Chapter 2 #3
I glance back just in time to see Amber sit up in bed, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, still catching her breath. She turns her head slightly, and my heart flat-out stops.
There, sitting innocently on her nightstand, is a walkie-talkie.
A walkie-talkie with a red blinking light.
The exact same model as the one currently burning a hole in my pocket.
For one blessed millisecond, I consider pretending I’ve died. Then panic wins.
I fumble for the stupid thing in my pocket, trying to hit mute, but my hands are shaking so bad I can’t manage it. Somewhere between “panic” and “pray,” I turn to run, but my foot gets caught under a tree branch. I pitch forward onto my face and right into her bushes.
“Nick?” Amber’s voice filters through the walkie-talkie, soft, curious. “You there?”
My soul leaves my body.
I slap at every button like I’m defusing a bomb, manage to shut the volume off, and go completely still. Frozen. Horizontal. In her shrubbery.
She must have heard something though, because as I lay motionless under her window, her shadow passes over me. Uh-oh. She’s standing there, I know it, looking out her window.
I hold my breath so long my lungs start drafting a resignation letter. My entire life flashes before my eyes, every dumb decision that led to this exact moment. This is it. My legacy. Local man caught lurking under neighbor’s window, dies of embarrassment before arrest.
Her voice comes again, softer this time because I’m hearing it through the glass in her window rather than through the walkie-talkie.
“Nick?”
That single word just about kills me. It’s hopeful. Concerned. Like she actually wants to hear from me, and I can’t respond.
After what feels like a lifetime, her shadow retreats. The window goes dark. She must have turned off her bedroom light.
I log roll onto my belly and army crawl out of the bushes.
Hunched over at the waist, I half-run, half-jog out of her yard and down the driveway.
I get a brief glimpse of her pouring herself a glass of wine back in the living room, but I don’t stop to linger.
I’ve already done enough of that to last a lifetime.
I chastise myself as I run down the street.
I’m not a Saint Nick.
I’m a naughty Nick. Very naughty.
I’m disgusted with myself, and yet that doesn’t stop me from wanting her.
Once I’m back in my own yard, I hide around the corner, unmute the walkie-talkie, and hit the talk button. I’m so flustered that I almost blow it and call her Amber, but at the last minute I remember that I’m not supposed to know her real name yet.
“Vixen?” I ask into the speaker, hoping fervently she’ll answer.
Static hisses for a long second. Then her voice comes through.
“Nick?” Her voice crackles through the speaker, light but hesitant. “You there? You sound…weird. Are you okay?”
Weird. Fantastic. That’s how you want a woman to describe you.
“Yeah,” I say, too loud, too fast. Walkie-talkie to my ear, I push open my back door and step into the thankfully empty kitchen as I add, “I’m fine.”
“You kind of… disappeared.”
Disappeared.
Yeah. Into a bush. Face-first. Like the idiot that I am.
I swallow and somehow manage actual words. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I, uh… lost signal for a sec. You know, interference. Trees. Squirrels. NASA.”
There’s a pause, and then she laughs. Laughs.
It’s the kind of sound that hits right in the sternum. It’s light, relieved, warm.
“Right,” she says, amused. “Squirrels.”
“Exactly,” I say, reaching into the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. “Real problem in this area. I’ve written to my Congressman.”
“Uh-huh.” I can hear her smile.
I lean against the wall, still breathless, equal parts shame and relief. I lift the bottle to my lips.
“So…” Amber draws the word out. “How big is your screwdriver?”
The water I’d just sipped sprays across the kitchen, out of my mouth, my nose, everywhere. I’m coughing, sputtering, basically dying.
“Are you okay?” Amber blurts out, panic laced with laughter. “I’m so sorry! That didn’t sound so suggestive in my head. I swear. I just meant that I don’t have the right size of screwdriver. That’s why I can’t put the bike together.”
I’m still wheezing. “You—” cough “—can’t just—” wheeze “say things like that—” cough “—without warning a guy first.”
“No!” She says, horrified and laughing all at once. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
“Sure you didn’t.” I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, still catching my breath. “It’s always ‘How big’s your screwdriver,’ never ‘How’s your evening, Nick?’”
She laughs, really laughs this time, and the sound melts something in my chest.
“Fine,” she says between giggles. “For the record, I was talking about tools—”
I snicker. “Tools?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then she corrects herself. “No, I meant hardware. Ugh, nope. That’s worse.”
I lose it. The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, loud, helpless, the kind that shakes my shoulders. “Hardware,” I manage between breaths. “Really, Vixen? You went with hardware?”
She groans, laughing too. “I can’t win. There’s no innocent way to say it!”
I’m still laughing and coughing when she asks, “What are you choking on, anyway?”
“Water,” I manage. “And dignity.”
That makes her laugh even harder, and now I’m grinning like an idiot, leaning against the counter, wishing I could see her pretty face.
When she finally catches her breath, she sighs. “You know, I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in a long time.”
The words catch me off-guard. They shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but something in her voice, soft, honest, cuts straight through the humor.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me neither.”
“I want to invite you over,” she says, softer now. “But I’m not sure. I don’t know you, even though it almost feels like I do, and I’ve got my son to protect.”
“I completely understand,” I tell her, meaning every word.
“You do?” She sounds doubtful.
“I’ve got that sister, remember?” I glance down the hallway and see that Noel’s door is closed, no light slipping from underneath. A quick look at the microwave clock tells me it’s past one a.m. “If she told me she was letting some random guy come over in the middle of the night, I’d lose it.”
My spirit sinks. Because I do get it. I really do, but also…I want to see her.
Badly.
“Well,” Amber says slowly, thoughtfully, “is there anything you can think of that would make it okay for a stranger to come visit?”
I lean against the fridge, the hum of the motor vibrating against my back while I think.
“What if I send you a photo of my driver’s license?
You can forward it to someone you trust, a friend, maybe.
Tell them I’m coming over. Tell them you’ll check in with them a couple of times after I arrive to let them know it’s going okay.
If anything happens, or they don’t hear from you, they should call the cops.
When I knock, keep your phone in your hand, 911 ready.
Look through the peephole first to make sure I look like the guy in the photo before you open the door. ”
There’s a pause. Then, hesitant but hopeful, Amber says, “That could work.”
Silence stretches between us. I can hear the faint rustle of her shifting as she thinks it through. I hold my breath and wait for her answer.
Finally, she says, in almost a whisper, “Okay.”
I freeze. “Okay?”
“You can come over,” she says, voice trembling a little. “Just…text me your ID first. Then I’ll send you my address.” She gives me her phone number, then adds. “Oh, and knock quietly. My son’s still asleep.”
Relief slams into me and then immediately sours. I glance down at myself. My jacket’s streaked with mud, there’s pine needles stuck to my sleeves, and I smell like…shame and bad decisions.
“Uh—actually,” I say, clearing my throat, “how about in ten minutes?”
A pause. “Ten?”
“Yeah.” I rub a hand over my face. “I should, uh, probably shower first.”
“Shower?” she repeats, amusement creeping into her voice.
“It’s been a long day,” I mutter. “Should probably wash off the grime.” And the leaves from your bushes.
“All right,” she agrees, her voice teasing. “Ten minutes, Saint Nick. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I end the call, drop the walkie-talkie on the counter, and head straight for the bathroom, already peeling off my jacket.