Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

Three: no PT? Camilla said he had spinal surgery. I haven’t seen him leave the house once. Not once. Not for a doctor’s appointment. Not for physical therapy. Much to my chagrin, his tricked-out Suburban has not moved out of the garage once.

I’ve been walking on eggshells since we got here, knowing he and his sausage could make an appearance at any minute. It would be really nice for me if he vacated the premises permanently, but since that isn’t happening I’ll take a few hours. Granted, it’s only been a handful of days. I’ll officially start to worry if this persists for longer than a week.

“I’m okay, getting better every day…I know…I can’t wait to see you…”

He turns a quarter of the way toward me and my jaw drops. I cannot believe my eyes. Hendricks is grinning like a teenage boy at his first crush, nodding at whatever “honey” is saying. And he looks happy. I had no idea that was even possible.

See, Amanda. The possibilities are truly endless. Even Hendricks has a honey that makes him happy.

He shoves a hand into his basketball shorts and cups himself, then scratches. Nice. There goes my morning.

After breakfast, Sam and I are about to head out when I decide to alert our unwelcomed houseguest that I need to leave Roxy home. This is the first time and I’m a little nervous about it. Although, he doesn’t strike me as an animal abuser. That would require him to be awake and he doesn’t do that often.

The music playing very loudly steers me in the direction of the pool area. The moment I open the glass patio doors I’m assailed by––

“Picture this, Imma bag of dicks. Put me to your lips…”

The heck? Even though Sam is headed to the car, he’s known to make surprise appearances and this is not the kind of music––if you can call it that––that small ears should be subjected to.

What a surprise. I find Hendricks by the pool, sprawled upon a lounge chair like it’s his job to tan. With sweat beading all over him and his swim trunks riding indecently low, he makes quite a sight. I’m pretty sure I see intimate hair that I should not be seeing on a stranger ever. And let’s not forget his favorite shades covering his eyes.

I feel like I’m hosting a throwback episode of MTV Beach House. All that’s missing is the underage girls in bikinis and God help him if I return to find any of those in the house.

I walk up to the foot of his lounge chair.

“I will punch a baby bear in his shit…”

“Uh, Hendricks?”

“We the best. We will cut a frowny face in your chest, little wench…”

“Hendricks. Yoo-hoo.”

“Nobody talk nobody get choked…”

“Hendricks!” The music continues, drowning out my voice. Hendricks appears to be deaf again because he doesn’t even twitch.

I walk over to the touch pad on the wall that controls the fancy sound system. It reads Nobody Speak by DJ Shadow. I hit the off button and march back to the ill-mannered giant, nudging the enormous bare foot hanging off the chair.

“What?” he half-grunts.

I can’t tell if his eyes are closed behind the kiddie glasses, or if he’s glaring at me. My skin starts to crawl so my money is on glaring. “Is it okay if I leave Roxy here? Inside?”

“Who?”

“My dog. She won’t bother you. I don’t want to leave her in the car––she’s black and…and…”

I’m rambling. He’s got me flustered again, dang it. In my defense there’s a miasma of negative energy around this guy and it’s making me jumpy.

“Suit yourself, lady.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns his back to me, tucking in sideways for yet another nap.

“Umm, thank you.”

I hope he gets sun poisoning.

The rest of the day is about as perfect a day as I can remember. Sam and I hit the farmers market and pick up fresh vegetables and fruits, some homemade jams and saltwater taffy. I take pictures for our business Instagram account. After we grab a burger for lunch, we walk along the shoreline.

Sam looks happy here. Which makes my heart get real big inside my chest and a knot form in my throat. It makes me feel like I’m finally doing something right.

Before heading home we hit the supermarket. I love cooking. I enjoy it almost as much as I enjoy eating. I couldn’t do the latter for the past eleven years, while I was modeling, so once I gave that up let’s just say I made up for lost time. Cooking became a hobby. So did consuming everything I could get my hands on.

When you’ve deprived yourself for as long as I had, all rational thought goes out the window. A pound of raw cookie dough suddenly sounds like a completely reasonable idea for dinner. I gained forty pounds and high cholesterol.