Course he is, but he makes enough noise that the postmanthinks he’s a Rottie, and I’m here for it, even as he bursts from the couch to raise bloody murder at a passing car. Although, this time, he might have a point.
I straighten, tracking the old VW as it slows, the driver easing down the window to peer at my front door.
It should alarm me. I’m a good boy these days, but I wasn’t always. And I used to live the kind of life where a drive-by attack wasn’t something that just happened on TV. But it’s been a long time, six fucking years, and I’m off my game—off my guard, and easily distracted by the face of the hottest dude I’ve seen since my ex FWB paid me a platonic visit a few weeks back.
My view of the hot dude is brief. Just enough to catch the shock of dark blond hair and killer cheekbones. Eyes that seem blue, though I can’t be sure, and a forearm that even hidden by a bomber jacket I know is some kind of perfect.
Merde. I don’t think in French that often—only when I’m around Sab and he’s pissing me off. Or I’m drunk as a skunk, or deep in my feelings. But it’s the only word that comes to me as the car moves off, leaving me dry-mouthed and breathless. As if I’ve never seen a hot bloke before. As if I’ll never see one again. At least not one that matches up to him.
Avoir le coup de foudre.
I snort at myself. I felt that with Rudy last Christmas—love at first sight, and look where it got me? Butler to an angry hamster that bites my ankles when I don’t feed him quick enough.
Still, it takes effort to tear my gaze from the window. To reanimate and stamp into my boots. TorememberI have a purpose in life beyond wondering who Blondie is, and why he was eyeballing my house.
I go back to the garage. Rudy follows and turns his gazeupward, already stink-eyeing the lights. My dog hates everything Christmas, except the real tree I don’t have yet and the food he’ll get to steal. It’s earlyNovember, which makes dicing with death for an Instagram post even more of an absolute piss-take. And I’d give it up if I had a choice. But I don’t. I need the extra money the cheesy post might bring in, and if I have to climb the shoddy metal racking to get it, that’s what I’ll do.
Under Rudy’s watchful gaze, I root a boot to the bottom shelf and haul myself up. I’m in pretty good shape for the mess I was in six years ago, and I like the burn in my shoulders as my arms take my weight. The wobble and groan of the racking isn’t my favourite thing, but I make it work and reach around the squashed Christmas tree to snag the lights.
Relief surges through me. I shimmy down, taking care not to jostle the clusterfuck I’ve left behind. But I’m not careful enough. My boots touch the floor and an ominous rumble sounds above me. I look up in time to see the stacked worktops listing and they tumble on top of me before I can lurch out of the way.
Rudy.
That’s my first thought.
My second, after I realise he’s safe in the doorway turns the air blue, French and English pouring out of me in a brutal blend ofmotherfucker, thathurt. Really hurt, everywhere from my fingers to a shoulder that’s already been through the wars.
Merde. I mean it this time, with my fucking soul. I shove the heavy wood out of the way and free my arm, flexing my fingers. They barely move, and my thumb joint cops the worst as fresh pain infiltrates my wrist.
Goddammit.
I leave the lights and traipse inside. Rudy shadows me,growling as I re-examine my arm in the kitchen, using the stove lights to stave off the fading winter sun outside.
I’m bleeding. My hand trembles, and I know it’s bad. That I should go to the urgent care centre in town, or even the hospital in the city. But…I don’t want to. Something inside me freezes and I’m out of fucks for one day. Or maybe I’m running short on the courage it takes to walk into a building I left so much of myself in so many years ago.
Either way, I’m not going. Stubborn, remember? And I’m a fucking idiot. So I turn the lights off and lie down on the couch, shutting my eyes, cradling my wrist to my chest and leaning into a hard avoidance nap, something I’m good at.
And who knows? I’m not the luckiest fucker in the world, but maybe the last ten minutes were nothing but a shittastic dream. Maybe the last six months were too, and my imminent lodger is a Christmas nightmare I won’t have to live with after all.
BHODI
I’ve always had terrible timing. Everything that ever happens to me seems to play out at the worst possible moment, and the HDU night shift I’m about to walk into is no exception. Honestly, who picks Sunday night graveyard hours to start a new job?
Me, that’s who. Bloody genius, mate. The sameidiotwho drove four hours from Cornwall to Hereford in an aging Golf that desperately needs an oil change. If I had a brain, I’d be dangerous.
Not fair. You’re tired and emotional.
Valid. But I’ve made these mistakes when I’m happy too, so I can’t blame my predicament on being a little bit knackered and nursing a bruised heart.
My car’s had enough of me for one day. I secure it a reserved space that’s going to cost me a ridiculous wedge each month and pick my way through the frosty car park—a concrete abyss with the same miserable vibe of every hospital I’ve ever worked in. And I’ve worked in a few.More than a few. Putting roots down isn’t my forte, and if the last few months—the lastyear—has taught me anything, it’s that my regular trick of legging it when things go wrong has more merit than sticking around to get shat on.
He didn’t shit on you. It’s not his fault you caught feelings he didn’t reciprocate.
Skylar.
My ex.
At least, that’s how I see it. To him, I’m just a hookup that fizzled out.
