Page 16 of A Little Naughty

“My mom would’ve liked to have company.” I bend down, inspecting the roots of the trash-trees growing all the way up to her front door. “Nobody ever came over, because people don’t like my dad.”

They don’t like my brother too much either. I’ve always tried to keep my head down and fly under the radar.

Martha pushes off her knees to stand beside me. “I never knew your mother, but I’d have visited her if she’d invited me.”

Pressing my lips together, I nod as I grab the axe leaning beside the house. “She probably would’ve invited you. She liked interesting people.”

When I was a kid, I’d ride my bike down this street and look at all the big houses. Whenever I passed Martha’s house, I figured it looked this way because she was hiding all the time. I guess she’s not hiding anymore.

I don’t know her story, but everybody in Eureka has one. This so-called “quiet little town” is a big lie. Something’s always bubbling under the surface. It’s why I never appreciated our family being made the scapegoats when shit happened.

I chop at the base of a skinny tree. “I won’t get the roots if I use a chainsaw.” Pausing, I rub the back of my neck. “Maybe if I use a backhoe…”

“You’re pretty good at landscaping.” Martha smiles at me, wiping a fly-away hair off her cheek. “Have you considered that for your business?”

“No.” Exhaling a laugh, I shake my head. “Landscaping is hard-ass work.” Then I clear my throat. “Excuse my French.”

That makes her laugh. “There’s worse words thanass.”

“It’s true.”

People get all bent out of shape by words likeshitordamnorfuck, but they don’t think twice about calling a kid worthless or a loser or slapping a slur on someone who’s different.

The thought provokes me to send another angry chop to the base of the small tree, and I’m pleased at how quickly it gives way. “These might come out easier than I expected. I’ll see how it goes.”

We spend the rest of the day chopping and clearing. I make a stack of logs that can be cut into firewood, and the rest we tie up and drag to the road.

When it turns four o’clock, Martha says to call it a day. I’m pretty exhausted, hot and sweaty even though it’s winter in the south. We worked hard through lunch, although she provided drinks and food if I wanted anything—all from her endless, underground supply.

“Tomorrow we can see about planting rose bushes. Gwen gave me some cuttings we can use.”

She shows me what she has, and I nod, turning the sticks in my hands. They’re green and tender, and I feel pretty good they’ll take in this yard.

“You can see your front door now.” I step back, crossing my arms.

Instant gratification is the nicest thing about landscaping. When I got here, this place looked pretty rough. Now it actually looks livable.

Martha pays me in cash and thanks me. I walk out to the motorcycle I parked at the end of the driveway this morning. Slinging my leg over it, I give it a hard push to start the engine.

It’s loud and aggressive, but I keep the engine low in this old neighborhood. Once I get out on the road, I’ll let it rip. Flying down the sandy dirt roads to our place is the closest I get to pure joy. That and riding on the beach with the sun going down, casting a golden glow over the wet, brown sand and the coppery waves.

I glance at the newspaper office as I zip out of town, and I think about Jemima.

She’s so pretty with her bright blue eyes and sexy little smile. I think about her more than I should, considering she’s part of the Stone family now.

She’s smart enough to work at the newspaper, and she’s been in the entertainment industry in Branson. I doubt we’d have much in common, considering I’ve only lived in Eureka all my life. Still, I’m thinking about her all the time.

Speeding down the dirt road, the wind pushes my hair back, and I think about men who dream big. Men who get big ideas and aren’t afraid to chase them. I don’t have anything to lose, so I might as well chase mine.

Pulling into the yard, I leave my motorcycle at the side of the trailer and jog up the wooden steps to the front porch. My boots scuff on the wood, making hollow thumps, and I wonder if my dad has left the bed today.

Bull works down at the docks as a welder on the barges and whatever else needs fixing. I worked with him there for a few months loading and unloading cargo, then I quit that job. Too many people looking to sell drugs or pull me into some criminal enterprise or other.

I didn’t want to skim off the containers and resell the merchandise or help anybody get out of town who ought to be in jail or beat up anybody over a stupid grudge that has nothing to do with me.

It might be a quick way to make some money, but shit like that always comes back around to bite you in the ass.

“Where you been?” Bull walks out onto the porch holding a beer.

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