In silence, I pull my jeans back up but don’t bother with the top buttons and even less with a T-shirt. The toilet flushes just as I reach the kitchen, getting two glasses out of the cupboard and pressing the lever on the refrigerator door for cold water. The tap runs in the bathroom and I’m hoping she’ll be out in mere seconds, drink her water, and be on her way. The goal, however, is to make sure she looks happy and satisfied as she leaves. Not for my sake—I’ll never see this woman again—but for the show that’s my favorite ritual.
“Your house is nice…” The confused tone in her voice gets my attention. People are so fucking quick to judge me.
“Is that surprising?” I offer a glass, frowning because I still can’t remember her fucking name, and she takes it, downing the contents as quickly as I do before handing it back to me.
“Nova, and yeah, kinda.”
Fuck. Nova? I wasn’t even close. I don’t miss the way her eyes roam over my chest and abs, probably trying to discern the images that cover every inch of skin from my neck to my wrists and all the way down to my groin. Tats are always a crowd pleaser.
“What? A guy like me must live in a dump?” Opening the dishwasher, I place both of our glasses on the top rack and close it back up, my hands on my hips and my expectations clear. It’s my cue for her to go. I’m bored with this tedious conversation.
“Something like that. Didn’t figure you for someone who cares enough to have to deal with the hassle of a home.” Nova shrugs and it dawns on me that she cares about this whole encounter about as much as I do. The thought relaxes me a little, but when I check my watch, I tense up all over again. She needs to walk out within the next ten seconds for maximum effect.
“Fair point.” It’s all I give before glancing at the front door.
“Well, gotta bounce. It was fun, Tanner. Thanks for the ride.” The sarcasm on this one is strong. If I weren’t who I am, I’d probably enjoy her company, but I am Tanner Black and caring about people I don’t know isn’t in my DNA. It’s even in my last name. Black…like my soul or so I’m told.
I reach my front door, twisting the knob and pulling it open like a gentleman on a first date. Except this isn’t a date and I’ve never once been accused of being a gentleman.
A loner, yes. A psycho, often. An asshole, on the daily. A gentleman? Absolutely not.
“I ordered an Uber in the bathroom, it’s two minutes away.”
I nod like it’s no big deal but check my watch again and fight the small smile that’s aching to pop up. Five in the morning. Any time now.
As though I’d orchestrated it myself—okay, maybe I had a little—the white sedan pulls up to my curb just as my neighbor’s garage door begins its ascent. Today is Wednesday, so little miss goody two-fucking-shoes will be taking her masterpiece of a car for a ride. On any other day, she drives her ridiculous hybrid that makes no noise and has zero personality, but on hump day, she takes her father’s old 1968 Pontiac Firebird 400, hood tach and all. It’s a fucking vision with the shiny black paint, save for the red line from wheel to wheel on each side. It’s a classic Mr. Brigham gave his daughter when he and his wife moved down to Florida for their retirement.
What a waste.
“I’m not going to pretend this is anything other than what it is, so how about we skip the goodbyes and go on our merry way?” I blink back to the here and now and realize my one hour fuck is still here.
“Good call.” Shirtless, with my fly half buttoned and no shoes or socks on, I choose violence in the too-early-to-be-called-morning light. Stepping down from my porch, I make myself perfectly visible to my neighbor just as she pulls the Pontiac out of her garage. Hell hath no fury like a neighbor scorned.
Nova just waves a hand over her shoulder as she strides up to her ride, gets in, and leaves without a single regret. Meanwhile, from the corner of my eye, I see the black Pontiac inching out of the garage in reverse before coming to a stop.
Slow and deliberate, I turn my gaze on my neighbor as thesqueak-squeak-squeakof the passenger side window grates on my last nerve. She’s usually thorough about cleaning the tracks and weatherstripping about once a month. I guess she’s been too distracted to care for her Firebird. When it’s halfway down, I narrow my gaze at the bane of my existence as her face comes into perfect view through the opening.
“They just keep getting younger and younger, don’t they?” She’s full of shit. Nova couldn’t have been younger than twenty-five, maybe even older and inching up closer to my thirty.
“Jealous?” The rest of the neighborhood is still buried under their sheets on this warm early August morning, the sun still hiding behind the mountain to our east.
“Not on your life. I choose wisdom over youth, always.”
She’s such a liar.
“Tough break then since you have neither.” I shrug and turn on my heel, satisfied that I’ve thrown the last punch and ready to hit the hay before setting up for work.
After a decade serving in the Marines—oohrah—life as a civilian hasn’t exactly been easy or exciting. So when one of myformer unit brothers called me to let me know they were one short for a privately owned team of mercenaries, I didn’t even hesitate. The thrill of the kill with unlimited resources and triple the pay from the military? Sign me the fuck up. And that’s how I became a DOG. Even though Delta Ops is reminiscent of the Army, and compared to the Marine Raiders or Force RECON they’re a bunch of pussies. Respectfully, of course.
“You’re an asshole.” With my back to her, I grin, knowing I’ve hit the nerve I was aiming for.
“First truthful thing you’ve said all day, Berk.” I look over my shoulder just in time to catch the laser-sharp glare at my use of her high school nickname—not my most imaginative work—and the distinct frustration in her guttural expletives aimed right at me. Through it all, I remain stoic until thesqueak-squeak-squeakof her window going back up reminds me of an episode ofI Love Lucywith its comedic timing. The urge to laugh is almost too strong to ignore but somehow, I manage, and by the time I reach my porch and turn around, the Pontiac is on the road and Berkleigh’s middle finger is aimed right at me.
I chuckle at her attempt to offend me, as if that’s even possible. With the shit I’ve lived through and seen, being offended is the least of my problems.
In fact, my only problem, and one I’ve had almost my entire life, is Berkleigh Brigham. As such, every day, she pays a little price for the inconvenience of her existence and being the cause of every scar I own.
Even if she lived a thousand years, she could never redeem herself for what she did to me.
