“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Tristan muttered, hooking a steely arm carefully under my knees and the other behind my back with the obvious intention of lifting me up.
“What are you doing?!” I was at once thrilled and terrified to be in his arms. I reeked of sweat and last night’s onions and garlic! Omigod, I’m sweaty garlic girl!
He paused, still crouched beside me, his piercing gaze inches from mine. “Pretty sure it's obvious what I'm doing.”
“I can walk!” I gave a nervous little laugh.
He shot me a pointed look. “Hobble, you mean.”
The very next second I was airborne as he hoisted me up carefully, and with very little effort. Ignoring all further protests, he cradled me like a skittish bride.
“It’s okay,” he said as I stiffened, “I’ve watched An Officer And A Gentleman, this is how it's done. Trust me.”
“Yeah, but Richard Gere never ran the poor woman off the road.”
“Everyone's a critic.”
Moreover, Richard isn't a man of questionable extracurricular activities that might or might not be involved in cultish shenanigans.
Unaware of my dark thoughts about him, Tristan grinned down at me unrestrainedly, baring those sharp white canines in the process. Was it mandatory, in this cult of theirs, to file their teeth into long points? I also wondered if he had some hidden falsies somewhere that he used to disguise those disturbing teeth in case he scared any cheechakos. He definitely did because they weren’t always so creepy looking. My widened glare was fixed warily to his closed mouth all the while he easily scaled the hill as if I was nothing but a featherweight, which, compared to him, I supposed I was.
The left door of his black Ford was still wide open when we got up to the road, the hazards blinking patiently. He deposited me in the driver’s seat and promptly began to inspect the scratches on my hands and arms before removing the running shoe from my swelling foot and handing it to me for safekeeping.
My stomach tensed with anticipation as he unexpectedly straightened up, looming over me to grab his Tervis cup from the center console at my back. God, he smelled heavenly, but I didn't want to think about that because then I'd have to consider the rankness of my own scent. Eau de Sweaty. It was very confusing to have my libido revving in one direction as my head balked cautiously and skeptically into another. I wasn’t even sure if I was relieved or disappointed when he, just as quickly, leaned away again, too busy playing doctor to comment on my schoolgirl neurosis. Or my stench.
Careful of keeping the ice back with one hand, he emptied the water out of the cup and poured the ice onto a microfibre cloth he'd grabbed from the back seat. He then positioned his boot on the running board and rested my injured foot onto his bent knee before placing the makeshift ice pack at my ankle. In the meantime, I kept myself busy fidgeting with the laces of my sneaker as I studied the granite contours of his gorgeous profile.
There was not a man in the world that unsettled me more than he did. Not even Dean, who was probably even better looking. It was a very powerful sexual allure that held me spellbound by Tristan. Which was inexplicably odd considering his awful canines. He intimidated me with his half-smiles and sphinx-like demeanor; unnerved me with his piercing looks, and unsettled me with his enigmatic silence. When he wasn’t sharing a joke with me I had no bloody idea what was going on in his head. Despite my ever increasing lust for him, I couldn’t stop thinking about Melissa’s warning either. Maybe the soundness of my judgment had been fatally impaired by my raging hormones. He could very well be in a toothy cult. Why shouldn’t I heed my friend’s warning? And now I was completely alone with him.
“Relax, I won’t bite,” he said without looking up from my foot.
I gave a humorous laugh and watched his mouth flatten at the sound.
All my dire speculations had me tensing uncomfortably, which Tristan hopefully ascribed to the sprain and not to the fact that he made me so nervous. If he’d have heard the conversation between myself and the pesky voices in my head he’d have thought us a bunch of space monkeys talking to each other through the toaster. I sounded bananas even to myself. Thankfully, he was blissfully unaware of my thoughts and merely continued his careful ministrations, his expression thoughtful and his fingers impossibly warm where they touched my foot. In fact, I barely felt the ice at all.
“Good news is it’s not broken,” he said, “but you won’t be bartending for a while. Or running.”
“Pfft, I’m fine,” I said, feeling a Monty Python quote coming on, “ ’tis but a flesh wound.’ ”
“Stop flapping your gums, you're distracting me.” Even so, I could tell he was amused by the perfect British accent I’d nailed.
I watched a lot of BBC. “I’m fine, Doc. Honestly. How about you sign my discharge papers and let me pay my bill?” I was sure he had better things to do than play nursemaid to me.
“Payment, huh?” He stroked his chin, with some deliberation. “What kind of payment?”
“How do your…um…other patients—” I licked my lips and swallowed “—normally pay you?” My heart was beating like a thing deranged, rattling my ribs excitedly from the inside.
“That all depends on the patient…” His smile had become perceptibly darker, and edgier.
“Sex on the Beach it is.” Where I got the courage to say that I didn’t know. But I instantly berated myself for flirting with the devil. After all, his was the type of smirk that promised wicked things and I was as per usual, hopelessly out of my depth here.
My comment seemed to have ignited his eyes. Strange flecks of yellow began pulsing around his dilating pupils. It was hypnotic to watch. The forest grew still as he held my gaze. I could feel the air thicken as he leaned in a fraction closer. He was going to kiss me!
Yes! No! Fuck! Argh! I panicked. “I should go,” I said abruptly, dispelling the moment. I fumbled desperately with my shoe, a jolt of pain stabbing my ankle as I finally yanked it on.
He, meanwhile, slowly set the ice aside and moved away, bemused, but said nothing at first. His dark brows edged a little lower and his eyes followed my movements as I hobbled down from his truck. Alternately wincing and gasping, I limped off into the sunset (well, there was a sunset somewhere in the world) like an unsteady (and horseless) John Wayne.
“Where the hell are you going, Spencer?” His surprise was almost comical. Almost. And his tone implied that I’d gone off the deep end, space monkey style.
I affected a precarious little pirouette and faced him. “Walking back.” Duh.
“You can barely do even that properly.” He gave me a flat look and rested his forearm casually on the top of his open door. “Also, you’re going the wrong way.”
“Right.” I swiftly changed direction, cursing myself.
His eyes probed me uncomfortably as I hobbled past him. “C’mon, you maniac, get in the truck.”
“I’m fine.” Wait, how many times had I already said fine? Who cares, he’s right. You’re acting like a maniac. Take the damn ride.
“Women always say they’re fine especially when they’re not.”
His logic was unappreciated. I still made no move back toward him.
“This is ridiculous,” he said tersely, getting into his truck and slamming the door. He fired the ignition and the truck began to crawl forward. His elbow was resting in the open window, his expression unreadable as he halted beside me.
I waited expectantly.
So did he. His diesel engine growled angrily into the silence.
“What are you doing?” I asked warily.
“You give me no choice but to follow you like a creep.” He gave a shrug of annoyance.
Whoa. In the space of two minutes, I’d gone from damsel in distress to persona non grata. Yes, because you’re a nut job. Get in the goddamn truck. I sighed and headed around the hood to the passenger seat. He’d proven his point.
He leaned over to open the door for me. “I’m not gonna shove you in the bed of my t
ruck and bury you in the woods if that’s what you’re worried about.” He waited till I’d climbed in and shut the door before he said, “I left the chloroform at home anyway.” How could he be both irritated and charming all at once?
“Also, your fingerprints are all over my foot now,” I said as the truck began to accelerate forward. It wasn’t exactly a grin that lit his face, but his hardened facade cracked just enough that I still felt gratified to have almost put the smile back in place.
“The question is, can latent prints be lifted from dead bodies?”
“Pretty sure they can be.” I slitted my eyes at him. “I should warn you—”giving my little can of bear spray a warning pat “—I’m packin’ heat.”
He raised one hand from the steering wheel in surrender. “I’m only here to help you, not molest you.”
“For the record,” I said, feeling suddenly chagrined for allowing stupid rumors to make me doubt him, “I know you won’t hurt me.” Of that, at least, I was now certain. The way he’d cared for and touched me had been nothing less than altruistic. God, make up your damn mind. Do you feel safe with him or don’t you? But I didn’t have an answer because I did and I didn’t. Because I sensed both safety and danger in him, two opposing forces—perhaps logic and instinct—pulling me off axis.
He glanced over briefly to notice me chewing my lip indecisively. “But?”
“But what?”
“You tell me. There’s obviously something still bothering you.”
Was I really about to broach this sensitive subject? Yes. I had to know. “I heard…I heard a really weird rumor. About you.”
“It’s not a rumor,” he said, his face deadpan.
“It’s not?!” Oh, God.
“No, I really am the reigning Backgammon champion in Thorne Bay.” He shot me a lopsided smirk.
“Whoa, watch out,” I chuckled, momentarily relaxing. “That’s truly impressive, but I was referring to the rumor about…you know…you being in a cult. Is that true?”
“You’re right, that is weird.”
My brows rose expectantly.
“As if I wouldn’t deny it either way,” he scoffed.
“Uh…”
“The answer—” sighing “—is no, Evan. We're not up there sacrificing virgins or dancing around fires. Or whatever the hell I’m rumored to be doing these days.” His lips compressed into a hard line.
“I haven’t even thought about what being in a cult might actually involve, to be honest.”
“A lot of my…extended family can be a little hermetic. But it's really not as sinister as some folks like to think. A lot of busybodies up here get tickled by gossip, that’s all. So whatever you don't want the whole damn town knowing, you should probably keep to yourself. Fair warning.”
“So no creepy blood sacrifices then?”
“No blood sacrifices,” he affirmed. “At least not for many years now…”
“What a relief,” I muttered, distracted by his profile.
The sea-foam in his irises appeared iridescent as the sunlight slanted through the trees and onto his face. Even when his features were relaxed and calm, as they were now, his eyes had always hinted at turbulence beneath. In fact, I suspected they could rival the Bering Sea when roused to temper.
I almost wished I hadn’t asked about the gossip because now I seemed like just another nosy scandalmonger. “Well, I didn’t really buy into any of that garbage.”
“Hmm,” was all he offered in reply. Not a convincing sound by any means.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. He was ostensibly lost in thought and I’d already said too much, there was no chance I’d risk putting my injured foot back in my stupid mouth.
But, sadly, the universe wasn’t done playing with my emotions just yet. Radiohead’s very distinctive guitar distortion crescendoing over the speakers suddenly drew me into the plaintive lyrics, each word hitting a thousand tender nerves. How poignant—here was the soundtrack to my life right now.
From the corner of my eye, I tried to read his guarded features. I would have given anything to know what he was thinking, and whether or not he was listening to the words too. Was he thinking that I was a creep? A weirdo? That I didn’t belong here?
All too soon we were parked outside the staff barracks, and before I’d even curled my fingers on the handle, Tristan was at my door to help me down from his truck.
“Thanks for babysitting me.”
“It was the least I could do for causing the sprain in the first place.”
My smile faltered slightly. Of course he’d felt duty bound to help me. “You, sir, are a scholar and a gentleman.” Who was almost certainly happy to be rid of me. Yup, you as good as compared him to Charles Manson, he’s probably never going to come near you again.
Once my apartment door was unlocked, I stood at the threshold, trying to think of some witty parting remark that would make him forget all about my John Wayne moment, or that I’d made him feel like some deviant. “Did you sharpen your teeth?” I blurted nervously.
“What?” He cocked his head, baffled.
My inner logic had already slapped me hard across the face in disgust. “Nothing,” I quickly muttered. This was probably going to be the last time I would ever be alone with him again. Or see him. I felt like crying all of a sudden. You idiot!
“You should go elevate that foot and put some ice on it,” he instructed, turning to head back to his truck.
“Okay.” I gave a two-fingered salute. Actually freaking saluted him. Cringe.
“See ya, Evan.”
“Bye, Tristan.”
“Oh, and stick to treadmills from now on, okay?”
“Sure,” I said sheepishly. “Don’t worry, you’ll have no more complications from me.”
He climbed in, shut the door, and snapped the seatbelt on before regarding me through his open window. “I think,” he said after a heavy pause, “it’s too late for that.” And then he was gone in a plume of leafy detritus.
9
Weird Not To Be Weird
The week following my sprain was spent mostly supine on my bed like an invalid. Alison had turned out to be one strict nursing supervisor.
As predicted there was complete radio silence from Tristan, apart from the card he’d sent with a carton of soy milk (which had been cleverly wrapped in a bandage and tied off with a neat bow). That was something at least, I’d thought then, but when the second week crawled by without word (not that he owed me words) my sham indifference cracked into full-blown crazy. Cabin fever or Tristan fever?!
The ‘something at least’ turned out to be nothing at all. He remained torturously elusive weeks after. Nor could I blame the man for it—why wouldn’t he avoid me like the bubonic? Since the moment I’d met him I’d been nothing but a gawky disaster. Worst of all, I’d actually asked him if he was in a bloody cult!
Being in my own head during my boring convalescence also meant that I’d been rehashing my John Wayne moment over and over again, ad nauseam, and I was now mortified that that should be Tristan’s last memory of me. That one day, when he was eighty and watching True Grit, he’d suddenly have a flashback of that sweaty garlic girl (whose name he’d long forgotten) hobbling off down the road like a maniac rather than drive with him. That same screwy girl with those strange ideas about cults. There had also been that panicky moment I’d sabotaged what would almost certainly have been a first kiss; he probably thought he’d dodged a bullet, but I was filled with regret.
Whatever I was doing, whether pouring a beer or brushing my teeth, it never failed—at the oddest moments, with or without an audience, I’d either give a random snort of disgust or facepalm myself. Sometimes both. This had earned me lots of strange looks lately. By now, most people probably assumed that I suffered from a severe case of Tourette’s.
But, as Gramps would say, I could crap in one hand and heap wishes onto the other, and see which hand filled up first—it was useless to obsess or wish myself back in ti
me to have a do-over. Thankfully, though, by the end of week four (not that I was counting), I stopped looking for him every time the door opened. And the Tourettes finally stopped as well.
* * *
I was in my room folding clothes like the exciting and worldly woman that I was (not), music blasting from my portable speaker as I worked. My shift with Melissa wouldn’t start until later this evening so I was taking advantage of my morning to do some laundry and other very grown-up chores.
Shouting along with the lyrics, I rocked my body to the beat knowing full well how ridiculous I looked doing The Sprinkler, but that was fine because I didn’t mind being ridiculous on purpose. And in private. It was when I did or said stupid shit inadvertently, in front of gorgeous witnesses, that it rankled.
When my phone began to ring, mid-sprinkler in fact, it automatically cut the music off. Mom usually called this time of day, so, without checking the screen, I answered. “You naked with Chris Hemsworth again?” I asked her, still breathless from dancing.
Only it wasn’t my mother. “Um, should I be?”
“Uh…” My cheeks instantly began to burn. How the hell did I get myself into these cringe-worthy situations with Tristan? “You mean you’re not?” I injected a good dose of disappointment into my response, so as to mask my humiliation. When in doubt, salvage with humor.
“So we’re back to talking about my dirty little secrets, huh? Girlie cocktails I’ll own, but Chris Hemsworth isn’t one of them.”
“That’s not what I heard,” I joked in a sing-song voice. I halted all panty-folding to give the phone call the concentration it deserved.
“Well, there was that one time…but it’ll take a few drinks before I’ll confess to all the nasty details.”
“Pfft, I bet it’d only take you two girlie drinks to spill your guts, Mr. Thorn.”
“Ahh, so you do know it’s me. I was worried there for a minute.”
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