Halfling (Black Petals Book 1) (3 page)

I turn on the morning news downstairs and fry some bacon for breakfast. When my doorbell rings around noon, I nearly shit myself. Who would be at my door right now? No one even knows where I live except my neighbors, and I don’t know any of them except Mrs. Lander who only comes over when she needs a dog sitter.

I instinctively grab a cleaver from my knife block and peer through the peephole of my front door. This wouldn’t be near as frightening if I didn’t live alone.

Surely if someone is going to attack me, they’ll do it in the middle of the night, right? Not at noon.

I see nobody outside of my front door, so I move to the window next to it and carefully look between the blinds. A man in a suit stands on the top step, out of the way of the peep hole. Is his position deliberate? I clench my teeth and take a deep breath. Do I open the door?

My hand rests on the lock for a moment in hesitation. Megan, you’re over reacting. You said it yourself, how would they ever find you? Chill the heck out. I slide it the lock and pull the door open, plastering on a smile. The man grins back, looks down at my hand clenching the knife tightly, and takes a short step back in surprise.

“
Hello
…” He moves his gaze up to mine. “I’m Crispen, your new neighbor next door. I just wanted to introduce myself,” he says wearily, pointing down the street with his thumb. Great, he thinks I’m nuts. My hand loosens its grip on the cleaver, and I let out a deep breath.

“I’m
so
sorry,” I apologize and extend my free hand. “I’m Megan. I’m a little paranoid at the moment. I spent all morning watching horror movies,” I lie. “It really gets to a girl.”

He chuckles and his expression lightens. “Not a problem.” He shakes my hand tightly. “I saw you come home yesterday morning. I was starting to think I was the only one under eighty in the neighborhood.”

“Well, yeah actually, we are probably the only ones under eighty around here to be honest. It seems most young people prefer the other side of the city for whatever reason,” I agree with him.

He shrugs. “Oh well, I guess. It’s not like I’m home much. I work a lot.”

“What do you do?” I ask, making conversation and taking in his suit.

“I’m a doctor,” he explains kindly and takes a small step closer now that he’s sure I won’t take a chunk out of him with my weapon.

I gape. A doctor? “How old are you?”

“Old enough to be a doctor,” he answers with a devilish smile. To me, he only looks to be about twenty-five, but I’m terrible at guessing age. He’s blonde with spiky hair and bright blue eyes the colour of sapphires. He’s neither tall nor short, standing at just under six feet tall. He’s cute I guess. Not faint-worthy, but definitely swoon worthy at least.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask him when an awkward silence sets in for more than a few seconds.

“Uh, I have a meeting I need to get to actually. Rain check?” he suggests, and hands me a bag from his hand. “This is for you.”

“Isn’t it usually me that would give you a gift? You’re the one that’s new to the neighborhood, not me,” I joke and take the bag.

He chuckles lightly. “I made too many. Have them.”

I thank him and close the door, as he descends the steps. I lock the door, then I open up the bag. Inside, there is a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I do love a man who can bake, and I love chocolate chip cookies even more.

I pop one into my mouth, then I put the rest on the kitchen counter for later. Crispen distracted me for a few minutes, but now I’m back to fretting about my future like an idiot.

I sit on the couch with my laptop and job search. You know, because I rashly quit my job yesterday. I apply for a few that look alright, but nothing really catches my eye. I love working with the elderly, and I can’t believe that I have given up my dream job. Why is this happening to me?

When supper rolls around, and I realize that I have no food in the house besides some left over bacon from breakfast, I decide that I’ll have to call in a pizza. I don’t feel like leaving the house while it’s pouring rain to get groceries.

While I wait for my pizza, I type some searches into my favorite search engine. First, I try ‘Blayk Landon Toronto’
.
Nothing even close comes up. Next, I search ‘gangs Toronto
’.
Again, nothing too useful. I read up on a few suspected gang-related incidents, but nothing jumps out at me. Lastly, I search ‘gangs with rings’. There are plenty of gangs with a ring as some sort of symbol, but I can’t find a ring that matches mine or even comes close. I don’t know what I was hoping for exactly. I’m just about to put away my laptop, when I think of one more thing to search. The name on the inside of my father’s ring. I’ve always thought that it was just the name of the brand or maker of the ring.

When I type in the name, multiple results show up. I wade through them until something catches my eye. It’s a police report in a paper from about twenty years ago. Unfortunately, the police report is not actually on the web, it is only referenced. To read the article, I have to contact the library. I click the link and a contact form pops up. I type in fake information, not wanting anyone to know that I’m looking into what looks to be a possible murder by the looks of the key words linked to the webpage. The only thing that I put into the online form that is actually mine is my email address, so they can get back to me.

I snoop around the site a little longer to find out that the library, which I’ve just emailed, is stationed in Alberta, Canada. In Calgary to be exact. Coincidence? I think not.

When my phone vibrates a few minutes later, signifying that I’ve received an email, I jump in surprise. That was sure a quick reply.

A picture of the exact article that I was inquiring about is clipped to the email along with a short message thanking me for my interest in the libraries records. I browse the wording quickly and carefully. In a nutshell, this Darius Ranchiller guy was brutally murdered in an alley in Calgary around the same time that I was born. I’m interrupted by a knock on my door and a ring of my doorbell in unison. I jump up. My pizza must be here.

I grab some cash from the table and rush over to the door, swinging it open. “Sorry, I had to grab some money,” I apologize and begin counting it out loud quickly.

“I’m…not…selling…anything…” a deep, humored voice bellows in laughter. My heart jumps, and I look up. The one time I don’t check the peephole! I’m relieved to see that it’s only Crispen, my new neighbor.

“Oh, Jesus, Crispen!” I cry reluctantly and place my palm over my heart in shock. “I thought you were the pizza guy!”

Another chuckle. “Nope, I mean if that’s what you want me to be then sure,” he says in a flirty, but joking tone.

I scowl at him.

“I’m just joking,” he reassures me with a thunderous laugh. He’s in a good mood. “You’re still paranoid because of that horror movie, aren’t you?” he muses, taking in my expression of surprise.

I nod automatically and motion for him to come in. “Would you like to come in? I have pizza on the way,” I offer.

He shrugs and his amusement fades a touch. “Yeah, sure.”

“Did you come to take your cookies back?” I ask, making conversation.

He smirks. “No, you can keep them. They’re no good for these abs.” He lifts up his black t-shirt to reveal a finely sculpted torso. Damn him. If only I had enough ambition and will power to stop eating things like bacon and pizza, and get back into shape. It’s not that I‘m fat or even overweight, but I’m far from being in shape.

“I bet you can’t turn down the pizza when it gets here,” I joke, lighting up a bit and flashing him a genuine smile. No one can turn down pizza. Well, not unless they have some sort of super will power.

He licks his lips and half smiles. “No, you’re right. I won’t go that far. That’s just insanity.”

I giggle as he steps into my home and kicks off his shoes. I lock the door behind him. I immediately feel better now that I’m not alone. He sets his shoes neatly in the corner and glances to the table beside the door.

“Do you always carry around a big, badass knife?”

I glance to where he’s looking. I forgot to put the knife back in the kitchen earlier.

“I must’ve forgot to put it away,” I admit and grab it. I walk it into the kitchen and place it back into the knife block. “Sorry about that by the way. I didn’t mean to frighten you earlier when I answered the door with it.”

“Not a problem. It isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened with a knife unfortunately.”

I can tell by his tone that he’s not joking. I decide not to ask him to elaborate. I’m sure that if he was threatened with a knife before, it’s not likely a pleasant memory, and he probably doesn’t want to talk about it. I’d hate to ruin his giddy mood, because I need it right now.

“How did you like the cookies?” he wonders, changing the subject.

I toss a few pillows which have fallen off of my couch back where they belong and straighten the cushions. I wasn’t expecting guests. “They’re great. You’re a good baker.”

“So I’ve been told. My mother taught me back in the day.”

“I wish my mother would’ve taught me some useful skills besides how to get drunk before ten o’clock in the morning,” I say under my breath to myself, not realizing that he can probably hear every word unless he’s deaf, which he’s definitely not.

He grimaces. “Rough childhood?”

I nod. “You could say that. My mom’s an alcoholic. My father left when I was a baby.”

It’s funny the things you can find yourself telling people that you’ve only just met. Am I really so lonely that I have to flood my neighbor with all of my drama? God, I need a friend.

Crispen nods and tilts his head to the side as he looks at a painting on my wall. “My parents both died when I was a teenager. They were murdered,” he says eerily. I watch as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Ouch. Both were
murdered
? What are the chances? “I’m sorry,” I mutter. Here I am complaining about my parents when his were flipping murdered.

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago. I’ve managed to move on. As much as possible anyhow,” his voice is dark, no longer joyful. Good one, Megan, way to go. “This is a pretty painting. I like the use of colour.”

“Do you paint?” I wonder. He doesn’t cross me as the type of guy to be an artist, but who am I to know?

“My sister used to paint. Years ago,” he tells me. He crosses his arms and turns to face me. “You?”

“No. I probably couldn’t draw circle to save my life.” It’s not a joke. Even my penmanship is terrible. In school, I was always yelled at for my messy writing. Many times, I found myself having to rewrite things, because my teachers couldn’t read them.

I can tell by the slight raise of the right side of his mouth that he finds this amusing.

“Have you lived in the neighborhood long?” I wonder. I haven’t seen him around, though I’m also fairly new to the neighborhood.

“Three days is all I’ve been here. I like it here. It’s quiet.” He runs his hand over his shirt as if to straighten it. He’s changed since the last time we spoke. Now he wears a plain black t-shirt and jeans.

“Yeah, it is. It’s nice. Especially after a long day.”

He then asks me what I do for a living, which is something I was hoping he wouldn’t ask, seeing as I am now unemployed.

“Nothing currently,” I admit sheepishly. “I quit my job yesterday.”

His eyebrows pull together in what I can only guess is confusion. Who in their right mind would quit their job when they have a mortgage to pay? Me, that’s who.

“Why is that?” he asks when I don’t elaborate.

Well, because I was scared some gang was going to use it to track me down and kill me. HA! Like I am going to tell him that. He already thinks I’m weird enough.

“Long story,” I answer, hoping that he doesn’t ask any further question. I’m sure to adjust my tone to make my words sound like they’re final.

“I like stories,” he pushes.

I sigh. Now what, Megan? Good one. I’m a terrible liar. As I attempt to string something together in my head, the doorbell rings. I nearly leap in relief. I’ll be tipping this pizza man well, even though he will have no idea what for, he
is
late after all, but it worked out.

I pay the man in the cash I have ready. In exchange, he hands me a warm, delicious-smelling pizza. My mouth immediately begins watering.

I set the box down on the counter in the kitchen and grab two plates from the cupboard. I hand one to my guest and take the other one for myself. I dish both of us up and nod to the couch. I hate other people watching me eat, so instead of eating at the table where distractions are limited, and we’ll have to face each other, I choose the living room as a better option.

“I hope you like onions,” I say to break the silence. “I meant to order it without, but I must’ve forgotten. They’re not my favorite, but I just pick them off.”

“They’re fine. I’m not too picky. A pizza is a pizza,” he teases. “So what terribly scary horror movie were you watching this morning?”

And here I go having to make another lie. “I don’t remember the name,” I say, pretending I’m trying to recall it.