Finding Kyle(4)

“What’s up, Barb?” I return gruffly as I stare down into my liquor. If I were to look at her, I’d see a woman who has the potential to really be pretty. But she mars that up with too much makeup and too much hair frizzed up all over the place. She’s got a decent body. Even in the winter months, it’s always on full display with lots of cleavage and legs showing. She has no clue I’ve seen so much of that in my lifetime that it’s sort of like looking at the same piece of art every day. No matter how fantastic or beautiful it may be, when it’s seen over and over again, it just ceases to be special anymore.

She’s nothing special at all.

“Looking for a good time tonight?” she purrs, her hand going to my thigh as her nails press down into the denim.

Good time?

Yeah, that is not what this will be.

A chance to bust a nut?

Absolutely.

I pick up my glass and toss back the last of the whiskey. Setting the glass back on the grimy bar top, I shoot a look at the old, grizzled bartender—a retired lobsterman named Gus—and give him a slight shake of my head to let him know I don’t want another. He merely gives a short nod and lets his gaze go back to the TV above the cash register where an old black-and-white movie is playing silently.

Pushing off the barstool, I take Barb’s hand. “Let’s go.”

I pause briefly at the door so she can nab her jacket off the rack, and then we head outside into the chilly night.

?

It takes less than five minutes to get my fix.

Less than thirty seconds to lead her around to the rear of the building that’s completely darkened because Gus is too lazy to replace the back door light. If there was a light, I’d see that the gravel and hard-packed dirt are littered with empty beer bottles and used condoms.

After another thirty seconds, Barb’s got my dick her in her hand and her mouth on my neck as she works me up. I lean back against the building and close my eyes, concentrating on the feel of a soft hand on my cock rather than my own callused palm.

It’s nice.

I guess.

A few more strokes has me rock hard, then she’s up against the dirty brick wall and I’m lifting up her short skirt. We’ve done this a time or two. With practiced hands, she gets a condom on me and then I’m inside, her long, skinny legs wrapped around my waist. She makes a move to kiss me, but I turn my head and bury my face against her shoulder.

I have no clue if she gets off, but, in less than five minutes, I do.

Over and done with.

I feel slightly better.

?

Back in my bed, just before I turn off the lamp, I note a few water stains on the ceiling. I’ll need to check the roof boots to make sure they’re adequately caulked. It’s time to start getting the cottage and tower repaired for the summer tourist season. That will be good. At least I’ll be busy.

This winter was harsh and there was nothing to do. While I am indeed hiding out, it fucking sucked being stuck inside most of the time because of the weather.

I start to get drowsy. Even though I don’t want my attention to go there, it happens anyway.

Seven months ago was my death day.

I became Kyle Harding.

I started a new life.

I’m in hiding, waiting for the day that I might be able to resume my life again.

Turning my head slightly to the left, I locate the small bedside lamp and reach out to turn it off. When the room is plunged into darkness, I stare upward until my eyes grow heavy and my breathing turns slow.

The last thing I think about before I go to sleep is the look in Kayla’s eyes when I suggested she use the knives on Maggie again, and I know, without a doubt, I’ll be dreaming of that again.

That’s okay.

I consider it to be a part of my penance.





CHAPTER 2




Jane


Leaning my stomach against the counter’s edge, I stare through the open plantation shutters as I sip my coffee. It should be a crime for a man to look that good. No, actually a sin. It should be a sin to look that good, and it should be addressed in the Bible. Or maybe it is, because I’m pretty sure the way I’m coveting my neighbor has probably been written about a time or two.

It’s relatively mild for the middle of May in Misty Harbor, and I saw the forecast is actually going to hit the upper sixties today. It will still dip back down to the forties tonight, but, for now, I’m loving this weather. It means my window is open to let in the spring breeze, my shutters are thrown wide, and my neighbor across the private lane that separates our properties has his shirt off as he power washes the light tower.

It’s a truly marvelous day.

Inhaling deep, I take in the smell of sea spray and the viburnum that’s started to bloom under my kitchen window, and my lips curve upward. I love spring so much—the way it represents renewal and hope. The winter this past year in Misty Harbor was brutal, but it’s over now. I’m looking forward to spending as much time outdoors as my schedule will allow.

My little cottage sits on the west side of Cranberry Lane, just across the dusty road from my new neighbor, a man I’ve yet to meet in person even though he’s been here a few months. There’d been a rumor that the town council was looking to replace old man Boggs as the keeper of the Gray Birch Lighthouse, as he’d let the tower and attached caretaker’s cottage fall into horrible disrepair. In addition, the council wanted to open the lighthouse up for tourists in the summer as a means to bring in a little bit of income into our small town. We didn’t quite have the influx of people visiting the way Bar Harbor did across Frenchman’s Bay.