Frayed Rope (5 page)

Something I’ve learned about living in the USofA is that pretty much every town has a store related to hunting and fishing. Thus my latest form of protection is the two knives that sheath into the lining of my boots.

Easy, accessible and they could possibly save my life. One can never be too careful. After what I’ve been through, I assert the true meaning of preparedness.

I also made a getaway bag that stays stashed in my SUV. Under the floor covering in the back and above the spare tire is a bag containing five thousand in cash, a change of clothes with cheap flip flops and a prepaid credit card. Enough essentials to get me back to Denver if I ever need to flee.

I opened up a safe deposit box at the bank two towns over to stash some money. The rest I put into a small bank account to give me access to a debit card. I still mostly pay in cash wherever I go, but putting down six thousand in cash on furniture at the small store in town may have raised some questions. For instances like these I use the debit card.

Now that my coffee is finished and the sun is up, I decide to head into town to pick up some groceries. Minus the essentials, my fridge has been pretty bare since I moved here. I love to cook so it’s time to stock up on spices and fresh food so I can get back to eating regular meals.

Chapter Five

I choose to shop in Jacksonville since I have a long list of things I’d like to pick up and need bigger stores. I’ve decided my closet needs to be filled as well as the pantry and the fridge.

I throw on my typical going out attire which today is a sensible loose dark grey top that hangs slightly over my shoulders paired with dark skinny jeans tucked inside knee high brown boots. I make sure my knives are concealed in place, throw on a light scarf to hide the minor scarring that's still on my neck and put on wide leather cuff bracelets to hide the dark marks still covering my wrists.

I lock the front of the house and bid Norma farewell. She doesn't like not being able to come with me but it’s getting warmer outside and it will be too long of a wait for her in the truck.

When I pull out of my driveway, I take in my surroundings for any notable changes. This too is the norm for me now. On the other side of the lane leading to my new home are mostly trees and small hills. It would be tough to notice any changes there but I still look for dangers every time I leave the house.

I drive closer to the neighbor’s home and note the emptiness of the place. Someone comes to tend to the lawn and I’m sure I saw a woman walking out with what looked like cleaning supplies one day. But other than that, it’s pretty silent.

A truck was there last night but it’s gone this morning. I’m constantly assessing my surroundings so I know the truck is not one I’ve seen before. I also know it’s a newer model Ford, black in color. I scan the area once again, memorizing the landscape.

Quiet.

No people.

No threat.

The home is bigger than mine with newer renovations. The board and batten-style home is a graphite color and if the chunky outdoor furniture and grill are any indication, I assume he lives alone. The dark home with its lack of foliage strictly screams ‘man’.

I’m assuming he too must be like most of the families around here that have dedicated themselves to serving this Country because the home is way too nice to be left empty for any other reason.  A little landscaping and a few potted plants is really all that's lacking around the clean lines of the home.

Mind out of the architectural gutter, Elle. Time to shop.

* * *

Jacksonville is the closest city, and by that I mean it has more than two stoplights. I grew up in a small rural town of a few thousand people and though the bigger towns and cities are a necessity for most, I choose not to live directly in the middle of one.

Too many unknown variables.

Too many risks.

I could’ve handled it all a few years ago. Hell, I could’ve handled anything, but not anymore. This chapter in my life is all about risk assessment and planning ahead. Two things I didn’t even blink at before.

My old life was one of spontaneity and taking risks. I didn’t strategically plan where to stay on vacation or what I was going to do when I got there.

I didn't assess each person on the street or in the store like they could be hiding a Ka-Bar behind their back ready to stab me to death.

I also spoke, made jokes and made the odd idle friendly chit chat with strangers. Not often, but it happened depending on my mood.

Lost in thought I miss my turn for the clothing chain I wanted to hit, so I make my way through suburbia to get myself turned around. I’ll hit the food stores last so it’s not rotting in the truck while I debate skinny or boot cut jeans.

I’m in no rush today.

My windows are down; the weather is mild, Avenged Sevenfold pounds through my speakers as a cigarette burns between my fingers. It’s truly the simple things that give me happiness these days, if only a little. I could almost smile if it didn't make me feel so goddamn guilty for doing so.

Most people would say you should smile as often as you can, you’re alive.

Most people would also say life is a gift.

I most days however, see it as a punishment.

I wait at a stop sign for an old granny across from me to pass through the intersection. It’s a four way stop and she stopped first. However, I think she decided to take a nap because the old bat hasn’t moved an inch since she stopped—an hour before me.

“What the hell grandma, move your ass!” I shout through the windshield.  Patience is not a virtue I possess.

Still no movement on her behalf.

To go or not to go?

I don't need an accident written up on my driving record; even if it would be her fault for t-boning me in the middle of the street. 

Lay low; don’t attract any unwanted attention to yourself, Elle.  

I chant the ol’ man Tiny’s words to myself and notice she’s staring in her side mirror, assessing what's behind her. I lean over my steering wheel to look down the street and see a group of shirtless sweat-ridden men heading our way.

“Huh. Maybe granny didn’t need a nap after all,” I say to myself.

Dirty old bird.

I’d like to say I’m not affected since my need for men has significantly dwindled since the attack. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a hot blooded female, I just haven’t wanted the attention. I’m also reluctant to bare my scars and stripes.

The questions
that
would bring could blow my cover in this small town, so it’s not worth it. I should also accept the fact it sure as shit isn’t pretty to look at either.

Men with scars are badass—for women, not so much.

Maybe one day, in the dark, if he has his hands tied behind his back so they can’t make their way up mine to feel the ridges and flaws. Maybe then, under those circumstances, I could be intimate with someone again.

Until that day, I suppose there’s no harm in looking.

Or in this case, eye fucking.

Five of them are jogging. From a distance they look relatively similar. All around the six foot mark, most with tattoos along their arms or neck. I’m guessing most are mid-thirties. The only thing that truly sets them apart at this distance is hair length and color.

The man closest to granny’s side of the street captures the most attention as they edge closer. Well, should I say my attention? Beautifully tanned skin, longer inky dark hair that brushes the back of his neck and what looks like tribal fire in black burning up his left arm. His face is stuck on a scowl most likely from the exertion if I judge by the amount of sweat pouring off his body. Light scruff coats his jaw and for the first time in what feels like a century I wonder what it would feel like between my legs.

Fuck Elle, get your shit together.

Most of the men have sunglasses on so eye color is a miss at this point. I haven’t really taken in any other predominant features from the rest of the group because I can’t take my eyes off Mr. Broody leading the pack.

One of the men bringing up the rear breaks off and heads to granny’s car. Two more follow, it’s apparent they must know each other. Either that or this golden girl has more game than I do when it comes to picking up men. Mind you she could be their grandmother. The silver lining here is she seems occupied enough that I begin to carry on through the intersection to get started on my shopping.

I reach over to dump my smoke in the half-empty water bottle in the cup holder and hear a bang on the hood of my vehicle. I slam on my breaks and note the pack leader leaning on the hood of my truck, the scowl still on his face.

I know for a fucking fact I didn't hit the broody prick, he was still on the sidewalk when I edged through the intersection!

“What?” I scream over the music at the smug-looking bastard.

He walks toward the passenger window and leans his forearms on the door.

“That shit’ll kill you one day. Or perhaps it’ll kill the innocent man about to jog through the intersection while you were too preoccupied trying to put out that smoke.”

I’m slack jawed at a voice that could melt the panties off a nun, but the racing of my heart from shock is enough to make me remain pissed off.

I’m debating putting my foot back on the accelerator and flooring it so I can wipe that smug fucking look off his face but I don't want to be charged for careless driving and I’m positive that from where he stands assessing me he’s already clocked my size, weight, zodiac symbol and has memorized the tags on the vehicle. I gather up all the calm I can before I reply.

“Thank you for your concern, surgeon general, however last time I checked anyone old enough to buy a pack is entitled to abuse them as often as they wish. And unless you ran out into the street prior to looking in both directions which, may I add is knowledge ingrained into even the smallest of children’s minds, then it’s due to your own fucking stupidity that you almost dented my vehicle. Now, if you’ll kindly take your hands off of my truck, I’ve got shit to do.”

What started out as my sweet voice turned bitter the moment I heard myself. My voice is still so goddamn raspy from being strangled half to death. I was told it may never return to normal. It’s not so much that it’s a bad voice, it’s just not the one I’m used to hearing due to lack of use. My innocent rant turned heated, now I just want to get the fuck out of here.

The stunned look on his face even though I can’t see his eyes is almost enough to make me want to apologize. Almost. To hell with it, I put my truck back into drive as he backs up so I can continue on my way.

“FUCK!”

I bang my hands on the steering wheel and speed toward the shopping center. What started out as a good day is quickly going down the shitter.

I know the only reason I’m pissed is because I’m attracted to him. Deep down I know he’s someone the old me would’ve flirted with and soon took home.

But when your voice and looks are nothing like they used to be, whether for the better or worse, it still makes a woman feel like a fraud. Add in a new name to boot and it’s full on fucking actress. I don’t know if I could play that game, being a different person with a man?

Who am I kidding; I’m different regardless of the voice, the new name and face. I changed a long time ago and there’s no turning back now.

* * *

Four stops and many stores later, I’m heading back home. It’s almost supper time now and I have a pile of shit to get into the house before it gets dark. When I turn the corner onto my lane I notice the black Ford truck from last night backed in the drive in front of my neighbor’s house.

The front door is propped open and whatever is in the back is being unloaded into the house. Maybe my neighbor has returned home and is restocking his pantry much like I’m about to do. Or maybe he’s not unloading, but loading and moving out.

I pull around the bend into my driveway and park the truck as close as I can get to the door. Norma is barking in the house and I’m sure it’s at the neighbor since she should be used to the sound of my vehicle by now. This is one of the reasons I don’t mind leaving her at home. Any dog owner can tell whether it’s a frantic bark or a ‘
hurry and let me the heck out, gotta pee’
kind of bark. It’s another security feature for me, much like the squeaky hinges on the front door.

She waddles outside while I prop open the door. I don't mind shopping, but carrying a hundred bags in makes me want to consider delivery next time.

I’m on my last load of canned goods when the damn bag rips open and sends soup and spaghetti sauce rolling in every direction from the porch to the house. A heavy soup can hits my kneecap on the way down.