Crashed (Mason Brothers 2)

So instead of thinking about the dark, I looked up my neighbor.

It was easy because of the Civic, of course. There were a dozen ways I could have found her, but a basic hack into the DMV database with the make, model, and license plate gave me everything I wanted to know.

Her name was Tessa Hartigan. She was twenty-seven. Her permanent address was in California, so either she was visiting or she hadn’t changed her address yet. Judging by her luggage, it could be either one.

I could have stopped there, but I didn’t. I opened another browser and did a Google search. She had no Facebook account, no social media at all except Instagram. The avatar was her face, and the description said Model. Sagittarius. Chocolate chip cookie lover. Contact me for bookings!

A model? I clicked into her feed.

And froze.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

There was my neighbor, posed with her hands on her hips, a pleasant smile on her face. She had sheer pink lipstick on and darkly made-up eyes. Her blonde bob was tucked behind her ears. She was wearing black lace panties, a black lace bra, and nothing else.

The caption said, Check out the sexy winter line from LoveIt Lingerie in LA! Link in my bio!

The next photo was from the same shoot, except the bra and panties were hot pink. Tessa Hartigan had only one hand on her hip and she was laughing. The caption said, Outtake from yesterday’s shoot. We had so much fun!

There were more. Lots more. The shots weren’t erotic—they were catalog shots, meant to sell a product.

My new neighbor was a lingerie model.

“Great,” I said out loud to no one, my voice a croak. “That’s just fucking great.”

Instead of the elderly Mrs. Welland, I now had a hot-as-fuck woman living acr

oss the street. One who took most of her clothes off for a living. One who I could look at in lingerie anytime I wanted to.

And all I could feel was panic. My blood pounded in my head, inside my ears. My throat was dry. She’s none of your business, the voice in my head said. She’ll never come near you. Never talk to you. You’ll never have a fucking thing to do with her, and you know it.

I clicked the browser with Instagram closed. Then I clicked into the database sites and logged out, closed them too.

My hands were icy. I closed my laptop, put it on the bedside table. “None of my fucking business,” I said aloud, to no one. Because I was alone.

I picked up my phone and swiped through my security apps. I controlled the lights, the locks, and all the appliances in my house through the dashboard, and I checked to make sure everything was as it should be. Then I clicked to turn out the bedroom lights. I put the phone down and lay back in the dark.

I closed my eyes and saw Tessa Hartigan in the pink lingerie on the backs of my eyelids. Then in the black lingerie.

“Fuck,” I said aloud.

It was a long time before I fell asleep.

Three

Tessa

* * *

“Nancy,” I said, “I’m begging you. You have to help me. I’m stuck in goddamned Michigan.”

On the other end of the phone, my agent laughed. “Well, I told you,” she said. “You should have stayed in L.A.”

I sighed. I was in my bedroom, still wet from the shower and wearing a bathrobe. I fiddled with the thermostat, trying to make it go colder. It was hot in here. “What was I supposed to do?” I said. “My grandmother died and left me a house. A free house. What would you do if you were given a free house?”

“Me?” Nancy said. “Probably sell it and use the money to buy Fendi bags. Anything other than moving to Michigan.”

“I thought it would be nice to live in a house for once,” I said, poking the thermostat again. “I have more than one room to myself here instead of living with roommates in a shitty L.A. apartment. There are lawns here. Sprinklers. Kids on bikes, if you can believe it. There’s almost no smog and nothing’s on fire.”