Page 18 of Savior
Someone’s shouting over the whir of the fan, but I ignore that, too. A good nap to sleep off the last chokehold of this hangover is my number one priority.
I reach that point where all my muscles are lax, my breathing is slow and even, and the specters of the man I used to be are quiet. Then a woman screams, and I bolt upward, knocking my head against the arm of the swing and nearly blacking out for the second time in twenty-four hours—a record even for me.
My hand comes away smeared with blood. "Fan-fucking-tastic," I croak.
I use the hem of my shirt to staunch the bleeding, but that leaves me hunched over, so I just yank it off and press it to my forehead. When I sit up, the world tilts, and I have to grab on to the chains to keep from swaying like a reed in the wind.
I keep my head between my legs until the urge to yak all over my shoes—again—passes, then I get unsteadily to my feet and hobble down the steps. There’s a fifty-gallon container I keep near the water hose beside the house that’s already filled with rainwater. I duck my head in it to wash away the blood, and it also serves to cool me down and clear my head before I did something rash.
Like kill someone.
With the blood gone and streams of water flowing down my chest and back I feel reasonably calm when I turn to face the source of the scream that gave me the concussion.
I knew when the FOR RENT sign wound up in the neighbors trash a week ago that my little slice of solitude wouldn't be so for much longer. After spending a large chunk of my life packed like a sardine with fifty other men while I spent eight long years in the Marines, I’ve grown very protective of my privacy.
The little blonde—really she isn’t little, but I’m over six feet and would dwarf her—is standing on her own porch steps nearly identical to mine glowering a man in a suit that must have cost more than everything I owned.
They don’t pay me any mind even though I must look like a psychopath all shirtless and swaying from side to side with bloodshot eyes and bleeding.
“You scared me,” she was saying. One hand is pressed over nondescript breasts and the other gripped the railing.
“You're not answering my calls,” suit says. He leans forward like he wants to closer but pussies out and straightens back up.
Blondie doesn’t notice. The hand on her breast moves to her cocked hip. “Probably because I want to be left alone.”
“You can't keep running from this.”
Her eyes flash and if my head wasn't throbbing so much I may have grinned. "Don't tell me what to do, Phil.”
“I'm not.”
“I want him out of my life. It’s done. I don’t want anything more to do with you or with him. You’ve followed me all over the state. Probably all over the country. You won’t wring one more thing out of me. Let it rest, for God’s sake, and leave me alone.”
The sour taste in my mouth multiplies. I shake my head before I remember the headache.
There's maybe a twenty foot spread of weed choked grass between our bungalows but even with the distance I catch the pleading look on pretty boys face.
“Pi—” A swift, fierce look has his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sienna, let's talk about this. ”
I wince for him. Begging never works for a man. A woman doesn't want to be begged. I can tell I'm right when her full, pink lips pull into a frown. Loser never had a chance.
“I don’t want to talk. I've done enough talking. Don’t ever bother me again. Next time you do I'll put the concealed carry to good use. Understand?”
Pretty boy deflates under her fierce stare. He tugs at his limo tie and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll call you,” he says.
“You do that.”
She watches until his sporty little car kicks up dust down the dirt road to the highway, then she turns and catches me staring at her.
“Your head is bleeding,” she says, then she goes into her house and shuts the door behind her. I hear the unmistakable sound of the lock slamming home.
It takes me a good five minutes of staring after her before I clear my head enough to navigate on shaky feet back to my spot on the swing. I pop open the cooler by my side and flick open the tab on an ice cold beer.
It’s never too early for a drink as the old man would say.
* * *
After stewing away most of the morning, I shower, shave, and stumble my way down the winding driveway to my grandma’s. She and my grandpa started the little bed and breakfast on Lake McCormick just after they got married. Unlike my parents, whose favorite past time was getting into yelling matches with each other, Grandma Rose and Grandpa Deacon loved each other to distraction.