Frayed Rope (19 page)

I leave here exhausted.

I wave at a few of the guys as I make my way toward the exit. It’s dark out. I prefer to train late specifically for the sleep benefit, usually arriving here around seven and getting home around nine.

As usual, Brock watches me leave through the window on the side of the building, and stays there until I’m in my SUV. He’s very protective when it comes to my safety.

We’ve bonded these past few months, and although I turned down his wife's invitation for drinks a few times, he seems to understand and still holds a candle for me. If I were ever in trouble I know he’d help me out. He’s a good person.

I climb in my truck and head for the highway. The gym is only ten minutes from home which is convenient for me. I drive through the small town outside Indianapolis that’s much like the old one in North Carolina, only a little bigger.

Instead of one grocery store there are three, and also many small chain stores that provide anything I need. I haven’t left town much since I moved here simply because I don't need to. There's a small mall on the south side of town that curbs my retail therapy when in need. And instead of having only one liquor store, this town actually boasts one dedicated entirely to wine.

It’s an all-around win, minus the man I once thought highly of who gave quite possibly the best orgasm of my life.

I pull onto the little lane I live on; thinking about the man that still makes me feel warm at times.

Ryder.

I can’t say I hate him, he just deeply disappointed me. I didn't know him long and I’ve been gone for just over two months, but I learned I can put that ‘attraction by proximity theory’ right out the window. At least once a day he crosses my mind, and it’s not for lack of eye candy around here, especially at the gym. But shit happens, we learn to move on, end of story.

I’ve had more than my fair share of offers for companionship. Brock eventually stepped in and put his foot down. I appreciate his protectiveness, even though I can take care of myself in that department. However, it was getting a bit relentless and we both wanted to focus on my training, not worrying which man was going to ask me for drinks next.

Not many women venture into ‘Fist’. It’s mostly a man’s gym, aside from the self-defense classes they offer. The few fake-titted bitches that came to ‘work out’ here quickly moved on.

It’s not spin class and Zumba at Fist. Its sweat, blood and tears. Sadly that would ruin their makeup, so they didn't stay long.

I reach my house and take in my surroundings as usual. My little bungalow is nondescript. It doesn't attract the eye, but it’s not cluttered either. It’s my little grey-sided abode on just under an acre of land.

There are a scattering of trees throughout the property and it’s about a hundred and fifty feet to the river’s edge. I have privacy fencing on both sides of the property and a garage to park my truck in. It’s not my old little cottage style home, but it works for us.

The neighbors on both sides of me are old enough to enter nursing homes. I’ve learned most of the lane seems the same. These houses were built in the fifties and I think the original residents still live in most of them.

It’s quiet, and they don't get out much.

My first week here I had a few knocks on the door and a muffin basket delivered. I learned I don't need to answer the door with a gun in my hand. Not in this neighborhood, but I still keep it close by.

I pull in the paved drive and press the garage door opener. I scan the surroundings once more before pulling in.

I’ve felt extremely ‘off’ the past two days. The lack of sleep from the nightmares, and my random feelings of being watched certainly doesn’t help. The hairs on the back of my neck aren’t standing up so I try my best to shrug it off.

I go through this from time to time; nightmares inflicting my paranoia. I do feel more comfortable now that I’ve been training with Brock. I know my skills have improved immensely and should someone try to attack me they are in for a surprise. I may still be small, but even Brock comments on the strength I’ve gained.

Most people would get excited at something like winning a trip to Vegas; I get a thrill out of knowing I can lay someone on their ass if they try to touch me.

As per usual, I’ll always be different.

I get out of the truck to a happy tail wagging dog, more excitedly than usual. The garage is heated and when I’m gone for more than a few hours I leave her out here. I installed a dog door on the wall and a good sized fenced-in portion outside for her to use when I’m gone.

When I’m home she’s free to the water.

“Why so happy pretty girl, huh?” I reach down and nuzzle her fur.

She smells different. Perhaps old Mr. Clemens from next door brought over his wife’s famous pot roast for her again. He does this once a week when his wife cooks said pot roast because it’s more like beef jerky—his dentures can’t handle it.

I don’t blame him for not wanting to eat it, and Norma appreciates it. Usually he brings it over Sunday night when his wife catches up on her knitting. I don't recall seeing him yesterday, but that's not uncommon since I don't sit staring out the window like most of the old folk who live around here do. Still, it could mean that he brought it over tonight instead while I was at the gym.

I open the connecting door to the house and Norma runs in first. This is our routine. If someone is in there, she’ll let me know.

I watch her make the rounds through the hallway to the two bedrooms, and then back toward me. She heads towards the couch and sits down.

All clear.

When I first moved in there was a wall separating the kitchen from the living room. I hired a contractor to clean it up after I took a sledge hammer to the drywall keeping them apart. He then cut out the two-by-fours and made what's basically a large opening above the counter to the ceiling. It’s not an island with kickass barstools, but now I have a clear view to all exits from the kitchen and living room.

I paid him cash and he quickly went on his way.

I haven’t done any decorating here, just demolition. Most walls are all still white and the linoleum floors are clean enough that I didn't replace them. I bought a giant area rug, cheap furniture for the living room and a bedroom set.

That's it.

There’s one small hallway that has two doors off the living room. On one side is the master bedroom, which holds my small double bed, nightstand and a dresser. The closet is useless but wide enough to hang a few items.

The other bedroom is my makeshift closet. No furniture, just a few clothing racks and my safe bolted through the old dingy carpet inside the closet there.

Off the kitchen is a small bathroom with a tub-shower combo, pedestal sink and a toilet. It has the essentials but holds none of the flare my old home did. I know deep down I haven't made this place my home because it’s not that—a home. I have no intention of living here forever. It’s merely middle ground to get my shit together and have somewhere to sleep at night.

It’s plain and it’s ugly. It will also be a whole lot easier to leave behind.

I head into the kitchen for a glass of wine and some cheese. I never replaced anything in here either. The older yellow appliances still remain; that and the melamine countertops pulling it all together. I grab what I need from the fridge and head toward the bedroom.

I have a small flat screen on the dresser. I fire it up as I change into my sleepwear. A hefty glass of wine and some mindless television should put me to sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

I’m in the middle of flipping eggs when there's a light knock at the door. Norma barks and heads in that direction before plopping her hefty ass on the floor.

Neighbors.

I’ve gotten a lot better with this; a few old birds out for a walk once a week or so want to talk about their lovely grandsons who would be pleased to meet me. I’ve softened to their tactics but firmly state I’m not interested at the moment.

‘Bad divorce and all,’ is my story.

I peek out the curtained window and see Greta on my front stoop. She’s pushing seventy and doesn't leave the house much, other than for her bridge club on Wednesday and church on Sunday. She’s invited me a few times but I think she took the hint I too don't like to leave the house much. I also don’t play bridge, nor am I religious.

“Hi Greta, what can I do for you?” I ask the old bird. It’s nine in the morning and she’s dressed in her usual attire of a silk blouse with shoulder pads, which are always lopsided, and a long skirt with nude stockings and open toed shoes. It’s the old bird getup around here.

I don't judge.

“Hello, Miss Elle. Hope I didn't disturb you?” she asks.

Unwanted knocking without a calling card would make Greta say a few extra Hail Mary’s at church if she thought she inconvenienced me.

“No worries Greta, just making breakfast. Everything okay?”

I’m not usually so attentive with people, but this little lane filled with senior citizens makes me feel responsible for them somehow.

Last month I called an ambulance for old Mrs. Butler’s husband who had fallen from his walker and busted up his hip getting the mail. These people are not threatening and I do what I can to help them.

“Oh yes dear, we’re all okay. I was just wondering if you had a friend in town. I saw a man here yesterday but he seemed to be right at home. If you’re dating again Miss Elle I was hoping you could maybe see my grandson this weekend?”

I blank out at that point.

A man.

At my house.

I need details.

“Greta! I’m sorry; your grandson is a fine young man. But could you please tell me who it was you saw yesterday? What did he look like? Did he have a car?”

She’s taken aback for a moment before she seems to gather herself to respond.

“Oh Miss Elle, I don't want to cause any trouble. This not being the marital home yet and all, but he seemed to know the place and your puppy, so I assumed he was someone special like, you know?” the kind old bird replies.

No, I don't know. But I can’t startle her any more than I have.

“It’s okay Greta, I just haven't had many visitors yet and I was out late last night. Can you tell me anything else?” I ask, kindly trying to coax the details out of her.

“Well dear, he was a big man. That puppy of yours was sure happy to see him. But I don't know what kind of man he is dear; he had those tattoos all over his arms that everyone seems to get now. I hear most people get those in the prisons so I hope he’s not a bad man.”

She’s shaking her head at the disbelief that people mar their bodies with art, but I know the minute she mentioned them who she's talking about.

There's only one man that Norma loves who’s covered in tattoos on his arms. Well, two men. She’s met Brock and loved him from the get go; another sign to me that he’s a good man.  Any other man and she would have ripped the fence apart.

It can only be him though.

Ryder’s found me.

It’s the only option since I was with Brock last night. However, I went to dinner and did some shopping before the gym so it could’ve been him. His wife has made him stop by a few times with her baked goods from the café she owns. Brock has also been around, or close enough to wave when he’s out jogging sometimes.