7. Naz
SEVEN
NAZ
The sound of engines firing up drags me out of a deep sleep. For a few disorienting seconds, I stare at the ceiling above my bed and try to figure out where I am and what that racket is. My faculties slowly catch up with me. I’m in my trailer. On the compound.
Right. It’s Monday morning. I’d almost forgotten other people exist.
The sound must be the construction crew coming to work on the guest house.
One long weekend out here alone, and the sudden sounds of heavy equipment firing up in the distance feel strangely intrusive. The trailer had settled into such complete silence over the last few days that I’d started measuring time by sunrises and how many chapters I’d read before falling asleep.
With a groan, I roll out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen. I put a pod in the coffeemaker and flip it on, then walk over to the windows while it brews.
Outside, the construction crew is hard at work on the far side of the property. Trucks move slowly along the gravel drive. A forklift raises a section of the guesthouse frame. Somewhere in the distance, a man yells instructions over the sound of the machinery. I think I hear laughter.
I wrap both hands around my coffee mug as soon as it’s full and watch the construction work from the living room window.
The guesthouse is taking shape faster than I expected, considering the size of the building.
The basement, which will house the studio, is almost fully enclosed, and most of the framing is up.
I wonder how long it will be before we’ll be able to actually record here.
The thought settles happily in my chest. This place, the vision I had, feels impossible sometimes.
A few years ago, it was just an idea. Then, about a year ago, it became an actual possibility when I found and purchased the land.
Now it’s real. Or at least, it’s well on its way to becoming real.
Watching and seeing the physical manifestation of my imagination is pretty fucking cool.
Movement near the main access road catches my attention, but it’s just another truck.
Probably another contractor or a supervisor, or a member of the crew arriving late.
I barely spare a second glance while sipping my coffee and return to watching the construction like it’s my own personal version of one of those home remodeling shows.
The truck disappears behind a stand of trees, then reappears a moment later. Heading directly towards the trailer.
That gets my attention. Why would anyone be driving over here?
Nobody should be coming over here. The construction crews know this area is off-limits until the last phase of building begins.
Any questions or issues they have are forwarded through the lawyer’s office, so no one knows who this property belongs to.
Frowning, I set my mug down and consider if I should answer the door. Do they know someone’s home?
The truck slows. The driver’s side door opens. And a very large, very familiar body unfolds itself from the cab.
My brain refuses to process what it’s seeing.
No. Nope.
Absolutely not.
This isn’t happening.
He starts walking towards the trailer, casual as you please. Carrying a duffel bag, like he’s here to stay. Like someone fucking invited him.
By the time he reaches the doorstep, I’m standing in the open doorway glaring at him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Scott flashes a smile. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“No.” I point at him. Then the duffel bag. Then him again. “What is this shit. What. The fuck. Are you doing. Here?”
“The bosses sent me. They want to make sure everyone has protection after the whole bomb scare.”
“Protection,” I repeat blankly.
“Yeah. Protection.”
“I don’t need a shadow here.” I narrow my eyes. “Does Jesse have a bodyguard camping outside his bedroom?”
“Jesse’s bedroom is in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by miles of open water, and he has his own personal NFL tank to protect him.”
“Will and Ari?”
“They’re also pretty remote, but Eric is staying nearby in case there’s trouble.”
I stare at him. He stares back.
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
Scott shifts the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder. “Sure it does.”
“No. Because if you’re just here checking in on me and letting me know you’re staying somewhere nearby, you wouldn’t need luggage.”
His smile widens. I immediately dislike it.
“You’re not staying.”
“Looks like I am.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Blake disagrees.”
“How did you even know where I was?!” The question leaves my mouth before I even think about it. But realization hits pretty quickly. “Fucking Emmy.”
Scott doesn’t bother denying it.
I sigh. “I take back all the nice things I’ve ever said or thought about him.”
If I had cell service, I’d call that nosey little twink and tell him exactly what I think of this arrangement. Unfortunately, the property has approximately zero bars for the next week. And if I’m honest, I was enjoying being disconnected from reality for a while.
Scott gestures vaguely to the surrounding trees and land. “You realize nobody can reach you out here, right?”
“That was kind of the point.”
“Exactly,” he says pointedly. “No one can reach you, so no one can verify if you’re safe or not.”
Ugh. I hate that he has a reasonable argument. I hate even more that part of me is relieved he’s standing here.
“Fine.” Stepping aside, I wave him inside impatiently.
Scott ducks through the doorway. I cross my arms. His giant ass makes my tiny trailer feel at least forty percent smaller.
“Speaking of shitty cell service, I come bearing gifts.” Scott drops his duffel on the coffee table and bends to open it, brandishing a white box. “That’s from Emmy. He said he wasn’t sure if you were just being cheap or anti-social, but it’s not safe or healthy, blah, blah, blah…”
“What is it?”
“A cell booster.”
I sigh. “Of course it is.”
I don’t bother mentioning that I have a contractor coming out next week to install a private cell tower. They couldn’t even give me a week, really?
“So if I let you install that thing, does that mean you’ll be leaving? There’s a shitty motel two exits up, you’d probably be more comfortable.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” he says jovially, as if I’m being considerate and not hinting for him to leave. “I can make myself comfortable anywhere.”
“And just where do you think you’ll be sleeping?” I ask, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. He already learned the hard way that I don’t like sharing a bed, and I’m not about to take the couch in my own home.
“Anywhere horizontal works for me,” he says, completely nonplussed by my pissy attitude.
I gesture dramatically around the interior. “No point in a grand tour, this is pretty much it. As you can see, there’s no room for a six-foot-five human refrigerator.”
Scott plops down on the couch, settling back with his hands tucked behind his head. The couch looks tiny with him on it. It’s too small for me to sleep on, and I’m about five inches and probably eighty pounds smaller than Scott. Compared to him, it looks like doll furniture.
“This’ll work,” he says happily.
“It absolutely will not.”
He looks entirely unconcerned, as usual. It makes my blood boil. I can feel my face heating, like a kettle filling with steam. I’m about to go off.
Then Scott reaches for an insulated bag attached to his duffel that I didn’t notice before. “I brought bagels from that place you like in Queens.”
My traitorous heart skips. Then my stomach decides to chime in and growls, empty aside from the half cup of coffee I was working on when Scott pulled up.
I hate it.
I stare at him. He stares back.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a smile or acknowledgement that I’m at all happy about the bagels.
“Did you bring the cream cheese?”
Scott’s entire face lights up. The bastard.
From inside the cooler bag he produces a container. One clearly marked with a label that says sea salt and honey. My favorite. It’s even packed between ice packs to keep it cold the whole way here.
“I hate you.”
Later, after the single most uncomfortable, awkward day of my life– After dinner has been prepared and eaten and the dishes done before I could even offer to help, I escape to the deck to get some air.
I need five damn minutes without Scott Riley. That man takes up too much space. Physically, obviously. The trailer was already small before he showed up looking like an appliance with legs.
It’s more than that, though. He takes up space in my head.
My thoughts are so erratic and jumbled when he’s in my space.
It was bad enough when he wasn’t here and I was already thinking about him constantly, but now he’s in my space.
His presence is larger than he is. There’s no getting away from it.
It’s infuriating.
I take a deep, cleansing breath and lean back in my chair.
The lake stretches out before me, serene and sparkling in the fading light.
The crickets are singing somewhere in the trees now that the construction crew has packed up and left for the day, leaving behind the kind of silence that feels loud again.
Maybe I should jump into the lake.
Not to drown, exactly. Just to get away from him. See how long I can hold my breath. Maybe by the time I surface he’ll have disappeared and my mind will be at ease again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, I know. But so is the fact that he’s only been here for a few hours, less than a full day, and I already feel wound tighter than I did before he arrived.
The worst part is I know he’s doing it on purpose.
Being fucking nice. Making dinner. Cleaning up afterward.
Remembering my favorite bagels. Walking around fucking shirtless after his shower like he’s completely unaware he looks like a fucking Greek god.
And all the fucking smiling. What the fuck is up with that?
It’s absurd.
The deck door slides open, and I tense. I don’t turn around, but when a cold bottle presses against my arm, I crack one eye open.