by Vivien Vale
It’s no pretend cologne, however. This is Dylan’s scent, the smell of who he is and the desire coursing through his being.
I smell it oozing off him and from the air surrounding him, and I can see it, as clear as day, in his eyes.
He’s not saying anything. He’s going to do it, isn’t he?
I have been poking the bear, so...
“I’m just working, that’s all.” Dylan’s voice, as he finally speaks, overflows with primal power, even as he delivers his words to me quietly and softly.
I can feel his warm breath on my skin. It sends tiny electric shock waves through me.
Dylan’s scent surrounds everything now, and I feel a static charge around my lips as his mouth draws closer.
“Working on what?” I’m trying to rival the quiet power of his voice. I can almost taste that indefinable musky, manly fragrance as I speak.
Dylan is so close that I can feel the phantom sensation of his lips on my own, even though they aren’t quite touching.
“Your new dress,” Dylan whispers.
The feeling of Dylan placing the flannel garment in my hand breaks the spell, and we both step away from each other until we’re standing at a respectful distance.
I hold up the newly tailored flannel shirt to see that it’s no longer a flannel shirt. He’s only been working a few minutes, but Dylan somehow fashioned one of his lumberjack shirts into a surprisingly decent-looking top.
Without another word I drop the bits of curtain covering me and slowly, deliberately put my arms through my new garment before my shaking fingers do up one button after another.
Chapter 15
Dylan
Her eyes betray what she thinks of my handiwork. The glint in them confirms she likes it.
She can’t deny how good it looks.
A new plaid dress, fashioned from one of my many flannel shirts. It’s as if it was tailored to fit her curves perfectly—not that it takes much to outline her curves.
But then she says, “Oh, wow, I have something to wear now.”
Really, it’s a backhanded compliment, and, to add insult to injury, she just stalks off to...wherever it is she goes to sulk.
The air crackles with electricity. It’s getting fucking impossible. My hands shake, and I feel like killing something.
That’s why I’m gearing up to go out and hunt some food before the blizzard really picks up.
I can tell by the size of the snowflakes and the color of the sky that things are going to get even worse. Honestly, we have more than enough food, but I need to get out of here while I still can—at least for a little while.
Going out on a hunt is the only fucking way I’m going to be able to channel any of this shit for real.
Naked Emma, Emma with the sexy new dress, and steamy Emma.
These images are going to be in my mind for a while as I trudge through the blinding snow. That plaid fabric clinging to her beautiful shape, and her perfect ass...
Fuck, I need to get going.
I have to get out there before the storm starts to get really bad. I check the digital temperature display, which is hooked up to the thermometers inside and outside the cabin.
Inside is still a relatively toasty twenty-two degrees centigrade, which is just a little over seventy Fahrenheit.
The temperature outside is beyond brisk at negative fourteen centigrade or about seven degrees Fahrenheit—if that helps make it sound a little warmer. I have on my thermal socks and underwear, as well as my thermal shirt and several flannel layers.
Even my coat is plaid, but it’s a bright one for hunting, a reddish orange color that the flannel supplier refers to as Labrador Sunrise.
It’s named after one of the Canadian Northern Territories—sort of. I’m sticking mostly with the Labrador Sunrise color scheme because I want to be easy to spot in the increasingly heavy blanket of pure white precipitation.
Shit, what am I saying? No fucker is going to come looking for me if something were to happen.
I know for a fact there are will be no other hunters—no other human beings—within miles of where I’ll be, but sticking with some basic principles is one of those things that has kept me sane through all these years of solitude.
One other thing that has kept me sane, though, is, well...the solitude itself. The closest things to human contact that I had were the images on my monitors.
Images of extraordinary beauty.
Images of Emma Clayton.
Seeing Emma in those electronically transmitted two-dimensional images was like seeing Emma in the flesh...before all this shit went down at the real estate firm. The Emma I knew then and the one I’ve been keeping track of all these years remain the same angelic beauty.
She exists in another dimension. I can look but not touch.
This other iteration of Emma Clayton has penetrated my solitude by necessity. The motherfuckers looking for her just couldn’t keep their word.
I’m going to hunt in this storm, because I honestly don’t know what the fuck else to do right now. I’m about to jump out of my goddamn skin.
Emma Clayton is here for real, and that’s what really throws everything off balance.
I have on my rubbers—otherwise known as galoshes—as well as my emergency supplies, my ammunition, a hunting rifle, my tactical gloves, and my thermal fleece face mask.
I’ve got all of this shit with me on the way out the door, like so much bullshit extra baggage I carry everywhere. I spin around, taking one last look inside the cabin.
I’m leaving the lights on. It just something I’m going to have to get used to.
Besides that, it looks the same as it always does. Not a soul in sight.
Maybe I can convince myself that I’m still all alone up here—at least, until I return from my hunt.
I just need a little bit of time, before the blizzard makes it impossible to leave the cabin.
Here I go, alone, as always, out to...
“Dylan!”
So much for that. I hear her approaching, coming down the stairs.
“Dylan!” she repeats, although now I can see her, and she’s close enough to stop yelling.
“I’m going out hunting before the storm kicks in,” I snarl, trying to sound clear yet sparse with my words, not communicating any more than I need to.
I need to get out of here. I can’t spend any more energy talking to her.
“I need to leave now,” I continue, “so please forgive me for not sticking around to chat.”
I bristle a bit, internally, from the way my sarcasm sounds. I’m already saying too much.
“Good,” Emma says, “I can go with you.”
“Absolutely not,” I snap.
It’s long past time for me to turn around and leave...but I’m utterly unable to take my eyes off the way she looks in that dress.
Who else could look so incredible in something fashioned crudely from a flannel shirt?
Why the fuck does she have to be so fucking perfect? It makes all of this so much more difficult than it should be.
“I’m going with you,” she spouts insistently, already on her way to get the spare set of thermal gear hanging by the front door.
“Why is this so difficult? You’re not coming with me.” I try to maintain my snarly delivery, communicating a grizzled toughness, along with the implication that this is too dangerous for her.
It doesn’t seem to give Emma the tiniest moment of hesitation. She’s already got the thermal gear off the hook.
“I’m going with you.” She slips the thermal shirt over her newly fashioned dress with grace. “We’re supposed to do these things together.”
“What things?” I ask, because really, what the fuck is she talking about?
“Everything.”
The word both hangs in the air and strikes at my chest like a hammer, even though I don’t know what it signifies exactly.
I sigh. “I have no choice but to ask what you mean.”
“I
mean you tried to leave. It seemed so arbitrary, so meaningless, and almost like you didn’t want it to happen...and now you’re trying to do it again.”
Emma takes the grey knit watch cap down from the hook by the top of the doorframe.
“I’ll come clean,” I confess.
This doesn’t stop Emma from pulling the cap over her blonde hair, but she looks at me, a disbelieving look on her face.
“We have provisions here,” I tell her. “We don’t...I don’t really need to go hunting.”
She’s not going to settle for less than the truth. I can delay it or just get it out now.
“Don’t think it’s my choice.” My voice rises with each word, the intensity running away from me.
“What?”
“It’s not my choice!” I yell. “Stop thinking that I’m so in control here. I needed to do it...”
“You needed to abandon me?”
“For you, Emma. I had to leave to protect you. I had no choice—I had to remove myself. That’s why I left, that’s why I’ve been here for years, and that’s why I’m essentially a ghost now. To protect you!”
My voice reverberates through the entire cabin. Emma’s face changes, her eyes reddening. She lifts her head up slightly, and it looks like she’s readying to throw some angry words in my face, but she stays silent.
Instant regret takes hold of me, and its grip becomes so tight I don’t even register she’s walked out the front door until after she’s gone.
At first, it felt like she was just sulking, just storming out of the room, but now it dawns on me, a few precious seconds too late, that there’s a blizzard out there.
Regret fades to fear, and fear freezes me for a moment. Opening the door should be the simplest act imaginable, but it feels like I’m moving through thick, resistant air.
Once I’m outside, I see the precipitation rapidly intensifying. The temperature is already well below freezing. With the wind howling, things are even worse.
The visibility is fucking terrible. I don’t see Emma through the hazy static of the evening snowstorm. I feel my body physically going into full panic as I start moving forward as fast as I can, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of her in the blizzard.
I will find her soon, I tell myself, mantra-like, to keep a cool head. If I don’t...Emma won’t last in this storm.
Chapter 16
Emma
Fuck, that hat is gone. Who knows where it went? And I didn’t think to put on any goddamn gloves, either.
As freezing as it is in the great outdoors tonight, my body heat is melting the thin layer of snow on my head, soaking my hair before it’ll surely refreeze later.
How is it that all this shit is just occurring to me now, out here in the freezing cold?
I thought the sky looked light enough when I left, but the snow’s now falling so hard that it’s impossible to see very far—or at all, really—in any direction.
I have to give myself some leeway with the delayed realizations, like the dawning reality that I don’t even have gloves or a hat.
First of all, I’m on the…God, how many days is it now?
From the fire, to waking up in the middle of freaking nowhere with a transformed beast of a former colleague, to all these life-shattering revelations—it all makes it seem like my former life is somewhere in the distant past now.
However long it’s been, I’m in the thick of unprecedented craziness. I need to give myself a pinch of understanding for missing some admittedly crucial details.
There’s a faint pinkish tint to everything, the color of all the snow reflected in the night sky.
If it weren’t for that vaguely hellish light, I would be in total darkness. As of now, all I can see is a dimly-lit, rapidly descending ocean of snowflakes surrounding me on all sides.
I’m still moving, taking slow steps through the growing blanket of snow under my feet.
Okay, it’s not under my feet at this point. With my latest couple of steps, my feet are sinking into the fresh, powdery snow entirely, rising past my ankles and nearly over the tops of the giant loose-fitting boots I’m wearing.
Dylan’s boots.
I feel justified taking some of his things for the sake of survival. He has plenty of, well, everything in his little stronghold.
I just wish he had some footwear that fit me better, because some of this snow—or a whole lot of it—is bound to make its way into these boots if I keep going.
I’ll soon be freezing and soaked from literally head to fucking toe. Maybe I can forgive myself for not preparing better, but I’m feeling a growing, snowballing frustration at myself for trying to flee like this in the first goddamn place.
With my feet now wobbling with each step and my balance deteriorating, I’m going to have a real tough time finding it in my heart to forgive myself for this one.
Or not. I mean, it was a rash decision, but I’m not confronted with this kind of crap every day or, like, ever.
And how was I supposed to now it would be snowing this freaking hard out here? Or that it would be so damn frigid?
It’s not like this is Antarctica or the Yukon.
I don’t think it is, but then the facts about my current reality are getting murkier with each unsteady step.
A bitter, raw wind pierces through me, howling monstrously and nearly knocking me off balance.
I decide that this is as good a time as any to freeze—figuratively, I hope—in place and try to coalesce my thoughts before continuing.
What drove me here?
That’s my first thought—or rather, my first question to myself.
The short answer is Dylan.
Another fucking gust of wind attacks my train of thought.
“Shit! I get it, already! Just give me a minute, please!”
There, that ought to do it.
So, Dylan. Yes, that’s why I’m out here. Because of Dylan and his pointless veiling of the truth.
For years and fucking years. Why couldn’t he just tell me?
That answers it, and I’m satisfied. The pain and anger of the thought feels worse than the discomfort of this stupid blizzard.
I take another step, then another, feeling a little steadier now, maybe a little warmer even—although that part might be in my imagination.
For the first time since leaving the cabin, the snow looks like it’s slowing down, possibly.
Or it’s just the wind getting worse, blowing the snow sideways from its downward trajectory.
Either way, the wind’s definitely getting worse, and I wobble a bit when I realize that I’m on a slight slope.
“Oh, holy shit.”
All the other crap—going gloveless, losing my hat, running outside with boots that make me feel like I’m shrinking—all that I can excuse away, chalking it up to an insane, unforeseen course of events that I could never have predicted or prepared for.
But this…come on. This is the fucking mountains.
How did I not consider that little detail? How far did I think I could get?
I think about taking another step, but I feel my balance deteriorating just at the thought.
I don’t know how much of it’s in my head, but it’s so fucking cold right now I don’t even feel like considering that, or anything else.
I still can’t see what’s in front of me, but maybe if I go back in the other direction, I can get back on level ground.
It’s possible I haven’t traveled that far yet. The gusts of wind’s becoming nearly constant, and now the only thing I care about is finding my way back indoors.
Heat. That’s all that matters. Or at least some kind of shelter from this brutal wind and biting flecks of snow it’s blasting onto my exposed face.
If I could turn around, I would run, and I would not stop until I found a shelter—four walls, a door, and most importantly, a roof.
Dylan’s cabin fits the bill, and I got myself this far on my two feet—if only I could get myself back.
The way
I’m standing is not sustainable. My left foot is planted a long stride in front of my right foot, which is pointed out diagonally.
And the ground below my feet is curved downwards from where I stand. Gravity is already tugging at me mildly, encouraging me to move forward.
I’m sorry, gravity, but I want to get the fuck away from whatever you have in mind for me in that direction. I need to turn around somehow.
If I move either foot, my balance is likely gone, and gravity will win for sure. That’s what it feels like now, but I might be able to center myself…
I shift my shoulders backwards, moving gradually, subtly, and then stopping quickly. Okay, I didn’t fall, and I don’t feel like gravity’s pulling me anymore, so I’m making progress.
I resolve to be a bit bolder with my next move as the urge to retreat indoors grows. I lean back some more, towards the direction I came from, which I believe to be the direction of the cabin. Again, I don’t fall—it’s time to lift my foot.
I probably need to start with my left foot, the foot that’s in front, to maintain my balance and not fall forward to an uncertain fate. Shit, here we go.
I angle my shoulders a touch more towards the ground behind me. If I’m going to fall, it’ll be better to fall a few feet backwards onto a soft blanket of snow than to fall forwards, yielding to whatever horrors lay in that direction.
Really, falling backwards might be my best choice. I probably can’t pivot on one foot right now, although maybe I can. I’m getting more determined by the second.
I lean back a hair more, preparing for a likely fall. It shouldn’t be so bad. I gradually start lifting my left foot up from the snow.
Once my left foot is unmoored, my right foot slips hurriedly, and by the time I can even begin to assess the situation, I’m already flat on my back. I’m not in pain, and now I can turn around. I almost want to say That’s not so bad out loud, but I realize that my teeth are chattering at about a million miles an hour.
That’s okay; I’ll be inside soon. I’m feeling numb in my extremities, and the numbness is slowly traveling up my hands and my feet—yet I know I’ll be able to walk back to warmth.
It’ll be the nicest warmth I’ve ever felt.
