Chapter 8: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

Though I’m only able to clock about two hours of actual sleep, I start the next day the way I begin every day, with an early-morning workout. In the solarium, where the wrought iron that frames the large glass panes is cracked and rusted in spots and the oversized planters that might’ve once housed dwarf citrus trees or lush palms now sit empty and dust-coated. But still, it’s a nice room, especially at dawn. Peaceful and centering. I savor the way it’s cradled by the outside sky, gradually lightening from soft gray to pink ombre, with streaks of bright orange and burnt red as the glowing sun crests the horizon, stretching long shadows across the floor.

I’m just finishing my routine, exhaling a cleansing breath, cross-legged on my yoga mat over the Italian terra-cotta tiles, when two battered gray running shoes walk their way into the corner of my vision.

The peace was nice while it lasted.

“You do yoga?”

Burke’s voice is rough and rabidly condescending.

Reluctantly, I look up at him standing next to me. I don’t want to notice the obvious strength in his big hands, the chiseled beauty of his forearms, the way his black sweatpants hang low and hug him just right, the stretch of his athletic shirt across a broad chest and impressive biceps, or the way his dark hair falls devil-may-carelessly over his forehead.

But, unfortunately, I do.

It’s twisted and Twilight Zone bizarre. Like last night’s shirtless close encounter has permanently altered my senses, and now that I’ve seen Burke’s annoyingly attractive manliness, I can’t unsee it.

I shake my head, banishing the troubling thought. “Yes. Every day.”

He scoffs. “Of course you do.”

His attitude, on the other hand? Still infuriating.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Neanderthal-He-Man, lift-big-weights-make-strong. Do you have something against my particular choice of physical fitness?”

“It’s not physical fitness. It’s glorified stretching.”

I decide to show off. Not because I care what Burke thinks, but because I just can’t pass up the opportunity to prove him wrong.

I feel his eyes following my every move as I brace my palms on the floor, lift my hips, and slide up into a handstand, with my toes pointed and legs as straight as two arrows. I turn in a clockwise pirouette, then pause and scissor my legs into a split that’s perfectly perpendicular with the floor before bringing them back together and lowering one foot down, to gracefully straighten into a standing position, wearing the smuggest of smiles.

“If you say so, smart guy.”

Burke sees my smile and raises me a frown. “I’m going for a run.”

“Oh? Where to?” I ask, hoping the answer is straight into the Atlantic.

“Don’t get too excited. I’m jogging the perimeter of the property.”

The survey map of Clara’s property pops into my head. The border is about a sixth of a mile.

“You’re going to jog in a big square over and over?”

He shrugs. “It’s long enough to sprint.”

I tuck my yoga mat securely under my arm, not trusting Burke to not do something shady to it when I’m not looking . . . like how I plan on digging holes along his jogging path the very first chance I get. Precious will help.

“That’s one of the most boring activities I can imagine,” I comment. “Though I guess it doesn’t take much to stay engaged when your tastes are rudimentary and unsophisticated.”

Burke taps his temple. “It’s called mental fortitude, sweetheart.” He shifts his weight, his muscles contracting as he stretches his quads. “Unlike you and your relatives, external stimulation is a crutch I don’t need.”

“Yeah.” Now it’s my turn to scoff. “I bet you’re quite the expert at self-stimulation.”

He looks at me straight-faced. “And that’s why no one likes you.”

I don’t think I really understood until this moment just how long the next four months would be.

All the more motivation to get Damon out of here.

* * *

I spend the rest of the morning in the library. Admiring the intricate woodwork of the fireplace mantel, exploring the contents of the drawers in the large mahogany desk, and taking inventory of shelf after shelf of leather-bound books. I’ve never had the time to read for leisure, but this will be the perfect time to start. Because structure is important and boredom is dangerous—and being a high-performance individual who’s used to a packed schedule, I’m going to need something to fill the wide-open hours of the coming weeks. The library has a tract-bound rolling ladder, like the one Belle swung around on in Beauty and the Beast. I spend an hour seeing how fast I can ride it from one end of the room to the other.

My best time so far is six seconds, but I’m betting I can top it tomorrow.

I run into the roommate from hell again a little after 1 p.m. As I’m taking the last bite of my cold salmon salad at the kitchen table, Burke walks in, heading directly to the cabinets and searching until he finds a heavy stainless steel 1960s-era blender. He scoops protein powder into it from a massive tub, fills it halfway with water, and plugs the base into the wall socket beside the sink.

But when he turns the blender on, blue and orange sparks shoot from the socket, blowing the plug straight out of the wall with a loud pop, leaving behind the faint scent of smoke and burnt metal.

“The wiring in this place isn’t the greatest,” he comments. “Did you bring a fire extinguisher?”

“No.”

“We should have Ian or Piper bring one when they drop off supplies.” He snaps his fingers at me. “Write that down.”

I glare at him like the high-handed asshole he is. “If you snap your fingers at me again, I’m going to cut them off in your sleep.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Shrill and violent is not a good look on you. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I’m not your secretary. You write it down.”

Burke rummages through a few drawers until he finds a pad and pen, speaking aloud as he writes in quick, sharp strokes. “Fire extinguisher. See how easy that was? But since you’ve made your wishes known, I’ll add ‘And in case of fire—Let. Jade. Burn.’” He taps the point of the pen against the pad and flashes me an overly wide smile. “Everybody wins.”

I flip him off with both hands and leave the room.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Burke and I circle each other like two boxers in the starting ring. I’m aware of his presence, the sound of his footfalls, where he is and where he’s not. I pay attention to his routine and note that he takes a long, hot shower after his morning run.

Though I live alone, it’s odd to go hours and hours without speaking to another human being, without hearing the sound of my own voice. I find myself conversing with Precious more than usual, but it’s not the same because he doesn’t talk back. I also talk to Clara, because she’s present in every nook and cranny of this house. In the artwork and décor, and figurines and frames that litter the shelves. But she doesn’t talk back either.

* * *

By eight thirty, I’m unusually exhausted. Drained. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep from last night or lack of mental stimulation during the day, but in any case, I take Precious outside for his last pee time and drag myself up the stairs to my room.

By the time this is over, I’m practically going to be an honorary senior citizen. Maybe I’ll snag myself an AARP card out of the deal.

I open the dresser drawer to get a nightgown and immediately jump back—adrenaline spiking in my veins and a sharp scream involuntarily ripping from my throat.

Because there are spiders—hundreds of black scuttering spiders crawling over my beautiful clothes with their creepy, hairy bug legs.

Were they here last night and I didn’t notice? Some type of infestation? Did a mother spider give birth in the drawer?

But then the answer comes to me . . . the only diabolical answer.

“You son of a bitch,” I whisper as the spiders escape the drawer and flee in all directions, across the dresser and up the wall.

My temple pulses and my hands clench, trembling with the need to pummel someone.

I’ve always been protective of my personal space—it’s a strategy I acquired early in childhood. The knowledge that Damon Burke was in my room, that he opened these drawers and looked through—touched—my personal things pushes my creepy-crawly disgust out the door and sends me head-first into righteous rage.

I stomp my way to the other side of the house in record time, and fling open Burke’s bedroom door so hard the knob dents the plaster wall.

The bastard’s on the bed, reclining casually with a Business Weekly magazine in one hand and the other tucked behind his head, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his stupid mouth.

“Stay the fuck out of my room!”

He barely glances my way. “Why would you think I was in your room?”

“I’m serious, Burke. You go near my room again, this turns lethal. And do you really think spiders were going to scare me away? Are you twelve?”

He blinks innocently. Asshole.

“There are spiders in your room? Gosh, that sucks.” Burke points at my left forearm. “Oh look, there’s one on you now.”

My first instinct is to scream, because there is, in fact, a stowaway crawling up my arm. But I rein in the impulse, because I will not be fucked with. I’m Jade goddamn Buchanan—I come from a long line of fuckers, not fuckees.

I snatch the arachnid from my arm and look Burke dead in the eyes. And then . . . I toss it in my mouth and chew.

Don’t think about it. Don’t taste it. It’s a pretzel you’re chewing on. A burnt, crunchy piece of kale.

Internally I’m screeching a banshee cry of revulsion and disgust. And sticking my tongue out—and vomiting. And begging the spider for forgiveness.

Outside? I’m a stone-cold killer without a care in the world.

The smirk drops from Burke’s face. He seems surprised, a little grossed out . . . possibly impressed.

I know I’m impressed with me. Because this is what winners do. Hell yeah.

I force myself to swallow and then to keep myself from gagging, I ask him in a level, unshakable voice, “Remember that old show Fear Factor?”

“Yeah.”

“Most people just watched it. I’ve lived it. You might want to keep that in mind, so you don’t waste our time.”

His stubbled jaw clenches and his eyes go hard. “Noted.”

* * *

For the next three hours I sit on the floor of my room, squishing spiders with my shoe like an insect version of Whac-A-Mole.

Splat.

If Christian Louboutin ever gets wind of this, I’ll be banned for life.

Precious is curled into a beige ball in his bed, which is now on top of my bed, safe from the pointy fanged vampires creeping around the room.

Splat.

First thing in the morning, in the light of day when I can actually see where I’m going, I’m moving us to a new room. Because that’s what you do when you’ve watched a medical drama depicting an Australian man going to the ER because a spider crawled into his ear canal . . . and laid eggs there.

Splat.

Originally, getting Damon Burke out of Clara’s house was a business decision—but now it’s personal. I was going to take a couple days to strategize before implementing phase one, but no more.

After this, it’s all-hands-on-deck, wheels up, go time.

Splat.

There’s no way to confirm that Burke is actually asleep, but I think one a.m. is late enough for him to believe I am. So that’s when I get off the floor and walk to the lighted bathroom to give the blueprints of Spicket Manor a final look. I turn the plans left and right—and then upside down—because the totality of my years in real-estate development tell me there’s no way these can be right.

Unless they are.

And there’s only one way to find out.

Dressed like a cat-burglar wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a knit beanie covering my hair, I belly-crawl down the hallway and stairs, being extra careful not to make a single sound. I make my way to the kitchen without detection, and just as I’m about to go out the back door—I notice Burke’s massive tub of protein powder on the counter.

And proceed to dump a whole container of sea salt into it.

Because this is a cage match, and I’m ready to rumble.

I slip out the door and drag myself through the shadowed space between the overgrown shrubbery and the house until I reach the rear east corner. I lie there listening for a second, and when the coast seems clear, I stand. I tilt my head back and gaze three stories up at the access panel that just happens to be located directly above Damon’s bedroom window.

“This town’s code enforcement is for shit,” I mutter to myself. “No way this is legal. That construction office is getting a strongly worded email from me the second I get home.”

I firmly grip the thick ivy vines that cover the back of the house and begin the vertical climb. It’s not easy—my calves burn and my arms tremble—and I silently thank the sadism of my personal trainer for making this possible. Every creak and rustle of the vines seems magnified as I pass by Burke’s dark window, but after what feels like forever, the access box is in reach. Wedging my feet securely in the leafy tendrils and holding on for dear life with my right hand, I slowly unhook the latch from the panel and open the door.

And get a face full of fluttering wings for my trouble.

A whole family of disgruntled bats flies out of the panel box. I manage to swat them away without screaming or plunging to my death . . . but if I end up with rabies, I’m biting Burke before I die.

I reach out and twist the red hot-water valve—cutting off the flow to the east wing. And because the bolt is rusted, the valve snaps off in my hand, making it irreversible. Eeeeggsellent, I mentally drawl, like I’ve been possessed by Mr. Burns. Kiss those hot showers goodbye, Jackass.

It may seem small, but when you’re chopping down a tree, every swing of the ax gets you closer to timber. Death by a thousand cuts will be Burke’s demise.

I carefully close the access panel and begin my descent.

This time, as I pass his window, I can’t help but lean over to take a quick peek inside.

The silvery glow of moonlight illuminates the interior of his room just enough to make out his slumbering form. On the bed.

Naked.

Well, not fully naked—a sheet covers his left leg and pelvis like a fig leaf, but his right leg, hip, and torso are on display. And it’s like everything goes into slow motion and a smooth, sexy The Weekend song starts playing softly in the background.

Because every inch of him is beautiful. The taut ripples of his arms and chest, and the perfectly shadowed ridges of his abdomen. Yards of smooth, tan skin that looks so warm, I can’t help but imagine how good it would feel to sink against it. To be enveloped by it. To feel that heat and the safe strength of those arms.

I yank myself away from the window—because this is wrong. Degenerate. I would gouge Damon’s fucking eyeballs out if he peeped at me like this.

And then . . . I look back in.

Can’t help it.

He’s fascinating to me like this.

I’m a restless sleeper—a twister and turner—plagued by fears of imminent failure and all the things I have to do.

But Damon is quiet at rest. Peaceful and unguarded—with a gently relaxed expression on his face that makes him look boyishly handsome and, at the same time, confidently self-possessed.

Like nightmares wouldn’t dare disturb him, because he would annihilate them.

He inhales a deep breath and the sheet shifts. It slowly starts to slide off the bed—pulled by gravity. My face draws closer to the windowpane and my lips part as the cotton fabric slips down from Burke’s waist, centimeter by centimeter, until . . .

The bat returns for its vengeance.

Leathery wings flutter against my hair, and a bloodcurdling scream lodges in my throat. I swing my hand in the air, trying to swat it away—and the vines beneath my feet give way. I slide down the ivy, my shirt riding up and the skin on my stomach scratching raw and stinging.

I’m able to grab on again, stopping my descent for just a second—before falling the rest of the way, landing in the overgrown shrubs with an, “Oomph!”

Instinctively, I roll out of the bushes onto the ground and curl up like a frightened armadillo. Waiting.

When Burke’s bedroom window remains dark and closed, I turn on my stomach—sore but uninjured—and drag myself back into the house. Later, after I’ve cleaned up and removed the twigs from my hair and am just about to fall asleep on the bug-free parlor sofa, I think about what a close call that was. And then I smile, because even though it was close, I got away with it, free and clear.

At least . . . that’s what I thought.