2. AUTUMN LANDISH
CHAPTER TWO
AUTUMN LANDISH
My muscles tremble beneath the weight of the metal bat. “Stupid noodle arms. Weak, weak, weak,” I mutter to myself, the text messages on my phone continuing to wreak havoc on my mood.
It's not the first time my ex-husband has done this.
It's not even the second or third.
“More like the millionth,” I grumble beneath my breath as I swipe at the tears on my cheek.
Year after year, we play the same game.
He makes a bad decision that fucks up his life, looks to me for rescue, and at first I say no, then the guilt sinks in, and I change my mind. But that's not where the cycle ends.
Oh, no. Of course, it doesn’t end there.
Swinging the bat over my head, I bring it down with a crash onto an old vacuum cleaner. Dust billows up from the cracked plastic cylinder, and I cough before cursing again.
“Dumb vacuum cleaner. Stupid dust people don't empty out before they throw away…” It's nonsensical to be angry at a frickin' household appliance, but here we are, because we're in the second phase of my ex's bad behavior.
After fixing the scheduling system at Jason’s practice—the one we shared when we were married—I explained again how I feel every time he asks me to bail him out of a problem.
The first time I expressed those feelings, I felt proud.
I thought therapy was really working.
But after Jason expressed his guilt, then didn't actually change his actions to match the words, I stopped feeling proud and started feeling pathetic.
Which is why I'm in the middle of a junkyard, crushing random crap, first with a large rubber mallet, and now with a damn baseball bat.
“For the low, low price of five bucks an hour,” I grit out.
It's not uncommon for me to talk to myself. After all, who else is going to let me ramble on about the same problems I've been dealing with since I was a fucking teenager?
Sure, my friends would be supportive, but I'm sick of sharing, so I'm sure they're sick of listening, which means it's on me.
Talk out my frustrations to myself, or keep it bottled up.
That's also why I'm at a freaking makeshift rage room. One that the people of High Ridge whisper about because its owner is part of a trio of men that everyone loves to gossip about.
Apparently, he isn’t a great guy. I’ve heard the word beastly tossed about numerous times.
But I don’t give a rat's ass about the man who runs this place.
It's not my business what he gets up to, especially when I've got my own problems plaguing my life. “Motherfucking mothertrucker,” I stumble over my words, losing the ability to make sense.
“That's quite the insult,” a male voice says, amusement emanating from the gravelly tone.
Jerking back from the vacuum cleaner, I lift the bat over my shoulders again, prepared to defend myself against the stranger.
“Who are you?” I ask suspiciously. There's an overhead light shining down on us, but that doesn't ease my mind, considering it's almost 7 p.m.
“Briggs O'Hare, and you are?” Speak of the devil. This is the O’Hare’s Salvage owner himself.
“Dr. Autumn Landish.” The title rolls off my tongue as a force of habit, and the irony isn’t lost on me—a doctor who can’t fix her own problems. “Do you always spy on the people who use this place?”
“Only when they're dressed for a visit to the library and distracted by talking to themselves. What's got you all worked up, little valkyrie?” A crooked grin softens his rough features, and I have to look away after the immediate reaction it sets off in my belly.
A knotting, fluttering sensation I can't afford to have.
I moved to High Ridge for a fresh start after a personal and professional divorce—not to fuck everything up by screwing the town bad boy.
Especially not when my pristine reputation is on the line.
Jason already put a dent in it back home, and it’s taken me a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to buff that particular mark out of my life.
So, really, what has a sterling reputation gotten you? Absolutely fucking nothing.
“That's personal.” Deciding my time's up, I hang the bat on two hooks between the other tools decorating the fence and pick up my cardigan. I’m too hot to put it on, but it’ll work as a barrier between me and Briggs.
Anything to stop the heated sweep of his gaze over my flushed body.
“You don't have to leave,” he says. “You paid for your time.”
“I should probably go home and eat.”
“Burned a lot of energy fucking shit up, huh?” The bemused chuckle that rumbles from his throat sends a shiver over my skin.
Why does his voice have to be so sexy? Deep and raspy. Perfect for narrating my favorite romance. Or joining one of those erotic audio apps.
It's a biological reaction, I tell myself. Hormones rioting because a deep voice signals testosterone and masculinity.
He would have made a terrific caveman. A freaking catch with that voice. Those broad shoulders. The flex of huge biceps noticeable under his short sleeves. Perfect to protect you from a wooly mammoth during the day then seduce you at night.
What the hell, Autumn? You need to stop watching those history documentaries.
“It’s a great service you offer here. I’ll be sure to leave a review online,” I ramble as I hike toward the exit.
There’s only one way in or out of the yard, unfortunately, which means I’ve got to navigate back to the front gate where my car is parked.
“Five stars?” he jokes. “Doubt it will influence your circle very much.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His reference to my circle hits a little too close to home. It reminds me of how obsessed my parents are with being associated with the right people.
Like fucking Jason.
Briggs shrugs as his strides match mine through the quiet salvage yard. “Just that I doubt your friends will want to dirty themselves here. Too low-brow. Even if you leave us a rave review.”
“I demolished half of that rage room in the past hour. Do you really want to make me angrier than when I arrived?”
Men. Stupid, idiotic men.
First, my ex-husband, and now this insulting jackass.
The lights on my car blink when I stab the unlock button on my key fob. I whip the door open, toss my cardigan on the passenger seat, then snap my head around to glare at Briggs.
“Let’s get something clear. You don’t know me or my friends.
If I want to fuck shit up, then I damn well will do it.
No matter how dirty or low-brow it is,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. “Honestly, it’s not the rage room or junkyard that would put anyone off, it’s your fucking bad attitude…
And stalking.” That last one is added as an afterthought once I recall the way he was watching me.
“Save it for your review, valkyrie.” He raises his hands and steps back from my wrath.
Even if I don’t like his familiarity, he's damn right that I feel like a fucking valkyrie at the moment. A freaking warrior about to fight off another attack from an annoying man.
I am woman. Hear me roar, and all that bullshit.
“It doesn’t really matter to me who visits the rage room. I get paid either fucking way,” he continues, and it takes all of my cool, medical training under pressure to not slap the aggravating smirk off his smug face.
“Right… Well, you’ve gotten your last five bucks from me, buddy.” I slam the car door and turn the key in the ignition.
As comebacks go, it’s not my best—five measly dollars is nothing—but we’ve already established my brain is mush tonight.
“At least I have a story to share when the busybodies start up about that O’Hare boy again.”
His large shadow appears in my rearview mirror, and I snort.
Briggs O’Hare is hardly a boy; he’s a grown-ass man.
And definitely a judgmental jerk.