What the hell? I go to my living room window and look out to see a gaggle of the neighborhood’s divorcee residents gathered on the sidewalk outside next door and a big black truck parked in the driveway.
Damn, a new neighbor already? That was quick . . . but what’s with the Desperate Housewives Welcoming Committee?
I step outside, closing my door behind me to keep Nut and Juice inside, and approach the group. One of the ladies moves aside, and in an instant, I can see why they’re being so welcoming.
There’s a man standing there. I can only see him from the back. He’s pulling something out of his truck, but what I see is tall and broad and tapered in that sexy upside-down triangle shape. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, a simple combo that on him could melt the sidewalk, from the looks of things.
Ah, the mating dance of the suburban divorcee, I muse as I get closer. Next step will be bringing over a cake or some cookies. After that . . . a casserole. All to get a taste of that eggplant.
Why can I funny in my head and not on paper? Before I can think about that and lead to thoughts of my missing laptop, I crane my neck to get a better look at my new neighbor’s ass, which seems vaguely familiar in a pair of well-worn Levi’s that make me consider taking out stock in the jeans.
“Jeez, you’re really getting hard up if you’re recognizing asses,” I murmur to myself, “especially when you need to be handling this crisis and not . . .”
The guy turns, and shock hits me hard.
I know that face.
I do know that ass . . . and that asshole! It’s the security guard with a C or K name who stole my laptop!
Before I can even process, my body is moving totally on instinct-fueled rage. I run across the yard, hopping the little knee-high border fence between my yard and Helen’s former yard, and launch myself at the man’s back with a Valkyrie screech promising death and dismemberment. Not necessarily in that order.
“You rat bastard son of a bitch!”
I land on him hard, my shoulder right in his low back, and he takes a startled step forward, dropping whatever he was carrying before spinning in circles, this way and that. “What the fuck?” he asks, trying to twist me off.
But I’m a bull terrier, hanging on and growling with grit and determination. This man has my goods, and I’m not leaving without them.
“Poppy?” Jane from a few houses down says questioningly. “You know him?”
“Yes, I fucking know him,” I growl between clenched teeth.
He tries to reach behind himself to pull me around when I shift, climbing up his back and starting to pummel his head and shoulders with a fist. “Where is it? Where is it?” I yell with each punch. “Where is it?”
He switches to reach over his shoulder, but I’m a spider monkey, not letting go even though my punches seem to have no effect. His back and shoulders are rock hard, thick with muscle, and his skin’s so warm . . . No! Poppy, focus!
I squeeze my thighs around his waist, climbing higher to go for his face. Fuck it, even a superhero’s gotta protect his eyes. “I’m gonna kill you . . . filet you open like a fish and gut your insides and then choke you with your own intestines.”
Yup, I do have a way with words on occasion.
But words don’t win fights like this, and suddenly, I’m flipped neatly over his shoulders. I have about a blink for my mind to suddenly go wheeeeeee! before I’m dropped back-first onto the grass. I’m stunned as my breath is knocked out of me, and the moment’s loss of focus is all he needs. He scrambles, half cartwheeling over me and pinning my shoulders with a thick forearm across my chest while his knee pins my hips down. I writhe and wiggle beneath him, still yelling and cursing a blue streak.
“What the fuck, woman?” he roars from inches away.
I blink in surprise, the reality of the situation hitting me. I attacked him. He threw me over his shoulder like I weigh no more than a rag doll. His thigh is between mine. Our breath is mingling hotly between us.
He stole my fucking book!
The fury of hundreds of sleepless nights, of writing and deleting incessantly, of questioning myself endlessly, of creating something born of my soul, only to have it ripped away, ignites in a mushroom cloud of destruction, demanding justice. I bring my knee up sharply, slamming him right in his junk.
He grunts in pain, falling over to the grass beside me in the fetal position. “You kicked me in the fucking ballbag,” he snarls.