Page 3 of Nailed

“Righty-tighty,” I muttered, immediately beginning to turn it clockwise. It took around ten full rotations before I managed to kill the flow, and even though the noise stopped instantly at the eleventh click, I could still hear the water jetting out.

I needed to relieve the pressure. I ran to one of the utility sinks in the kitchen, grabbed a bucket and placed it underneath it, then opened the faucet full-blast. The water collected nicely, and when the last of it sputtered out, I kissed my phone in relief. Thank God for the internet.

Then I looked around at the mess that was left in the wake of my brilliant morning preparations—wet concrete, a broken pipe, no coffee and no hot water. Doubt crept its way into my mind, questions over whether or not this had truly been the right decision to make. I took a deep breath before trudging over to my suitcase and picking out my outfit for the day.

There was no time for that kind of thinking, not when there was so much left to do.

“Right. Sponge bath and cafe it is,” I said. Fine and dandy.

After cleaning up, brushing my teeth with some bottled water I had nearby and donning my outfit—a gray ribbed long-sleeve bodysuit tucked into stretch denim jeans and a pair of worn sneakers—I was finally feeling ready for the day.

So ready, in fact, that when I passed by the fire pole near the landing, Clara’s suggestion from before suddenly drifted back to memory. I only hesitated for a second before making my way over to the railing, gripping my hands and locking my legs around the pole. I didn’t even think about it as I let my body slide down, exhilarated by the seconds of controlled freefall.

A laugh bubbled out of me before I even hit the ground. I was surprised at how good that felt. Clara was right; just those few seconds were enough to lighten my mood. Things would be okay with the reno work. She’d mentioned a few companies that I could call who covered plumbing too and came with excellent reviews. Reluctantly, I pulled up her number and shot her a quick text with a brief summary of my morning and a question about the best company to contact for repair and renovation.

I pocketed my phone and grabbed my camera, eager to finally leave the house. The night before, I’d already used a map on my phone to plan out the path I was going to walk today. But once I actually started moving, I forgot all about the planned route.

The city was beautiful in the early morning haze. The walkable blocks were a blend of styles and textures, of bungalows and graystones and encroaching modern apartments that were so enchanting I couldn’t help but take photos every time something caught my attention.

This particular neighborhood was framed by parkways and flowering trees replete with gorgeous blooming tulips and greenery. Seeing all the beautiful bursts of color made me forget about the hard work that was waiting in the firehouse. I forgot about the jogger’s words and the niggling doubt that was still chewing on the fringes of my consciousness, instead slipping into that liminal space where I just observed and captured beauty as I saw it.

Here and there a few people stopped and asked about my photography, some even letting me take pictures of them against the backdrop. I walked around the city for maybe an hour and a half before the grumbling in my stomach finally broke the reverie.

Satisfied, I walked along the block until I found a diner that looked interesting; a dark, low-slung building sandwiched between two taller ones that looked straight out of a 1950s graphic novel. Besides the grease-stained front windows and steel-trimmed door frame, it was the buzzing neon cantilevered sign flashing Stella’s that sealed the deal.

Even better, a second flickering sign in the window proclaimed, “Our cooking is better than your grandma’s but don’t tell her.” Bold claim, Stella, bold claim.

With a smile, I took a few steps back and readied my camera to take a wider shot of the quote. I’d just managed to set up the perfect shot when a man walked by right as I clicked the shutter. Light annoyance tugged at my smile, but I shook it off. It wasn’t exactly his fault and I was used to the occasional photobomb when taking pics in public spaces. No biggie.

I simply readjusted my footing and tried to match the previous frame when I heard a deep male voice yell from way too close by. I lowered the camera and looked up to see none other than my photobomber. He’d evidently not simply sauntered on, like most people did after knowingly or unknowingly interrupting an otherwise perfect shot. Instead he’d actually turned back and was now furious.

For a few seconds, I was dumbstruck, not knowing how to react. This hadn’t happened before. Even with the more bothered pedestrians, they’d never gone as far as to shout at me. At most I’d get the occasional dirty look thrown my way but this stranger was glaring.

That was when I truly noticed his eyes. They were a rare shade of dark blue, and so hard-edged that I actually took a step back. In sharp contrast to those eyes was a mop of pitch-black hair and equally dark, heavy eyebrows. The only thing harder than that gaze was his jaw, set against a scowl and five o’clock shadow.

When I finally found my tongue again, it was bathed in sarcasm.

“I’m sorry. Did I kick your puppy or something?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes narrowed at the comment, and it was only then that I realized this man was also at least half a foot taller than me and built like a damn tank beneath his clothes. Which included an obnoxious worn-in black leather jacket, so if I could tell his build from under that…yeah I probably should’ve reined it in a bit. But he wouldn’t kick my ass in broad daylight, no? I had no idea, this was a new city. Who knew what the rules were here?

“Hand the camera over,” he snarled.

I blinked at him. “If you’re trying to rob me, I think you need to work on your delivery. But no, thank you anyway.”

“I’m not playing with you, hand it over,” he repeated, taking a step towards me. I held my palm out, my other hand gripping my camera protectively.

“Neither am I. You’re not taking my camera. If you’re hungry and need a couple bucks, I can buy you breakfast,” I said.

A muscle corded in his neck as his jaw tightened even more. “I’m sick and tired of all you new yuppies flooding in and thinking you already own the place. You caught me on camera and I want that photo gone.”

“Yuppies?” I asked, snorting. I couldn’t help myself. He looked at most maybe five years older than me. “Okay, grandpa. Look, it’s fine. I’ll delete it when I go through everything later. I just wanted to take a shot of the window—”

“No, now,” he demanded, his voice dropping. Was this bastard trying to intimidate me right here on the sidewalk?

Despite the more logical part of my brain telling me to drop it, my ego and stubbornness refused to be eclipsed by something as common as sense. I was sure that if he really intended to hurt me, he would’ve simply done it by now. He was probably one of those pricks who walked around the world with a chip on their shoulder and thought adding a little bass to their voices was enough to have most people shrink away. Instead, I crossed my arms and puffed my chest out, trying to project myself as bigger than I really was compared to this guy.

His glare shifted, surprise temporarily softening the edge. Like he wasn’t used to being called out on his bluff.