Compassion (4 page)

I shake away the image of him. “Go ahead and grab your book, Marshall. I'll see you around school.”

Displeased he gives me a short smile before turning around to walk away.

What can I say? He's not a lot better than his bratty little girl who makes a similar pout when she's forced to the follow the rules. At least she has the excuse of being a three year old.

Once I've finished cleaning up, I head home carefully, the news of the coming sleet making me nervous as usual.

My fiancé died on an icy road. You can't blame me for tensing.

Pulling around the corner, the sight of a cop car parked beside my house with it's lights on sends me back in time. My heart lurches into my throat as my mind does it's best to drag itself from the spiral it's falling into.

It's like that night is trying to repeat itself all over again, except instead of leaving work late from Book Club, I was leaving work late from working on the Christmas Book Fair. Chris could bring work home, but he didn't like for me too.

After another shake of my head, I exhale several deep breaths gently reminding myself that scenario can't repeat itself because I don't have a fiancé any more.

Or boyfriend for that matter.

I park in my driveway while trying to give the commotion a once over without staring.

It's rude to stare!

Two steps towards my front door is when one of the officers is handcuffing someone. Curious who 'Perfect Mrs. Prescott' is having arrested slows me down long enough to catch a glimpse of more than one face I recognize.

Oh no...

“Excuse me.” I hustle back down my driveway towards the police vehicle. “Officer Brallon!”

The arresting officer ceases his movements. With a warm smile he greets me, “Little Jaye Jenkins.”

Yeah I know, but when I was five, my dad always introduced me that way. It stuck.

With a kind smile, I question, “Why are you arresting my friend?” 

“Friend?” Brallon's bass voice echoes.

“He's not her friend,” Mrs. Prescott sneers. She folds her arms across her cashmere sweater. “He's a pathetic piece of trash digging through my personal belongings.”

“Ma'am,” the other officer, I barely recognize speaks up. “Please, calm down.”

Brallon tilts his head to the side. “You know this man.”

“Of course I do,” I lie.

Lying to the cops for someone I don't even fucking know? What is wrong with me?

“He's an old college friend. I hadn't seen him since I moved back. He just got into town a couple days ago.” Before Brallon has a chance to ask more questions, I move directly into the line of vision of the homeless man. “Did you lock yourself out of my house again?”

The moment his green eyes lock with mine any doubt that this was the wrong decision disappears.

“Then what was he doing digging in my trashcan?” She snips. “How do you explain that?”

My lips press together as I give her a small glare. “He's been looking for his watch since he's been here.” Turning back to look at the man I'm saving I sigh, “Remember my trashcan is on
that
side of the driveway.” Another soft smile comes on my face. “Sorry Officer Brallon. He keeps forgetting which trash is mine. He must've been digging through hers because he thought it was mine.”

“Is this true?” Officer Brallon questions the man. “Is that what happened?”

He simply nods.

“Then what's his name?” Mrs. Prescott snips. “If you're
old friends
, what's his name?”

Both police officers look at me.

Crap! How did I not figure this was coming?!

“Wild Thing,” I spew.

Shit! It was the last kid book I saw after book club because it fell off the shelf. Not the ideal place to steal names from.

When Officer Brallon's jaw drops, I continue to cover my tracks, “It was his nickname. I don't remember calling him anything else now that I think about it.” Seeing his guard start to slip, I sway the conversation, “Did you get those cookies I made for the precinct or did dad eat them all before you could?”

He chuckles during the process of un-cuffing the homeless man. “I had one. That's all he was willing to share.”

I giggle. “That sounds like dad.”

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Prescott tries to interrupt.

My voice rises over hers. “You know what? Why don't I make another batch and drop them off for all of you without telling him first? That way you can help yourselves.”

The other officer finally speaks to me, “You were the one who made the chocolate chip peppermint holiday cookies?”

Giving him a warm smile, I nod. “Yeah. Did you enjoy them Officer...”

“Kenny.” He adjusts his pants. “And I got to sneak two.”

We laugh together at the same time the homeless man is completely freed. He takes two steps towards me, which is when I say, “Why don't you grab my trashcan and roll it into the garage for me? I'll be right over to unlock the door.”

The homeless man nods, picks his backpack up off the ground, and walks away.

Adjusting my shoulder bag once more I apologize, “Sorry for the confusion officers.”

“No worries, Little Jaye Jenkins.” Officer Brallon smiles brightly. “Just talk to your guest about boundaries. Private property.”

“Will do,” I quickly agree.

“This isn't the first time I've seen him in my trashcan!” Mrs. Prescott gripes. “That man is not your friend! He's a bum.”

“Ma'am,” Officer Kenny scolds.

Boldly I state, “Have some respect, Gwenith. You don't know him.”

“You don't either,” she bitterly mumbles.

Sh. Don't agree with her!

“Ladies.” Officer Brallon holds his hands out at both of us. “Let's just agree from this point on to be better neighbors and communicate when we have a problem. Alright?”

“Of course,” I softly sigh seconds before the sleet starts to come between us. “If it's alright, can I go ahead and get inside? Sleet still makes me uncomfortable.”

Officer Brallon's face turns to one of sympathy. “Of course...Stay safe, Little Jaye Jenkins.”

“Thanks.” After giving Officer Kenny a nod as well, I say in a snip, “Good night, Gwenith.”

On my way towards my front door, I overhear the beginning of a lecture about 'unnecessary calls' to the police.

Serves her right. He wasn't looking to steal her Beamer or Prada heels. He probably just wanted something to eat or maybe he was just lingering until I came home. Wow...yeah. Something inside my brain has definitely stopped working.

The homeless man has rolled my trashcan to the garage door and is patiently waiting with his head hung forward.

“Just one second,” I assure and speed up my movements. Hurriedly, I unlock my front door, drop my bags beside it, and rush around the corner to the garage where I open it for him.

He begins to move the trashcan inside just as the officers are slipping back in their vehicle, the sleet slightly increasing. After giving them a wave goodbye, I hit the button to lower it back down.

Once we're officially alone our eyes meet again. Swept away in the glowing shade, my body leans against the door frame.

Is it humanly possible to be this lost just staring into someone's eyes? There's just something there that I can't tear myself away from.

“They're probably going to circle the neighborhood for the next couple hours or so, especially with the way the sleet is picking up. You're going to want to wait here until they've probably gotten a call elsewhere. After that you shouldn't have to worry about seeing them again for a bit. Do you um...have somewhere warm to sleep tonight?”

His body braces itself behind the trashcan. He shakes his head.

My lips press together only briefly hesitating to continue. “Well I have a blow up mattress and there's a helluva space heater out here. My fiancé, um...ex fiancé, used to build model cities out here.” Nonchalantly I point to the covered area. “It was the only hobby he ever had. There were some nights he was up until three in the morning...”

The homeless man's eyebrows twitch.

Realizing I shouldn't have rambled that last part, I draw myself back. “My point was, the space heater actually makes this entire room feel pretty hot. Almost as warm as inside my house. Definitely much warmer than...out there. So....um, what do you think? Wanna sleep here?”

Did my mouth just make a decision before my brain? I'm pretty sure it did because this is crazy. Hell this is beyond crazy. This is insane! There's no way I should invite him to spend the night here! Holy shit! I need to un-invite him. Right now.

My lips refuse to part.

I can't just throw him back out there. No I can't! It would prove to the cops and bitchy Mrs. Prescott that I was lying. Can we say nightmare? Besides, and more importantly, it's starting to basically snow out there. He needs somewhere warm. He needs some sort of actual shelter other than a paper box or whatever he hides in. He could
die
out there.

For the first time since we've met, he speaks. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Even his voice is sexy. Did I say sexy? I...I...Shh.

In a whisper I counter, “Why not?”

He cocks his head at me. Silence fills the room as he continues to stare at me. My lips press together again while I continue drinking in every precisely orchestrated movement. The way his body is struggling to relax. The way his hands are slightly moving in his pockets like he's contemplating something with his fingers.

No. Not to harm me. He's not that kind of man. Trust me. I know. I've got a feeling...

“You're not afraid of me.”

The statement folds my arms. “Why would I be? My dad's a cop. My mom's a doctor. I could stun you and then carve out your organs to donate them to science.” A small smirk tries to join his face. “Besides, I'm always packing some sort of protection and sleep with a Beretta at my bedside. Maybe it's
you
who should be afraid of
me
.”

He chuckles a little. “Maybe...”

The two of us linger in the light laughter, lost to the fact that this moment shouldn't be happening. Lost to the fact we shouldn't be connecting. That we're two strangers living two completely different lifestyles.

Why does that have to be a bad thing? This is the first time since Chris died I've
wanted
to be around another person for longer than five minutes outside of book club. That means something. Even if it shouldn't. And yes. I really am always packing. Pepper spray. Pocket knife. Gun stays home.

“Have you eaten?” As soon as he shakes his head I offer, “How does lasagna sound? It's not made from scratch or anything, but it's still pretty good. I mean I like it.” He doesn't verbally respond but his smile is a suitable answer for me. “What about a shower? You wanna take a hot shower while I get it in the oven? Then we can get the mattress set up. It's gonna take the space heater a little bit to warm up too.” Suddenly it hits me that while everything I am saying is implying invitation with my words, my tone has already decided that he's going to do these things.

I'm not normally this pushy.