My gut clenched uncomfortably as my mind tried to conjure images of Orion in a sexual scenario, but as I set my coffee down, I heard my phone ringing somewhere, distracting me. Saved by the bell.
I followed the muffled sound until it stopped, and still couldn’t find the thing. I checked every room, under beds and sofas, growling my frustration. Finally, I headed to the basement, where my wood sculptures were lined up on my work bench, nothing out of place since the last time I’d been down. If I had been sleepwalking, it looked like I hadn’t been down here last night, because neither was my damn phone.
I was back in the kitchen when I heard it start up again, and realized it was probably coming from outside somewhere. Shit, of course. I’d probably left it on the patio table last night while I was drinking. I hoped it hadn’t gotten too wet from dew.
My kitchen had its own door exiting on the side of the house, and I’d put in a stone pathway that connected it to the private entrance I’d installed in the converted garage ten feet away. The door on the side of the garage was wide open…which it shouldn’t have been. I always closed and locked it after leaving. I stood on the pathway, blinking at the open door, hearing my distinct ringtone coming from inside.
‘Dickhead, you’re such a dickhead…’
My daughter changed the ringtone to that godforsaken song last time she visited because she was pissed at me for shouting at her, and I hadn’t yet figured out how to change it back—which made for some awkward moments when it rang in the grocery or hardware store. She knew I wasn’t tech savvy, and likely counted on the fact I’d have trouble changing it back, the little harpy.
I stood rooted to the ground, when I should have been bounding across the walkway to check the garage, but a chill ran down my spine. Only one other person had the key to the garage space, my work buddy Brock, who’d helped out with the wiring and electrical. But he’d have had no reason to be back here messing around in the night, and I was sure he wouldn’t do so without asking me. There were no furnishings inside yet, but plenty of expensive tools and pipes and countertops and other items someone might want to steal if they knew their value. I only knew for certain that it hadn’t been me who’d left the door open, and I sure as shit hadn’t left my phone in there.
Unless I had. Was I sleepwalking? If so, was it merely stress, as Dr. Mallory suggested, or was I ill, like my nan? Would I die that way, confused and wandering alone in the night?
Stop it. Just stop. You’re fine. There’s an explanation. Just go check the garage.
I flinched when I heard the voicemail alert beep. Grabbing a shovel leaning against the house, I crossed the path.
Stepping into my garage, which was more a stylish guest house now, I saw nothing amiss. Everything but the bathroom was immediately visible, the layout open concept, and with the raised ceiling, skylights, and large windows, the place was well-lit. If someone was inside, I’d have seen them right away. To be safe, I walked across the floor through the living area, past the gleaming kitchen, offering a quick glance behind the marbled island, but no one was there. Scooting past the kitchen, I took a sharp left into the small bathroom. Sunlight streamed through the pane glass window over the clawfoot tub, illuminating the entire space. No intruders.
I left the bathroom and did a more thorough search, stopping when I reached the far wall of the living area. I planned to put in some shelving here, one of the final touches, but right now it was still my workbench, strewn with tools. On the floor in front of the bench, was a pile of spilled washers, the jar they’d been in having rolled a couple feet and stopped at the foot of the bench. On top of the nest of washers sat my cellphone.
“What the fuck.” I put the shovel down, then picked up my phone. Ignoring for the moment that I still didn’t know how it got here, I stared at the spilled washers. That was a heavy jar, and no breeze could have knocked it over, even with the door open. I cursed softly, deciding that squirrels or some other critter had gotten in. I checked my message, and listened to my sister Allison’s voice.
‘Hey Squirt, listen, Mrs. Amador called. I guess Dad did his naked swimming thing again this morning. You’re gonna have to go over and talk to him. And give Mrs. Amador your number, please? She always calls me and I can’t do a hell of a lot about it from California. Okay, bye.’
“Shit.”
Ignoring the mess of washers and the mystery of the open door, I left the garage and locked it, then went back to my kitchen, and my coffee. Mrs. Amador was my father’s nosy next-door neighbor, a widow in her sixties, and she was not crazy about my dad. She had good reasons, the main one being my father liked to get up at the crack of dawn, walk down the seawall steps to the beach below, and go for a morning swim in the ocean, often without a stitch of clothing on. I’d spoken to him about this once before, and after a lot of grumbling and swearing, he assured me he’d start wearing shorts. Apparently, we’d have to have that talk again.
My coffee was cold, so I dumped it and refilled my mug, then sat down at the table and opened my laptop. Yeah, I was gonna take my damn time and enjoy my coffee before trucking down to Dad’s place to discuss his naked ass. He’d have finished his swim by now anyway, there was no rush.
I opened the website ‘How Sweet’ and my eyebrows rose as I saw that once again, my inbox was full of private messages. Until my divorce, I’d never even looked at a dating site before, and had been pretty shocked that I got so many messages from women looking to get to know me. I was also shocked by how many, during casual chatting, sent me pictures of their naked body parts. The father in me tried to admonish a couple of these young women to be more cautious in sending nude photos to virtual strangers. That did not go over well. I was called everything from uptight, to various colorful slurs questioning my manhood.
Now, when I received nudes, I simply said thank you and moved on. It had been a long time since I’d been in the dating game, and a hell of a lot had changed. It was like running a gauntlet filled with landmines. And speaking of explosions, there was no message from Bonnie, though the little icon indicated she was also online. I sent her a message apologizing for being such a bad date, and asked if we could at least be friends.
By the time I finished my coffee, she’d blocked me.
I browsed a few profiles of some of the new women who’d contacted me. I was never going to be a Casanova, but still felt like I should try to remain in the game and get back on the horse. But my heart wasn’t in it. It was an annoying internal contradiction; I was hornier than I’d ever been in my life lately, but my emotions recoiled at the thought of connecting with someone intimately. And Bonnie blocking me was a hell of a boner-killer, so I figured I might as well go down to my dad’s, and speak to him about his naked escapades—a boner-killer on a whole other level.
But I hesitated after closing the dating site. Taking a huge, burning sip of coffee, I opened a new search window, typing ‘Orion’ plus ‘Hillock Beach’ followed by ‘Psychic readings.’
Yeah, I was being creepy, but there was no one here to see it but me and maybe the ghosts. Shut up, you don’t have ghosts. You have squirrels. Or maybe really strong mice. Maybe several mice banding together as one to drag your cellphone around the house at night. A shiver went through me. I dispelled the spooky thoughts by getting back to my creepiness, and clicked on the only result that came up: a website for one Orion Starr.