Breaking the Seventh Page 3

  Even though I think he’s hot.

  Oh long Johnson, is he ever hot!

  “Good. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that in mind for the future.”

  “Fine. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

  He flutters a hand dismissively. “Don’t let the gate hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  Grabbing my towel off the chair where I left it, I try to wrap it around my waist with one hand while snatching up my flipflops with the other. What is this dude’s problem? I’ve never met anyone so ornery in all my life! Is he like this with everyone or is it just me? Has he taken an instant dislike to me just because I was teasing him?

  “Welcome to the neighborhood, jackass,” I tell him sweetly as I fling the gate open and stroll away. He doesn’t bother with a reply.

  But of course, I can’t resist poking my head back inside to throw him one final zinger.

  “Oh, by the way? I peed in your pool.”

  Chapter Three

  The conniving real estate agent who foisted this house on me better hope I don’t run into his hoodwinking ass anytime soon. I might have a few choice words for him. Most of which will consist of four letters and be delivered from between clenched teeth.

  Damn it all, why does it seem there are always screwy females wherever I go? Do I give off some kind of pheromone that attracts the crazies?

  Quiet street, he said. You won’t find a more peaceful neighborhood, he said.

  Ha!

  What the realtor neglected to mention was that I’d be permanently situated right next door to a grade-A certifiable kook.

  What kind of nut job trespasses on private property, then acts as if I’m the one who did something wrong?

  I’ll tell you what kind. A bubbleheaded, bikini-wearing, self-centered Generation Z bimbo.

  I thought I’d gotten rid of the annoying pest last night when she scampered off like a scared rabbit. All talk, that one. It was hard not to laugh at the way she was looking everywhere except where I know damn well she was dying to look.

  Just as I figured. A whole lot of bark but no bite.

  This morning, however, she appears to be retaliating by making it impossible for me to concentrate on my work. There is music blasting from next door, and has been for at least half an hour. How has no one else on this street called in a noise complaint? It’s so loud I can easily identify each and every song as the windows rattle and my pulse throbs in time with the bass.

  So far it appears that she is into heavy metal, grunge and classic hard rock guitar.

  I put on my headphones but the streaming white noise is no match for the thumping of Imagine Dragons’ Radioactive.

  Now don’t get me wrong. Under normal circumstances, I would absolutely be digging her taste in music. Just not at maximum volume when it’s imperative that my full attention lies on the work in front of me. I’m trying to test the prototype of a web page layout I’m developing for a new client and I need to be able to think.

  Drumming my fingers impatiently on the computer desk, I switch to Sounds of Nature and crank it up. For a total of five blissful minutes I am somehow able to tune out the abrasively heavy drums and focus on the screen in front of me.

  Until the peaceful forest with the babbling brook is savagely invaded by Marilyn fucking Manson screaming about a revolution.

  Grinding my teeth together, I wonder for a brief moment what the charges would be for putting a bullet through her speakers. Vandalism? Criminal mischief? Discharging a firearm in a residential area? Might be worth it.

  My tense muscles are just beginning to relax when suddenly, so help me God, the volume actually increases.

  I didn’t think that was even possible.

  “All right, that’s it!” Slamming my headphones on the desk, I get up and storm my way into the bedroom, cursing all the way. I hastily swap out my ratty sweats for a pair of jeans and shove my feet into a pair of Nikes before heading next door to let that bitch have it.

  The front doorbell is the first thing I try. When she doesn’t answer, I’m not surprised in the slightest. It’s unlikely the idiot can hear anything over the earsplitting cacophony she’s created.

  Muttering a slew of profanities under my breath, I walk around the house to try the back door instead. I don’t know what I expected to find – maybe an assemblage of pink flamingos and garden gnomes – but surprisingly the place is neat and uncluttered. There is a small bluestone patio in the back yard that contains a wooden garden swing, chaise lounge and several potted plants but little else. The surrounding grass even looks to be freshly mown. It all looks far too normal and conventional for the unbalanced chick I met last night.

  I raise my fist, but it freezes in mid-knock when I catch sight of her through the uncovered French doors. The girl – I don’t even know her name – is bouncing around like a deranged lunatic, whipping her hair back and forth as she plays air guitar and dances enthusiastically. All while singing along to Renegade as it blares deafeningly from who-knows-where.

  Then again, singing might not be the most fitting of descriptions here.

  No, it’s more like discordant shouting. I can literally visualize all the members of Styx shuddering at this very moment, asking one another in hushed whispers whether or not they just felt someone walking across their collective graves.

  I stand there transfixed, somehow fascinated by the sight.

  She’s just as small as I remember. A mere slip of a thing, maybe 5’3 or 5’4. Her pixielike features are framed by a cascade of long, sandy blonde hair that is, at the moment, swinging wildly about like a headbanging extra from a Led Zeppelin video. To top it all off, although it’s eleven-thirty in the morning, she is wearing pink pajamas.

  Pink. Pajamas.

  With Kermit the fucking Frog on them, no less.

  All right, so I have to grudgingly concede that the girl is cute as a kitten with a ball of string. But that doesn’t excuse her mouthy attitude and blatant disregard for everyone else. Does she not realize that she is disturbing the peace here? I would call the cops myself if I didn’t consider something so petty a waste of their time.

  Tearing my gaze away from the spectacle in front of me, I turn and stalk back to my own house before she sees me watching her through the glass like some kind of perverted peeping tom. I’ll handle this a different way. I seriously cannot imagine standing there trying to carry on a reasonable conversation with an adult woman who is dressed in Kermit the Frog pajamas.

  Once I’ve shut myself in the spare bedroom, the room at the end of the house farthest from the dancing queen, I pull out my wallet and locate the business card the real estate agent gave me. Besides the office number, there is also a cell phone listed. Even though it’s Saturday, I’m hoping he will answer one of them. Of course, whether or not I’ll be able to hear a motherfucking thing he says over the earsplitting racket is highly debatable.

  “Delmont Realty, Earl speakin’,” the deeply accented voice drawls.

  “Earl. This is Myles Bellamy. The client who bought the house on Hidden Creek Trail, remember?”

  “Yeah, of course…how’s it goin’, Bellamy. Get moved in alright? What you thinkin’ of the new place so far?”

  I can just see Earl Delmont now, a dip of snuff stuck in his bottom lip, hunting boots propped up on the desk as he throws darts at a newspaper clipping of a prominent politician that’s duct taped to the wall. Not exactly what you picture when you visualize a realtor. He is the epitome of a southern born-and-bred redneck, the type who is most comfortable in a bass boat or a tree stand. But there is nothing fake or pretentious about the guy, and I respect that about him.

  Or I did. Right at the moment, I’m not exactly feeling a sense of camaraderie with the shyster who sold me this circus-bordered property.

  “What do I think of it? What do I think? Let me give you a hint. Here, listen to this.” Opening the nearest window, I hold the phone out for a few seconds before bringing it back to my ear.
“Do you hear that?”

  “Sounds like y’all havin’ a party over there,” Earl deduces in his slow, southern twang.

  “That’s not coming from here! That’s coming from next door. Why didn’t you tell me about the crackpot that lives over there?”

  “What? Who? You talkin’ about Hank’s young’un?”

  “Who?”

  “Leah. Hank Whitfield’s daughter. That who you mean?”

  “I don’t know her name. Ditzy little blonde…lives in the Tudor on the east side of my property.”

  “Yep. That’s Leah, all right. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry ’bout there. She’s a sweet little gal, won’t cause you no problems. Single, too, from what I hear.”

  Even though I can’t see him, I get the feeling he just winked.

  “Of course she’s single – she’s a menace!”

  I hear a chuckle coming from the other end. “Don’t tell me. You done gone and got on her bad side already?”

  “Does she have any other side?”

  “Well now, she may be a bit rowdy, but she’s a good girl. Kept my granddaughter for two days when Ray was havin’ his gallbladder surgery. Lizzie just loved her to death and you know, she don’t cotton to just anybody.”

  I don’t have the foggiest idea what he’s going on about. “Ray? Who is Ray?”

  “My boy. Ray.”

  “Oh. Ray. Sure. Look, that’s all well and good but–”

  “We’d have taken her but we was off at Chimney Rock State Park when he took sick. You ever been to Chimney Rock?”

  I shake my head, confused. “I…no. What? Taken who?”

  “Lizzie. My granddaughter.”

  “Uh…”

  “Looks like with you livin’ in North Carolina and all, you’d’a been to Chimney Rock a time or two. You been to the Biltmore Estate, haven’t ya?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the Biltmore Estate. I didn’t live in Asheville all that long, though.” I’m technically a local resident of this town myself, seeing how I was born and raised right on the outskirts of Crestview. Of course, I’m not sure what any of this has to do with anything.

  “And you ain’t been to Chimney Rock? It’s only ’bout twenty-five miles from Asheville, ya know. Me and the wife go there every year, ’round October when the leaves start turnin’. Best time to go.”

  I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with Earl Delmont. Time to get to the point.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know Miss Whitfield’s phone number by any chance, would you?” Call me a coward if you will, but I think I’d rather avoid direct contact with this girl whenever possible. She spells trouble for me, and I’ve had quite enough of that recently.

  “Well…no, but I reckon I could give ol’ Hank a call and get it from him if you want it that bad.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Naw, just gimme a minute or two and I’ll call ya back.”

  Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I wait with mounting impatience for the call. When it comes, Earl cheerfully provides the information with no further questions asked.

  I thank him and then mentally count to ten before punching in the number.

  I will not lose my temper. I will keep this calm and civil. No matter what.

  My lips curve into a satisfied smile when the music carrying over from next door abruptly stops. She must have had her phone set to vibrate. There’s no way she would’ve heard it otherwise.

  “Hel-looo?” Her voice sounds overly animated, and I would bet my life the she-devil already knows it’s me.

  “Leah Whitfield, I presume.”

  “That’s me. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Oh, it’ll be no pleasure, you can bank on that.”

  “Myles Bellamy, I presume?”

  She catches me by surprise with that one. I never told her my name.

  “I see you’ve been doing your research.”

  “What research? Midge Bryant got some of your mail this morning.”

  “Who the hell is Midge Bryant?”

  “Across the street. House with the red shutters. Boy, you don’t know anything about your new neighbors, do you?”

  “I know that you are deliberately attempting to permanently impair their hearing!”

  “Impair their hearing? Why, whatever do you mean?” she purrs.

  “Don’t you act coy with me – you know good and damn well what I mean! Does the phrase ‘disturbing the peace’ ring any bells with you?”

  “Jeez. Chillax, will you? The Wilsons took their kids to Six Flags, the Bryants volunteer at an animal shelter on Saturdays, and old Mr. Clemmons is deaf as a post. Trust me, I’m not disturbing anyone.”

  “You’re disturbing me.” How does she know so much about everyone else? What is she, a serial stalker? “I’m only going to tell you this once. Keep that music turned down, and I mean all the way down, or the next call I make will be to register a noise complaint with the police department. I have work to do and I can’t do it with you blasting your goddamn headbanging rock at a hundred and twenty decibels. So keep…it…QUIET. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Well, my goodness,” she chirps innocently. “You don’t have to get all bent out of shape about it, sugar britches. All you had to do was ask.”

  “Good.” Sugar britches, my ass.

  “So what should I do with your mail?”

  “My mail? What are you – I thought you said the woman across the street had it.”

  “I told Midge I’d give it to you. Hey, looks like you were pre-approved for a Visa Platinum with no annual fee. Would you like me to fill out the application for you?”

  Is she kidding? Please tell me she’s kidding. “Not unless you want to be convicted of identity theft!”

  “In that case, are you interested in signing up for Dish Network?”

  “No! I’m not interested in signing up for anything!”

  “You should also know that it’s time for you to renew your subscription to Gay Times magazine.”

  “What? I don’t have a subscription to Gay Times magazine!”

  “Really? How strange. Then how on earth did you get on their mailing list, I wonder?”

  “I am not on their mailing list!” Am I? At this point, who knows! “Did I really get something from them?”

  “No. I was just messing with you. You can get fifty percent off Popular Mechanics with this special Publishers Clearing House offer, though.”

  “Great. Wonderful. Peachy. Anything else?”

  “Ooh, there’s a coupon here for buy-one-get-one-free Big Macs at McDonald’s. Are you planning on using this or can I have it?”

  “It’s all yours,” I tell her with a weary sigh. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Sweet! So do you want me to bring your mail over or what?”

  “No.” For God’s sake, anything but that! “Just stick it in my mailbox next time you go outside. Please.”

  “Okey-dokey. Will do. I’ll try to keep the volume down, too. Can’t have you all distracted and stuff while you’re trying to work, can I?”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate it.”

  “No problem at all. Oh, and Myles?”

  “What.”

  “Just so you know, I’ve seen way bigger. You didn’t impress me one little bit last night.”

  Then we’re disconnected, and I’m left staring at the phone in my hand in disbelief.

  Chapter Four

  I’m brushing my teeth on Sunday morning when there is a knock at the front door. I’m not expecting anyone, but my friends are prone to dropping by at random hours so I figure it’s probably either Autumn or Willow. Spitting a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, I quickly wipe my mouth and skip through the house to go see who it is.

  And suddenly I’m staring at a freaking pine tree wrapped in black dress pants and an Armani shirt. My gaze travels slowly upward along the towering six-foot-four body, to the taut, muscular arms that are holding my dog, to the scowling features of �
� oh, no – my irritable new neighbor.

  I was wrong about his hair being black. It almost is, but not quite. It’s more of a really dark brown, the color of rich espresso, with subtle bronze highlights that are probably only noticeable in the sunlight. Now that it’s dry it appears to be a little longer than I expected too, since the wispy ends are brushing the collar of his white shirt. He must be on his way out seeing how he’s freshly shaved and dressed nicely.

  Wow. I couldn’t tell the other night in the dark, but the guy has blue eyes. An almost indescribable shade of piercing electric cobalt.

  Shit. I’m a sucker for blue eyes.

  “Does this belong to you?” he demands crossly. Charlie, the rotten traitor, has his nose buried in the crook of the man’s arm as if he’s perfectly comfortable there and would just as soon I didn’t bother retrieving him.

  I reach for the fuzzy scoundrel anyway, trying my best not to brush against Myles as he hands him over.

  “Uh…yes. So?”

  “He was digging in my yard.”

  “Oka-ay.” Seriously? Is the guy really going to pitch a hissy fit over a little sixteen-pound pooch kicking up a bit of dirt? Big baby. “And…?”

  “And…I don’t recall asking for my front yard to be excavated. So how about keeping your animals off my property.”

  “Animal.”

  “What?”

  “Animal, not animals. Singular. Charlie here is an only child.”

  He gives me a look that suggests I would be more suited to a mental ward than running loose in suburbia. “Lady, that there’s a dog, in case you haven’t noticed. Not a child.”

  “I know that. But he doesn’t.”

  “Should I also break the news to him that he isn’t a two hundred pound pit bull?”

  “Shh, you’ll give him a complex.” Grinning to show that I’m joking, I bend down to put Charlie on the floor and he patters off in search of his food bowl. “What was he digging for? He doesn’t usually do that.”