Finding Kyle(19)

Kyle’s eyes burn into mine. “Why would you ever be drawn to that?”

I shrug. “Because I want good things for good people, I guess.”

“You want to try to fix me?” he asks blandly.

“Maybe,” I say with a grin. “Can I borrow your tools?”

The minute those words are out of my mouth, my face flames red at the innuendo I just innocently uttered. “Oh, shit… I didn’t mean anything dirty by that. I mean… well, you have tools. You used them to shut off the water. I was talking about those types of tools, not like… your tool. And oh, God… I’m going to die right now from embarrassment.”

I must be positively adorable in my embarrassment because Kyle just shakes his head with a smirk on his face, and we lapse back into silence for a while.

I finish my beer and open another, because I’ve made real progress here tonight. He does the same.

The sun, which is behind us in the west, fully sets. Our view of the ocean gradually declines until we see only a faint glimmer along the water every time the light in the tower spins to alert boats of the jetty.

It’s nice. Maybe a bit awkward since I like conversation, but I can’t think of another place I’d want to be right now.

“Jane?” Kyle says quietly, and I let my head roll to the right to look at him. “Just so you know, I can’t be fixed. So don’t even go there, okay?”

“Okay,” I murmur to reassure him of my good intentions, but now I’m committed more than ever to figuring out this mysterious man.





CHAPTER 9




Kyle


My shoulders burn and ache, but still I go harder, running the sanding paper briskly over the last picket on the fence that borders the walkway from my cottage to the lighthouse. The fence needs a new coat of paint. I could have taken the easy way out and just painted over the existing paint. It was in fairly good shape, but it definitely needed freshened up. But because I’m bored and feeling like a slug, I decided to sand the entire thing down by hand first. I could have also taken the easy way out and rented an electric sander from Chib at the hardware store, but it felt like a day where I should do something to expend all this excess energy I have.

I’m feeling restless from being cooped up for the few winter months I experienced here.

Anxious over the fact I’ve got a few more months left of hiding out. The days seem to go by slower than ever.

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.