Fury on Fire (Devil's Rock #3)(14)

Dropping his head back down on the bed, he stared up at the ceiling, his heavy breaths slowing, wondering what the hell that meant for him.

Decision reached, he quickly rose from the bed and cleaned himself off. That done, he strolled naked downstairs and snatched Faith Walters’s note from where he’d left it on his counter. He crushed the paper in his fist and pulled the front door open in one smooth move. North stepped one foot outside on the porch, then twisted sideways and tossed the note in the direction of her door. It bounced once on her mat before rolling and settling to a stop.

Let her see it there tomorrow. She’d get the message.

His earliest convenience was never.





FIVE




He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t knock on her door as she assumed he would. As a normal, responsible person would do when they found a note on their windshield from their neighbor.

By the time Thursday evening rolled around, she accepted that he didn’t care. Not only was she living next to a sex-hungry deviant, he was rude, too. Rude. A cardinal sin in the South. The memories she had of her mother were vague and not exactly plentiful, but she remembered her mother telling her over and over again that rudeness was unacceptable. If another girl was mean to her on the playground, it was not right to be rude back. Maybe he wasn’t from around here and such basic courtesy hadn’t been infused into his baby food.

When she returned home Friday afternoon to find his bike encroaching on her spot, she pressed down on the brakes and stared, idling in the street, tapping her fingers in annoyance over the steering wheel before going ahead and parking her car.

Their combined driveway was built for two vehicles, not two and a half. She had to roll her far left tires into the grass in order to fit her car, but she was feeling stubborn and unwilling to give up her rights to the driveway by parking in the street. He had to be aware that he was infringing on her side. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

Slamming her car door shut, she marched up to his door and knocked. The television played quietly inside, but he didn’t come to the door. She told herself it was because he didn’t hear her. He wasn’t looking out the peephole and ignoring her. He wasn’t that rude. No one could be that big of a jackass.

Grumbling under her breath, she marched inside her house and wrote him a second note.

Please keep your bike to your side of the driveway or park it on the street.



She grudgingly signed her name and included her phone number (again), her mother’s words playing in her head. Just because someone is mean to you doesn’t mean you can be mean back. She stepped back outside and tucked the note in his windshield wipers once again.

Stomping back toward her door, she noticed a crumpled ball of paper at the far side of her welcome mat, practically in the neglected corner of her porch. As though it had been thoughtlessly tossed and then blown there by the wind. Dread pooled in her stomach.

She stopped, her gaze narrowing on the familiar pale green paper.

No, he did not.

She advanced on the crumpled paper. Bending, she scooped it up, already knowing, already recognizing. It was her note. Her dread took a hard turn into indignation. He’d read her note and tossed it aside. That was how little he thought of her. That was the kind of neighbor she was dealing with. One who banged women silly, rejected her scones, destroyed her notes and parked in her spot.

Inside her house, she changed her clothes, then turned on her television and went about making dinner, inhaling through her nose until she felt calm and composed. She stood in front of her pantry, inspecting its contents. She felt like she deserved a little bit of comfort food, so she went with pasta. At first she started making enough for two. Old habit left from when she lived with her father. Suddenly, loneliness stabbed at her. She sniffed back a sudden burn of tears and returned half the pasta to its box. What was wrong with her? She’d wanted independence, freedom.

She still wanted that, she reminded herself. Rude neighbor not withstanding, she loved her new place. She just hadn’t thought about what being alone would feel like.

Even when she was in college and grad school she’d had roommates. She shook off her longing for the sounds of her father walking down the creaking hallway of her old family house—or the sound of a baseball game on the living room television punctuated by Dad’s occasional shout. She smiled ruefully at the memory and then gave her head a swift shake. She would be visiting home on Sunday and baking his favorite meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Hale would be there, too, doubtless shouting at some game on the TV alongside Dad. She’d get her fix of home and family.

Besides, she reminded herself, she had a date tomorrow night. Whether Brendan was Mr. Right or not, she was getting out there. She’d find someone eventually. She knew she had a lot to offer. She didn’t have to be alone forever. Not if she didn’t want that for herself. Life was full of choices. She was in control of her fate.

She returned her attention to the sauce for her pasta, tossing in bits of bacon into the bubbling concoction of olive oil, milk, and parmesan cheese.

While the sauce finished simmering, she poured a glass of wine. This evening had become about comfort and indulgence, after all. It had been a long day. Sitting with a bowl of creamy pasta in her lap in front of her television, she found an episode of Modern Family. Burrowing deep into the thick cushions of her couch, she scooped up a big spoonful of spiral noodles and took a bite, moaning in approval.