TheDevilInASong
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2012
- Posts
- 328
As the engine of his two seater rumbled to a stop in front of the small yellow house, Atticus pushed himself up out of the seat, and settled atop the collapsed canvas top. He slipped a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his unbuttoned, short sleeved shirt and tapped it until one of the Winston's poked through the hole in the foil. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, then slipped the red and white pack back into his pocket. The lighter he produced from his pant pocket was silver, with the image of a pair of dice engraved on one side, a snake on the other.
After lighting the cigarette and slipping the lighter back into his pocket, Atticus finally turned his attention to his new home. The two story house was just the way he'd remembered it from his childhood, a porch big enough for a small table a some chairs, big windows that covered the front of the house, both upstairs and down, an unattached garage painted the same yellow and white as the house, and relatively sparse landscaping. Not that he'd spent a lot of time at his grandmother's house as a child. A week each summer from age four to age ten. After that his parent's stopped sending him. After he hit ten he was too wild for his grandmother, and his parents knew it.
Now it was his. His grandmother had died seven years ago and the house had passed to Atticus' father. He'd been surprised to find out that his father not only still owned the house but that he'd actually left it to Atticus in his will. That had been a year ago that the lawyer had tracked him down in New York and read him the will. For a year Atticus had just sat on the property, unsure what he wanted to do with it. A month ago, things had changed. Now he needed a place to stay, a place far from New York and New Jersey and people he'd worked for.
Tossing his cigarette butt down onto the gravel drive, Atticus swung his legs over the side of the convertible and hopped down. He was tall and lanky, but muscular and when he moved the effect was that of a predator, cool and casual, but deadly. Circling around to the back of the car, he popped the trunk and pulled out two suitcases. As he moved up the sidewalk toward the front of the house the breeze lapped at his open shirt and ruffled his blond hair.
"Home sweet home," he murmured to himself as he stepped into the shade of the porch. It's not New York, but I guess I can get used to this, he thought to himself as he fished his keys out of his pocket, both suitcases gripped in a single hand for the moment. The keys snagged on the lining of his pocket and fell to the wooden porch. Sitting the suitcases down, Atticus reached down and retrieved his keys. As he stood he glanced at the house next door and realized that someone was watching him from the porch.
"I guess I could get used to this," he said as he nodded and smiled at the attractive woman next door.
