And I’m fucking wound up over my obnoxiously witty and drop-dead gorgeous neighbor who doesn’t seem to be scared off from me and my surly ways. Moreover, she’s managed to dig her way under my skin, not in a totally bad way, but in a way that makes me want to hand sand an entire picket fence.
Even though I doubt the temperature is past the mid-seventies right now, in between my vigorous sanding and the hot noon sun, I’m fucking roasting. I’d ditched my shirt less than an hour into the work, and then about thirty minutes ago I went inside and ditched my jeans, opting for a pair of old swim trunks I’d brought along with me when I heard from Joe my new destination was the coast.
Even though my muscles are screaming and sweat is pouring off me, I continue to scrub as hard as I can against the paint, operating under the theory that tonight I’ll be too exhausted to think about the shit storm that is my life.
And about Jane.
Mostly Jane as I’m years into this shit storm and used to it by now. It is what it is.
But I’m not used to Jane. I’ve never met a woman like her. I’ve been surrounded by tramps and club whores for the last five years, so I’m not even sure I’d know what to do with someone like Jane in my bed.
But fuck… the things I’d like to do to her in said bed.
Goddamn it, you stupid motherfucker. Do not go there.
Which is exactly why she will never—and I mean ever—be there. I would tarnish her horribly, probably scare the crap out of her and traumatize her for life. I’ve become so roughened over the years—so criminalized—I feel like I barely resemble a normal human being. So what little bit of morality I’ve seemed to keep deep down inside is demanding that I forget Jane Cresson. Fucking bar tramps in back alleys is all I’m good for and I’ll just have to be satisfied with that. Although, I can’t explain to myself why I haven’t been back to The Lobster Cage to take advantage of what Barb has to offer since I met Jane.
And as if just thinking about her causes her to materialize—
“I’ve been watching you work your ass off all morning from my porch, so I thought I’d come over to help,” Jane says behind me.
My head drops forward, and I clench my teeth in frustration.
Temptation keeps putting itself in my path.
I don’t stop sanding the last picket, even though I can’t see a speck of white paint left. “Funny you show up when I just finished the last one,” I mutter.
She gives a tinkling laugh that just two days ago would have annoyed the hell out of me, but instead, it sounds like music. “Well, of course I wasn’t going to help you with the sanding, silly, but you still have to paint it and well… I’m a painter.”
“You’re an artist,” I point out as I push up from my knees and turn to face her.
“Who paints,” she says brightly.
And yep… she’s glorious. White shorts that aren’t too short but still show a good bit of leg, a faded navy-blue t-shirt that’s seen better days, and flip-flops. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail and her lips are shiny.
Why the fuck are they shiny?
“I made you lunch,” she says as she holds out a brown paper bag that’s neatly folded down at the top.
I blink at her a moment before my eyes drop to the bag. Just two days ago, that would also have annoyed the hell out of me, but for some reason, it fucking delights me.
Not going to let her know that, though, so I merely take it from her with a rough, “Thanks.”
I walk over to my pickup truck that I’d backed up to the edge of the fence nearest to Cranberry Lane, and she follows me there. I open the bag up, reaching in to find a neatly wrapped sandwich that looks to be thick and piled high with turkey, lettuce, and tomato. Tossing the bag onto my tailgate, I unwrap the sandwich as I ask her, “Any chance our work can be done in companionable silence if I let you help me?”
“As if,” she says with an exaggerated whine in her voice. I know she’s quoting a movie, but I have no clue which one. She adds on, “Clueless. 1995.”
“Never saw it,” I say before I take a bite of my sandwich, and damn… that’s good. Just a simple sandwich made for me, because she’s kind and thoughtful, and I’m pretty sure it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I wonder what she tastes like?
I give my head a hard shake and swallow. She looks at me curiously, but I’m pretty sure she has no clue what I was just thinking.
“I could be very cruel, you know,” she says with a sly grin as she hops up to sit on the edge of the tailgate, “and tell you that Clueless is a must-see movie for you.”
“What’s it about?” I ask before taking another bite, and well… sort of enjoying this conversation.
“Oh, trust me,” she says with a laugh and a shake of her head that makes her ponytail swing jauntily back and forth. “You’d hate it.”