Finding Kyle by Sawyer Bennett
I know I should probably be doing something constructive. Like gathering towels and blankets to sop up water, or even calling the school to tell them I will most definitely not make it in on time.
Instead, I succumb to a case of the stupids as Kyle turns onto his back and scoots under the sink to manipulate the shut-off valve with his wrench. I get the stupids because his abs contract as he holds his head up and his thigh muscles bulge under his jeans. I get an absolutely unimpeded view of the tattoos on his chest, and now I have a moment to really look.
Well, really it's just one tattoo that starts in the center and spreads over both of his pecs. Frankly, it's a little terrifying. It's a hollow-eyed skull with sharp, pointed teeth that drip blood, and eye sockets with flames pouring out of them. The flames are pulled upward, almost as if by a silent draft of air, and then lick a few inches up his neck. Below the skull, which comes to mid sternum, the words "Fear Me" are written in capital gothic letters. To the left of the skull, running right along his collarbone, is the word "Mayhem's." On the other side, running along the right collarbone, is the word "Mission."
I wonder what that means. While I really know nothing about Kyle at all other than he's surly and rude in addition to being hot, I get the distinct impression that he's not a man to be trifled with. In fact, I'd bet he's not someone you'd want to cross paths with at all.
Kyle starts to scoot out from under the cabinet, and I blink rapidly to dispel the images of washboard abs and scary, freaky tattoos. I also realize that the water has been shut off and is no longer spraying.
When he emerges completely from under the sink, he sits up and rests an arm on his knee. "You need to go get some clothes on."
"Huh?" I ask dumbly as I stare at him, trying to see if those tattoos perhaps make him a merciless killer that I've unwittingly invited into my house.
Kyle's eyes flick down to my chest, and then back up again.
I slowly lower my eyes and immediately flush hot with embarrassment as I see my very wet white cotton nightgown is absolutely see-through, and there is no room left to the imagination as to whether or not the cold makes my nipples hard.
My arms fly up and I cover my chest. Spinning away from Kyle, I mutter, "I'll be right back."
With my face flaming, I slide my way across the floor and scurry to my room. While I'd very much like to crawl into bed and hide away from that man until he leaves, since he just practically saw me naked, I forcefully push my discomfort aside so I can get dressed quickly. I still have a very waterlogged house to deal with.
CHAPTER 5
Kyle
Christ, she's a mess.
A soggy, hard-nippled mess. I'm glad she's gone, so she doesn't see the fact I got hard the minute she showed up at my front door and I saw her like that.
As soon as she disappears down her hallway, I push off the flooded floor and pick my tool bag up. Tossing the wrench inside, I lay it on the counter and look around to survey the damage.
It's not overly bad. It appears she actually reacted pretty quickly, and with a straight head, by trying first to shut the water off under the sink and then attempting the main valve. There's a lot of water on the floor, but if it gets cleaned up quickly, it probably won't cause any floor damage.
I slide my gaze into the living room, seeing a quilt draped over the back of the couch. I slosh through the watery linoleum and nab the quilt before dropping it to the floor right where the open kitchen meets the living room. The water has already started streaming past the linoleum and onto the hardwoods, and those need protected the most. Luckily, the quilt is large enough that it quickly absorbs the bit of water that had reached the wooden flooring, while temporarily stopping the stream from going further.
I turn back into the kitchen, intent on raiding her drawers for at least dish towels, when I hear her gasp. I turn to see her standing just inside the kitchen--adequately dressed, so I can't see her breasts anymore--her arms loaded with towels, but her eyes are pinned on the quilt I'd just tossed down.
"You didn't just throw that quilt onto the water, did you?" she asks in disbelief, her eyes rounding in horror.
"Yeah, why?" I counter, quite grumpily because a thank you would have been nice.
Jane turns and stomps toward me, splashing water as she crosses the kitchen. She threw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy sweatshirt, but her feet remain bare. Her nails are painted a pretty light purple color.
She shoves the towels toward me, actually pushing them hard into my chest, as she snaps, "That's a quilt my grandmother made me."
Fuck.
Just... well, fuck.
I cautiously watch as she scoops the sodden quilt from the floor and just stares at it. I have no clue if I ruined it or not, but it looks okay to me. Just... wet.
Without another word, Jane turns to the front door and carries the quilt outside. I busy myself laying down the towels she unloaded on me, sopping up the mess, while throwing glances at her through the open door. She takes the quilt and stretches it across the front porch rail, which is already bright with the eastern sun that just rose above the Atlantic not long ago.
The minute I get all the towels laid out, I turn to the first one and pull it up. I take it to the sink and wring as much of the water out as I can before throwing it back down to sop up more. I repeat this process a few times, and then Jane comes back in and starts to do the same. We work side by side in silence, and I have to wonder why I'm still in this house helping her. I fixed her immediate problem, and she's well equipped to deal with the rest.
"Thank you for helping me," she says quietly, but I don't bother to look at her. I merely pick up another sodden towel and take it to the sink. "And sorry I snapped at you about the quilt."
"Did I ruin it?" I ask gruffly, not liking this feeling of guilt bubbling in my stomach.
"I don't think so," she returns, and I risk a look at her. She gives me an encouraging smile and says, "It should be fine."
"Good," I mutter and wring out the towel. "You own this place?"
"I rent," she says lightly. "I'll have to call the landlord."
"The pipes probably need replaced," I observe. "This place looks pretty old."
"That's gonna suck," she mumbles as she pulls up a wet towel and walks toward me. "But after all, tomorrow is another day. Gone with the Wind. 1939."
She gives me a cautious smile, filled with hope and optimism that this mess won't be as dire as it seems.
"Did anyone ever tell you that quoting movie lines is annoying?" I ask bluntly, because I suck at polite conversation with a normal person.
Jane chuckles at me as she puts the wet towel over the sink and wrings it out. "All the time."
I feel my lips start to curve upward, so I turn away from her before she can see. I should just throw the towel down and make my excuses to go, yet I find myself pulling another one up from the floor.
"I'm just glad it was confined to the kitchen," Jane says. It's clear she has no problem making conversation. "I'd be devastated if my art supplies had been ruined."
It's painfully clear she's throwing out information to me, probably in an effort to get me interested. I clamp my mouth shut and don't bother to inquire.
Jane's not daunted though. She continues right on, and honestly... her voice is sweet, cheerful, and not at all hard to listen to. "I'm an art teacher, by the way. Teach middle, junior, and high school, and I tutor part time. I also paint and sell some of my stuff, but you know how it goes... starving artist and all that."
No, I really don't know how it goes. Never met an artist. Never been interested in art unless the quality of my tattoos counts.
There are several minutes of silence that seem awkward to me as we continue to work, but I bet Jane's not fazed. She seems the type to take things in stride with an unfailing well of optimism to bolster herself.
When we get up most of the water, I place the towel I'd just wrung out onto the kitchen counter and decide to make myself scarce. "I'm going to hea
"So what's your story?" she asks at the same time.
My body tightens as my walls go up. "No story. Just moved here seeking some solitude."
Jane throws a wet towel in the sink with a splat and shakes her head. Her eyes are knowing when she says, "No. There's a story there for sure."
"Don't know what to tell you," I say dismissively as I grab my tool bag.
"Where you from originally?" she throws out.
The words come out involuntarily, and I cringe over my lack of control. "Maryland."
"Did you always live there?"
"No."
"Where else have you lived?" she pushes at me.
"All over," I hedge.
"You're sort of vague," she points out.
"Exactly."
"And taciturn."
"Also true."
"Yeah," she says with a chuckle as her eyes sparkle with amusement. "There's a story there. But don't worry. I won't prod at you too much. I respect secrets."
I give a grunt of acknowledgment and nod my head. "Well, I got work to do at the cottage..."
"So there's an art and music festival in town this weekend," she says in an abrupt change of subject. I brace because I sense another one of her spontaneous attempts to go out with me. "You should come. I've got a booth there, and you can see some of my artwork."
"Not really my thing," I say, trying to sound gentle.
And why in the hell am I being gentle with her?
I'm not a gentle man.
I ease past Jane toward the front door, giving her a wide berth. I need some space from her.
"There's going to be some great music too," she calls after me. I don't ease up on my strides, because, in the last twenty minutes or so, I've come to learn that Jane is a very tempting woman despite all of my senses screaming at me to stay away from her.
"No thanks," I say loud enough that she can hear.
I'm at the door but still close enough I hear her sigh with something that borders between frustration and resignation. "Okay. Well, thanks again for helping me out."
I stop right in the middle of the doorway, my hand on the knob, preparing to pull it shut behind me. Looking over my shoulder at her, I make myself smile at her. It takes great effort and feels forced on my face. I'm sure she sees that as well.
"Thanks for dinner last night," I tell her. "It was really good."
She beams those pearly whites back at me, and fuck it to hell... I see hope blossoming in her eyes, which are a stunning shade of meadow green. "I'm glad. I'll make it again sometime for you."
Fuck.
I turn away from her and start to pull the door closed, but I'm stopped when she says, "Oh... and Kyle? I'll drop by sometime soon to get my baskets back from you."
Yeah, I have to shut this shit down. I cannot have her getting attached to me. I can't have her trying to worm her way into my life that's built upon dreadful deeds and a litany of lies. I don't know Jane at all, but I know she's way too good to get mixed up with the likes of me. No matter how much I'm attracted to her--no matter how intrigued I am by the very light that radiates from her personality--I cannot go there.
Ever.
"I'll leave them on my porch step when I get home," I tell her pointedly with a dull voice. "You can get them at your convenience."
And that totally worked. The smile slides right off her face and her eyes go flat. She gives me a slight nod and murmurs in complete resignation, "Okay, sure. That's fine."
I nod back at her, content I've put her off, and yet oddly dissatisfied at the same time. I'm completely miserable here in hiding and want nothing more than to get back to my old life, but I've just managed to cut out the one thing I find to be good right now... and that sort of seems stupid as fuck to me for some reason.
CHAPTER 6
Jane
"You totally underpriced that one," Miranda says lazily as she nods her head to the painting. It's a thirty-by-thirty watercolor in a simple wooden frame painted a distressed gray. I've got it propped on a tabletop easel. It's by far the biggest painting I'm displaying, and, frankly, it's my best one too. I have six others remaining on the display wall behind us, with the hope I can tempt some art enthusiast to give my work a shot.
The Misty Harbor Music and Art Festival is a great way to start summer and serves as the official opener to the short tourist season we have here. We're not big enough to have just a music festival. Even less people are interested in art than music so they got thrown together, but it's a pretty fun time. Various artisans set up booths where everything from art to cupcakes can be bought while bands alternate on an elevated stage on the town square.
I've participated in this event as an art vendor for the past six years--ever since I graduated from college. It was only then I felt I had the necessary chops to exhibit my work, because even though I'd been painting since I was a kid, it was only having an art degree behind my name that gave me the confidence to show my stuff to the public. Each year, I've made some money. Some years were better than others, but no artist truly does it for the money. I mean, it's great to have the extra cash because teachers make squat, but I know I'll never be rich from my art. And that's fine by me, as I never had those aspirations. For me, life is exactly perfect. I live in a community I love, have family and friends close by and a kick-ass job where I get to pursue my passion every single day. I couldn't want for more.
"Underpriced?" I ask as I turn my head to Miranda. "It's not even been seriously looked at all day. I should be cutting the price, particularly because I didn't glass it in and the frame is pretty cheap."
I had opened for business at ten AM. Miranda met me here at nine to help me set up, so now we're just relaxing in a pair of ratty beach chairs she'd brought along, waiting for my more potential customers to perhaps saunter by. I'd sold four paintings so far, but they were small and only thirty bucks a piece. It was getting close to dinnertime, though, and things would really start to get busy soon.
"It's magnificent and you know it," she returns dryly, her eyes flicking to the painting and back to me again. "And glass is easy to add. People aren't purchasing that frame. They're purchasing the art inside. It is merely for display so it can rest on the easel."
She's right about that, and it's a lot nicer looking than just the painting, which is done on watercolor paper taped to a board. Right now, it looks pretty nice as it sits on the easel at an angle, so I can clearly see it from where I'm sitting. And truth be told, it's probably my best work so far. It's of the Gray Birch Lighthouse. I did it a few weeks ago, inspired perhaps by the fact I'd stared at that old lighthouse a lot knowing that it was now inhabited by a sexy, mysterious man. But he really has nothing to do with the painting itself, for he's not in it. I just happened to catch it one morning as the sun was rising on the Atlantic, so there are swirls of orange, pink, and yellow stacked on top of a grayish-purplish ocean. That's all in the background. The focal point is the lighthouse as the white stucco exterior soaked up the colors of sunrise, even reflecting off the glass panes surrounding the light at the top. I made the frame myself, including the distressed gray paint job, and priced it for one hundred and fifty dollars, which I thought was reasonable. Sadly so far, no one was interested in shelling that out.
"I bet no one is even looking at it seriously because it's underpriced," Miranda suggests. "You need to give it a price that proclaims to the entire world that the buyer is getting a priceless piece of art."
I stare at her for a moment, seeing she's not bullshitting me, and I figure she might be on to something and I really didn't have anything to lose.
Scrambling out of my seat, I round the table and pluck up the little index card resting at the base of the easel where I had carefully printed the price in black sharpie. As I crumple the card up, I move back around the table, sit on my chair, and reach under the table where I'd put my purse. Nabbing my black sharpie and some extra index cards out, I carefully print out a new price after tossing the old card into m
"How about... two hundred?" I ask just as I finish the last zero on the price.
"Still too low," Miranda says.
With a huff, I toss that card into my purse and poise the marker above a fresh one. Turning my head, I look to my best friend in the world and ask her, "What should I ask for it?"
"Three hundred and fifty dollars," she says earnestly. Firmly. With total belief that I can get that for my work.
It's one of the many reasons I love her.
Miranda and I went to school together from kindergarten up, but we hadn't been close from the start. I mean, we knew each other because our school was small, but she had her friends and I had mine. We were acquaintances, I guess.
That all changed in the middle of our eighth grade year when Miranda's parents went through a very bitter and nasty divorce. Worse yet, it was public fodder because Miranda's mom had cheated on her father... with another woman. Our town is so small that it wasn't a subject that would get swept under the rug. People whispered and hypothesized about what could drive her mom to become a lesbian, and sadly... all those whispers hit Miranda's ears because kids tend to be more vocal than adults.
Miranda got mercilessly teased. She got viciously bullied.
Then the worst thing happened. I found myself in a group of friends who started bullying her. I was quiet at first, usually awkwardly walking away when they started in on her, because as long as I wasn't saying those nasty things to her face, she'd surely understand I wasn't a part of it.
It wasn't until I walked by Miranda in the hall one day--alone and without my friends--that I smiled at her and asked how she was. She glared at me, tucked her head down, and sped past me. It was then I realized I was guilty by association.
The very next day during our lunch break, I spied two of my friends standing behind Miranda in the lunch line. They were clearly harassing her, as they were leaning in toward her and her shoulders were hunched forward almost protectively.
I didn't even think.
I just walked straight up to my friends and laid into them good. I did it loudly so everyone heard, and I did it with as much derision as I could muster so they would have the unequivocal realization that I was disgusted by this bullying.