Maelstrom

by Susanna Strom

  Make love, an old-fashioned phrase that could simply be a prim way to avoid all the crude euphemisms for sex, but it contained more than a kernel of truth. I wanted Ripper to love me. And I wanted this often savage man—this warrior, Ranger, and Janissary—to know what it was like to be touched with love. Not with anger, or hate, or fear, or simple lust, or any of the countless reasons that led others to lay hands on Ripper. I would touch him with love, let my hands and lips convey the truth that words could not. Not yet, anyway.

  He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me, his lips gentle. He’d fucked me with fierce abandon a few hours before. Now, he caressed me with all the tenderness that union had lacked. The moon bathed the room in soft light. My eyes sought his, our connection a gravitational pull. Our gazes locked as our bodies moved together, floating effortlessly, harmoniously, on a sea of pleasure. Orgasm crept up on me as undeniable, as inexorable, as a rising tide, coaxed by the moon to swell and crest. Finally, languid and sated, I curled against his chest and drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, I woke early and crept downstairs to prepare breakfast. I gathered up our dirty laundry and started a load. Kyle and Sahdev had run a load of their own laundry the night before, probably when Ripper and I were occupied in our room. Smiling to myself, I imagined them debating whether or not they should knock on our door and offer to throw our clothes in with theirs. If so, discretion would have won out over practicality, especially if they paused outside of the door to listen for any sounds coming from inside.

  I searched the pantry for the makings of a decadent breakfast and was rewarded with a two-pound package of shelf-stable, cooked bacon. It couldn’t compare to freshly cooked bacon, but I’d never met a man who didn’t go weak in the knees at the smell of bacon sizzling in a skillet. A bag of potatoes that hadn’t turned soft or green was tucked into a corner, and I decided to make hash browns. A blueberry muffin mix caught my eye, and I grabbed two bottles of juice, orange and grapefruit. I whooped with joy when I found an unopened bag of my favorite Stumptown coffee beans. Score! No fresh eggs, unfortunately, but with the leftover cherries, still a bountiful breakfast.

  The diced potatoes sizzled in an old cast iron skillet, the muffins were baking in the oven, and the coffee brewing when I put the cold bacon in a skillet to crisp. Within minutes, I heard doors open upstairs and heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by the click of Hector’s nails on the hardwood floor.

  “Bacon!” Kyle shouted, pumping a fist into the air. Hector apparently shared Kyle’s enthusiasm. He barked once, then stared at me with big, hopeful eyes.

  “She’s not going to fall for it,” Ripper warned Hector, following Kyle and Sahdev into the room. “Too much fat and salt for you.” If a dog could look crestfallen, Hector did.

  Ripper wrapped an arm around my waist and pressed his bare chest against my back as he peered into the skillet.

  “Hector’s disappointed, but you made me a happy man.” He brushed my hair to one side, exposing the bite mark on my neck, before kissing the spot. “Again.” Spatula in hand, I turned around in his arms and shot him a look of wide-eyed surprise.

  “Really?” I mouthed.

  No way his comment and behavior would go over Kyle and Sahdev’s heads. From his grin, it was clear that that was exactly what he intended. He squeezed my ass, bringing home that point, before releasing me and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  Staking my claim. Letting the kid know the lay of the land.

  That’s what he’d said about similar territory-marking behavior when he first met Kyle. Did he really think that he had to warn Sahdev to keep his hands off? Ripper didn’t have an insecure bone in his body, and I’d made it clear that I chose him, but he’d made it clear that he’d claimed me and told me I was his. Maybe this was part of his mysterious biker culture I’d yet to understand. Maybe he was just goofing around, and I was overthinking it.

  Sahdev’s gaze moved back and forth between Ripper and me. I blushed. He was always the perfect gentleman. What must he think of our sexual banter and the huge, freaking bite mark on my neck that Ripper exposed?

  “Good morning,” he said, when he saw me looking at him. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Sure. You could set the table.”

  He nodded and busied himself pulling plates and glasses from a cupboard.

  Kyle hung over the stove. When he reached out to snag a piece of bacon from the pan, I smacked his fingers with the spatula.

  “Ow!” he yelped, then glanced at Ripper. “Can’t you do something to contain her violent impulses?”

  Ripper leaned back against the counter and sipped his coffee. “I like Mac’s impulses. Especially the violent ones.”

  Groaning, I turned my back on the men and flipped over the bacon.

  We stuffed ourselves on the hearty breakfast. While the men cleaned up the kitchen—I insisted that we leave Frank and Evelyn’s kitchen as tidy as we found it—Hector and I retreated to the yard to play with the Frisbee. He’d be riding in the jeep for much of the day and needed to stretch his legs. Hector kept me company while I picked a bagful of cherries to take with us on the road.

  Returning to the house, I found the men huddled over the table, maps spread out before them as they plotted our new route to Valhalla.

  “Bear’s one helluva great guy,” Kyle said as I swung open the door. “The ranch is self sufficient, and it’s way off the beaten path. Should be a safe place to hole up for a while.”

  “Spent a few days at a commune just outside of Grants Pass,” Ripper said. “Good people. They have crops, fresh water, fish. We could head there instead.”

  Kyle frowned. “Bear said Valhalla is—and I quote—at the ass end of nowhere. The flu took lots of people, but there are enough survivors that things are going to get sketchy once all the stores and houses are stripped clean and people burn through their supplies. I think we’d be safer on an isolated ranch than at a commune just outside of a city.”

  Ripper shrugged. “Can’t argue with your logic.”

  “Tell you what,” Kyle said. “We go to Valhalla first. If it doesn’t work out or if we don’t like it, then we head to the commune in Grants Pass.” Kyle, always a dealmaker, always trying to persuade people to his way of thinking. No wonder his dad encouraged him to apply to law school.

  “Yeah. I’m good with that,” Ripper said.

  While our clothes dried, I took another hot shower. On impulse, I pilfered several items from the basket of toiletries: perfume samples, the coconut shampoo Ripper liked, and a few orange blossom-scented bath bombs. Fingers crossed Valhalla had a good well, a deep tub, and plentiful hot water. Rather than the flimsier leggings and sneakers I wore yesterday, I dressed in sturdy jeans and boots. Ripper used the inn’s gasoline to top off our tanks. I filled the blue-and-white pitcher with water, picked a large bouquet of dahlias from the front garden, then carefully placed the flower arrangement on Frank and Evelyn’s grave. Ripper joined me, squatting down to lay his hand against the wooden marker.

  “Rest easy.”

  I looked away, wiping my eyes.

  We loaded our bags into the jeep. I slipped the white, retro style helmet over my head, donned a pair of leather gloves, and cast a final look at the Cherry Blossom Bed & Breakfast. Our route would take us through the Mt. Hood National Forest. Just south of the mountain, we’d head east on State Highway 216 toward Maupin. From there, we’d work our way north-east toward Valhalla. After the dam blew up, we had no choice but to follow a circuitous route toward our destination. Despite taking the long way around, we hoped to arrive at Valhalla before nightfall.

  I held on tight to Ripper’s waist as we wended our way on the curving road in the shadow of majestic Mt. Hood. An interesting mix of houses dotted the roadway, utilitarian manufactured homes and large, expensive houses. I did a doubletake at a sign for a dinner church. I’d heard of dinner theater, but not dinner church. We rode past enormous high-tension power lines with cows grazing underneath, a
nother unexpected sight in a wilderness. We crossed over a dry riverbed and passed signs for the trailheads that allowed hikers to explore the national forest surrounding Mt. Hood.

  Proximity diminished the mountain. With an elevation of eleven thousand feet, you’d expect Mt. Hood to tower over the landscape. Instead, the mountain played peekaboo, a giant hiding coyly behind tall trees and hills, only to pop out once again when the road curved or the trees thinned. Proximity messed with optics, too. We were at least fifteen miles from the summit—according to Ripper’s calculation—yet when I had a clear view of the mountain, I swore I’d be able to see any climber who stood atop the peak, to wave a greeting and see them wave back.

  Instead of going west toward the big ski resorts, we headed east, flying past the exits for campgrounds and small lakes. Ripper veered onto Highway 216, a smaller, two-lane state highway bordered on both sides with tall trees.

  I’d turned my head to look at a warning sign for a cow crossing—in the woods of all places—when movement in my peripheral vision drew my eye. An animal bounded onto the roadway in front of us. Bigger than a deer, with a hump behind its neck, it had to be an elk. Ripper braked hard. I recoiled, as if I could pull back from the brink, halt inertia, and reverse the course of a bike hurtling toward impact with the huge beast.

  The bike tipped sideways, and my shoulders tensed as my body arced toward the pavement.

  Crap. This is going to hurt.

  Hot metal seared my inner calf. I hit the asphalt and tumbled, jeans shredded, skin scraped raw. The side mirror snapped off the bike and clipped my shoulder as it shot by.

  My head thwacked the roadway, and my skull rattled inside the motorcycle helmet. My vision dimmed. Clinging to consciousness was like squeezing a fist full of sand. No matter how tightly I held on, it slipped from my grasp.

  Where’s Ripper?

  Brakes squealed. Doors slammed. Shouts.

  Blurry. Everything was blurry, and I was dimly aware of something or somebody poking me. Sounds morphed into an unintelligible hum.

  I’m cold, so freaking cold.

  I groaned.

  “I got you, Mac,” a deep voice rumbled.

  I blinked. Ripper’s face swam into view, hovering over mine. Through numb lips, I strained to say his name, but my battered body wouldn’t cooperate. I panicked, fighting the darkness pressing in on me from all sides.

  Am I dying?

  “Stay with me, darlin'.”

  I don’t…

  Blackness.

  FIVE

  Ripper

  Bike slid out from under me, and I launched into an uncontrollable skid, eating asphalt till I landed on my back in the tall grass on the side of the road. Took a full thirty seconds for my brain to realize that my body had stopped moving. Another thirty seconds to assess the damages. Grunting, I forced myself to sit up and take stock. Neck supported my head just fine, thank fuck. Could I wiggle my fingers and toes? Yeah. Any bones protruding from my skin? Not so far as I could tell. Jammed my pinkie, but didn’t think it was broken. Even if it was, that wouldn’t stop me from doing what I had to do. Got road rash for sure. I’d be picking gravel out of my arms and knees later, but not now. Now I had to get to Mac.

  Something glinted on the road. I patted my empty shoulder holster. Shit. I lost my Colt when I slid over the pavement.

  I rolled onto all fours, then braced my weight on my hands while I pushed to my feet. I swayed, fighting for control of my body. No way I’d allow myself to pass out. Took one step, then two, my knees screaming like a motherfucker. I pushed the pain out of the way. Stooped to pick up my gun and shoved it back in the holster. I’d check it for damage later. Barely glanced at my busted Shovelhead or the dying elk that had collapsed on top of its shattered legs on the side of the road. Shaking my head, I tried to clear my vision. What I saw chilled my blood. Mac sprawled on her side in the middle of the road, Kyle and Sahdev kneeling next to her.

  I lurched forward in a shambling run, then dropped to my knees at her side. Sahdev was checking her for injuries.

  “Stay back and let me work,” he ordered.

  I listened to the doc and tamped down the need to touch her, to confirm that she was still breathing. He carefully removed her helmet. Mac’s eyes were dazed and vacant. If she was awake and alert, she was holding onto it by her fingertips. Sahdev’s hands skimmed over her head, neck, and limbs, before gently palpating her stomach. “No broken bones, as far as I can tell.” He pointed to her left calf. “When the motorcycle tipped over, the exhaust pipe burned her leg. There’s a laceration on her right shoulder, probably from flying debris. I don’t know about internal injuries or traumatic brain injury.”

  “We need an ER,” Kyle said.

  Fear for Mac and anger at myself over the accident forged a combustible reaction. “Pull your head out of your ass. Where the fuck do you think we’re gonna find a functioning ER?”

  “I know we can’t find a functioning ER,” Kyle sputtered. “You think I’m stupid? I just meant we have to figure out how to help her.”

  “Both of you, if you want to help Kenzie, either shut up or step away.”

  Kyle and I turned shocked eyes to the mild-mannered doctor. Shit. Ordinarily, a man told me to shut up and he was in for a world of hurt, but Sahdev was right. Anger was an indulgence I couldn’t afford and a pointless distraction from what mattered, taking care of Mac.

  “Sorry, doc,” I muttered.

  Mac whimpered, and my gut clenched.

  I leaned over her. “I got you, Mac.” Could she hear me? No clue, but had to hope she felt better knowing I was near.

  She blinked, and her eyes slowly focused on my face. Her lips moved, and I swear to God she was trying to say my name.

  “Stay with me, darlin'.” I urged. Her beautiful gray eyes latched onto mine, as if clutching at a lifeline. Gradually, her gaze grew distant, her lashes fluttered down, and she lost her grip on consciousness. I sucked in a breath then shut down every emotion that would get in the way of my mission. There was no room for fear, for catastrophic what-ifs. I’d figure out what we needed to do to save Mac, and I’d make it happen.

  “What can we do?” I asked Sahdev.

  “Without a scoop stretcher, we’ll shift her onto a sleeping bag and carry her to the jeep. She needs a bed where she can rest while I assess the extent of her injuries. I’ll watch her for signs of concussion, subdural hematoma, whiplash, cracked ribs, spinal cord injuries, and internal bleeding. I need to stitch the laceration on her shoulder and tend to the burn on her leg.”

  Kyle had paled during this litany of possible traumas to Mac’s body. His pinched face reminded me that he’d barely recovered from his bout with the flu. “Should we go back to the bed and breakfast?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” Sahdev replied. “Although I’d rather not jostle her in the back of a jeep for the hour it would take to get there.”

  “Have a better idea,” I said. “At the very start of the flu pandemic, one of my Janissary brothers packed up his family and headed to his dad’s cabin on Lost Dog Lake. The lake’s two, maybe three miles behind us, just outside of the national forest. We’ll go there.”

  Kyle ran to the jeep to fetch a sleeping bag. We stretched it out on the ground next to Mac. On a count of three, Sahdev and I lifted her onto the bag. We each took an end and carefully carried her to the jeep, where we laid her across the back seat. I wedged onto the far end, balancing half-on, half-off the seat. Kyle coaxed Hector into the front passenger seat with him. Sahdev turned the jeep around and backtracked to the exit for Lost Dog Lake. Kept a close eye on Mac, especially when we turned off the highway and took the small, bumpy lane toward the cabin.

  Sahdev eased the jeep to a stop.

  “Which way?” he asked. The road forked, branching off in both directions around the lake.

  I scanned the dozen cabins that surrounded the small body of water. Been a couple of years since I spent a weekend here fishing with Chimney, but I recognized the
rustic 1940s cabin his family owned by its green corrugated metal roof and L-shaped covered porch.

  “There.” I pointed to a cabin on the far side of the lake. “After you pull up, let me approach them first.”

  Sahdev nodded. Within a few minutes, the jeep came to a stop next to Chimney’s place.

  I popped open the door and stepped outside, tossing another glance at Mac, who hadn’t regained consciousness. “Anything goes wrong, you drive back to the B & B. If Chimney’s alive, he’ll let us in, but I got no way of knowing what’s gone down here in the past two months. Keep the engine running, just in case.”

  “Very well,” Sahdev said.

  “Be careful, man.” Kyle took my place in the back, next to Mac.

  I climbed the steps and pounded on the cabin door. “Chimney? It’s Ripper.” Silence. Pressing my hands against the glass, I looked through the window, but saw nothing beyond the checkered curtains. To my right, under cover of the porch roof, I spied Chimney’s bike, half covered by a blue tarp. Dirt and fir needles covered the bottom of the tarp. Obviously the tarp hadn’t been disturbed for a long time. Not a good sign.

  I pulled my Colt from its holster and pounded on the door again. “Chimney? Nicole? Anybody there? Heads up, I’m coming in.”

  Twisted the doorknob and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. Somebody was inside, either alive or dead. Didn’t look forward to kicking the door in—my knees twinged at the prospect—but I would if I had to. Luckily, footsteps tapped across the floor and approached the door, light, tentative steps, not Chimney’s heavy tread.

  “Nicole, is that you? It’s Ripper.”

  The door opened a few inches, and a woman peeked out through the crack. What the hell had happened to my brother’s old lady? Loud, brassy Nicole was known for her va-va-voom style. She called herself a vintage vixen and drove Chim crazy by spending a small fortune on retro clothes on eBay. He’d walk through the clubhouse bitching to anybody who’d listen, “How many goddamned cocktail dresses does one woman need?” We’d all laugh. He was crazy about that woman and preened like a rooster when she decked herself out like a 1950s bombshell at a club party.