Page 17 of Downpour

The clock ticked on, but the driveway was empty.

I was generally irritated with someone being in my house, so why was I annoyed that she was late?

Ten minutes later, a rattling engine ker-plunked to a stop in the driveway. Mickey perked up from his nap on the back deck and wandered out front at the sound of Brooke’s car.

The tension in my chest released, then immediately worked back up at the snap of her flip-flops.

Did she not have real shoes? The snap-snap sound as she stomped her way to the door was grating.

“Hello!” Brooke sang as she let herself in.

I hadn’t bothered to change the locks or attempt to keep her out. Door knobs were getting expensive.

She kicked the door closed with a flip-flopped foot. Her toes were painted bright purple today. She had two cups in her hands, a bag on her shoulder, and three grocery bags hanging from the crook of her elbow.

“It’s so pretty outside today,” she said. “I just love the drive out here. How’s your day going? Have you had lunch yet? There was a taco truck on my way in, so I hope you like barbacoa.”

I did like barbacoa. But with coffee?

She took a slurp from a straw that was stuffed into a whipped cream and sprinkle-covered frozen concoction as she strolled into the kitchen. “I haven’t figured out your coffee aura yet, so I got you an iced coffee, black. I figured we’ll start there.”

Why did she get me coffee?

Brooke blew out a breath. “Anyway. Enough about me. How’s your day going?”

Curly brown hair was plastered to her forehead and neck. Her tanned skin was pink from the heat and covered in a sheen of sweat. She was in another pair of tiny denim shorts, and a tank top that was loose and low enough for me to see her ribs and bra.

“Fine,” I muttered.

Brooke didn’t pay me any mind. Because, of course, she didn’t. Tornadoes don’t care who they bother.

She dropped the drinks and her bags on the counter. “I picked up your prescriptions on the way in, and the groceries your mom texted me about. Give me just a sec to put them away, and then we can hang out.”

I didn’t want to hang out.

Brooke was odd. She wasn’t a nurse. Wasn’t a CNA. She was a glorified gopher who could talk the paint off the walls.

“Taco?” She handed me a lump wrapped in parchment.

I just glared.

“Do you want it on a plate? We could go outside and eat on the deck. I love the heat. Is Mickey out there?” She tugged a red box out of one of the grocery bags. “I found cow treats! I wanna see if he likes them.”

This fucking woman and her excitement over cow treats…

When I didn’t answer, she set my taco on the counter and grabbed hers. “Suit yourself. I’ll be outside if you wanna join.”

I stared at her ass as she strutted out of the kitchen, yanked the sliding screen open, and squealed when she spotted Mickey.

Great. Now I had a headache too.

I yanked open the junk drawer and found the bottle of ibuprofen. Medicine bottles were stupid. I couldn’t get a good enough grip on the safety cap to open it.

I tried again, pressing the lid against the palm of my left hand. I had better grip strength in my right, but it still wasn’t effective. I couldn’t get the goddamn thing open.

Anger surged through me, and I threw the pill bottle across the room. Useless shit.

Brooke poked her head in. “Are you okay?” She spotted the pill bottle and came inside. “Ugh. I hate those. They should really make some with the safety caps and some without them.”

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