Page 11 of Passing the Red Line
It’s coming from behind me.
Turning, I look up at the cliff behind me and see a line of houses at the very top. Each one has a small porch facing the beach and a set of stairs that leads down to the sand.
Standing up from my chair, I try to get a better look at all the porches that I can see. From where I’m standing, most of the houses have their sliding doors closed, all of them except for one.
I try to concentrate on the music and sure enough it's coming from the house that has the door wide open.
Two things can happen.
One, I can be a calm and collected person and not do a single thing about the music and move on about my day.
Or two, I can be a total bitch, go up to the house and demand whoever lives there to turn their shit down so I can get back to my self-care for the day.
The music continues to get louder and louder so I make the choice without a second thought.
Option two it is.
The people that live there are going to think that I’m a complete bitch, but I don’t give a fuck.
I walk over to the stairs and thankfully the gate that separates the private property from the beach is unlocked, so it doesn’t take much for me to push it open and head up to the back porch.
Whoever lives here, has money. The house looks absolutely beautiful from where I’m standing. A perfect beach house. The covered porch is spacious with a barbeque pit and a hot tube in a corner. From the look of things, it’s recently been used for entertainment. There are wine glasses, wine bottles and beer bottles around the fire pit and… a pair of panties on the table?
“Gross,” I mutter to myself, making sure not to touch anything. Whoever used this porch last, had fun and I don’t want to catch anything that they may have.
“Hello?” I call out, hoping that someone will come out, so I don’t walk into the house and get the cops called on me.
But my call goes unanswered, the only thing that I can hear is the music that sounds like is coming from the TV just passed the porch sliding door.
I call out again and again with no answer.
Rolling my eyes, I walk into the house like I own the damn place, stepping over a bra that matches the panties outside and start looking for the TV remote.
Thankfully, I don’t have to look long because the remote is exactly where it should be, on the coffee table.
Hopefully whoever lives here believes in ghosts and won’t think anything about the volume of their music magically getting lowered.
“There, that’s better,” I say to myself once the music is at a decent volume, and it doesn’t sound like I’m at a concert.
Feeling good about not getting caught, I place the remote back where I found it and start heaving back the way I came.
I make it halfway past the couch, about to celebrate my–
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house?” A male voice rolls through the room and I automatically go stiff, and all thoughts of celebration seize.
Great. I might get arrested.
I should have let it go. A little music wasn’t going to hurt me. Or I should have waited until someone had heard me and turned down the music themselves. There was no need to trespass.
Of course I think that now that I’ve gotten caught.
Awesome job, Elaina.
Conceding, I turn to face the owner of the house and the second that my eyes meet his face my mouth drops to the ground.
No freaking way.
Heowns this house?
