by Elle Aycart
“Whatever.” She paused, and brow pinched, added, “Sweet Lips? Mud Butte? Sugar Tit?”
He almost choked on the breath he was taking. “What?”
“The town’s original name. Oh, wait, Knockemstiff?”
Ah, that. “Honestly? I have no idea. It was NoName when I got here. I doubt the locals remember anymore why they have a provisional name.” It was much more fun to bicker about it.
“Too bad,” she said dreamily. “It’d be cool to die in a place called Knockemstiff. Being tended by a buff apparition.”
Now that the scare was over and his heartbeat was back to normal, something else was stirring at her appreciative stare. Oh fuck, the boxers he had on were stuck to him. Not the right time to get a hard-on and flash the poor woman.
He reached for another towel and covered himself. “You’re not going to die. And I’m quite real, I assure you.”
She pondered for a second and pointed at his head. “Probably. No apparition of mine would have so much unruly hair up there.”
Sky opened her eyes, feeling as if a freight train had run her over. Several times. Her whole body was so heavy she couldn’t move. Even getting her chest to fill with air was difficult.
Gathering all the strength she could muster, she propped herself on her elbows, trying to shake the fogginess in her brain. She was tucked in a big, comfy bed, a thick blanket covering her. She sat up, but the pressure in her chest didn’t improve. Her throat and head hurt like hell, her nose was totally stuffed, and her ears were ringing. The wonderful triplet of flu. Sky never got sick—but when she did, watch out.
She had the vague recollection of a doctor visiting her, but she also remembered some people wearing yellow suits and masks, so it was anybody’s guess how much of all that was hallucination. She had no clue how long she’d been in bed, but she had to get out of it. She didn’t do well in bed. Whatever illness she had, she could endure it on her feet, dressed and with her hair combed.
She managed to sit. So much movement made her head spin, and she stilled, waiting for the faintness to disappear. She noticed she was wearing a humongous T-shirt that wasn’t hers. It reached down to her knees, almost completely covering the men’s boxers she had on. O-kay. First things first. Bathroom.
When she stood up, the dizziness got much worse, but she persevered and took a step. Suddenly, her legs gave way and her ass hit the floor. Crap.
Fine. Walking might have been too presumptuous. Crawling would do. The bathroom was right there, and splashing some water on her face would help.
Halfway there, she heard the door open. It was Logan, who came in holding a tray of food.
“Shit.” He hastily left it on the table and rushed to her. “What the fuck are you doing on the floor?”
“I fell,” she answered as Logan picked her up. “I was going to the bathroom. I need a shower. And I have to get dressed.”
His snort came loud and clear through the haze in her head. “What you need to do is go back to bed.”
“No, no.” She tried fighting him, but she was too weak and his arms were too strong. All she could do was watch as he tucked her back into bed.
“You’re sick with a hell of a flu. The doc said you need to stay in bed, resting and hydrating.”
So she hadn’t hallucinated the doc part. Thank God. “Whose T-shirt and boxers am I wearing?” she asked.
“Mine. Your pajamas got soaked in our late-night waterpark adventure. Ring a bell?”
Yes, she faintly remembered taking a freezing shower with him and then sitting in an equally freezing tub, thinking her nipples were so frozen they were going to shatter to pieces. Aside from that, she didn’t recall much.
“Did I… Oh hell, did you…”
“I was a perfect gentleman, I swear.”
The image of him turning around to give her privacy while she changed popped into her mind. Good, one thing less to freak out about.
“How long have I been in bed?”
“A bit over a day.”
A bit over a day? Crap. She had to get up. Staying in bed wouldn’t help. She’d get better from the flu, but her frame of mind would get worse. Much worse.
If Logan noticed her rising panic, he didn’t give a flying flip. He put his hand on her chest and gently but firmly pushed her down. “Stay. I brought you food. You hungry?”
She shook her head.
“Too bad,” he said, his tone uncompromising. “You have to take medicine, so you need to eat. I got you soup.”
He went to fetch the bowl. For an instant, she considered making a run for it, but she couldn’t move, really. Too tired. And he looked implacable. She doubted he’d have any trouble throwing her over his shoulder and spanking her for disobeying. If she weren’t so sick, she’d find the idea interesting.
He fed her one spoonful of soup.
“Thanks, very good,” she mumbled.
He laughed. “Liar. You can’t smell or taste squat, can you?”
“I was being polite. I’m sure you have better things to do than feed me.”
He motioned toward the window. “Still snowing. Not much to do.”
Right.
She managed a few more spoonfuls before her throat hurt too much to swallow. “Done.”
He stared at her, frowning, but nodded and set the soup aside.
Then he lay on the bed, by her side, over the covers.
“What are you doing?”
“Ensuring you stay put.”
Clever guy. Not that her body would obey her if she tried to get up.
She intended to raise hell over his arrogance, but she was so damn tired, she decided she’d raise hell after a nap.
Chapter 4
Sky sipped coffee and looked through the living room window while several of Logan’s interns helped load the second truck of the day. The first one had come by an hour ago and dropped a bunch of plastic bundles, which the interns had carried inside. Fertilizer, she’d reckoned, for whatever crops they were growing. The glass of the greenhouse was covered, though, so she couldn’t see what was going on inside the building where, as far as she could tell, Logan spent all of his time. His interns too, loading and unloading and carrying lab equipment.
It had been five days since she first arrived at Logan’s, and she’d yet to put a foot outside. Heck, she’d barely put a foot out of bed. Sleeping and sneezing had been the whole scope of her activities. Yesterday she’d gotten up and tried to run errands, but Logan’s helpful neighbor Carol had intercepted her on the porch and, pointing out it was very cold, insisted that Sky stay in. Still quite sick and in no shape to argue, Sky had caved in.
But today she felt fine, and it was a gorgeous morning: bright and clear, the snow glittering in the sun. The trucks coming and going were proof that the roads were open again. Time to hit the streets, or she was going to go stir-crazy. Find a bank to exchange her euros. Buy some real food.
And, most importantly, try to get a cell signal. The landline was still down, and she hadn’t dared to ask Logan if she could use his satellite cell for more than trying to contact her school in Paris, which had been a waste of time. No one was answering. The landline was down there too. Logan had told her cell reception was sketchy at best in town, the silver lining being that some spots had to be better than others, right? She was going to try every single corner of the damn place until she got connected, because if she had to go another hour without Instagram and Twitter, or touching base with her followers on YouTube, she was going to lose it. Repaying Logan’s kindness by running up an astronomical cell bill didn’t seem appropriate.
She dressed as warmly as she could, given that her designer clothes were purely for show, and headed for the door, more than ready to resume her morning routine. Obviously, buying her regular cup from Starbucks and enjoying it near the Brooklyn Bridge as she walked to her favorite patisserie for a macaroon was an impossibility, but she’d figure out how to adapt to her circumstances, at least until she could fix this mess and ge
t out of Dodge.
To her utter surprise, Carol was dozing on the porch, wearing a hazmat suit and a mask over her mouth. What the heck?
Sky touched her on the shoulder. “Mrs. McGowan, are you okay?”
The lady woke up in a jerk. “Oh yes. I sat down for a moment to get some sun, and I fell asleep.”
Get some sun, covered from head to toe in a hazmat suit? “I see. I’m going to town to find the nearest supermarket. Any recommendations?”
“What do you need?” Carol hurried to ask. “I can bring it to you. You shouldn’t exert yourself. You never know when flu might turn into full-blown pneumonia. We don’t have specialists in town, just a family practice.”
“Don’t worry, I’m better now. No fever. You don’t have to bother.”
“It’s no bother,” Carol insisted, sounding like a female Darth Vader through the mask. “Go inside. Write me a list. I’ll take care of everything. We don’t want you to get sicker.”
“I’m fine.”
For some reason, Carol looked panicky now. Before she could answer, a lady Sky hadn’t seen before walked toward them, carrying two plastic bags, tightly knotted. “Good morning! These are for the Alchemist. Will you give them to him?”
Sky took the bags. “What’s this?” Yesterday evening, several people had dropped by with bags for Logan, which he’d accepted and taken to the greenhouse. She hadn’t thought much about it then. Maybe she should have.
The newcomer laughed. “This is an express delivery from Paulie. I recommend you don’t open them. Potent stuff.”
O-kay.
“You didn’t change after the drill?” the woman asked Carol. Then she turned back to Sky. “I’m Maggie, by the way. What are you guys doing outside?”
“She wants to go into town. Run errands. Supermarket,” Carol explained. “I told her there’s no need.”
The ladies threw worried looks at each other before Maggie spoke. “The general store is closed today. The owner had errands to run himself.”
“Any store will do, actually. And I need to stop in at the bank to exchange some currency,” Sky said, trying to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her head.
She took a step, but the two ladies blocked her. “There’s no bank in town. Not one that would exchange currency, anyway,” Carol said and walked forward, gently but firmly pushing Sky back into the house.
Being pushed by someone in a hazmat suit was worrisome.
Sky took one step back, then another and another. The two ladies sweetly smiled at her and bent over backward to explain why she’d be better off indoors until Sky was over the threshold. Then they closed the door on her.
Sky dropped the bags Maggie had given her, realization dawning. She was being held incommunicado in the middle of nowhere—no landline, no cell, no way to leave the house. Her car was nowhere to be seen. People were dropping off suspicious bags, and “interns” who didn’t speak a word of English spent all day growing crops in a greenhouse with the windows covered. Trucks came and went, loading and unloading. Fertilizer, her ass. She’d been kidnapped by a bunch of hillbillies running a drug ring in Minnesota.
And silly her, she’d been worried about racking up Logan’s satellite phone bill.
She had to get out of there. But the two ladies were still by the door. She could hear their muffled voices, though she couldn’t make out the words.
Sky ran upstairs to her bedroom, which was at the other end of the house. She opened the window. Jesus Christ, and people said cities were dangerous. Ha! She’d take East Harlem any day over wackos in the countryside.
She kicked off her stilettos. It was bad enough she had to jump from a second-story window; she wasn’t doing it in heels. Wait, what about her stuff? She gathered her belongings, shoved them into her bags, and—praying they wouldn’t burst on contact—threw them over the windowsill. The snow, thank God, muffled the sound and apparently cushioned the fall, because nothing exploded.
So far so good.
She had no clue how she was going to drag all that by herself, or how she was going to make it out of there without a car, but one problem at a time, thank you very much.
She grabbed her purse and, noticing a knife on a plate on the nightstand, grabbed it too. Just in case. Now she had to get herself to the ground. Maybe sliding along the water pipe was better than jumping? Jesus on toast, where were the fire escape ladders when she needed them? In cities, of course. She swung one leg over the windowsill.
Then she heard the door of her room opening.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Logan.
Damn. Busted.
Sky was hanging from the window, one leg in, the other out, purse in one hand, butter knife in the other, her dark eyes round, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on her face.
“Stay back,” she cried, brandishing the butter knife at him. “Or I swear to you I’ll—”
“Pat me with a butter knife?” he finished her sentence with a smile. “Come down. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I recommend you let me go. I won’t be an agreeable kidnapee.”
“Who’s kidnapping you?”
“I tried to leave. The guards posted at the door wouldn’t let me.”
Guards? Ah. “Carol and Maggie aren’t dangerous. They’re just nuts.”
“Not dangerous?” she shrieked. “They’re restraining me against my will.”
He lifted his hands. “No, no, nothing like that, I promise.” There was no easy way to say this, so he took a deep breath and pushed on. They were all ending up in jail anyway. “They’ve quarantined you.”
She blinked. “Quarantined me?”
Logan assented with a grimace. “They’re doomsday preppers. The pandemic squad. You’re a potential patient zero.”
“Right. How stupid do you think I am? Oh God.” She went rigid suddenly, as if something had dawned on her. Dropping her purse, she brought her hand around to her back.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Checking that I still have two kidneys.”
Jesus Christ. “Of course you still have your kidneys.”
The commotion had caught the attention of Carol and Maggie and a couple of other sisters of doom, who appeared on the lawn. “Logan, she can’t jump,” Carol called out. “Rate of infection is secondary to containment. Any blood spilled would be a potential contaminant.”
Sure, like talking about spilling blood wasn’t going to make Sky freak out more.
“Ladies, explain to our guest: what’s the worst-case scenario? Taking into consideration the whole world, I mean.”
“Viruses mutate until they are immune to our vaccines. The world is just one flu away from extermination,” Carol answered. “You don’t want to carry that on your conscience, do you?”
“See?” Logan said. “Nuts. Not dangerous.”
Sky didn’t seem persuaded, much less ready to give up. “What about all those packages people have been dropping off and telling me not to open? All the trucks coming and going? Your interns in lab coats who barely say a word? Are you keeping them prisoner too? What do you do in that greenhouse of yours, Alchemist? You’re running a poppy farm. Or a meth lab. Or both. Just give me access to the internet for a second and I’ll figure out which.”
Logan threw his head back and laughed. “Nothing nearly as lucrative, believe me. If you come down from the window, we can go to the greenhouse and I’ll show you what I grow.” Explaining wouldn’t do it. She’d never believe him.
She looked at him, then down at the pandemic squad. “Tell them to leave. And hand me your cell.”
“Ladies, you heard her. You don’t want her falling from the window and splattering blood on the snow. You might get contaminants in the water table when it melts.”
Sky stared at him, horrified, so he winked at her.
The pandemic squadron tsked him. “That’s not exactly how viruses work, Alchemist,” Carol said, but retreated.
Slowly, so as not to spoo
k her even more, Logan approached Sky and offered his cell. She entered the digits 9-1-1 but did not press the big green button. “Any suspicious movements and I hit Send. Are we clear?”
“Crystal. Now get off the window.” Before she did slip. Between the knife and the cell, her hands weren’t going to do shit for her if she lost her balance.
He moved to the door. “Come on. The greenhouse awaits.”
“No funny business,” she warned him, climbing down.
In spite of himself, he had to snort. Nothing but funny business, he was afraid.
As they descended the stairs, he said, “Next time you’re taken hostage, give some thought to your choice of weaponry. A butter knife?”
“True. Wait here.” She ran into the kitchen and came back with the biggest carving knife he had.
Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
“Put these boots on,” he said once they made it to the side door. She looked at the olive-green Wellington boots, a grimace on her face. “Unless you want to walk outside barefoot, in which case, be my guest.”
Grudgingly, mumbling something he couldn’t decipher, she got her feet into his spare boots–five sizes too big for her at the very least—and awkwardly followed him into the breezeway. The tunnel covered with heavy-duty plastic didn’t faze her, but the well-insulated door into the greenhouse did, because she stopped.
“Nothing fishy, I promise. Ready?”
He waited until she nodded, and then opened the door.
“Here we are,” he said, lifting his arms and turning around. “Behold my poppy farm.”
She walked in. Confused, she looked at strong lights illuminating rows of tables full of plastic bags. Mushrooms were sticking out of them at weird angles. “You’re growing mushrooms, Alchemist?”
He nodded. “Not magic mushrooms. Just the garden variety. And technically, I’m a chemist.”
The smell from the far end of the greenhouse must have made it to her, because she pinched her nose. “And those are…” She pointed at a pile of recent deliveries.
“Dirty diapers.” He reached into his pocket. “Put this cream above your upper lip, right under your nose. You’ll be able to breathe. See? Nothing shady, I swear,” he said, dabbing a bit of the cream on himself to reassure her.
