Chapter Two #2
“Thank fuck,” I murmur, just as a dilapidated, off-white structure tucked between overgrown fields and crooked laundry lines comes into view. I flick on my blinker and ease into the nonexistent driveway, pulling up next to a beat-up station wagon.
The second I park, the front door creaks open with the kind of haunted house groan that makes my spine lock straight.
My arm hairs stand at attention.
This is happening. Like, right now.
“Shit,” I choke out, wiping my clammy palms on my slacks as I check my reflection in the rearview and immediately regret it.
My eyeliner is smudged, and my skin is pale. I look like a business-casual vampire trying to blend in at a tractor pull.
“Okay, Georgia. Game face.” I slap my cheeks and fix my liner while muttering my mantra. “You're a twenty-nine year old badass bitch. You're not that lonely kid anymore. You can do this. There are way scarier things waiting for you in this podunk town than—”
“Who the balls are you talking to?” a raspy voice calls out, slicing through the air like a warning shot as my car rocks side to side.
My eyes snap to the yard in front of me just in time to see a tiny, elderly woman in a faded blue nightgown glaring at me like I just insulted her begonias. Her wild gray curls defy gravity, and her hands are planted firmly on her hips, elbows sharp as scythes.
And I… I may be in danger.
The car rocks again.
I jam the window button aggressively, my temper fully engaged.
“Are you seriously kicking my tire?” I snap, mentally calculating if there’s any possibility she has a shotgun tucked under her muumuu.
As if in slow motion, we both watch her bony knee arc back before shooting forward with impressive speed. She’s got on a pair of cowboy boots a few sizes too big, and when her foot collides with my tire, I realize they must be steel-toed.
“What are you doing?” I cry, my eyes wide. She does it again, and I quickly shove the door open. This is a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Stop it! You’re going to hurt yourself!”
The woman huffs and scowls, squaring her narrow shoulders. “It ain’t my safety you should be concerned with, girly.”
My jaw unhinges, my hands flapping uselessly.
“Are you…” What the hell is happening right now? “Are you threatening me?”
She shrugs and picks at her nail with a knitting needle. I have no idea where it came from. “Dunno. Does it feel like a threat?”
Okaaay.
So, she’s nuts.
I run an agitated hand through my red curls as I scan the property like a prank show crew might pop out of the tumbleweeds. How did this become my life? Two weeks ago, I was sitting in a five-star café eating gluten-free macarons.
“Where the hell did I wind up?” I whisper to the universe at large, not expecting an answer.
“You wound the hell up on my land,” she sasses with all the attitude of a petulant teenager. “And you ain’t supposed to be here, so get gone!”
My eyes squeeze shut, and my head falls back. I’m suddenly tired. Really fucking tired.
Something cold and metallic presses against my bicep, dangerously close to my boob. I wince. Not because it hurts, but because I already know what I’ll see when I open my eyes, and I’m not mentally prepared to fight an old lady today.
Exhaling slowly, I meet the woman's eyes. They’re so blue, they’re nearly clear, and it dawns on me that she might not be able to see all that well. Without breaking eye contact, I flick the knitting needle away and step back, crossing my arms.
“Look,” I say gently, but not weakly. “My name is Georgia Walker. I’m with the Department of Child and Family Services.”
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t look like no government worker. You look like one of those dominatrix gals off late-night cable.”
I blink. “I… what ?”
She squints harder. “That get-up. Those heels. That car. And all that black? Mm-hm . Real Fifty Shades .”
Oh, God .
“I’m here,” I enunciate, “on official business. I’m conducting a wellness check at this address. I’m trying to locate Kade Archer.”
At the name, her whole body goes taut. Her knitting needle lowers.
“And what’s a city girl like you want with Kade?” she snaps, immediately suspicious. “He didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
“That’s not what I’m implying.”
“Suits always say that.” She pokes the needle toward my chest, this time indenting my push-up bra. “You a tax collector?”
“No.”
“In a cult?”
“No.”
“Do you sell timeshares?”
“Hell no.”
“You’re one of those sexy surprise-gram things, aren’t ya? Lord knows he needs to get laid. Maybe you’re here for his birthday?” Her bushy brows drop. “No, real early for that.” She snaps her fingers, chuckling. “Late Valentine’s gift.”
I gape. “What?”
“You don’t have to play coy, sugar. I’ve read about folks like you.” She bites her lip, her glossy dentures pressing into the thin flesh, and leans in, dropping her voice. “Tell me what kind of kinks he has. I’ve been dyin’ to know.”
I physically choke on air, and the world around me sort of spins.
Am I high right now?
“I’m right, ain’t I?” The woman cackles, shoving me playfully. “Teach me some moves. There’s this man down at the bar—”
“I am not a stripper,” I whisper-hiss. “Or a dancer-gram thing. I’m not here for Mr. Archer like that— I’m here for—I’m from…” Holy shit. I can’t even speak. I take a deep breath and let it out. “Do you know where Kade Archer is, ma’am?”
“Of course, I do. Boy’s been grumpy as a goat in a snowstorm lately. I figured he just needed a good woman. Or at least a flexible one.” She stretches out her arms. “I offered, but I’m not as limber as I used to be.”
Oh. My. God.
“Head down that gravel path back there, ’bout a quarter mile,” she says, nodding toward a barely visible dirt track behind the house. “He’s in the apartment over the garage. Looks like a meth den, but the man inside is hotter than a whore in church.”
“I think it’s sweating like a—”
“Stop stallin’, girly,” she interrupts with a clap. “Put those slutty little heels to work!”
I back up slowly and drop into my car without turning around. I’m pretty sure she’s two seconds from slapping my ass and saying attaboy .
Just as I’m pulling away, she calls, “Tell him you’re a gift from Agnes! Maybe he’ll mow my weeds!”
I’m still confused when I pull up to the building Agnes indicated. This time, I park next to a much nicer truck, but the house—if one can even call it that—is substantially worse than the front residence.
Brows furrowed, I slide from the car and snag my blazer and work bag from the passenger side. Glancing in the tinted car windows, I check my reflection, adjusting the sleeves to cover my tattoos.
My eyes rake over the dilapidated garage and apartment unit above it. The stairs look sturdy, recently built, but the rest of the place is holding on by a thread.
Like the front house, the once-white walls are stained with dirt and age, the peeling paint barely clinging to the siding.
Rust streaks down from the gutters, and the windows are more grime than glass.
I do a quick loop around the place, finding the back just the same and note that the only entrance to the apartment is the set of stairs out front.
I quickly jot down my findings, forcing myself to stay objective.
I know better than anyone that a house doesn’t tell the whole story. I’ve seen mothers love their children with every breath in their bodies while fighting to survive in shelters. I’ve helped babies find stability when their parents weren’t fit to provide it.
Poverty doesn’t equate to neglect. Peeling paint doesn’t mean a child isn’t cherished, and a fresh coat won’t fix what’s broken beneath the surface.
But sometimes, it does.
Sometimes the state of a house mirrors the state of its occupants. The mess, the decay… they’re not always just symptoms of hard times. They can be signs of something worse. And I’ve seen that, too.
Families who tried their best, but it wasn’t enough.
That’s why I’m here.
Not to judge, but to see .
And right now, all I see is a building that’s barely holding itself together. Of course, the cherry-red vintage truck out front is pristine. Because why bother fixing up the house when you can show off a shiny testament to misplaced priorities?
I shift my bag to one hand and grip the railing, taking the stairs cautiously.
My heart slams against my ribs, but I ignore the annoying organ and plaster a professional, kind smile on my face.
The platform at the top doesn’t so much as wobble in the wind, and I thank every single star I’ve ever wished on that I’m not about to fall to my death.
With a steadying breath, I knock, counting each second that passes as I wait.
And wait.
I eye the truck and check my watch. It’s just after one in the afternoon. If he’s not here, maybe he’s working. Though, judging by the state of the apartment, I’m not exactly envisioning a boardroom exec. Something more blue-collar, make-your-own-hours, type.
Raising my fist, I knock harder this time. Seconds later, a loud bang, followed by a clatter and responding groan, comes from inside and my brows furrow.
What the hell was that?
I clear my throat, forcing confidence into my voice, and call out, “Mr. Ar—”
The door flies open before I can finish. A wall of heat and bare skin greets me, the rush of warm air laced with something faintly unidentifiable and far too masculine.
I blink. Then blink again.
Shit .
He really is hotter than a whore in church.