Page 6 of Ruthless Love

On edge, I weigh my options for shaking up the monotony of this small suburban life. After some thought, I narrow in on the worst possible thing I could do, and it’s perfect. Even if it’s nothing more than a juvenile prank of pure satisfaction just for me.

A fire fills my gut, and no matter what I do today, I’m going out gun blazing—with no regrets. I’m ready to hand the universe a dose of fuck yeah on a silver platter and see where it goes.

First order of business? Mrs. Peacock. Not the lady from Clue, who bumped off Professor Plum in the study with a candlestick. But I wouldn’t put it past her, because it’s the innocent-looking ones no one suspects that you’ve got to watch out for.

This one lives in my neighborhood. Having no idea of or interest in her real name, I’ve dubbed her that because at least once a week, she sports a bright purple shirt with, you guessed it, a peacock on it, because she must really like them.

She’s older, emphasis on the old, but gets in her ten thousand steps by circling the neighborhood a few times a day. Perpetually talking on her phone, she suffers through those long, rushed strolls completely oblivious to minor things like oncoming traffic or common courtesy. Or the fact that, thanks to her phone conversations carried on in public, now everyone in the neighborhood knows that her good-for-nothing son can’t hold down a job.

In the spirit of fuck yeah, target acquired.

Today, my curiosity and diabolical side double-dare fate to see just how far I can push the envelope. And how oblivious this woman really is. Her daily walks are as regular as a blow job from a hooker, and between my military background and trusty Apple watch, I’m all over it like a fat guy on a bar stool.

I glance at the time. It’s well before the normal morning rush hour, though a dogwalker might be out if their pooch needs an early whiz. Which means my chances of the police being called or an HOA complaint are low. Possible, but low.

Unless I scare her off, this will be the first of three walks of her day. No matter how nice this neighborhood is, she could really use reflectors and a small can of mace, because creeps and bad drivers are everywhere. Even in gated communities. Hence my reason for watching the old girl’s back in the first place.

Fresh out of bed, I check my watch as my cheery whistle fills the air, saunter to my front door and fling it open, freeing Big Willy to the refreshing breeze of an early Dallas day.

Mrs. Peacock strolls along, right on time, as I proceed in an unrushed pace to the end of the driveway. Pretending to grab a nonexistent newspaper, I scoop up nothing but air, and salute proudly as she moseys past my complete nakedness without so much as a blink.

“Good morning,” I call out, my tone bright as I proudly display my gifts for her viewing pleasure.

“Morning,” she mutters back with a dismissive wave of her hand and barely a glance, holding the phone to her ear with the other hand.

I’m left aghast with my hands in the air and an earful of how her son is training to be a Marine. In disbelief on both accounts, I roll my eyes. I’m not sure if I’m more perplexed that she bought his shit, has never heard of Bluetooth, or remains completely oblivious to my unabashed full-frontal nudity.

Yammering on into her phone, she toddles on, her orthopedic-shoed feet carrying her past my house and down the street.

Brazenly, I holler, “Pose with a nude model. One dollar. Today only.”

Totally offended at her lack of response, I prop my hands on my hips and stare at her retreating back in disbelief, barely noticing the glowing sunrise, the stiff breeze, or the frozen gaze of the little baker girl staring straight at me from her driveway across the street. Not one of those perfectly pruned shrubs or yellow-and-purple flowers stands between me and my nudity, and her wide eyes and parted mouth.

Like the arrogant bastard I am, I take a proud bow before heading back to my house, fully mooning her and anyone else who might be watching as I make my way to the front door. As luck would have it, I nearly get whacked by the damn thing as it’s slammed shut by the growing wind.

Really? Why the hell did I leave the bedroom window open?

No matter. I punch in my super-secret code of Betty Crocker’s house number—seven, one, eight, five—to unlock the bolt. But nothing happens. No beeps. No clicks. Nothing at all to let me know this door is opening anytime soon.

“Hi,” a soft voice says from behind me.

One that I have no intention of shying away from.

Chapter Four

EVIE

“I’m on my way,” I promise Felicity, one of a dozen lawyers on my team who are now burning up my phone with random questions about conflicting depositions and upcoming hearings.

And while I’m juggling my new role as lead counsel and trying to break up with my fiancé, I’m also packing up a bright pink box with homemade pastries because, clearly, I don’t have enough shit on my plate. And I’m insane.

Or slowly going crazy, one sleepless night at a time.

Another night of tossing and turning and forgoing sleep after midnight to make bread and a buttload of pastries might sound flipping nuts to the peaceful sleepers of the world, but it’s the only thing that keeps my remaining shred of sanity intact.

Sanity that’s being threatened by recurring dreams.

The dreams always start the same. It’s dark. I’m on the run, my feet are pounding, pushing me forward as fast as they can until I’m tripping. Or falling. Either way, I scramble back to my feet, never wondering what’s behind me. My family? Dimitri? But it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s terrifying, and it’s catching up to me.

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