Page 9 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
That voice.
“Well, if it isn’t Santa Luna’s hottest little divorcee. Didn’t figure you for the DIY type. Out here with dirt under your nails and everything.”
My eyes squeeze shut as I wince at the grating voice that worms through the jasmine-scented air and lodges in my spine.
Doug. Fucking. Finch.
I’d compare it to nails on a chalkboard in that way that sends creepy shivers down your spine and makes your jaw clench, but it’s worse. If nails on a chalkboard and a dentist’s drill had a sleazy baby, it would sound like Doug. Add cheap sunglasses, a cloud of stale cologne that reeks of Red Bull, desperation, and other women’s regret, and voilà—suburban nightmare fuel in cargo shorts.
Or, as my mother would say, “Cheap sunglasses hide expensive lies and unpaid child support.”
“Funny running into you here,” he drawls.
I turn slowly, hose in hand, water dripping across my flip-flops and between my toes. Jaq is crouched a few feet away, carefully planting tomato starts in the raised bed we built for “fresh, local produce” to boost the boards I sell at the shop. I see their head turn, ever so slightly, as they tune in to what’s happening.
“How is it funny, exactly?” I ask. “I live here. You know that.”
His smirk slides across his face like oil on a puddle. “Guess I figured you’d pack it all in and skedaddle when the big man bailed on you.”
Pain flashes sharp, old, and unwelcome in my chest. Two years later and Noah still feels like an open wound. Doug knows it. He likes it.
That’s his thing—sticking fingers in bruises just to see people flinch.
“You holding up okay?” His voice oozes fake concern. “Can’t be easy.”
We both know he doesn’t give a shit. This is the man who conned me out of eight grand for a “bathroom remodel” that never made it past demo day. Doug’s only contribution was excuses and invoices labeled “non-refundable deposit.”
Meanwhile, my kids’ bathroom looks like a construction apocalypse zone with a dry sink, missing toilet, and shower reduced to a chalk outline. I’d like to see someone make him a chalk outline.
I wipe sweat from my temple with the back of my wrist, the sun pressing hot on my neck. Santa Luna isn’t supposed to hit a hundred degrees, not at the end of May. Between the freak heatwave and my looming entry into “is this perimenopause?” territory, I’m one hose-kink away from snapping. Because, hot flashes, really? I just turned forty. Practically. Like a year and nine months ago, but still.
“Here to finish the bathroom?” I ask, deadpan.
He chuckles, the sound as rancid as he smells. “Didn’t find someone else yet? Shoulda gone with the guys who wait outside the hardware store. Real cheap labor.” His teeth flash yellow against his leathery tan, like nicotine-stained piano keys.
I drop the hose, the sun-warmed water splatters my calves, and I cross my arms. “Why would I pay someone else to do a job I already paid you for?”
“Wouldn’t have to, sweetheart, if you coughed up a bit more dough.” His tone is so patronizing it makes me want to garden-shear his vocal cords. “You know how it is. Permits, delays, supply chains… real lifes expensive. Maybe if you’d loosen the purse strings a little?—”
“Loosen the purse strings?” I repeat, my voice flat.
He grins, slick and satisfied. “Or loosen something else.”
My fingers itch for a weapon. Any weapon. I mean, how has he not died in some kind of freak accident yet? Proof the world isn’t fair.
We face off like dueling gunmen at dawn. Except it’s not dawn. And we don’t have guns.
He shrugs. “Whatcha gonna do?”
Our dog, Kiki Von Trousers, or Kiki V-T for short, barks from behind me. Probably at a squirrel only she can see. I wish she was as good at attacking on command as she is chasing hallucinations. We could tag-team Doug and totally take him down.
The idea of a rabid Kiki V-T ripping Doug apart limb by limb is laughable since she’d just as soon run and hide or roll onto her back and play dead. Still, I let the fantasy flicker through my mind: Doug bleeding on my freshly mowed lawn, his muscles spasming, and his body a mess of twitchy limbs and regret.
Before I can bite back, Doug’s eyes shift past me, landing on Jaq bent over the vegetable bed. His grin sharpens.
“You know,” he says, voice dipping into a mock-conspiratorial murmur, “with a little polish, that one might almost be as pretty as her sister.”
The world stills.
