Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
S-L-U-T
I wake up with a headache. I know I didn’t get drunk.
I had two beers at the restaurant and one sip of beer here.
The headache must be caused by my lack of sleep.
I fell asleep fast but woke up tossing and turning.
Tossing and turning because I was turned on.
I’m still turned on, hours later. Damn, that man got my motor running.
Stopping to think, I admit to myself I don’t remember ever feeling that turned on, ever.
I’ve felt excited with a guy before, but not like that.
I can’t deny that Sam Stone is different.
When I touched his arms, they were solid muscle.
My hands were dying to touch more of him.
Touch? I meant see more of him. Okay, both—see more and touch more of him.
I bet his chest and stomach match those arms.
Crap. I’m turned on again. Should I help myself with that?
I could do it in the shower, but sadly, I’m running late.
I’m supposed to open the store today, and the last thing I need is to be late.
I hop out of bed and get my little coffeepot going.
Coffee. I definitely need coffee. I grab my standard uniform of black pants and plain blouse and head into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve got my wet hair pulled up into a loose bun at the back of my head, I’m dressed in my coat, and I have my travel mug of precious coffee clutched in my hand.
I yank my door open and step outside. The sun is out, but it’s still cold.
The forecast called for slightly warmer weather today, so that’s cheering.
Maybe some of the snow will melt—that thought also brings a smile to my face.
I pull the door shut with a tug and lock up.
As I move around the corner, my mind is on the night before—my date.
“I’ve got to be more myself on Friday. Maybe I should have a little liquid courage before he picks me up?
” Just as I’m about to pass the side of my house, I see it.
S-L-U-T. The word slut is spray-painted in bright red on the side of the house.
It’s actually painted next to one of my three basement windows.
I gasp, thinking about those footsteps I heard last night.
Someone spray-painted the wall as I lay in bed, just a few feet away.
I stop and stare at the red letters. “What should I do?” I say aloud.
Should I call the police? What am I thinking?
In this neighborhood? The word slut painted on a wall is so far removed from the worst things people tag on walls in this neighborhood, I almost laugh at the thought.
Could that really be directed at me? I know it’s not about my neighbor, the sixty-year-old retired male librarian.
But, if it is about me, it’s so wrong. Sam is literally the first guy I’ve ever had in my place except for Pops.
Well, Blake’s been here before, but that doesn’t count.
Sam is the first date I’ve ever brought home.
I’m not a slut. Far from it. So why did someone write that on my wall?
I feel a shiver run down my spine and out through my fingers.
Someone was watching through my window. They saw Sam and me in my home. They were watching.
I snap a couple pictures of the wall, but I have no time to deal with the rude word painted on my house, so I rush out the gate to the bus stop.
I can’t be late for work. Once I get on the bus, I start to think it through.
I don’t know a soul who would write that about me.
My mind races through the list of people I interact with at work and socially, and it comes up blank.
Maybe it was Frederick? He did call me that word on New Year’s Eve. I pulled out my phone to text Lauren.
Me: Hey, is your cousin Fred around?
Lauren: Why? You don’t need a date, do you?
Me: Just curious.
Lauren: I’ll text my aunt. Back with you shortly.
I hold my phone and stare at the screen, hoping her message pops up before my bus reaches the stop. Luck is on my side.
Lauren: He’s in St. Barts with his douchebag frat buddies. When will that guy grow up? Frat buddies at his age? Jesus.
Shit. That rules him out.
Me: Do you know when he left?
Lauren: Hang on.
The bus comes to a stop. I grab my bag and clutch my phone in my hand. By the time I’m off the bus and ready to cross the street, my phone dings.
Lauren: He’s been gone for five days. He’ll be back in two more days. Want me to tell him to call you?
Me: No, please don’t. Just curious about something. I’ll tell you about it later.
Damn. That rules out Frederick. I really didn’t think it was him. He’s got a life. Sort of.
Lauren: Fine. Later, babe.
Me: Later.
I head into the mall and up the escalator.
I race into the shop, knowing I’m late, but only by a few minutes.
Theresa is already opening the register.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Dang it. She’s not happy with me. “Sorry,” I mutter.
I throw my coat and purse into the back room and pick up the glass cleaner and paper towels.
I start cleaning the cases furthest away from her.
No reason to poke the bear, as they say.
“MacKenzie?”
Uh-oh. “Yes?”
“You’re late. Again.”
“I know. I’m very sorry.” Do I tell her about the spray paint? “Do you want to know why?” Might as well give her a choice.
Theresa sighs. “Sure. Why not?”
“When I walked out of my house, someone had spray-painted the word slut on the outside of the house.” I hold up the picture I took with my phone this morning.
“What?” she screeched. “Did you call the police?”
“No. I didn’t call the cops. What could they do?” I back up so I can tell her about the night before. “I heard footsteps outside my window late last night but didn’t think much about it.”
“You need to do something.” She rushes on. “You need to get out of that neighborhood, darling girl. It’s not safe. Anyway, why would someone think you’re a slut, let alone call you a slut? You’re still a virgin, aren’t you?”
I’d love to laugh at that, but it’s not the time. “No. I’m not a virgin. Unless you can be a born-again virgin.” I smirk. “I did have a guy at my place last night, but we didn’t have sex.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Now it’s her turn to smirk. “Do you think someone saw you with him?”
“That’s my guess, but I have no idea who would feel that strongly about me.” I really can’t think of a soul.
“You’re a worry, sweetie.” Without warning, she suddenly reverts back to being my boss. “But you need to get here on time. Okay? You know I love you to pieces, but you’re tardy a lot.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Theresa.” I smile at her, but inside I feel terrible. She’s the perfect boss, and I’d even call her a friend. I don’t want her to feel as though she can’t count on me.
The morning goes very slowly in the store.
I wish we had a steady flow of customers because having so much extra time means that my thoughts wander between Sam, the graffiti on my house, and the fact that I’m hungry.
My stomach growls, and I peer at the clock.
Ten thirty. I’ve got another hour before I can go to lunch.
I bend down to pick up the glass cleaner, grumbling to myself, “I should have packed something.”
“Oh, are you hungry?”
I’m startled by the voice. “Jeesh, Bobby, you scared me.”
Bobby lets out a weird little giggle. “Oops, sorry, MacKenzie. I overheard you say you were hungry. Can I bring you anything?”
I smile at him. “Nah, I’ll get some lunch in a little bit. I’m not gonna starve. Look at me.” I chuckle.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he whispers.
“Ah, thank you, Bobby. That’s so sweet.” I know he’s got a little crush on me. I pat his hand. “Well, I’d better get back to work. I was late today, and Theresa wasn’t very happy about it.”
“I saw that.”
“You saw that I was late?”
“Oh, um, yeah. I saw you come in, and I looked at the clock. Did something happen to make you late?”
I don’t feel comfortable telling Bobby about my issues. “No. Just overslept.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, sounding a little irritated. “Remember what I told you, MacKenzie. Watch out. Know your surroundings.”
Know my surroundings? He couldn’t be referring to the graffiti on the side of my house. Could he? “Oh, okay. Well, I need to get back to it. I’ll see you later, okay?” I watch Bobby as he waves at me and walks out the door.
“That boy has a thing for you,” says Theresa as she exits the back room.
“I know.”
“Be careful.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s sensitive. Don’t lead him on.”
I’m sensitive, too. I look at Theresa. “I know. I don’t accept his invitations or his offers of favors. He just comes in here—so what am I supposed to do?”
“Just be careful,” she says, patting my arm. “I’ve got an appointment with one of our artists. The guy doesn’t seem to be in a creative mood lately. I may need to drop him.”
I smile at her as she picks up her bag and waves goodbye.
I can’t help myself. My first thought is, maybe if she drops the guy, just maybe I’ll get to move my pieces closer to the front.
I can hope, as I mentally cross my fingers.
But I’m afraid that selling the few pieces I’ve recently sold won’t get me better real estate in this shop.