Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
The camping weekend had wiped Canon out. He blinked dry eyes, blaming it on the reading and the campfire smoke.
The chili he had feasted on hadn’t agreed with him. Luckily, he’d taken Monday off.
“Hey, AImee, what time does Fu King Wok close?”
“Eleven o’clock, Canon,” AImee replied, its circular rim glowing neon green. “Would you like to know tomorrow’s weather?”
“No.”
“Okay, Canon.”
“Looks like I’m going to Fu King Wok.” He had a slight addiction to crab Rangoon.
When Canon returned home, his petite neighbor rounded the corner, trotting down the stairs. This time, they only nearly collided. She wore her uniform of an over-sized shirt and glasses. Her brown hair topped her head in a sloppy but sexy bun.
He wasn’t sure why he noticed, but her purple-painted toenails peeked out of her athletic sandals.
“Hi there,” Canon greeted with a large grin.
Her face turned red, but she said, “Hi.”
“I’m Canon.” He shifted the bag of food to his other hand.
“I know.” She grabbed her purse strap and stepped back.
“I don’t bite,” he promised with a wink, holding his hand out.
“Oh.” The blush on her face deepened, and she took his hand in a quick but firm handshake. “Gotta go.”
“Okie-dokey.” Canon stepped aside, and she rushed down the steps. He glanced at her name on her mail slot. “See you, Ms. Batch.”
She spun around fast, a smirk on her full lips. “What did you say?”
Canon swallowed. “See you later.”
“No, you butchered my name.”
“Batch?”
She giggled, and the smile made her face light up. “It’s Bach.”
Butterflies took flight in his stomach. “As in J.S.?” Canon asked, tilting his head.
“J.S.?”
“Johann Sebastian, the composer.”
Her mouth fell open for a moment, then she nodded, blinked twice, and raised her hand. “Bye.”
Canon watched her flee to her car and drive off. He found her oddness amusing, and he doubled down on his determination to befriend her.
Canon stepped into the dark room. “AImee, turn on the light.” With a chime, the light clicked on.
He lounged on the brown leather sofa, feasting on crab Rangoon and General Tso’s chicken. But his apartment was too quiet, and he missed the noise of the station house and his book club.
“AImee play eighties music.”
“Playing your eighties playlist.” Music filled the room. Between mouthfuls he sang along, filling the quiet.
After dinner, Canon reached for the romance he’d found on the bookshelf at the station. A regency historical—what Forrest called a bodice ripper. The mystery intrigued Canon as well as the use of the word quit. People like to quit rooms. “If they quit a room, did they ever go back to it?”
Six chapters later, he hankered for something sweet. Jumping to his feet, he strode to the kitchen and pulled open the freezer. He opened the container of ice cream. Except for two spoonfuls, the ice cream was gone. He sighed, having on one to blame except himself.
“Looks like I’m going to the store.”
Grabbing the key fob from the counter, he exited the apartment.
Blaring music assaulted him. Canon shook his head. He tried to be a good neighbor and not make noise others might hear. Families lived in the complex and little ones had bedtimes.
A breeze blew, stirring debris on the landing. Dry grass clippings swirled. The small landing was dark as he closed the door.
His apartment complex had buildings lined in a row. Canon’s and Ms. Bach were in the center building.
Once in the parking lot, he learning the offending party was in the apartment adjacent to Ms. Bach’s. They had strung lights on the small wooden balcony where three people stood smoking. Light and music spilled out of the open sliding glass door.
Ms. Bach probably wouldn’t like the bass pumping near her headboard. He glanced around for her Civic.
Vehicles filled the lot, more parking as he watched. He sighed, the need for ice cream overcoming his fear of losing his primo parking spot.
At Wertz Grocery he bought three gallons of ice cream, Fudgesicles and a six-pack of Mother’s Milk beer from Nockerville.
Canon had to park far from his apartment, next to the dumpster. The music was louder than before. Police arrived with flashing lights. As he took the steps, a Fortuna officer headed for the parallel set of stairs leading to the troublemakers.
Once inside his apartment, the loud music disappeared, save for the thumping bass. He kicked off his shoes, and the floor vibrated. Canon unwrapped a fudge pop and picked up the romance again. After an overflowing bowl of butter pecan, which took longer to fill than eat, he shimmied out of his pants and shirt, then went to bed.
His bedroom was further from the noise of the party and if he closed the door and asked AImee to play rain sounds, Canon could pretend to be camping away from home. He stretched his long legs and leaned back with a sigh. Thoughts of the bodice ripper’s hero and heroine frolicking in the English countryside fluttered through his mind.
The England and Scotland period stories were nice, but he needed to reference more modern tales for his dare. Something from the turn of the twentieth century. Would the 1940s count as historical?
How would a man have dressed for everyday life? Probably a suit and tie. He placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, imagining himself in a zoot suit.
How would frumpy Ms. Bach have dressed? A dress with a flattering neckline, pearls, and stockings. Did she even have a chest to flatter? Who’d ever know with the over-sized sweatshirts she always wore?
It wasn’t completely true. When he’d ran into her, he’d bumped into all of her.
He rolled over to his side, willing his neighbor out of his mind, yet she stubbornly hung around, pestering him. Everyone always liked him. Her constant fear of him plagued Canon.
She was a tiny thing. Maybe she’d been abused. Anger surged, and he rolled to his other side.
“Stupid,” he muttered. “She’s probably smart enough to be careful around overly friendly strangers.”
Next time he saw her, he would nod and continue on his way. Hopefully, he’d seem less of a creeper.
Canon stretched and turned over again. “AImee, turn on storm sounds.” Thunder rolled and rain pattered, but the bass still thumped. “AImee, volume up.”