathroom,” Racer repeats, taking another bite of his Star Crunch.
Feeling slightly awkward, I hold my hand in a mock wave. “Nice to meet you all.” To Racer I say, “I’m going to put the beer in the fridge. Need anything while I’m there?”
“I’m good to go now that I have these.” He nuzzles his Little Debbie snacks.
Some things never change.
I give him a good pat on the back and head toward his house.
I could make my way around Racer’s house with my eyes shut, I’ve been here so many times. When I was younger, during the off-season, I would spend weekends helping Racer and his dad with little projects around the house. My dad would come along too, loving to get his hands on any kind of construction. The log house looks the same, even after the passing of Racer’s dad. Fuck, what a shitty day that was.
The familiar scent of wood and leather greets me when I walk through the back door. My second home.
But something is missing . . .
“Where’s all the furniture?” I whisper, scanning the area. There is nothing homey about the space. Not that Racer’s dad was a big decorator, but there was more in the house than a recliner and dining room table.
The kitchen isn’t far from the back door. I make my way to the fridge, pop the beers inside after grabbing one for myself, and turn back around to observe the space. Why has everything gone?
Casually, I make my way around the kitchen to a little built-in shelf near the hallway. There are unopened envelopes stacked high. I give the back door one more glance and pick one up.
Overdue.
In bright red, a giant stamp across the envelope.
I pick up another, and another.
All overdue.
What the fuck?
“Who the hell are you?”
Startled, I drop the envelopes to the ground and splash a little of my beer on the hardwood floors.
“Shit.” I pick up the bills, re-stack them, and squat to wipe up the little droplets of beer with my hand.
“Unless your hand is a Downey towel, that is not going to work.” The smooth sound of a women’s voice echoes through the empty space.
I glance over to find pink painted toenails laced through white flip-flops, and a set of long and lean toned legs in short denim shorts. Moving my eyes up, I take in her tight red shirt, showing off an inch of midriff. Farther up. Full breasts, V-neck shirt with an ample amount of cleavage popping past the low-cut collar. Smooth olive skin, long brown hair curled at the tips. Slender neck, heart-shaped jawline . . .
My eyes scan the last few inches. Full lips, painted in red, high cheekbones . . . and those eyes.
Deep.
