Page 8 of Deeper

Callen

Sweat drips down my face. My breathing is even and paced. The muscles in my legs contract and expand as my feet hit the pavement. I run hard against the cool wind. I’ve been in Connecticut for two weeks, and this the first moment that I haven’t been consumed with work.

Maplefield isn’t anything like Florida, which is still blistering hot this time of year, and it isn’t anything like Nevada where I grew up. Here, the towns are small, and the neighborhoods are quiet. It’s the type of place children can safely roam the streets. Nine out of ten people’s last names end with a vowel, and family-owned Italian restaurants are on every corner.

It’s a little too peaceful and a little too reserved for my tastes.

I won’t be staying long.

I never stay in one place longer than I have to.

Not one woman under the age of fifty inhabits my new neighborhood, which is a huge disappointment. I would welcome the chance to end this run with a bang. I’ve been amped up for days, and not even exercise is expelling my pent-up energy. I need a wet and willing pussy, and I need it before I do any more work.

My phone rings in my pocket, but I ignore it.

It rings again, and I grow frustrated.

“What?” I speak into the phone.

My contact for this job ignores my aggravation and replies, “The client was very pleased with your first job.”

“Yeah, and? Is there a point to this call, or is that it?”

His laughter pours from the phone. “Your mother never taught you manners, did she?”

“That bitch never taught me a thing. I don’t even know the woman.”

“It shows. Your first payment is at my office with my receptionist. You can pick it up whenever.” He hangs up.

Prick.

I pocket my phone and return to my run.

Within a few minutes, I’m back at my place, and I don’t like what I see. The old man from the next lot over is sitting outside my RV.

“Hey ya, neighbor!” he calls out as I slow my jog.

The phrase, Die, motherfucker. Die, chants through my mind.

That’s the main problem with these RV parks—nosy fucking neighbors.

I just stare at him, not wanting to give off the impression that I’m open to this visit. The old man’s eyebrows are so bushy, they look like caterpillars, and his white hair has far receded from his forehead. His ears stick out, and his nose is covered in age spots. Besides those obvious signs of his age, he appears much younger than I’m guessing he is, and nothing about this man is frail.

“You finally finished setting up, and I figured I’d come over and introduce myself. Officially welcome you to the neighborhood. The name’s Willy, and my lot is right next door.”

I stand next to Willy, my new neighbor, whom I have no interest in chatting with.

“I’m not one for company, Willy. I appreciate you stopping by, but don’t make it a habit.” I nod at him and head toward my door, leaving him sitting in front of my place. I don’t need some lonely old man stopping by and making things difficult for me. I have work that needs to be done. Then, I’m out of here, and Willy can make friends with whoever parks their home in my lot next.

Besides, I have four more marks to hunt down.

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