Page 5 of Studfinder

Rita returns late in the afternoon, but I’ve lost track of time. It’s been a gloomy day, and the underbelly of the house is dark. I’m in the basement installing the electrical box with a bright halogen work lamp hooked to a generator that highlights the space.

“You can call it quits,” Rita says from somewhere behind me.

“I just want to finish this.” I hate to leave things left undone, and I have the electrical box hung but no wires installed. Glancing over my shoulder, I notice Rita’s leaning on the makeshift railing of the basement stairs. She’s wearing some kind of woman power suit, complete with formfitting skirt and a blazer, and those damn hiking boots again. “Quite the fashionista.”

Rita glances down at her attire, swiping her hand along the hips of her skirt before gazing up at me with those piercing eyes. The red-rimmed glasses have returned.

“I can’t wear heels at a construction site.”

It makes sense, but she looks ridiculous, and I turn my back on her. Keeping those hiking boots in mind cancels out the effect of those glasses and dampens any naughty boy fantasies of being punished by Rita as a teacher. I hear her trod back up the stairs and dismiss Sully. This isn’t a large house, and without the drywall, it’s a hollow shell, so noise travels.

“You don’t need to stay,” I holler to her, forgetting myself for a second as I concentrate on the work before me. Heavy feet trudge back down the staircase.

“Yeah. I do.” The authoritative reminder puts me in my place. I need to be supervised. I need to be watched. I hate the distrust.

Around us grows quiet until we hear the voice of Sullivan at the top of the staircase.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Sully asks, calling down to Rita, expressing his concern for her safety. “I can stay if you need me.”

“I’m not an ax murderer,” I mutter under my breath, fingers slipping along the initial wire I’m running through the box.

“I’m good,” Rita calls up to him, surprising me. Her confidence speaks volumes. She’s trusting me, at least at this moment.

As we hear the stomp of Sully’s feet leaving the house, Rita mumbles, “No one thinks you’re an ax murderer.”

I huff in response and continue working on the box. She’s silent, but I can almost hear the gears turning in her head.

“Just ask.”

“Ask what?” she snaps, and I twist enough to glance at her at the base of the staircase. She’s removed her blazer. Leaning against the bare studs, she’s still a juxtaposition in her uptight shirt and those damn boots.

“Whatever’s on your mind, sweet.” I struggle with another wire leading into the box.

“Whatever you did, you can talk about it, if you’d like.”

“Attorney-client privilege,” I mock.

“Or if you just need someone to talk to.” Her softened voice surprises me, but I ignore the tenderness. I don’t have anything to say about what happened seven years ago. It happened. It’s over. Almost.

“Not much of a talker,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the wires before me. I can’t concentrate with her watching me, knowing those damn eyes are assessing me behind those red rims.

“You seem like you have plenty to say about my appearance,” she mocks, a light chuckle in her tone.

“That’s different.”

“How is it different to verbally insult my clothes but not talk about what happened?”

She can’t be serious. There’s a world of difference between her boot-skirt combination and the events of years past. As she’s a lawyer, she isn’t stupid, so I don’t feel the need to clarify the contrast.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp crackle, and I turn my head in time to see smoke rising from the halogen light.

“Shit,” I hiss, leaning over and pulling the plug, disconnecting the power source. Another spark cracks before quickly burning out. A slow hiss follows the bright snap. These lights run hot, and the slightest bit of construction dust could start a fire. With the lamp suddenly off, we’re submerged in darkness.

When I glance up at Rita, enough light filters down the staircase to show me her back is ramrod straight against the stud supports at the base of the staircase. Her hands are behind her, clutching at the narrow strips of wood.

“Shit,” I mutter again as I take two steps toward her. “You okay?”

Rita’s eyes are still focused over my shoulder at the lamp where a sliver of white smoke hisses upward from the light source. I shift to block her view.