And unlike Aunt Sara, my parents conditioned me to replace dreams with decisions based on fear. I miss being easily inspired and believing anything’s possible. I want that back. That’s why I came, and I’m not going home until I find it.
CHAPTER FOUR
June 3, 2013
Levi
Being alone hasn’t helped me sleep any better than the comfort of being curled up next to a soft, warm body did this week. My room is still dark when I roll out of bed to go outside to get my morning paper. It’s quiet; only a few cars driving along the Pacific Coast Highway. Then again, it’s not even six o’clock in the morning. When I bend over to get the Journal, I notice a red BMW 6 Series convertible parked next door. Nice wheels. But I’m bummed someone finally rented that house.
That vacant property had afforded me extra privacy. I love this beach, but the houses are almost flush to one another. The downside of all the windows offering ocean views is seeing bits and pieces of your neighbor’s activities each day. At least my house is more elevated, making it harder for them to see me than for me to see them.
I hope my new neighbor likes his or her privacy as much as I enjoy mine.
I’ve spent my adult life relaxed and comfortable in my solitude—at least I did up until last week. But lately images and memories of my pop are throwing me off my game. Perhaps the brutal nature of his death’s haunting me.
Not that I’m surprised by the turn of events. You can’t play with people’s lives and not expect blowback. Given enough time, Pop was sure to cross the wrong person. He’d been convinced he’d be a little smarter and faster than the next guy. But you don’t have to be a statistics guru to know no one indefinitely outsmarts everyone.
Yet, the norm of a grifter’s life—the rush of the unknown, the thrill of a chase, and the excitement of an against-all-odds victory—has an addictive quality. My Vegas trips are becoming more frequent to satisfy my appetite for adventure. Unlike my pop’s games, though, the only person harmed by my ill-advised habit is myself. With my expertise, that doesn’t happen too often, however.
Queasiness unfurls when I consider the idea of Pop looking down the barrel of a gun knowing he was gonna die. Did he think of me? And now I’m alone . . . really alone. I cut him out of my life, but the finality of never being able to talk to him again suffocates me. If ever the turn of phrase “deafening silence” applied to my life, this is certainly the occasion.
My throat tightens as I digest the circumstances of his death without distractions. If he hadn’t carried my name and address in his wallet, how long might he have remained unclaimed? Will anyone shed a tear over his demise? Will that be me one day, dying alone and, for all intents and purposes, leaving no one and nothing behind? Do I care? Maybe I do and that’s why I can’t sleep anymore.
Ah, to hell with this pity party. I’ve got shit to do. Life to live.
I set up shop on my deck to browse the Journal. An hour later, I refill my coffee and go stand at the railing to peek at the morning activity on the beach. I stretch my torso, holding my hands clasped behind my head. It’s still early, just before seven. Not much happening, so it’s easy to spot the girl on the beach not far from my house.
At first she’s facing the ocean. Her almond-brown ponytail and lean, athletic legs make me eager for her to spin around and give me a full view. When she finally turns sideways, I notice her cheeks are stained pink. She’s got a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Unlike the Barbie from yesterday, and the many other underfed, plastic-surgery guinea pigs in LA, this girl’s naturally pretty.
When she approaches my house, I scowl. Why’s she coming my way? Does she know me? Something about her is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her. One might write it off as “one of those faces,” but she’s memorable, and I’m good with faces. Perhaps I’ve seen her in the local markets or bars. Must be it.
When I realize she’s actually heading toward the house next door, I’m relieved and slightly intrigued. Leaning my forearms against the railing, I watch her start up the steps to her own deck. A pleasant hum reverberates through me, so I indulge the feeling.
She must sense my stare, because she glances up, causing me to freeze in the spotlight of her owlish, golden-brown eyes. After regaining my composure, I nod.
“Howdy, neighbor. Nice mornin’ for a run.”
She halts for a second, blinking almost as if she’s seen a ghost. Recovering quickly, she tips her chin and offers a thin smile before continuing inside. My brow lowers at the slight.
Frickin’ ice princess. Can’t even stop and say good morning to a new neighbor? Does she think I’m coming on to her? She doesn’t have to worry about that from me. I’ve established rules, and neighbors make for bad bedfellows. If she’s frigid, that’s fine with me. I’m not looking for friends. I’d best be getting back to my work anyway.