Chapter 14
Mack glances at the huge watch around his thick wrist. “It's getting late.” Mack frowns at me for several seconds then says, “Look, until we know what's going on, I think you'd be safer if you moved in with me.”
I sit up straight and blink at him. “Excuse me?”
He holds up his hands. “It's not like that. I've got three roommates, but there's an open room, and you'd have your own bedroom and bath. I think you should pack a bag and come stay with me until we get this sorted out. These guys are serious. I don't want you to get hurt."
I'm frowning before he even finishes. "This is my home, and I'm not leaving it. What if Alex comes back? What if he needs help and I'm not here?"
Mack stares at Alex’s cell phone sitting on the table for several moments, then stands. "Fair enough. Just lock the door behind me, will you? And you have my cell phone number. I'm only like fifteen minutes away."
"Ok."
I follow Mack to the front door.
"Alright, see you later." He nods and ducks out, pulling the door closed behind him.
I throw the deadbolt, and listen for the reassuring click. After a few moments I hear Mack's motorcycle fire up in the driveway and then recede down the driveway and the hill.
Then my house is just filled with the whirring of the air conditioner and my own pounding heart. Honestly, I'm surprised that Mack gave up about staying here so easily. I thought he was the type of guy to put up more of a fight.
Then again, Grandma always said that I was more stubborn than a mule. Maybe he realized that and knew I was serious about not leaving.
I'm not too proud to admit that everything feels a lot scarier now that I'm alone. I don't know if those guys are coming back, or rather, when they're coming back. Because they said they would, and it wasn't even a threat, like they might. It was a statement of fact.
I run around and make sure all the windows and doors are locked, then I pull all the curtains closed. I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. On the one hand, no one can see in, but I can't see out, either.
It's like that moment in every vintage horror movie when the woman goes into her bathroom to investigate a sound and yanks back the shower curtain. The idea that there could be some guy right outside my window and I wouldn't even know it scares the shit out of me.
I take a deep breath. "Just a normal night," I say aloud, to break the silence that suddenly feels oppressive. "Just do what you'd normally do."
I go to my bedroom and grab pajamas. I’ve already decided I’m going commando tonight--there’s no way I’m grabbing a clean set of underwear from my trunk in the dark.
I head into the bathroom. It was probably the height of luxury when it was built, but by modern standards, the stall shower with the lowered, tiled ceiling would be considered small.
It does have a glass door, though--an ancient thing covered in decades of hard water stains.
The hot water heater is from the eighties and it works ok or really well depending on what season it is.
It's summer so I'm in luck--the pipe in the outside wall is pre-warmed and it does half the work.
I take the fastest, most unrelaxing shower of my life and get dried off and changed like someone just pulled the fire alarm in a hotel. The only thing worse than those guys breaking into my house would be those guys breaking in while I'm butt naked.
I force myself to go through my nightly skincare routine really slow, as if I'm proving that I'm not scared. Which is total bullshit--the longer I'm alone, the more terrified I am. My breathing is shallow, my heart rate pounds, and I'm a bit nauseated.
And that's when I hear it--the knock at the front door.
It echoes through the house and lodges right beneath my heart, sending it pumping into overdrive.
I run for the shotgun I now keep right under my bed.
My fingers are shaking and I clench them around the cold metal and wood of the gun to stop them.
The knock sounds again, just as slow and measured as the first time, as if the person on the other side of the door knows I'm home and knows I'll answer.
I cross the living room on bare feet, my wet hair hanging around my face and getting in my eyes.
I slap it back and tip-toe to the front windows.
I stand there for a few seconds, take a deep breath, and yank back the curtain.
Mack is standing on my front porch, a massive duffel bag at his feet. He’s not alone--there’s a huge black pit bull sitting on his feet, grinning up at him.
Mack frowns at me through the window. "What are you doing with the gun?"
I tug the curtain back into place and put the shotgun on the back of the couch. My heart is still pounding when I open the front door. "I didn't know it was you."
Mack’s frown intensifies as he wrestles his bags through the door and drops them with a thud. "Why on earth would you look through the window if you didn't know it was me?"
"How else was I supposed to figure out who it was?"
I suddenly remember I'm only wearing an old, unpadded sports bra under my tank, and I cross my arms over my nipples.
I'm not yucking anyone's yum, but I'm not a 'free the nipple' kind of woman.
I'm more like a 'cage the nipple in a padded bra so no one can tell if I'm cold or turned on' kind of woman.
"You're not supposed to figure it out," Mack says. He deadbolts the door behind him and stands with his hands on his hips. "You're supposed to call me and let me figure it out."
"What if it was a delivery guy?"
"They'll leave it at the door. I texted you to tell you I was on my way."
"Oh. Well, my phone is on my nightstand."
His eyebrows hitch higher with obvious censure. "You came to the front door without your cell phone? What was the plan if I was a bad guy?"
"I had the gun."
Mack picks up the shotgun, presses the lever and breaks it open. Two shells with rusted tops fly out. He catches one mid-air and snags the other from the sofa. "Two shots? Are you a secret Annie Oakley?"
"Alright, alright." I look down at the massive dog. He’s sitting very politely, but his stub of a tail is wagging furiously, like he can’t wait to be the center of attention--that he knows it’s just going to be great.
I pet him, and sure enough, the dog goes nuts, standing and pushing against my legs, grinning his wide doggy grin, his tail wagging double-time. “Who’s this guy?”
"It's a loaner."
I frown. “Don't call him an it. He is very obviously a he."
Mack smirks. "You would know. You're the one who's seen a million dicks."
I can’t help but chuckle despite my confusion of emotions. The dog is now tip-tapping in a circle of excitement. He looks like a ballerina--every time he makes the rounds, his eyes snap back to me. I keep scratching as he turns--head, back, butt. "Where did you get him?"
"My buddy's wife has an addiction to adopting dogs at risk of being euthanised and pawning them off on anyone who stands too close."
"What's his name?"
"Muchacho. But we just call him Mooch."
It's a really cute name. Mooch nudges my hands even though I’m still actively petting him. It’s like he knew I got distracted. I could be irritated at the dog, but it isn't Mooch's fault that he's part of a home invasion.
It’s not that I'm all that irritated at Mack, either. It’s more like thirty percent irritation, seventy percent gratitude that he’s here. And the thirty percent is really only because he scared me and caught me without underwear or a real bra.
"I have a cat," I argue.
"That's fine. Mooch literally gives no shits."
"By the size of him, I find that hard to believe."
"Oh, he poops like a horse, don't get me wrong. But other than that, he's super chill. He's an equal opportunity lover. He loves people, and cats, other dogs." Mack ruffles his head and Mooch grins up at him. "Huh, buddy?"
"What good is he if he loves everyone?"
"He's got a fun trick." Mack snaps his fingers. "Mooch, kill!"
Mooch instantly transforms from a loveable dog to a ferocious, snarling, teeth-baring nightmare. I can't help it--I squeak and grab Mack's arm, trying to put his frame between me and the dog.
"Good boy, Mooch."
Mooch instantly drops his junkyard killer act and bumps my knee with his nose, his eyes soft, like he's asking if I'm ok.
I ruffle his head. "You're a good boy."
"Yeah, otherwise you wouldn't have had an excuse to climb me like a tree." Mack grins.
I drop my hand from his shoulder and realize that one of my legs was kind of twined around his. Mack seems vastly amused. I'm angry at the intrusion all over again--at least forty percent this time. I scowl and push away from him.
If he notices my irritation, he ignores it. He grabs a smaller duffel bag and unloads dog accessories--water and food dishes, leash, a massive bag of treats.
Mooch instantly plants his butt on the floor, ears perked, when he sees the treats. Mack laughs and fishes one out; Mooch catches it mid-air. I’m not sure he even chewed it.
He sits again and looks hopeful; Mack laughs and rumples his head. “That’s enough for now, big guy.”
Mack glances at me, clears his throat, and turns his back. I glance down. I make a disgusted sound, whirl for my bedroom, and slam the door behind me. I find a much newer padded sports bra, retrieve my cell phone, and when I return to the living room, Mack and his bag have disappeared.
"Mack?" I call.
"In here."
His voice is muffled and I trace it to the bedroom at the front of the house. He's already unpacking his bag into the dinged chest of drawers against the wall.
"This one ok?" he asks me.
"No! I never agreed to let you move in."
He rolls his eyes and resumes unpacking his undershirts. "I'm not moving in. I'm staying here until this gets sorted out."
"And what if that takes a month? Or a year?" I drop the hands I'm waving like a crazy person. "What if it never gets sorted out?"
"Then I'll start paying rent." Mack gives me a cheeky smile.
"You can't just--" I'm momentarily distracted by the fact that Mack now appears to be unpacking his underwear.
They're all black, which isn't surprising, but I am a bit shocked to see that they're briefs. Not the old saggy cotton kind that my dad used to wear, but smaller, softer and sleeker looking. Mack grins and tosses one at me.
I catch it reflexively and drop it with a squeal that I abruptly cut off. "What did you do that for?"
Mack laughs at the dumb-founded expression on my face. "You looked curious."
I was curious, but I wasn't going to admit it. And it had been really soft. Mack picks it off the floor and folds it before putting it in the top drawer.
"The only thing I'm curious about is why you're unpacking your clothes in my house without being invited to stay."
Nice recovery, I think. A little slow, but...
Mack shuts the top drawer and pulls open the second one. In go his jeans and t-shirts. "I'm staying with you because I won't be able to sleep knowing that you're alone over here and in danger. So really, you'd be doing me a favor."
I splutter. "Look. I'm grown. I don't need a babysitter. And I'm not afraid."
Lies, all lies.
"You nearly peed your pants answering the door. I could see it on your face."
“But…”
Mack turns to me, his expression suddenly serious. “Just let me do this, ok Gabriella? I need to.”
I realize that maybe for the first time, it’s Mack who’s being vulnerable with me and not the other way around.
“Ok.” I nod and admit, “I’ll probably sleep better with you here, too.”
He grins. “Besides, I’m a pretty good roommate. I put the toilet seat down. I pay for my share of the groceries, and I always keep the fridge stocked with beer.”
“What about Mooch?” I gesture at the dog, who’s sprawled across the double bed.
He shrugs. “He doesn't drink beer. At least, not much.”