flat tire, he called and handled it for me. If my car needed an oil change, he made the appointments and kept track of all that for me.
I guess now that he’s not around, I’ll have to learn to take care of all that myself, something I should’ve learned to do ages ago, but honestly, I’ve always had a man in my life who could help me. First my dad, then my ex. I never had a time when I had to depend on myself and trust myself enough to get something done.
I blow out a sigh. “This is the first time every decision will be mine. I want to make memories in this house, and I want to start by doing all these DIY projects.”
My mom forces a smile, truly unconvinced, and Dad just rolls his eyes, mumbling some psychology mumbo-jumbo under his breath. He goes back to his task of carrying in the dining table chairs, something Brandon should be helping with.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something useful?” I raise a brow at my brother. With an annoyingly slow pace, he pushes up from the couch and walks down the hall toward the master bedroom.
“Sure do. Think I’ll start with dropping a deuce in your bathroom.”
My face contorts with abhorrence. “Fucking disgusting.”
Focusing back on my task of stacking boxes, I feel my mother’s gaze on me, watching me closely. Much too closely.
“So,” Mom starts, fiddling with the torn edge of the kitchen supplies box on the counter. “You’re taking care of yourself, right?”
I pause halfway down from picking a box up. She’s still fiddling with that damn edge , avoiding my gaze. Likely because she knows what my reaction will be.
“Of course I am.” I damn near scoff.
“We’re just making sure. We know how forgetful you are, and without Reid around to remind you—”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t need Reid’s help with anything, Mom. I’m perfectly capable of handling things on my own.”
We have a stare off that lasts a few solid beats, before she nods and pats the frumpy box, deciding to leave the subject alone, for now. My mother has always been a beautiful woman, but you know the phrase, “aging like fine wine”? That’s Lisa Hales in a nutshell. With bright hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a slender nose, my mother could’ve been a model if she hadn’t gone the sex therapist route. For the most part, people say my mother and I look alike, but I don’t see it. Where my hair is brown, hers is a beautiful honey blonde. Where her hazel eyes are bright and inviting, mine are flat and boring.
Speaking of those eyes, they trail up and down my body, and she pauses on my breasts.
“Did you take my advice? Remember, nipple stimulation is very important for your body and posture during sex and masturbation, Sweetheart.”
“Argh! Mom!” I groan. Spinning on my heels, I hurry out the open front door. Anything to avoid her “sex talk.” The woman seriously knows no bounds.
I walk back out toward the rental, shaking my head the entire way. I pass my dad, and I’m guessing, by my flustered expression, that he knows exactly what happened back in there because he laughs at me. I pause, at the mouth of the truck, when I hear the sound of thunder. At least I think it is, until the roaring grows so loud, it’s deafening. I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand and glance down the street at where the sound is coming from, only to realize there’s something coming.
Or someone, I should say.
My eyes widen when I realize what I’m looking at.
The chromed-out motorcycle that looks like it belongs on an episode of Sons of Anarchy pulls into the driveway of the quiet, well-put-together house next door. The one with no cars and the nice lawn. I narrow my gaze, eyeing the person on the bike, as they pull up the drive. A white T-shirt, red and blue flannel wrapped around the waist, and ripped jeans are all I can see on the outside, and my feet, with a mind of their own, start taking slow, unsure steps toward the house next door. I swear I see the bike rider twist their head toward me just a bit, but it’s hard to tell with that helmet on. The visor is blacked out, so I can’t make out anything, not even the person’s eyes.