Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) (4 page)

“
H
ey
, Rach!” I open my front door to my favorite real estate guru. I have no idea how she does it; she’s very young, well-connected, and known for finding people their ideal home or office in one trip. She did it with Cam when they found Healing Wings—the foundation she set up after she was raped a couple of years ago—and I know multiple people who sing her praises.

“Hey, Pipes. If you’re cool with it, I’m going to take pictures, get room dimensions, and get your townhouse information before we go see the houses I picked for you.”

“Sure. Do you need anything from us?” I ask walking back to the kitchen to finish loading the dishwasher.

“No, this won’t take long. It’s always easier to list a property I’ve spent a lot of time in.”

True to her word, Rachel finishes with the townhouse in less than thirty minutes and finds us still lingering in the kitchen.

“Do you guys want to see the specs on the houses we’re going to look at before we leave?” She pulls a stack of papers from her bag, holding them up in question.

I look at Moby, who shrugs his shoulders. He’s more interested in the chips and dip he’s stuffing his face with. Turning back to Rachel, I say, “Nope. It can be a surprise.” I put the lid on the dip and take the chips from my husband who gives me a face indicating his displeasure. He’s a bottomless pit.

“Seriously, Piper? You hate surprises, and you never do anything without outlining it in your day planner,” she replies as she lays the paper on the counter in front of me.

I swat playfully at her arm. “Hush! Let’s go,” I respond with excitement in my voice.

Pulling up to the first house, I’m not all that impressed with her choice thus far. It’s a small neighborhood, with rather insignificant lots, and the homes all seem to be slight variations of each other. The house is on a corner lot giving it more yard than most of those surrounding it, with a fenced in backyard. It’s a solid brick, one story home. The lawn is lush; someone has taken painstaking measures to ensure the grass is a blanket of green. The bushes accentuate the front nicely, some of them currently in bloom. I like the white flowers, although I have no idea what they are.

Standing under the huge brick archway, Rachel unlocks the door using the keypad built into the lock—nice touch. The entire space is open with two large pillars supporting the fourteen-foot ceilings as we step inside. Hardwood floors stretch as far as I can see from the door—the front room, dining room, living room, and breakfast room.

The great thing about looking at houses with Rachel is she’s not trying to sell us on anything. She just unlocks the doors and starts to turn on lights giving us the freedom to find our way around. The kitchen, just beyond the living room opens to the hallway on one side and the breakfast nook on the other with a huge bar. Matching cocoa and beige with sparkling white-flecked granite counter tops in all four of the bathrooms, all with the same dark walnut hardwoods in the rest of the house. Through the laundry room is an oversized two-car garage.

Circling back to the living room, I flip the switch on the gas logs and make myself at home on the couch. I can envision myself in this space, enjoying the company of friends while we entertain or simply cuddled in Moby’s arms.

The
piece de resistance
is the screened-in back porch—six hundred square feet of space. The four ceiling fans would ward off the South Carolina heat and the slate tiles up the opulence. I can see our dog, the imaginary one we’re going to own someday, running in the backyard with our son chasing him or throwing a ball.

I don’t tell Moby. I’m trying to keep an open mind, but this is the house. I love the idea of one story, no stairs to climb, no bedrooms on a separate floor. I would never have requested it but after seeing it, I want it. There’s no wasted space. Every inch of this house would be a home.

“Whatdya think, Pipes?” I adore the way he looks at me. I hope that gleam in his eyes never leaves.

“I like it. You?”

“You like it? That’s it?”

He knows me better than I like to give him credit for. “Let’s see the rest and then we can talk about all of them.” I put my hand on his chest before reaching up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “Yeah?”

“Whatever makes you happy.” And he truly means that.

As I knew they would be, for me, the other three were a waste of time. All beautiful in their own right but they just weren’t the ones I anticipated seeing myself in. Not one time walking through any of them did I see myself, my friends and family, or my unborn children and the dog we have yet to adopt.

The other three were much larger than the first, in bigger neighborhoods with much higher price tags. We could afford any of them, but I’m adamant we live off one income. I never want to be mortgage-poor, although my mother would argue vehemently against that statement. She always said you buy the most house you can afford so you can grow into it. My theory is to buy what you plan to need that will afford you a comfortable life, and not be living to pay off debt. Thankfully, Moby feels the way I do. He has no interest in owning a five-thousand-square-foot house we can’t pay for.

Pulling back up to the townhouse, Rachel lets us out in the driveway. “Give me a call when you guys make up your mind and I’ll draw up a contract for you to sign.” I love her confidence, not offering to show us more homes if these didn’t fit the bill.

The moment we’re behind a closed door Moby breaks the silence. “So, are we making an offer on the first house?” Opening the fridge, he grabs a beer, twisting off the top. He leans back against the stainless steel, crosses his legs at the ankles, and gives me a confident smirk to say,
I know you
, as he arches his eyebrows
.

“What makes you think I like the first house best?” I can’t hide the grin on my face.

He roars with laughter. “You’d have to be blind to not know you had zero interest in any of the other three. Yes, you looked at them to entertain Rachel and possibly me, but your heart is set on the first.”

“What did you think of it?” I’m eager for his opinion but desperately hope he feels the same way.

“I could see us living there. I love how open the floor plan is. Our friends and family would be comfortable in the space. My favorite part, other than the back porch, is not having stairs. I would be terrified our kids would fall down them when they were learning to walk.” Concern crosses his face for children who don’t yet exist. It melts me.

Going to him, my hands on his hips, I gaze at the ocean of blue. I love craning my neck to see him towering over me. “You’re worried about our children?”

“Of course. We need to think long-term, right?” My planning mentality is finally rubbing off on him.

“Definitely!”

“So, do you want to call Rachel and tell her we decided on the first one?”

He kisses my forehead and nudges me, encouraging me to call my friend. The bitch never left the block anticipating our call. Barging through the door, she hands us the paperwork to complete and sign. Just like that, we’re making an offer on a house. My townhouse not being on the market doesn’t seem to play a factor in our desire. Rachel advises us to set closing for forty-five days out to better assure we sell my house by the time we close. With that, it’s a done deal.

“
P
iper
?” I can’t find a damn thing in this house. I always thought having more space would make things easier, but my wife and I have very different ideas of where things should go. I lost every one of those arguments when we moved here. She stayed up all night unpacking after I went to bed, and, by default, got to establish the locations of items in the new house.

“Yeah?” she calls to me from across the house before appearing in the doorway to the master bedroom.

“Where’s the aspirin?” My head is pounding and the frustration I’m feeling toward having to search for it is only exacerbating the problem.

Walking toward me, she says, “Does your head still hurt? How long has this been going on now? Two days?” She continues past me to the closet at the end of the hall.

“This makes day three, and yes, it still hurts.”

She hands me the bottle. “Do you think you should see a doctor?”

Tapping two pills into my palm, I hand the bottle back to her. The rattling of the pills inside the plastic leaves me wanting to hurl it across the room. “Why the hell is the medicine in the linen closet and not the bathroom?”

She only offers a shrug. “I don’t know. It just seemed to make more sense to be accessible to anyone who might need it and not have to go into our bathroom to get it.”

“Who is it you think will be needing our medical supplies?”

Her face scrunches up at my question, my tone obviously hurting her feelings. She chooses wisely to ignore me and continue her line of questions.

“Do you think you should see a doctor? I’ve never known you to get headaches and three days is a long time to have one.” Her delicate features are marred with concern.

“I’m fine, Pipes. It’s just a headache.”

Her eyebrows rise at my dismissal of her worry. “It could be a tumor.”

I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. “Well, this isn’t
Kindergarten Cop,
and I’m not Arnold Schwarzenegger. It’s just a headache. Probably from all the stress of moving and now having two mortgage payments to deal with.”

With her hands on my hips, she pulls me to her, pressing her body to mine, craning her neck to peer into my eyes. I glance down at her, watching for signs of stress or fear but see none. She pecks my lips and says, “We’re fine Moby. We have plenty of money to pay the bills, and the townhouse will sell. Stop worrying about our finances.”

“It’s my job to worry about it. I’m your husband. I’m supposed to take care of you. I don’t like feeling like I’m not contributing my fair share.”

“That’s just silly. We knew we were taking a chance buying the house before we sold the townhouse but we also know we can pay both mortgages so stop worrying.”

Women never understand how emasculating it is for a man who makes less money than his counterpart. It’s one thing when we don’t need said salary, but when we do it’s enervating. It’s my responsibility to provide for her, and right now all our extra money is going toward an additional mortgage on a piece of property we no longer occupy.

For the first time in my life, I regret squandering the money my grandparents left me on bullshit that didn’t matter. She swears up and down she doesn’t mind the money being tight but there are empty rooms in this house because she doesn’t want us to overextend ourselves to furnish them.

She wants to decorate, but instead of buying the pieces she loves she now has an addiction to Pinterest. She never had to live like this before, and while it’s petty, I don’t like it. I want to give her more, bring more to her life. The only person she should ever be taking care of is herself...or our child, but financially, I should be providing.

“Stop beating yourself up, babe. We both know the townhouse will sell, and then we can breathe a little easier. It’s only been on the market a couple months, and it’s been showing more. I’m sure we’ll get an offer soon.” Piper has this uncanny ability to know what I’m thinking or maybe it’s simply that I’ve beaten this dead horse with a sledgehammer so many times if the subject comes up she knows where I’m going with it. She never gets mad at my frustration, only tries to soothe me, reassuring me we are financially sound.

“Are you coming to the gym with me today?” I’ve gotten her into a fitness routine. The first few times she went, I worked out with her ensuring she knew how to use all the equipment and had a game plan. So many people go into a gym completely blind, and quit when they don’t achieve their goal because they were clueless to begin with.

Once I knew she was comfortable, I let her go on her own. The truth is, I like watching her across the room, her skin glows with the slightest bit of sweat, her butt in the yoga pants she wears is fantastic. I’ve seen a pretty significant transformation in her tone since she started a few months ago. She’s a testament to what someone can do in the gym with only a few committed days a week and a healthy diet.

She rolls her eyes. I already knew the answer. She dressed for working out and had her tennis shoes in her hand when she came to find the aspirin for me. “Yes, silly. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Every week.” Sitting on the couch, she laces up her cross trainers. “Ready?”

“Yeah, we need to take separate cars. I have an entire day of clients lined up. The last one comes in at five, but if I can pick up a walk-in, I’m going to stay late.”

“You don’t have to do that, Moby. Working twelve-hour days is ridiculous. I can’t imagine it’s good for you to work out that much.”

I kiss her forehead. “I don’t work out with them, goofball. I guide them, correct their form, help them create a routine. I don’t do the workouts myself. At least, not all day.”

“You did with me?”

“You’re the exception. Come on.”

* * *

W
ith my first
client meeting me at six this morning, we arrive at the gym early, meaning I get to watch Piper. The definition starting to show in her arms and back is sexy as hell. It’s not overly muscular, she’s simply elongating what was already there. It’s becoming leaner.

I don’t care if she ever works out. I didn’t push her to come, but when she asked me to teach her, I have to admit it excited me. Seeing her doing it on her own makes me proud as hell. I enjoy watching men approach her—she’s oblivious to her appeal, and therefore doesn’t recognize they’re flirtatious advances.

She’ll help people on machines, and if men ask her questions she doesn’t know the answer to, she always comes to find me and bring me back to answer correctly. The look on a man’s face when she shows up with me in tow, introducing me as her husband, is priceless. It never fails, she’ll kiss me on the cheek, leaving me with the muscle head who doesn’t need help and was simply hitting on my wife, while she moves on to her next machine.

You would think the rock on her finger would indicate she’s not available, but it happens more frequently than not. I pointed out how popular she is at the gym to her once. She argued with me vehemently, confidently believing every man who approaches her is genuine in his need for assistance. I laughed my ass off and asked her if she had noticed how well-built the guys were. Her refusal to believe their motives were impure was refreshing. I thought it was cute but also decided from that point forward she’d never be in a gym without me in the facility. Not because I don’t trust her, I trust her implicitly; I don’t trust the gym asshats prowling for pussy.

I always want to know she’s safe, and I’m in the same room, even if she can’t see me. So when she decided to start working out three days a week, I booked a client at six to always be here. She has no clue, but it works for me. The rest of the week, I still go in at six, but it’s so I can work out before my first client at eight, including Saturdays. Sundays, we do nothing. It’s our day whether we spend it with friends, family, or alone—but we don’t work.

Finishing up with my first client, my wife saunters her fine ass across the gym floor to me. She waits while I give my final instructions to my client before hugging her little body to my waist. “I need to get going if I want to make it to work on time.”

I hate seeing her go. No, we haven’t been side by side for the last hour but knowing she’s here makes time fly by. I hope this feeling never leaves me. I hope being near her always causes my heart to race and my dick to grow. Maybe that makes me a little bitch, but I don’t give a shit. My wife is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Be careful,” I whisper to her. Her mouth meets mine in a tender but atmosphere appropriate kiss. I swat her butt as she walks away.

Looking over her shoulder, she calls back to me, “Is your head feeling better?” Waiting for my answer she walks backward to see my face.

“Yeah. I’m good.” I hope she doesn’t catch my lie.

“Okay. I’ll see you tonight. Love you!” she sings as she exits the building.

* * *

I
shouldn’t have lied
to her, but I don’t want her worrying. One of us doing that’s enough. She has plenty on her plate without thinking about how I feel. The truth is my head has continued to pound and has become a blinding migraine.

I’ve never had a migraine before but based on what I just read on the Internet, I have to assume this is one. Sensitivity to light is an understatement; it’s more like piercing daggers in my eyes over and over. If I throw up one more time, I may find my stomach in the toilet, but I refuse to bail on my clients. I won’t allow Piper to carry any more of the financial load than she already does. If I’m not working with people, then I’m not earning any money. If I have idle time here, there’s no paycheck.

I’m on staff, so I get a free membership as does Piper. That includes unlimited classes. I don’t use them, but she does. I also get health insurance, a huge plus because most gyms don’t offer those types of benefits to their employees, but Core does. They also don’t have many people on staff full-time, and we’re required to rotate our schedules through the different locations in town. I’ve been here so long the majority of my clientele are at this gym, so I’m only at other locations a few days a month. This is a gig I can’t afford to give up. I make great money doing what I love, but right now, I’d rather be home in bed with the curtains drawn in utter darkness—even the silence in my thoughts hurts.

The last four hours of the day drag on as if time has stopped. When I finish with my five o’clock, I head to the showers. The echo of the spray hitting the tile grates on me until it hits my skin. I linger under the water longer than I should. The heat is soothing the ache in my shoulders and providing a little relief from the continuous drum in my skull. It’s the closest thing to a reprieve I’ve felt in days. I know the moment I turn off the faucet the pain will return full force and I’ve already taken more than the daily-recommended dosage of aspirin with zero relief. Reluctantly, I dry off to dress wishing I could stay under the stream of warm water.

My phone chirps as I pull my jeans on but as I stand to reach for it, the world tilts on its axis, and my vision swirls. I steady myself on the lockers, and it passes as quickly as it came.