Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(20)

This is the same guy who joined the Scholastic Book Fair planning committee only after he found out I was the one leading it, just so he could suggest the opposite of everything I’d already suggested—and since Jack is eight times better at getting people to like him than me, he had those teachers eating out of his hand. I was outvoted on every damn suggestion.

So why would I care that Zoe cheated on the world’s most annoying man? I do, though.

It’s the end of the day now, and with each step of my bedtime routine I complete, a knot in my shoulders loosens. I turn on music so the house isn’t so quiet, read in the bath (hello Scottish historical romance), apply skin care products, brush teeth, put on my PJs, and snuggle Ducky eighteen thousand times in between each step, wondering how I got through my days before her. Everything goes back in its exact place when I finish using it, because even if everything around me is swirling into chaos, at least I have this: My house. My routine. My cat.

I linger in the hallway, missing the hell out of my sisters, for only two minutes tonight before that slimy, dark pain starts creeping in and I have to force myself to move on.

“Okay . . . little fluffball, you know the drill,” I say to Ducky, who is rubbing against my ankles.

I pat the mattress and she promptly jumps up onto my bed. I cozy up under the covers and pull my laptop in front of me as Ducky curls up next to my legs.

Technically, my book is finished—but it’s also a long way from done. I’m not confident enough to call myself a real writer yet, but I’ve read enough books to know that maybe it has potential? It’s just messy as hell. The plot is all over the place. The characters’ motivations somehow changed halfway through the book without my consent, and one character disappeared entirely. But I also haven’t a clue how to fix any of it. Or if I should even bother.

I suppose I could ask my sisters to read it, but gah . . . no. Every time I consider it my stomach knots up. Right now, whenever I open the document and work on it, I’m happy. My fear is if someone reads it and confirms my worst nightmare (that it’s actually horrendous garbage), this joy I’ve needed so badly will pop like a soap bubble. I want to balance it on my finger as long as possible.

I tinker with the first few chapters for a bit and then when my eyes are heavy, I put my laptop away and give in to the part of the night I dread: cutting off my light. When there’s nothing but gaping darkness, the word alone seems to pulse around me. It’s a salivating monster in every corner.

But tonight, I don’t get a chance to listen to the darkness because a dense banging sound thunders through the air. I fly up ramrod straight, my bangs impale my eyeballs, and Ducky shoots from the bed—only a ghost of her fur left behind.

What. The. Hell.

I listen for a minute, squinting into the dark, and then realize it’s . . . hammering. And it’s coming from the direction of my new next-door neighbor. My mouth curves in a distinctly villainous smile because I’ve been waiting for his retaliation to my petty attempts at ostracizing him from the town. To be honest, I was starting to feel disappointed he wouldn’t do anything.

But now I go to my window and open it. Yep, that sound floating on the wind at nine P.M. reeks of retribution. What a soulless goblin, I think with a hand over my stomach to quiet the excited hum.

I shut my window and pace my room wondering how I’m going to go about this. Do I put on headphones and white noise, so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of knowing he’s successfully annoyed me? (Not as fun.)

I’m reaching for my oversized jean jacket before I even have a chance to think twice about my decision. And yes, it is a million degrees outside, but I’m too tired to fully change my clothes, and this satin PJ tank and shorts set is too magnificently thin for Jackson’s eyes. I pause at the front door just long enough to hop into my worn old red cowboy boots and instruct Ducky to call the sheriff if I’m not back in thirty minutes.

Suitably clothed, flashlight in hand, I’m off to storm across the front yard. We’re still a few days away from June and already the humidity is oppressive, licking at my neck and making the baby hairs around my temples curl up.

When I make it to the front of the house, I sail up the three front porch steps (feeling thankful I didn’t fall through from how rotted they look) and knock on the door. And when Jack doesn’t stop hammering immediately, I knock louder, my knuckles stinging a little against the wood.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he was purposely ignoring my knocks.

Sweat gathers on my back as I wait and wait and wait until I reach the conclusion that he’s not coming to the door, and he’s not stopping the racket anytime soon either.

I leave the porch and walk around to the side of the house and face the window of the room where the construction seems to be loudest. There’s a light on, but I can’t see Jack. And because of the way the house was built up off the ground, I can’t reach the window either. There’s got to be a way to get his attention. Oh . . . hello, water hose.

A minute later, after unwinding the hose and turning on the water, I aim it at the window, click the nozzle to firehose-level pressure, and let her rip. The sound of water crashing into the window is so loud that even I jump.

The hammering immediately ceases.

Some primal instinct insists I turn tail and run before I’m caught, but I hold my ground and continue blasting the water, waiting until Jack surfaces at the window so I can properly tell him what I think of his construction after dark. He never shows, though, and my shoulders hunch in disappointment as I cut the water off.