Breaking Even(4)

Maggie's door is shut tight, her music is still softly playing, and there's no crazy lady crashing into cars this morning to disturb her. I'm sure she pulled another late night.

I tiptoe through the house—my morning routine—and finish getting ready for work. When I walk out, my jaw drops. My car is blocked in—again. It's not the fragile Porsche behind me this time, though.

There's a large, black Range Rover with a black-painted brush-guard that is almost touching my falling-apart bumper.

Un-frigging-believable. That ass did it again! I don't know where he keeps his vehicles, but I know he has several. I've seen him drive this one before.

As I stalk to my car, I glance at his house, willing it to burn to the ground with him in it. My mind doesn't grant me the pyrotechnic show I crave, though.

I gauge the few inches he has left me with, and I scowl. I'll have to get Maggie's keys, move her car, then move mine, then move hers back, then get in mine and leave. All because he's a jerk who can't stay on his side of the street.

A string of profanities leave my mouth too loudly, and Ms. Morgan looks over at me while weeding out her dead flowerbed, offering me a disappointed glare. If she wants to point that glare at someone, it should be the dick across the street—not me.

He's so lucky Maggie is anti-gun. Otherwise... I won't go there. I need to get violence out of my head. I've pissed off my neighbor, who is now trying to piss me off for pissing him off.

Headache.

When I make it back inside the house, I see Maggie was wise enough to leave her keys out. She has better foresight than I do, because I sure as hell never saw this coming. Why provoke the crazy woman who bashed in your Porsche's brains? Does he not realize I've lost my mind? There's no telling what I might do in the heat of the moment.

I rush back out to move Maggie's car, but I'm frozen to the ground when I see a smirking devil propped against his doorjamb. I'll no longer refer to him as Mr. Sexy. From now on, he's Mr. Dead Meat.

He idly sips his coffee, his twisted, wicked grin growing ever so slightly as he watches me, waiting for me to show my ass again. Today he's wearing dark denim jeans and a black T-shirt that says “Nirvana” on the front.

I offer him my best I-want-you-dead glower, and he raises his coffee cup in a toasting motion, proving he's proud of his little payback. I hate him. Mr. Dead Meat can go to hell. I'll not be driving into his car today. Mostly because it wouldn't do a damn bit of good, and because my car might fall apart this time.

After playing musical vehicles, I head off to work, praying I don't file anything wrong. I'm sure my boss is going to make me work over just to make up for yesterday.

Just as I park at the museum, something familiar catches my eyes. Then a sickening feeling consumes me as the scene registers in front of me. My heart stops when I see the only man in the world I wish would disappear off the face of the planet.

It's him. John Abbott. The son of a bitch who made me a divorcee just after I turned twenty-five is here, and he's not here alone. A gooey-eyed blonde is draped on his arm, staring happily up at him as he walks out of the museum—where I work.

What's he doing here?

I watch as he unfolds something, and my heart constricts. It's then I realize he's sliding a ring on her finger. He's proposing here? At my work? What... the... hell is going on?

Not that I've been keeping tabs, but I know for a fact they've only been dating for three months. Everyone who knows us always fills me in on his life, even though it should be obvious that I don’t want to hear it.

This is too soon. Has he lost his mind? Or is she just as stupid as I was to think the creep is capable of truly caring about her?

I scan the parking lot for his truck, hoping I'm not parked anywhere close to him. God must be busy, because he doesn't answer my prayer. I’m parked two cars down from him.

I try slumping down in my seat, but it's too late. His eyes lock with mine, and then he tilts his head. At first I think he's going to pass by, pretend as though we're two acquaintances who barely knew each other once upon a time, but then he stops just as he reaches the back of my car, his eyes locked on the rear. Horror spreads over his face, and he drops Barbie's arm to rush over.

“Brin! What the hell happened?” he demands, his eyes pinned toward the back, and I huff loudly when I realize what kept him from just walking on.

He’s what happened. I was too pissed to think straight because of what yesterday was. The ignorant, selfish, stupid asshole. Now I have to face him and only humiliate myself further.

I slowly climb out of the car, wishing I had gone to church more. Maybe then God would have helped me out. Why does it feel like I'm being punished?

***

BRIN

“So he was there getting her ring appraised?” Maggie asks in disbelief, referring to my son of a bitch ex-husband and his shiny new toy that has the Sterling sparkle.