Breaking the Seventh Page 7

  What a vision. Those perfectly-formed tits bouncing, firm little ass wiggling back and forth while she strutted away with her chin in the air…now that was a sight worth the price of admission.

  Fuck, yeah.

  This girl is trouble with a capital T.

  Not that it’s her fault, really. It would appear that I’m the one who isn’t very adept at learning from past mistakes. Especially seeing how last night all my reservations vanished with her dimpled smile, and the only head I was able to think with was the one that wanted nothing more than to be buried in her pretty pussy.

  I don’t know what it is about the eccentric little spitfire, but for some reason I find it irresistibly entertaining to test her boundaries. I can’t help myself. She’s like the collectible toy that isn’t supposed to leave the box. And me? Inevitably I’ll sneak her off the shelf and play with her anyway, consequences be damned.

  I always was a naughty boy.

  Lowering her head, she pulls out a pair of earbuds and peers at me over the top of round Lennon-inspired sunglasses. “Hi, neighbor.”

  “Your dog's been fertilizing my lawn,” I announce without preamble.

  Instead of an apology, what I get is a wide grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t charge you anything this time. Next time, however, I’ll have to bill you for his services.”

  “Cute. That’s real funny. Why aren’t you watching him? Did it never occur to you that he might run out in the street and get hit by a car?”

  “Charlie has never once gone near the road. He’s smarter than that.” She pats her belly lightly, and the dog springs up beside her to curl up with his head resting on her flat stomach. For a second, I actually envy him.

  “It’s weird, though,” she comments. “He never used to wander out of the yard. Wonder what he suddenly finds so fascinating next door.”

  I catch the double meaning in her words, and decide to play along. “He must like me.”

  “No, it can’t be that. He’s probably just bored.”

  “Oh, is that all it is?”

  “I’m quite sure that’s all it is.” Her voice is lighthearted, teasing.

  “I don’t know. I still think he finds me irresistible.”

  “Dream on!” She nudges me with a bare foot, and I notice that every toenail is painted a different color. Guess she couldn’t settle on just one. “Well, if you’re going to just stand there gawking at me all day, you can at least do me a favor and sit down. Your six-mile-high body is blocking out the sun. You’d make a great shade tree, you know that?”

  Chuckling, I lower myself to the edge of the lounge chair. On the opposite side of her, Charlie opens one eye to give me a possessively wary look.

  “Direct sunlight is bad for your skin, you know,” I remind her.

  “And that’s why sunscreen was invented.”

  “Okay, but I don’t want to hear you whining after you get a sunburn.”

  “I’m not gonna burn. What, you think I planned to bake out here all day? I have stuff to do.”

  “Yeah? What are you up to today?”

  “Autumn’s picking me up later. We’re going rollerblading in the park. Hey, you wanna come with us? We’re getting ice cream after. Banana splits. My treat.”

  “Some other time, maybe. I already have plans.” Even if I didn’t, there is no way I would agree to go. I’ve never been on a pair of rollerblades in my life and fracturing something vital does not sound like my idea of a productive afternoon.

  “Soapy’s bringing his bike. He doesn’t know how to skate either.” Her mouth curves up knowingly, and I decide she’s too perceptive for her own good.

  “So tell me.” Changing the subject seems like the best recourse here. “What does the mysterious Leah Whitfield do when she isn’t sunbathing, rollerblading and skinny dipping?”

  “Nothing special. I put in thirty-five hours a week in a law office, and twice a week I have night classes so I stay busy enough.”

  Wait. What? “You’re kidding. You work in a law office?”

  “Yeah.” She seems almost offended by my surprise. “Why?”

  “Sorry, it’s just…the legal field? It doesn’t suit you.” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but law? No, that was definitely nowhere on the list. She strikes me more as the creative type. I could easily envision her as an artist or musician before I could picture her researching, filing documents and drafting correspondence.

  “What can I say? It pays the bills.”

  “What sort of classes are you taking?”

  “Family Law and Legal Terminology.”

  Again, it doesn’t fit. “So you’re interested in pursuing a degree in law?”

  She snorts a derisive laugh. “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then why are you taking the classes?”

  “I dunno. It just seemed like the right step to take, I guess.”

  “You don’t sound all that sure.”

  “Probably because I’m not. But hey, I needed a job, and those are kind of in short supply these days. This one pays fairly well, so going on to become a certified paralegal just seemed like the practical, responsible thing to do.”

  “Practical and responsible doesn’t suit you, either.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I know what you’re trying to do.”

  Not sure where she’s headed with this, but I’ll bite. “What am I trying to do?”

  “You’re trying to get me to quit my job so I can’t pay my mortgage and then I have to move away and you end up with disgustingly normal neighbors with names like Ted and Beulah who have perfect teeth and drive fuel efficient hybrids and wear His and Hers aprons when they barbecue and listen to their Barry Manilow at an acceptable level.”

  I burst out laughing at her ridiculously long-winded accusation. “Beulah?”

  “Yep.” She grins cheerfully.

  Shrugging, I raise my hands in defeat. “You caught me. I have to admit, that’s exactly what I was trying to do. Get rid of you, since it has always been my deepest heartfelt desire to live next door to Ted and Beulah Wangdangle.”

  She giggles, and the sound flows through me warmly. I find that I like it. Her laugh is not only cute, but dangerously infectious.

  “Can I ask you something?” she wants to know.

  “You mean something besides whether or not you can ask me something?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “It’s kind of personal.”

  “You’ve seen me naked. I’m not sure how much more personal you want to get.”

  “Why did you really sell your business in Asheville and move down here?”

  I hesitate, trying to recall what I might have said to give her the impression that there was more to it than I let on. “What makes you think I didn’t just need a change of scenery?”

  “That's not it. Someone did a number on you. I could tell when you said that stuff about recent experience and getting burned and all that. You've been screwed over.”

  Oh. “You remember that, hm?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No. You’re not wrong.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing you haven't heard before, I'm sure. Basically I trusted the wrong person.”

  “Sounds familiar. If you don’t mind my asking, what did this person do to you?”

  “She was skimming money from my account.”

  “Whoa! Really?” Judging by the amazement in her voice, this wasn't what she expected to hear. “She was stealing from you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Holy monkey balls – that’s crazy! How did it even happen? Did she have access to your bank account or what?”

  “She was working for me. A month or so after we met, she told me she wasn't happy with her job and wanted to know if I could use a receptionist-slash-accountant. So I hired her to handle the books for my shop. Before long she was using my business account
as her own personal ATM. It took me longer than it should've to discover what was going on because she was finagling the numbers in such a way that it wouldn't be obvious what was happening.”

  “Wow…”

  “Mm-hm. Wow. My sentiments exactly. The irony of it is, if I thought she needed the money for a good reason, I would have been happy to give it to her. But instead of coming to me and talking to me about it, she just helped herself. And then tried to hide it.”

  “So what was the reason?”

  “The reason? You mean, why did she do it?”

  “Yeah. I was just wondering what her excuse was. Like, did she have a kid to support or a sick relative with a lot of medical bills or something?”

  “Hardly,” I snort. “Turns out she had a shopping addiction, if that’s even a thing. Anyway, that’s how she rationalized it. Said she couldn’t help herself, she just couldn’t resist a sale. Personally, I think she had a problem with hoarding. Her closets were packed with shoes and jewelry and clothes with the tags still on them. Most of them never even worn.”

  “That’s…” Open-mouthed, Leah pauses to shake her head in disbelief. “Uh...sorry. But that’s the lamest justification for stealing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  “I thought so, too. And get this – Embry couldn't understand why I was so pissed. As a matter of fact, I believe ‘I don’t really see what the big deal is’ were her exact words. You know, it wasn’t even about the money to me. It was her lack of respect and the fact that she was deceitful. I can’t tolerate dishonesty.”

  “How much of a 'no big deal' are we talking about?”

  “I can't be sure exactly, but my estimate would be somewhere around twelve or thirteen thousand dollars, total.”

  “Damn!” Stunned, Leah gazes at me through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. “I don’t know what to say. That sucks. I'm sorry.”

  “What are you apologizing for? You didn't do it.”

  “No, but...I don't know. I'm just sorry it had to happen to you.”

  “Chalk it up to a lesson learned, I suppose.” I shrug my shoulders, brushing it off as no longer relevant. The last thing I want is for her or anyone else to feel sorry for me. The way I see it, it was my own damn fault for allowing it to happen. For trusting so easily.

  “How long ago was all this?”

  “I found out about it back in November.”

  “Oh. So what happened when you figured it out? Did you have her arrested or what?”

  “No. Call me a sucker, but I told her I wouldn’t prosecute as long as she agreed to stay the hell away from me and never set foot on my property again. I put the shop up for sale not long after, because at that point I was done. Just done. All I wanted was to get away from all of it.”

  “I know the feeling,” she says softly.

  “Well…I’m sure we’ve all been there at one time or another.”

  “Been there?” She huffs a dry laugh, and even hidden behind the sunglasses I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “You just met someone who keeps permanent residence there. With videos to prove it.”

  “Videos?” Uh-oh. Note to self: punch Leah Whitfield’s name into Google later tonight. And then pop some popcorn. This should be interesting.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Oh, no…” I shake my head with a slow-spreading grin. “You can’t say something like that and just leave me hanging. Come on, starlet, out with it. What videos?”

  “Wipe that smirk off your face – it’s not what you think, pervert!”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s…nothing. Not really. You know what, just forget I said anything. It’s not that big of a deal anyway.”

  “If it’s not that big a deal, then you shouldn’t be afraid to tell me. What videos?”

  “It was just one, actually. And it’s not even there anymore. Thankfully the administrators at YouTube took it down after I contacted them.”

  Giving her an expectant look, I tilt my head to one side and wait patiently to hear what she has to say.

  “I’m telling you, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “I know!” Scooping Charlie into her arms, Leah places him gently on the smooth bluestone before sitting up and groping for a bottle of suntan lotion that’s fallen over underneath the chaise lounge. “Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no T & A involved.”

  I lean forward and snag the bottle before she can reach it. “Fair enough. Then what was involved?”

  “Alcohol. A lot of it.” Seeing that I’m not about to drop the subject, she relaxes back in the lounge chair and reluctantly confides, “I was drunk and acting a fool, okay? That’s all. It was just really, really, super embarrassing.”

  “Ah, c’mon. That’s not so bad.”

  “You didn’t see it. I was so wasted, I could barely even stand up. Most of it was just me falling all over the place and babbling a bunch of nonsense. They actually put in subtitles because you couldn’t understand a thing I was saying. I looked and sounded like a total idiot.”

  “What were you saying?” I pop open the lid to the sunscreen and squirt some into my palm.

  “Honestly, I have no idea. I think at one point I was accusing everyone of putting weasels in my car so my lights wouldn’t work anymore and I wouldn’t be able to find the elevator to Michigan. Something like that.”

  “What?” I laugh.

  “I told you, I don’t know! Apparently when you’re drunk, it’s very important that you get to Michigan.”

  Still chuckling to myself, I rub the coconut-scented lotion between my hands. “Where did you want this?”

  She taps her leg with a furtive smile.

  Bazinga!

  Without a word, I begin to massage the sunscreen into the warm softness of one of her thighs. I do this while mentally calculating whether or not I’ll have time to white-knuckle one off and still make it to Pensacola by two o’clock.

  Maybe if I leave in twenty minutes and drive ten miles over the speed limit.

  Shit. I knew better, didn’t I? I knew better than to come over here. I should’ve turned around and walked away the minute I saw her sprawled out here in nothing but that itsy-bitsy bikini. Flimsy thing leaves just enough to the imagination to transform me into a drooling degenerate. Her tight little body is a dick magnet. And if mine gets any harder, I’ll be in danger of putting someone’s eye out with it.

  “Who recorded you and put it up on YouTube?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the fact that my fingers are kneading just inches southeast of her barely-concealed snatch.

  Her mouth sets in a grim line. “Some asshole who thought he was being clever.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”

  “Mm-hm. Right.”

  “People don’t always realize when they’ve crossed the line between funny and inappropriate. If it makes you feel any better, I doubt it was done with malicious intent.”

  She doesn’t respond to that, and for a minute I wonder if I’ve inadvertently pissed her off. Without taking my eyes off the V between her thighs, I squeeze some more sunscreen into my hand and start on the other leg.

  “You’re wasting your time, you know,” she murmurs.

  “How so?”

  “You aren’t getting into my pants, Mr. Bellamy.”

  “You aren’t wearing any pants, buttercup.”

  “Well, then. I was right, wasn’t I?”

  Sometimes this girl is really hard to interpret.

  No. Scratch sometimes. I can never figure out what she’s trying to say!

  “Speaking of which – did you happen to bring over my clothes?”

  “No.” My fingers wander dangerously close to the tempting hollow between her inner thigh and the edge of her swimsuit. “I left them in the dryer.”

  “The dryer? What, you washed them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oka-ay…that was nice of you, but you really didn’t ha
ve to do that. I had just put them on. They weren’t dirty.”

  “They were when I got done with them.”

  It’s all I can do to keep a straight face when her lips part in astonishment. “Come again?”

  “And again,” I confess softly, a devious smile unfurling across my face.

  Pushing the sunglasses up, she stares at me wide-eyed. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  “Myles.” She gives me a slight shake of her head, as if trying to determine whether or not I’m putting her on. “What…um, exactly what did you do?”

  “Well, let’s see now. There are a number of subtle illustrations I could use to describe what transpired last night. Sanding wood…debugging the hard drive…applying the hand brakes…taking a load off…”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Liquidating the inventory…”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “Straining the main vein…”

  “Myles!” She’s laughing now, but somehow I manage to keep a straight face. I’ll leave it to her to decide whether or not I’m joking.

  I’m not, of course.

  And I’m not the least bit repentant of the fact that after she waltzed her bare ass off my property last night, I took those lacy red panties inside, wrapped them around the hard-on she produced and jacked off all over them.

  I’ve decided I may just keep them.

  “Did you really?” She gazes at me speculatively, and I detect a distinct flicker of interest in her eyes.

  I merely smile while sliding an erroneous finger along her bikini line. By now her thighs are well oiled and I am aching – fucking aching – to slip my hand inside the swimsuit and make sure every inch of her is covered in a sheen of Hawaiian Tropic.

  She tries to keep her voice neutral, but I can hear the slight catch in it when she tells me, “You're pushing your luck there, Sparky.”

  Maybe so, but I notice she hasn't made a move to push my hand away.

  “Are you gonna try and tell me you don’t hitchhike to heaven every now and then?” I prod her teasingly.

  “Quite the wordsmith of pocket pinball, aren’t you?”