Mona smiles. “That was worth it.”
Chapter 5
You would think things would get better after the first few days. That we would fall into a routine of sorts and everyone––and when I say everyone, I mean the resident criminal––would behave as required by his court-ordered mandate.
You would be wrong.
Following the trailer incident, I catch Aidan (with the help of my trusty new binoculars) going for a jog around the ranch. He’s hard to miss because––and no, I’m not joking––all he has on are black boxer briefs, a pair of fluorescent yellow running sneakers, a red bandana wrapped around his head, and 70s Elvis sunglasses hiding his eyes. Oh, and let’s not forget the ankle monitor.
It’s about ninety degrees and as arid as a summer in Kandahar. The jog doesn’t last very long, under twenty minutes. And that’s a good thing, otherwise I would’ve had to pull out my med bag.
The next time I spot him, while I’m loading the hay on the cart by myself, he’s on the roof of his trailer kicking back on a beach chair, catching rays and smoking a cigar. Not gonna lie, I was a little peeved.
Am I a prison warden? No, I am not. I can’t make this guy do anything. The question is: can he and his henchmen make me sign the court documents that swear he is complying?
By the time I finish night check, around 8:30, I’m ready to take a shower and crash. “Night, my babies,” I say on my way out. “Sleep well and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Beautiful old and young faces stare back at me. We’ve lost two rescues overnight due to old age, and ever since then, I get a little nervous at night, not knowing what I might find in the morning.
At the barn door, I spot Shane Hughes coming back from a run and my feet come to a sudden stop. Looks like this Hughes inherited all the smarts in the family and left none for his younger brother. Running at night when it’s cool and comfortable and he’s in no danger of dying from sunstroke is definitely the smarter choice.
Without thinking, I turn off the lights so he can’t see me. And no, I’m not ready to examine why, though I have a pretty good idea.
He stops in front of the guesthouse and wipes his face with the hem of his USMC t-shirt with the arms cut off. Technically, you’d call this a muscle shirt, which is fitting in this scenario because this dude has plenty of them. His shoulders are round and hard and attached to equally-sculpted biceps.
My eyes take in every little detail. The ones that they haven’t already taken in. His strong hands and blunt fingers. The veins snaking up from his wrist to his forearm. The bulge of his pecs under the sweaty t-shirt. The swell of his butt under the silky shorts.
I’m going to hypocrite’s hell for this. Which is way worse than the regular kind because you’re forced to act out all the things you detest most.
Breathing deeply, hands on his hips, Shane Hughes eyeballs his brother’s trailer a few times. Something tells me he’s wants to go over, but he takes two steps in that direction and stops. Watching the trailer, he continues cooling off, grabbing his toes from behind to stretch his quads.
What the heck is going on between these two brothers? I now realize I haven’t seen them in each other’s company once since they arrived. Not even having a conversation.
I stow that thought for another day because right now I’m much too distracted by the peepshow. Moving on to his legs, they’re toned and cut like the rest of him. He takes the hem of the shorts that skim the top of his knees and hikes them up, exposing thigh muscles that would make an NFL running back green with envy. Then he bends at the waist to loosen his hamstrings. Almost instantly my skin feels tight, shrink wrapped, my ears red hot. When I start to sweat, I know it’s time to stop.
This is indecent behavior. Mine, that is. He’s just an innocent victim. Why am I standing in the dark, staring at this man like I’m at a strip club and I have a right to get hot and bothered? You know you have to take stock of your life when you find yourself acting like a pervert.
He straightens, ruining all my fun, and walks inside. Part of me is a little disappointed, but with the all-clear, it’s time for me to get back to real life.
I make a beeline for the farmhouse when music suddenly blasts from Aidan’s trailer. Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit. My deep sympathies for any woman who gets involved with this clown. As gorgeous as he is—and empirically speaking, he’s close to perfection—he’s really not worth the trouble.
Behind me, the lights come on and the sound of a door opening stalls my flight.
“Hey,” a deep voice calls out.
I turn slowly and find Shane standing a few feet away, still dressed in his running gear, a hand towel hanging around his neck.
“Hi.”
It’s the first time we’ve spoken since the day he talked his way onto this property, so I’m not sure what to expect.
The sconces on the guesthouse cast enough light for us to get a good look at each other. Thanks to my prior lurking episode, I do a decent job of maintaining a neutral, if not completely unaffected, expression. There’s nowhere for me to hide my appearance, however.
The sweaty hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun ain’t going anywhere. Nor are the hands made dirty by hours caring for animals. Other than maybe in the pockets of my baggy jean shorts. I’m past pretending I’m fit for decent company at this hour anyway.
His forehead wrinkles in question. “What are you doing out here?”
“Night check on the animals.” I motion with my thumb at the barn. “I do it every night. I was headed back to the house when the entertainment started.”
We both glance at the trailer, the music still playing loudly. From his profile, I can see his jaw flex, the tension written on every hard line of his handsome face. Something is going on here that I need to get to the bottom of.
“He hasn’t shown up for his community service once since he arrived.”
Shane nods. “I know.” His voice is low and troubled. I was under the impression that Shane had been in and out, largely absent from what was going on, but it sounds like he’s been keeping tabs on his brother.
“Maybe you can talk to him?” I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. This shouldn’t be my problem. This is exactly why his brother is living in my house. Let him play big bad daddy. “Or I can call Jules.”
“I’ll talk to him.” He pauses, lips pursed as if he’s debating saying something else. “Can we keep his… behavior between us?” When I hesitate to answer, he continues, “I know he’s causing you trouble, but if this blows up, he’ll do jail time, and let’s just say he won’t do well in there.”
“We definitely agree on that.”
I want to ask a million questions. Like what the problem is with Aidan. Why he acts like a spoiled child tyrant. Why the two of them rarely talk. And why he picked this place to do his time if he had no intention of actually doing it. But I can’t because the man standing before me doesn’t invite questions. He’s a 20-foot high brick wall with a no trespassing sign on it.
His continuous, pointed stare makes me antsy and that’s how I know it’s time to get out of there. I may be too tired to care about my appearance, but I’m still female. Which means I still care about my appearance. And I’m fairly certain the aroma I’ve been marinating in all day is noticeable, too.