“We’re worried about you.” Prescott and his wife, Gracie, care about me, but their sympathy suffocate me.
“Don’t be.”
“When are you coming home?”
Never.
“We talked about this.” I told him to give me time.
“It’s been two months.” The tone of his voice shifts, talking to me like a moody teenager instead of a grown woman.
It’ll be two more months, two years, maybe two decades. I have no intention of ever going back.
“Stop worrying about me.”
“Where are you?”
I take in a steadying breath. He frustrates me with his need to keep tabs on my whereabouts.
“I’m on a forest trail somewhere in wine country.”
“California?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get to California from Colorado?”
I cringe, because this is going to lead to questions I don’t want to answer.
“I don’t see any transactions.” As executer of my trust, he has access to my accounts. In two months, when I hit twenty-five, I’ll gain access to the Thornton estate worth hundreds of millions. Frankly, I’d rather have my parents, and my brother, than the money.
Do I admit I hitchhiked? He’ll have a cow.
I glance around, eager to get on with my hike. There’s another six miles before I reach my camping spot for the day and I’d like to be settled long before sunset. I’ve learned the hard way not to wait for dark to make camp.
Late summer, the grass is brown, crisped by the sun, and starved of rain. Junipers sprawl across the ground, thickening further up the ridge where they join drought resistant pines. Prescott is ruining my perfect day.
My world consists of browns and greens and intrusive phone calls making it impossible to live in the present.
“Look, I promised I’d check in, but if you don’t need me…”
“Gracie is beside herself. We don’t know where you are. You’re not even in the same state anymore. It’s not safe out there.”
And here we go with the blah-blah-blah crap about the dangers of a young woman traveling on her own.
According to him, I’m more likely to wind up dead in a ditch than…well, I don’t know where I’m more likely to wind up. On some trail in butt-fuck nowhere would be nice, preferably without cellphone reception.
“I’m not going to check in every day. I appreciate your concern, but I need space.”
I need time to grieve.
“It’s just—a young woman hiking alone. It’s dangerous. We worry. Could you just turn on the tracker?”
“No. We talked about that.” I don’t need them tracking my whereabouts. “I’m good and I promise I’m being safe.”
I have a knife, a pistol, a taser, and bear repellant. Although, I don’t think bear repellant does anything to keep bears away.
I ask questions. I learn. Other than wearing full body armor, I can’t be any safer.
I come from a life of excess, where I did nothing for myself. Look what that got me?
Now, I rely only on myself.
Granted, I make rookie mistakes. I’m not an outdoorsy kind of girl, but I will be. All the hustle and bustle that came with being a New York socialite is behind me forever. I’m never going back to that life.
“Please, Evie. You have so much left here. Let me send a jet…”
“No.” We’ve gone over this.
“You can’t just walk away.”
He’s wrong. Two months ago, I did just that. I’m a city girl slowly becoming an outdoor enthusiast, and I don’t regret turning my back on that life. I’m rediscovering who I am.
An outcropping of rock comes into view. I’m out of breath. Hiking and talking take the wind out of me. I stop and decide to scramble to the top.
“Look, I gotta go.”
“Evie…” He knows I don’t need to do anything. My time is mine.
“I promise to check in. I’m spending a few days here. There’s a bunch of really great hikes around here, but fair warning, I’m headed to the Sierra’s next. I’ll be out of contact for a couple weeks at least.”
“We could send you a satellite phone.”
“I don’t want it.” I’m a strong, independent woman, and while I may be a little lost in life right now, I’ve got this. “I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” I stare at the boulders, itching to climb them. I take off my pack and prop it at the base of the towering rock.
“Promise?” He’s frustrated. I can tell by the tone of his voice.
“I promise, and tell Gracie not to worry about me, please.”
“Take care, Evie, and please check in more often.”
I end the call and climb the boulders, eager to take in the view.
I’m not disappointed.
Wine country extends as far as I can see. The vineyards pop with green. Beyond them, the Sierras rise out of the ground and wait for me. From here, there’s little to see of their majesty other than a faint purple haze on the horizon.
I intend to hike the length of the rugged Sierra’s, at least after I’m a bit more confident of my backpacking and survival skills. Mistakes can mean the difference between life and death in the wilderness, especially for a woman all alone.
Although, do I care?
I have all the time in the world to do nothing and no one to share it with. I continue on up the trail, headed to the primitive campsite which will be my home for the night.
Live in the moment. That insistent voice in my head reminds me of my new motto.
As for dealing with the past, I’m not doing so well with that.
I’m terribly and brutally…alone.
I climb up the last steep switchback and emerge onto the ridge where I plan to spend the night.
Except I’m not alone.
Movement near the primitive campsite draws my eye. In my very limited experience, hikers are social creatures. We may look like loners, especially those of us who hike solo, but I’ve spent many nights sharing a campsite with strangers where we gathered around the fire, traded stories, and laughed until sleep found us beneath a canopy of stars.
More often than not, they share their tips and tricks with me, the inquisitive newbie. Incredibly supportive and helpful, most of what I learn about backpacking comes from people on the trails. There’s no reason to think this man will be any different, but for some reason, I pull out my phone and snap a picture. I tuck my phone into one of my cargo pockets and take a breath.
In and of itself, running into someone isn’t unusual, but I’ve been alone all day. For some reason, I’m a little on edge. I blame this on Prescott. His intrusive phone call connected me to a past I’ve spent months running away from.
The man’s erratic movements bring me to a stop. Dressed in baggy clothing with a bushy beard and oily, shoulder-length hair, my first thought is he’s homeless.
Not usually this paranoid, I try to calm down.
The man stops at a bush at the edge of the campsite and fluffs it?
I don’t know what else to call it.
What is he doing?
There he goes and does it again. It’s weird.
He squats down—his back is to me—and the bush gives a little wiggle. Is he hugging it? Have I found some weird bush-hugging freak? Is that even a thing? Although, this is California. There’s lots of tree huggers around here. Why not a bush hugger as well?
There’s a revolver tucked into the pack at my waist. A knife strapped to my shin. And I have that super effective bear spray that might take out a house cat, if I’m lucky. It should work on a man, right?
I should be totally safe.
Which is a good thing because the man notices me. I lift my arm and wave. Best to present a friendly face and take it from there.
He stretches to his full height, hands pressed to the small of his back, and squints. There’s no friendly wave. No hello shouted in greeting.
Well, I’m pretty good in social situations.
I can charm a rock with my smile. It doesn’t hurt that I have the looks to stop a man in his tracks, but this may not be the best time to play that card.
Carefully, I make my way down.
“Boy, it’s a hot one today.” Talking about the weather always kickstarts a conversation.
The man stares at me.
Okay, next.
“Are you from around here?” People love talking about themselves. I just need to open him up a crack. Do that, and he’ll be my best friend in less than an hour.
His eyes narrow.
Okay, next.
“My name’s Evelyn Thornton. My friends call me Evie.” I flash him my biggest, brightest smile. It’s one that comes with a ninety-nine percent success rate in winning over men.
The man is unimpressed. He returns a scowl.
A tough nut to crack, I step it up a notch and bring out my skills as a socialite.
Megawatt smile engaged.
Bouncing boobs on point.
A little flick of my lashes?
He checks me out.
I prop my hand on the top of my bear spray. “Are you camping for the night?” My tone remains bubbly, cheerful, and light. My gaze darts around, looking for something which might tell me more about this stranger.
There’s not much to the campsite. It’s a bare patch of ground cleared of vegetation and most large rocks. There’s a fire ring in the center with the remains of ash and a blackened piece of wood that failed to burn.
I catch a bag sitting off in the bushes, something I’d expect from someone in the military. Maybe he’s a homeless veteran?
A bunch of rags spill from the opening, along with the tip of a white plastic container.
He’s tall and fit. Broad in the shoulders, with a thick waist, thicker legs, and biceps which are stacked with muscle. If he wants to overpower me, there’s not much other than a can of bear spray, the taser, my knife, and the gun in my pouch, to stop him.
Fortunately, I know how to use them all.
I take my hand off the bear spray and move it over the pouch where I keep my revolver. The knife on my shin remains hidden. It’s my weapon of last resort.
“What are you doing out here?” He finally speaks.
“Hiking. Backpacking. Camping. You know, loving the outdoors.”
I decide to ditch this campsite and make it clear I’m not hanging around.
There’s another primitive site three miles up the trail. It’ll be past dark, but this guy is throwing wicked-bad vibes.
“Well, enjoy the rest of your day.” I skirt around the cleared area, keeping as much distance between him and myself as possible, without looking like I’m keeping my distance.
A pile of rags tucked under a bush catches my eye. Not so strange in and of itself, except the rags are damp, as if soaked in water. Seeing how it hasn’t rained all week, that raises a red flag. His eyes are on me as I move around the campsite. My attention should be glued to the trail, but I can’t help but look around. Sure enough, under another bush, a pile of rags wraps around the gnarled trunk. They are also damp.
I stop and turn toward the stranger.
He stares at me and I bite my lower lip as a feeling of unease comes over me.
“You’re alone?” He cocks his head.
“Yeah.” I rock back on my heels.
I see Prescott's point. I slide my hand into my fanny pack and place my palm over the pistol grip of my revolver; six shots, no racking the slide, it packs a punch.
Point, aim, and shoot. It’s fast, lethal, and I’m an expert shot.
I edge away. We’re on a narrow ridge with steep slopes to other side and deep ravines at the bottom. I’m headed up. He moves to intercept me.
“Well, no one is truly alone,” I say.
I’m hedging here and hold up my phone. Giving it a little shake, I snap a selfie, making sure he’s in the frame of the photo. If they find my dead body, they’ll know who the bastard was who killed me. It’s the best I can do and I’m really hoping the picture is a deterrent to whatever is going on in this guy’s head.
“I post all about my hikes on social media. I’ve got thousands of followers.”
I’m not on social media. I have zero followers.
He keeps one arm tucked behind his back and rolls his lips inward. It makes the hair on his chin stick out. Not a good look.
“Reception sucks up here.” He gives a little nibble of his lower lip which makes the hairs of his beard wiggle.
My gaze casts down to the bush he just squatted next to. Another pile of dirty rags; also wet. When I look back at him, a can of lighter fluid is in his hand.
I step back and stumble over a rock. It’s all the distraction he needs. As I fall back, he launches forward. Rather than keeping my hand my revolver, it falls out of my grip when I try to break my fall. The breath is knocked from me as I land on my back.
I don’t see the rock, but I feel it crash into the side of my skull.
3
Asher
If I can get all three of us to mom’s for breakfast, I’ll be her favorite son. That means extra butter and syrup, not to mention I’ll be able to lord that over my brothers for days.
I head to the barn, leaving Brody to get ready. As expected, noises come from inside. I barge in as if I own the place, which technically I do.
The low moans of two women come to a sudden halt.
“What’s that?” One of them says.
Cage’s deep grunts don’t let up. He’s a man on task.
Another woman cries out. “Oh, yes! Right there. I’m going to come.” She adds her moans to the ménage; sounds totally fake.
I tried a ménage once. Too much work.
I don’t see Cage and his women, not that I’m eager to catch a glimpse of my naked brother’s ass. I head to the tack room where I check everything out and I’m not quiet about it. Not that it matters to the threesome who return to their amorous activities. Like, hello, I’m right here.
I grab Knight's bridle. He’s a gorgeous, black stallion, with all the attitude and spitfire that comes with his name. I’m the only one he allows to ride him. He’s unseated every other rider, but then, I bring him treats.
I dip my hand into the bucket holding the apples and flip open the box with a stash of sugar cubes. It’s my secret weapon.
Slinging the bridle over my shoulder, I head down the long row of stalls. We have twenty slow, plodding mares for our trail ride business. They’re in the back pasture, hanging out together. Then there’s Knight. He’s a lot to handle and I don’t let him out with the girls. He gets too frisky. Brody’s Arabian is next to Knight and Cage’s chestnut mare, aptly named Chesty, is across from him. There are several more stalls leading to the back of the barn, all empty for now.
The sound of sex escalates. The main event is drawing near if the change of pitch in the cries of the woman is any indication. One of them expounds Cage’s godlike status, and then there’s the deep chugging of my brother’s breath as he does his thing.
I go about my business, not trying to be quiet. In fact, I may let the stall door bang a little louder than it needed to. Knight’s excitement grows and he bucks a little, kicking at the side of his stall. There’s a gasp from a couple stalls down.
“Who’s that?” a woman asks.
“Ignore it,” Cage says with a growl. “I’m almost there.”
“Harder, Cage, fuck me harder.” The second woman cries.
The sound of flesh slapping on flesh makes me cringe. I can imagine what’s going through my brother’s head. He’s probably wondering if I’m going to be a dick and break up the final act. I’m giving him a pass on this one. As much fun as that sounds, I really do have shit to do. I lead Knight to the front of the barn where I grab his saddle and cinch it down tight around his flanks. Just as I finish up, the long keening cry of a woman rips through the air.
Attaboy, Cage!
I feel like cheering him on.
His low groan follows and I
give him a few seconds to recover before cupping my hand over my mouth.
“If you’re done fucking around, get your hairy ass out here.”
“Fuck you.” My brother’s panting makes me grin. He’s out of practice if he’s that out of breath.
“Who’s that?” One of the women gives a screechy shout. It pulls my shoulders up to my ears.
“My brother.”
“Your brother?” There’s a little scrambling sound. I imagine she’s trying to find her clothes.
Cage sticks his head out of one of the nearby stalls, then glances back inside. “Yeah, my fucking brother.”
“Oh…” Excited giggles follow as the girls discuss us. “I’ve never done it with twins.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not fucking twins.” And I’m not into Cage’s sloppy seconds.
One of the girls peeks out of the stall. She holds her shirt to her chest and gives me a long, hard look. “Now, don’t you look fine. Wanna join us?”
The thought makes me want to gag, but I’m too much of a gentleman to insult this poor, eager, and soon to be disappointed girl. I do the next best thing and treat her as if she’s not even there.
Cage yanks on his pants and shoves his arms in the sleeves of his shirt.
“Brody and I are riding out to mom’s. You coming?”
“Pancakes?”
“Only for her favorite.”
He gives a smirk. “Good thing that’s me.” Without another thought for the girls, he saunters away from the stall, leaving them to fend for themselves. The girl gives a little pout, but when she realizes he’s already forgotten her, the look she gives could kill.
I turn away, not interested in getting dragged into that shit-storm.
Cage greets his chestnut mare, Chesty. “You want to go for a ride, girl?”
She gives a soft whinny and rubs her nose against his hand. Cage strolls to the tack room, grabs a bridle, and heads back to Chesty while I lead Knight outside.
Brody rushes out of the house. He’s dressed in worn jeans and a plaid shirt. We look nearly identical, except my shirt is red and black. His is green and black. Cage looks just like us, except his shirt is yellow and black.
It’s the triplet curse.
Firestorm: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World) Page 2
