Dying For You (2 page)

“Fine, John. Cathy.” John #1 stood to shake her hand. “I hope you’ll be very happy in your new house. I have to say it’s nice that something positive could come out of tragedy.”

“Thanks, John,” she replied, barely listening—she was too busy mentally redecorating her new fixer-upper. Then she shook hands with John #2. “John.” She scooped up the folder with roughly 1,212 pieces of paperwork, and carefully tucked her check in her purse. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll go check out the house.”

My new house.

“Congratulations,” John #2 said.

“Good luck,” John #1 said.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Have a good one.” She skipped out the doorway, remembered herself, then said to hell with it and skipped the rest of the way to her car. The last time she had skipped to anything she had had a consuming interest in Super Balls and Lik ’Em Aid. She still liked Lik ’Em Aid, but everything else had changed.

She drove straight to 1001 Tyler Avenue in St. Paul, Minnesota, parked in
her
driveway, and stared up at
her
house.

Her house.

Even now, she couldn’t believe it was real. All those years of saving, of making a pair of shoes last two years and a suit last four, of going without nice vacations and pricey clothes and fancy cars, lobster tails and caviar—not that she could abide fish eggs, but still—had finally paid off. She was a home owner.

She climbed out of her car—yet another sacrifice to her
new home; it was a 1994 Ford Taurus and it wheezed in the cold—and stood in her yard, then strolled around the—her—property.

The turrets, in particular, delighted her. Like something Rapunzel would hang out in. And the mini-porch up on the roof. The bay windows, the huge kitchen—it seemed especially huge after years of apartment efficiencies.

It definitely needed work. For one thing, the house wasn’t really pink…over the years, the deep red had faded. It had probably looked a lot nicer in 1897. The porch steps looked downright dangerous—a lawsuit waiting to happen—and the fence looked like broken teeth. The garden had been, to put it politely, overrun.

It wasn’t surprising—the woman who had sold the house to Cathy had been, at rough guess, a thousand years old. Not that she had seen the woman, but Cathy knew she was an original descendent of the family who had built the home. Spry she was not. The house had, understandably, eventually been too much for her.

That was all right. That was, in fact, the only reason Cathy had been able to afford a 2,800-square-foot home at her age, on her salary. And she had wanted this place the moment she saw it on the Edina Realty website. Not because it was big, although that was nice. But because it was a home. It had character. And if it needed work, well, Cathy had never been afraid to get her hands dirty.

She heard a pounding and looked over to the yard on her left. A shirtless fellow had his back to her, had something set
up on those whatchamacall’ems—the things you set something on when you were going to hammer them. Or something. Horses? No, that couldn’t be right.

Anyway, the guy was really pounding away, and sweat was gleaming across his broad back. It was only May, but Cathy felt herself start to sweat in response. Oofta. Broad back, narrow waist, tool belt, faded jeans. It was like watching a Bowflex commercial.

He turned, still holding the hammer, and their gazes met across the low hedge. How romantic. She could see how dark his eyes were from all the way across her yard. Gorgeous brown eyes, full mouth, aquiline nose. Strong chin, long neck, broad yummy shoulders. His chest was lightly furred, the hair tapering down to a line leading straight to his, um, belt. He looked like a moody prince, out to do a little carpentry work before running the country.

New house. No more renting. A decent temp job. A yummy next-door neighbor. Oh, lucky, lucky day!

“Well, fuckin’ A,” her prince said. “A new neighbor. Fuckin’ great! Hey, how the fuck are ya?”

Oh dear,
she thought.

“So you’re a temp worker, huh? Like a new job every week?”

“Something like that.” She topped off her neighbor’s water glass. Well, water Dixie cup.

“Can’t hold a job, huh?” He guffawed, throwing his long neck back. She smiled thinly and said nothing. The truth was, she hated to be tied down. Trying a new job every month or so suited her perfectly. “Well, that’s a bitch.”

“Not really. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name…?”

“Ken Allen.”

“I’m Cathy.”

“Aww, Ken and Cathy, that’s kinda cute.”

“Not really. Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do…”

“I’ll help you move in,” he said immediately. She noticed it wasn’t a question.

“That’s okay. You’re busy, and my friends are coming over tomorrow to—”

“You gotta have some stuff with you. Chicks always bring shit with them.”

“As a matter of fact, I do have some shit with me, but you don’t have to—”

He ignored her, got up, and moved toward the kitchen door. “I’ll go get it.”

She trailed after him, uncomfortable and silent. The truth was, she never knew how to behave around strong-willed—okay, obnoxious—people. She herself was more the quiet type. Her best friend was strong-willed enough for the both of them. Give her a book and a cup of tea and she was in heaven. She tended to stay out of the way of such people. Then she’d spend days despising herself for her cowardice, but she was definitely a low-road kind of girl, and that was all there was to it.

“What a piece of shit,” he said upon seeing her car.

“Thank you,” she replied neutrally.

“Friend of mine owns a Chevy dealership. I’ll get you set up.”

“Thanks, but that’s really not—”

“I’ll call him for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, but frankly, after buying a new house, the last thing I need to do is—”

“Go pop the trunk.”

Grinding her teeth, she did so. He’s just being nice, she told herself. A good neighbor.

“Gotta tell you,” he said, lugging her boxes and suitcases
inside with zero strain—ooh, those rippling muscles— “it’s nice to have that fucking old bitch out of here.”

“That’s so sweet.” She’d never met someone so equally handsome and obnoxious. The foul words that kept coming out of that sinfully sullen mouth nearly made her gasp. “And by sweet, I mean vaguely disturbing.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nice to have somebody you can look at, you know? You know, you’d be almost cute if you cut your hair and didn’t button your shirt all the way up.”

“Okay. Well, thanks,” she said as he set down the last of the boxes in her living room. “I’m sure you want to get back to your project.”

“Fuckin’ A. I’ll see you around, Cathy.”

Why did that sound like a threat? She shrugged it off as single-woman paranoia and set about emptying the few boxes she had brought for Closing Day.

“Oh my God!” her best friend and worst enemy, Nikki, gasped and nearly swooned. “Who is
that?
”

“My next door neighbor. You’d like him; he’s vulgar.”

“Don’t tease.” Nikki lasciviously wiggled her eyebrows. “Day-amn! Cute, cute,
cute!
”

“Knock yourself out.” Then, louder as Ken approached, she said, “Good morning.”

“Hey.” He nodded to Nikki. “Hey.”

“Nikki, this is my next door neighbor, Ken Allen. Ken, this is my best friend, Nikki Sheridan.”

“Hey,” he repeated.

“Well, hi there. Nice to meet you.”

“Do you
own
a shirt?” Cathy asked politely. Shirtless Ken
was once again flawlessly, if casually, attired in work boots, jeans, and a tool belt.

“It’s too fuckin’ hot,” he complained. “You’re lucky I’m even helping you move all your shit.”

“So, so lucky,” she replied, annoyed at the amused look on Nikki’s face. They had known each other since the fourth grade and were more like sisters than friends—like a close family member, she often wanted to strangle Nikki, or at least banish her. The flip side was, if anyone ever threatened Nikki, Cathy would take a baseball bat to their frontal lobe. “Thank you for coming over.”

“Yeah.” He turned his back to them and trotted down the porch steps, sidestepping her other friends and wrestling the television out of the back of the rental van.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again: day-amn!”

“He’s obnoxious,” Cathy muttered under her breath.

“Like you could do so much better. If you could, sunshine, you would have by now.”

“Here comes the ‘you’re not getting any younger’ speech.”

“Well, you’re not. You’re on the wrong side of your twenties, girlfriend, and you’ve got a golden opportunity right next door.”

“He’s not what I would call golden,” she commented.

“Golden tan,” Nikki said dreamily. “God, he must work out ten hours a day. In the sun. Getting sweaty. All sweaty in the blazing sun. Ummm…”

“Go for it. You two were made for each other.”

“Meaning I’m an obnoxious bitch,” she said cheerfully,
taking no offense. “Thanks tons. Hey, he wouldn’t be coming over here if he didn’t think you were cute.”

“I’m not cute,” she said coldly. “Kittens are cute. I’m a grown woman.”

“Says the five-foot-nothing shrimp-o,” Nikki said, smugly secure with her five feet, ten inches. “You’ve got to get over the cute thing. It’s not a dirty word, y’know. You’re short, you’re gorgeous, women pay hundreds of dollars to make their hair as curly—”

“Frizzy.”

“—as yours is naturally, and you’ve got Sinatra blue eyes. You’re like a gypsy princess with Sinatra eyes.”

“Why, Nikki. That was almost poetic.” Nikki always saw her friends as gorgeous beauties, which sounded like a good quality, but really was a little on the annoying side. Particularly if you were the type who knew you weren’t beautiful. “I didn’t know you cared.”

Nikki ignored the jibe. “Now you’re getting pissy because he’s attracted to you?”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Hardly anybody does, sugarplum. You’re kind of famous for keeping us all at arm’s length.”

“It certainly doesn’t work on you.”

“No chance, baby,” she said, grinning. “I know I’m your hero.”

“I suspect Ken’s interest in me is strictly of the novelty type.”

“It’s what what of the what?”

“I’m here,” she explained, “like Everest. So he’s interested.”

“So? That’s as good a reason as any to get sweaty with a sexy neighbor.”

“Nikki…”

“Come on, let’s get you moved in.”

Nikki was right, Cathy thought, following her friend to the van. She is my hero. I could never be so relaxed, so fun. So obnoxious and blunt. But I’m not going for Ken, no matter how much she nags me. It just wasn’t meant to be.

However, I have no plans to buy him a shirt in the near future.

She couldn’t find her keys, which was infuriating and, worse, made her want to cry with frustration. She hated,
hated
not being able to find things. It’s why she was still unpacking at 3:00
A.M
. It’s why she decided it was a good time to drive to the local 24-hour supermarket and stock the fridge, so when she got up in the morning—later today, rather—she could have her toast and yogurt and tea.

“Goddammit!” she cried, running her fingers through her frizz—yes, that’s right,
frizz,
never mind how often Nikki admired her hair and said it was curly and, ugh, cute. “Where are you?”

She had a place for them, of course—the drawer in the writing desk in her foyer. That was where they belonged. That was where they
should
be. But she’d lent them to Karl so he could move her car out of the way of the van, and who
knew where he’d put them? Karl was an engineer, so you’d think he was reliable, but the fact was, he was infamous for losing his checkbook, his keys, his contact lens case. What had she been thinking, letting him take her keys?

She’d looked everywhere. Everywhere. If she didn’t find them soon, she was calling Karl, and never mind how late it was. He was probably up, anyway, playing another marathon session of War Craft.

She started going through the kitchen drawers again, which was stupid because she
knew
they weren’t there. Then, oddly, she heard a familiar jingle. She turned…and froze in place as her keys bumped down the back stairs and slid across the floor, stopping two inches from her left big toe.

She was tired.

She was tired, and it had been a long day—a day not over yet—and she was very, very tired. And, apparently, the proud new owner of a haunted house.

“No I’m not,” she said aloud. “I’m just tired. They were probably there all the time and I-I made a little mind movie to explain how they got there.”

The keys, resting beside her foot, suddenly raised themselves up two inches and shook, jangling merrily.

She ran out the back door, but not before she bent and scooped them up.

“Ken! Ken, let me in!” She hammered on the door until her fist went numb. “Ken, I’ve got to come in!”

He opened the door and blinked at her, swaying slightly.
She could smell the beer before he even opened his mouth. “Say, Cathy, hey-hey. Whatchoo doing here?”

She bulled past him and stood in his kitchen, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort. “I—something weird happened and—I’m sorry to bother you so late. It’s just I don’t know anybody in the neighborhood except you and I-I didn’t know what to do.”

“Thass okay.” He was shirtless, and pantsless, splendidly arrayed in navy blue boxers. No tool belt this time. His hairy legs, she wasn’t too rattled to note, were long, lean, and smoothly muscled. “M’glad you came over.” He lurched toward her and clumsily pawed for her breasts, but due to his extreme inebriation, and her extreme shortness, he groped her shoulders instead. “Less go upstairs? Hmmm?”

“On second thought,” she said, removing his hand, “I will take my chances with the ghost. Good night.” She managed to evade his drunken gropings and soon found herself back in her house. Her haunted house.

“Okay,” she said out loud. “Let’s think about this.” Going to Ken had been a stupid mistake—a stupid, hysterical, childish mistake. For God’s sake. She was a grown woman and what had she done? Run away like a coward and shaken like a puppy in a stranger’s kitchen, a stranger she was beginning to really dislike. Because her keys had moved by themselves. Stupid, stupid!