by H. M. Ward
“Is your house made out of gingerbread?” I blink at him. “Do I need to run like hell in that direction?” He jabs his thumb away from my house and toward the field. He glances at the acreage and then back at me, running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.
Jaw scraping the ground, I gape at him. Is he joking?
Then he adds, completely dead-pan, “That wouldn’t matter anyway, right? I could run, run as fast as I can, but the witch still eats that sucker at the end of the story. Poor bastard.” The slight smirk is back, the corner of his mouth rising slightly on one side.
I glare at him. “Did you seriously call me a witch? I could have left you back there.” Not that I would have thrown the guy to that lunatic, Tommy. Mr. Handsome aka Gingerbread Man would have ended up dead in a ditch.
He takes a step toward me. Chase. His name is Chase. “I don’t think you’re that cold.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” I’m firm, even though my ass is still on the ground and he’s looking down at me from the backseat with his feet on the gravel drive. He stands.
His eyes sweep over me, taking in my outfit and bright hair. There’s no lift to the corner of his lips this time. Again, he shakes his head as he slips his hands into his pockets. “If you’re soliciting for being a cold-hearted bitch, then I’m not buying. I see you, no matter what you think.” He studies my Kool-Aid cut and then his cool eyes slip over my piercings—ear to eyebrow—before slipping down to my unmanicured nails. His gaze rests on my left hand.
I don’t know what he sees, but he thinks he sees something. I’m on my feet and fold my arms over my chest. It looks too defensive, but I don’t care. This arrogant man can’t know me. If he has the slightest clue who I am, I’m screwed. I laugh, but it’s a jaded sound. I press a hand to my chest, flexing the fingers as I do it. “How flattering to be told I’m so transparent.”
“You made snap judgments about me. We all do it. The only difference is that I’ve never been wrong.”
I scoff and tighten my folded arms while cocking out my hip. “I’m sure.”
He inhales slowly, lashes lowered, as a softness overtakes his features. Hard lines melt away and I feel safe. It’s as if I’m seeing his walls drop. The movement has a sensuality to it and I suspect the only other time this man makes that expression is when he’s tangled in sheets and covered in sweat. I should look away, but I can’t. There’s something about him, hypnotic and raw. It keeps me there, eyes fixated on him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is a soft timbre and it lulls like a seduction song. But his words are quite the opposite. They pierce and pull, tug and rip away at me. “There’s an incident in your past that you couldn’t overcome, or accept. You’re scared and alone, but the loneliness is self-afflicted. You shun people who are kind to you and trust isn’t something you believe in. There’s no such thing as love and you believe that you’re beyond hope—beyond saving. You hide beneath that assertive hair, that hard exterior shell you created. You hope to God no one gets past the façade because what lies beneath is so terrifying even you can’t face it.”
It feels as if I’ve been struck. My throat tightens as the air is pulled from my body. Defense mode clicks on mid-speech and a flippant smile spreads across my face. My eyes roll to the side a little as a know-it-all smirk reaches my eyes. My body says he couldn’t be more wrong, but how did he read me that way…that close. It was a prediction of things to come, but an assessment of things that have already passed.
I laugh and feel my eyes crinkle as a hand finds his shirt. I press my palm lightly to his chest, splaying that hand as the other presses to my heart. I chortle, not looking him in the eye. I don’t deny it. That would come across too defensive and make him think he’s right. Instead, I do what I’ve always done and twist the truth into lies. “Let me guess, a failed psych major who still has fun analyzing everything?”
Icy eyes meet mine as a dark brow lifts. “I could keep going or…?” He glances at my hand, still on his chest, lying gingerly on the supple fabric of his shirt.
I hold his gaze and try not to back away from the intensity of it—of him. “Or?”
“Or I could help you.”
Bristling, I mutter under my breath, “I don’t need help.”
He lowers his face to mine and says softly, “No matter what you’ve been through and what you believe, I won’t hurt you. You have my word. I could call an Uber and leave you alone if that’s what you want, but that cut is on your right arm and you’re right handed. Fixing it up alone will be rough. I know you can do it, but maybe you don’t need to push back so hard tonight. Maybe you could make an exception this once?” He inclines his head toward me.
I finally manage to speak, but I find myself parroting back his question “An exception?”
There are no serious wounds on me. What the hell is he talking about? When I look down at my arm, I gasp. There’s a long deep cut that I don’t remember getting. Ribbons of blood have caked into a burnt color and dried on my arm, but the cut is deep and still wet in the middle, still weeping.
My head feels too heavy and I laugh, even though I want to cry. “I’m fine.”
He cocks his head to the side and catches my eyes. Carefully, he reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. I don’t shake him off. His voice is soft, sincere, “Don’t send me away. Not yet.” He doesn’t pull back when I stare at his hand like it's wrong, like the gesture is a mistake—like he’s a mistake.
Time unknits in that moment. The franticness evaporates as I stare at his strong hand, the same one that saved me earlier, the palm of the man I Tasered more than once tonight. For some reason he’s still here, still offering me help.
He should have run. I should have shoved him out of the car and into a field.
This friendship can only end in heartache and destruction because that’s what it means to be a Ferro. I’ve watched it happen to my brothers and cousins more times than I can bear. The solace of this place gives me distance to realize that I’m better off alone, that I’ll tank anyone kind enough to help me. I know what my family is capable of, and I know they’ll disapprove of him.
I also know that a musician in no-where Texas who has the heart of a cowboy but dresses like a city guy makes me wonder. There’s a dichotomy inside him and he’s not conflicted about it. I want to know how. I want to be able to accept who I am and the choices I’ve made with such ease. Or maybe I’m so weary and alone that I find my answer has changed from the time I first made up my mind.
The sound tumbles over my lips unexpectedly, making my heart jump. “Okay.”
He smiles and adds, “My name is Chase, by the way.” I nod, unable to speak, and turn away from him to unlock the door.
CHAPTER 8
M y home is a little tiny house on three acres of land just north of the city. I’m halfway between Abilene and Anson with nothing but stars as neighbors. This was intentional when I first moved here. I was infatuated with the solitude and serene nights. I’ve traveled the world and stayed at the most elite resorts and hotels, but the night sky here compares to none. It blows the Caribbean stars out the water.
The entire milky way glitters across my backyard, and I loved it so much that I made a special modification to the tiny house and had dual skylights installed over the bed in the upper loft. The old Texan warned me about hail and wind, saying it wasn’t frugal and that I’d be replacing those panes of glass every time a storm rolled through, but I was in love with the sky and the freedom it offered. I like thinking that I’m small, a grain of sand on a beach, inconsequential. It’s so much more devastating when you’re important and fail to be everything required. I’ve failed. Hard.
I unlock the door, and he follows me inside. I’m standing in my hotel-room-sized house with a man who fills half of it. The outside of the little house has a Norwegian flare with cedar shingles stained gray and overflowing flower boxes under narrow vertical windows trimmed in white. A square wooden deck stands
before a cobalt front door flanked with two white chairs.
The first floor has my living room, kitchen, and bathroom while the upper loft holds my bedroom. It literally takes one stride to change rooms, and since I never have any company, my things are out—books, magazines, nail kit, laundry, etc. A dim bulb illuminates when we push inside the room thanks to home automation. I’m off the grid here with generators and solar panels for electricity, rain barrels for the shower, and a compost potty that isn’t as nasty as it sounds. I have no internet and no land lines. There’s nothing that will ping that this little house even sits here when looking through utility bills. I bought the land with cash, purchased the house the same way, all under an alias. I was careful, so careful.
That’s why this one action seems so reckless. I’ve brought someone to my hiding spot. But I’m already found. My time here is limited. This house will be left behind even though I wish I didn’t have to walk away.
My heart hammers into my chest, slapping it silly. I wasn’t the type of girl to turn into a hermit and live alone. I love people, the sounds of the city and the way it sings at night, the symphony of sounds on a summer night in Manhattan cannot compare.
Swallowing hard, I glance back at my guest as he closes the door behind him. The intimate space suddenly feels too revealing. Intending to back toward the door to open it again and show him out doesn’t go as planned. He doesn’t move. His neck cranes as he looks around the tiny home with awe, lips slightly parted, and eyes filled with something I don’t recognize. It can’t be wonder. Shock, maybe?
Either way, wonder and shock are knocked out of him when I slam into him, butt first followed by a sharp elbow. I’m shaking now, not sure what’s wrong with me. I stutter, trying to find words, making old movements that no longer make sense, like tucking long hair behind my ear. There’s nothing to tuck, so my fingers flail before I forget and shake out my hands mumbling something unintelligible along the lines of, “This was a bad idea. I can’t—I—”
Chase nods as if he understands and slips away from me, taking his warm certainty with him. He places his hand on the doorknob and moves away from me as he opens the little door. “It’s shock,” he pauses and shakes his head once, foolishly, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. If I unsettle you, we should call someone else, but you shouldn’t be alone tonight. The hospital isn’t far from here. Let me drive you. They can stitch you up and call your family.”
I shake my head once, sharply. “No. No hospitals.”
They’ll run me through their system and suddenly every Ferro alive will know where I’m hiding. I swallow hard and keep my eyes fixed on the thick pine slats on the floor. I could call Lizzie. She’d be here in a few hours if she took the Ferro jet. No one would stop her. She could be in the air before my parents realized it. My eyes shift back and forth, thinking. I wanted to be left alone for a while, until I knew what to do. Involving more people puts everyone at risk. I can’t do that to her. I shouldn’t do it to Chase either.
He nods solemnly in front of the open door as if he understands. Folding those strong arms over his chest, he suggests, “A friend, then?”
“No.” I shake my head and walk toward the couch, barely two steps away from the door and flop down onto the violet fabric. Chills overtake me and I shudder violently. What the hell is happening? Why am I shaking so much? I’ve done worse, lived through horrible things, and this never happened to me before.
I feel his eyes on me, a sympathetic gaze that would condemn me as soon as he realizes who I really am and what I’ve done. He’s a good man, I can see that even through this frozen haze of fear. It licks at my skin, freezing my bones, and edging me too close to crying. I tighten my stomach and swallow the sobs but I’m racing the clock.
Chase moves slightly, his fingertips caressing the stubble on the hard angle of his jaw. Then he taps his cheek with his index finger, glancing at me while he does it. “I can’t leave you alone. It would be incredibly cruel. You have no reason to trust me, but I won’t give you a reason to hate me. Listen, I’ll get you something to eat and you can try to lie down. I’ll stay on the deck and you can lock the door, but I’ll be here if you need me. Don’t ask me to leave you alone, because I don’t think I can be that bastard. Not tonight.”
When I glance up, our eyes lock. The softness that emerged earlier is back and pleading with me. It’s a look of empathy that I won’t receive if he figures things out, and this is a smart man—he will figure it out. But not overnight. And not from the porch.
I find myself nodding slowly, shivering. I wrap my arms around my middle and hold on tight, but it doesn’t stop. Coldness wraps it’s icy grip around my shoulders and slithers down my spine. I can’t chase it away.
Chase clears his throat from the doorway. “I’m going to get you something to eat and find a blanket. Can I come in?”
I laugh at the absurdity of it, joking to take the concerned look off his face. I hate feeling broken. “Are you a vampire? Do I seriously need to give you permission?”
I’m shaking, holding myself together with my arms and failing. Every shallow stitch, every weak binding, is under pressure and ready to tear apart. Tears sting my eyes and I no longer blink them away. Instead, I lean forward and let my eyes close as I press my forehead to my knees. It’s better to hide behind snarky comments and shock than deal with the shitstorm headed my way. I gasp as another shiver rakes my spine.
“Where are your blankets?” I hear him ask urgently, and when I don’t reply he’s up the ladder and into the loft. Suddenly my bedspread is around my shoulders and tugged tightly under my neck. His hand is on my back as he whispers in my ear, “Sit up a little and hold onto this. Keep talking.”
I sit up a little and take the blanket, clutching it under my chin. I don’t lift my gaze. This feels too much like failure. I should never have to rely on anyone like this, never mind a stranger. “Are you this nice to all the girls who Taze you?”
He snorts. “Only the chicks who do it more than once. They need to be committed, you know?”
“Committed to an asylum? That’s your type? Or are you talking about dedication?”
“Ah, isn’t that the question?” Chase is in my slim fridge pulling out bottles and packages. I have no idea what he’s doing because I can’t seem to focus. “I suspect the voltage is the real attraction. Getting Tazed makes me hot.”
I bark out a laugh unexpectedly, and tease, “That’s sexy.”
Chase glances at me from the kitchen counter, two steps away, those blue eyes filled with concern and concealed by a smirk. He’s me. The way he hides his emotions, the way he doesn’t respond or does the most preposterous thing. Something taught him to deflect people the way I do, but he’s not bitter about it. He’s not afraid.
He shrugs and goes back to piling a bunch of meat on a piece of bread. “I can’t deny who I am any longer. I admit it, I was prowling that bar and picking fights hoping to get juiced. You made my night, Weird Girl.”
Snorting, I smile and lift my face. “I’m not the weird one here.”
He finishes stacking the sandwich, grabs a can of soda from the fridge, and walks toward me with a towering plate of food. “You’re not? I thought for sure that you’d be the odd duck out of the two of us?” He hands me the mini buffet piled on the plate and then leans against the wall opposite me.
“Why’s that?” I take a bite of the monster sandwich. It’s not until after I’ve swallowed that I realize I would have never taken food from a stranger under normal circumstances. He could have poisoned me, put a shiv in the bread, or done any number of things to harm me.
Growing up in New York does things to a girl. The women down here don’t think like that. They don’t naturally distrust people to the same extent. Yeah, they look under the stall door in the ladies’ room at a gas station, but the assumed animosity and distrust of other people aren't there. I feel foolish doubting him. Why would he save me, help me, and then poison me? Maybe I am mental.
&
nbsp; He lifts a hand toward me. “Well, look at you. The Crayola hair and the piercings. I bet you have a tattoo hidden somewhere as well.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “What does it say? A poem is my guess.”
I frown as I take another bite and chomp, oddly unself-conscious in the moment. “It’s not a poem.”
A beautiful smirk. He unfolds his arms, slipping his hands into his pockets. “So a quote, then? Something that justifies your actions while conveying something you strive toward. Let me think. What could it be?”
I don’t tell him he’s right. There’s no way he’ll see the tat anyway. I crunch on a pickle and offer him the other. “Seriously, take it. Eat something. I feel weird eating alone.” It’s the truth.
He watches me carefully before taking the pickle from my hand. Our fingertips touch for a moment and a warm jolt races up my arm. It’s like static, almost. Not a hot jolt of lightening, but a warm, steady surge of something. My brain isn’t working. I blink and touch my head with my forefinger and thumb, squeezing my temples.
“Headache?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s not that bad.”
“Finish eating and try to lie down for a while. Nothing will hurt you while I’m here. And you know you’re in Texas now. If that asshole finds you and takes a step on your property, you have every right to shoot his ass.” Chase is serious and he assumes I have a distaste of pain, of weapons, and wouldn’t do it.
The truth is I’ve done so much worse, and without justification.
“I mean it,” he pauses again and laughs. “I keep going to say your name, but you still haven’t told me.”
I don’t want to lie to him. There’s something about him that warns me not to do it. I stand and take a step toward him. “I don’t want to talk anymore tonight.”
The man is a breath away. His gaze lingers on mine as he breathes. Each pull of air fills his lungs, expanding his chest so that he’s a fraction of a centimeter from touching me. I can feel his warmth, his concern. He wants to save me, but no one can. I’ve done this to myself and once everything catches up with me, my life is over. I never told Lizzie, because I could barely admit it to myself, but I’m not going back home. My life ended that night. There’s no going back and the future that lies ahead is bleak and unforgiving.
