Take Me
Page 156
She was the only one that could tame him.
“I love you,” she said softly.
“I love you, too, darling.”
She smiled and then turned away and went back into their room.
He was a better man now because of Ruby and Willa, and because of them he’d fight every day to be the husband and father they deserved.
The End
http://www.jenikasnow.com/
Otherwise Alone
USA Today Bestselling Author
Shay Savage
Second edition
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Shay Savage
Published by Shay Savage
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Editing: Tamara
Dedication
For everyone out there who has read my writing in the past and offered me their continued encouragement to get out there and actually publish something, it is to you my first real publication is dedicated.
I would never have gone this far without all of you!
And for Tamara, who has been there through every step of this crazy being a writer journey for a long, long time.
Preface
In blazing heat and almost complete isolation, I hide in the Arizona desert and wait for the day my boss tells me I can come back home. My only companions are my Barrett rifle and a Great Pyrenees named Odin.
I check my email regularly – it’s my only link to what has become the outside world. Everything in it reminds me of what is currently out of my reach, and I wonder if I will end up rotting here after all.
Maybe it isn’t exile.
Maybe it is an execution.
The days are long and the nights are longer, until a young woman suddenly appears on my doorstep. I’m all for getting a little – it’s been ages – but she makes me long for more.
Chapter One
Meaningless Existence
It’s fucking hot.
Even though I’m naked, I’ve kicked all the blankets off in the middle of the night.
The sun isn’t even up yet, and it’s still blisteringly hot in the middle of the desert, somewhere west of Pinon, Arizona. I roll over on my back and try to blow air down my chest, letting the sweat there mix with my breath to cool me down a bit. It helps, but only when I’m actually exhaling.
The bed squeaks as I drop my legs to the side and hope I don’t end up with another fucking splinter from the ancient wood floors. My eyes fall to my Barrett, a long barreled rifle with an elaborate scope, which is propped up in the corner of the room, next to the bed. It is my constant reminder of how I ended up here. I stretch and moan a little before I take a quick piss and dig around for a clean pair of boxer shorts, my jeans, and a faded Jesus and Mary Chain concert T-shirt. Once I’m dressed, I go outside and check the level of gasoline I still have for the generator. If I don’t run a fan and only use the electricity for cooking and checking my email, I’ve got enough to keep me going another week or so.
Internally I hope that will be enough, but I know in the back of my head that it probably won’t be. I will have to make the one-hundred mile trek to a gas station where I have yet to be seen. Lots of people pass through the area on the highway several miles from here, but they don’t ever stop twice in the same place. Even if they did, chances are no one would notice, but I’m not one to take chances.
Before I can head back through the door of the small, two room house, I hear a magnificent sneeze followed by the thumping of four canine feet across the dusty ground.
“Come ’ere, Odin,” I say with a yawn, and the Great Pyrenees lopes over to get his head scratched. Though his white coat is still pretty close to his skin, in this heat he needs another haircut. I wonder if I have enough juice to charge up the electric trimmers. If there isn’t, I’m going to have to do it by hand with a pair of scissors. Odin isn’t going to like it much, and it will probably end up looking like shit, but it’s better than overheating.
I fill his water dish from the pump outside and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. There’s just enough light to see by as it streaks across the barren landscape while the sun decides to make an appearance. I do a quick look around, check the wires hooked up to the battery of the old Chevy truck in the back of the house, and verify they’re still connected. The wire runs the perimeter of the two acre property and would set off the vehicle’s horn if breached.
It’s not the best security around, but I’m supposed to be dead anyway.
I stretch out, do a few pushups and sit ups, then jog around the shack a few times before I head back in. Odin follows me back inside, and I take quick inventory of the place out of habit, not because I don’t know what I will find. There isn’t much to go over – a bathroom with rusted out fixtures, a kitchen area with a mini-fridge full of room temperature – that is, warm – bottles of water, and a small electric stove. The main room is mostly occupied by my twin-sized bed with a cast-iron frame, once painted white, but is now chipped and falling apart. Pushed against the wall is a card table with two folding chairs. There isn’t even room for a full sized chest of drawers or anything, so the small amount of clothing I do have is folded up in the drawer of a short nightstand. I showed up here with a single duffle bag, so I don’t have that much, anyway.
“Fucking paradise,” I grunt to myself.
Odin looks up at me and snuffs. He hardly ever barks but seems content to huff through his nose and occasionally whine at me. I’m not one to talk to the dog a lot either, though he is my steadfast companion. He’s eight years old, and I’ve had him since half way through his first year. I don’t know why I decided to walk into the county animal shelter that day, but he was with me when I left, and he’s been by my side just about constantly since then.
After making myself a peanut butter sandwich, I pull one of the warm bottles of water out of the fridge and drink it down. I stretch again, rub Odin’s wooly head, and grab the rifle before I go out to the front porch to sit in the rocking chair and watch.
It’s not like I really think I’m going to be found at this point – I’ve been out here in this Godforsaken place for a quarter of a year – but I don’t have much of anything else to do, and I can’t leave until I get the go-ahead to do so. Watching at least gives me the feeling that I am doing something because I find it difficult to do nothing at all. I wish I could read, but I tend to get very lost in a good book, and that would drop my defenses to a completely unacceptable level.
Just because I haven’t been found doesn’t mean I won’t be. I know this from experience.
I pick up one of Odin’s rubber bones from the corner of the porch and toss it out into the dust. He stands and looks out at it, wags his tail a few times, and then drops back down at my feet.
“You used to want to play fetch, you lazy thing.”
Another huff through his nose is all I get in return. I’m fairly certain what he means to say is it’s too damn hot for that shit. I sit and tap the run-down front porch with the toe of my boot as I rock back and forth with the sniper rifle across my lap and Odin at my feet. The heat continues to be oppressive, but there is at least the hint of a breeze in the air today. It’s still unbearable, but it’s a slightly better version of unbearable than it was yesterday. It’s a hell of a lot better than a bunker in the Middle East even without the breeze.
Lunchtime.
I fire up the generator and the stove to boil some water, add part of a box of pasta to the pot, and heat up some sauce. I let the fan run while I eat because the afternoon is just too fucking hot
and I need a little temporary relief. The pasta is nicely al dente, but the sauce comes out of a jar and sucks. I remember homemade sauces from Rinaldo’s kitchen – his wife slapping my hand away as I tried to get a taste before dinner was on the table.
While I eat, I fire up the netbook PC and wait for it to acquire enough of a satellite signal to download my email. Odin watches for cues from me, but when he gets none he just drops at my feet with his head on his front paws. The fan shuffles the hair on his head around, and he huffs again before closing his eyes for a bit of a nap.
The electronic beep tells me my email has loaded. There is one message from Pizza Hut, offering me my choice of any pizza with any topping for ten bucks – fucking tease that email is – and three additional, similar advertisements. I have also apparently won the Swiss Lotto four times, can obtain Canadian prescriptions for Viagra at a discount, and the President of a country I have never heard of wants to give me one-point-two million dollars from his off-shore account.
Nothing from Rinaldo.
I don’t delete the messages – I just shut the PC back down again.
I wash the dishes, put them in the cupboard, turn off the fan and the generator, and then drop back into the rocking chair on the porch. Odin wakes up and follows. He lets out a big yawn, stretches, turns himself in a circle, and then settles back down at my feet. I reach out and rub the back of his neck with the toe of my boot.
My eyes scan the horizon.
Sage brush, packed red earth, and dust devils.
I lean my head back and close my eyes for a moment. Visions of a cool, rainy alleyway and the sound of gunshots fill my head. I can see my own arm upraised and the barrel of my Beretta turned on its side as a man in a dark blue suit runs away from me. My arm jerks twice, and he falls.
“What the fuck, Arden? He wasn’t the target!”
“He was a witness.”
“But shit…Rinaldo’s not going to be happy about this.”
“I’ve done worse.”
Well, I thought I had.
Apparently killing the nephew or cousin or some such shit of Greco’s mistress pissed the guy off. Since Greco’s group was Rinaldo Moretti’s competition, the potential for an all-out mafia war was pretty high, which is why I had to disappear. Greco didn’t know who did it, but he was determined to find out, and it was better if I was just not around to be found. Rinaldo was ticked, and there had been a moment there in the first fifteen minutes of his stalking around in his office when I thought he was going to put a bullet in my brain, but he didn’t. Exile was the next best alternative. That was just after Memorial Day weekend, and tomorrow will be the first of September.
I open my eyes again and stare at one of the dust devils as it spins and jerks around for a minute before dissipating into the dry ground. I roll my shoulders one at a time and glance down at Odin, wondering how he can sleep while wearing a fur coat in this heat. I scan the horizon again, rather haphazardly.
Movement.
I am instantly alert.
This is not a dust devil or a dry, tumbling shrub. The movement is on the dirt road leading up to the small house and it is definitely human. Whoever it is, he or she is too far away to been seen clearly without a little ocular assistance. The rifle comes to my shoulder reflexively. With my left eye closed, my right eye looks down the scope, focusing on the target some three-quarters of a mile away. Through the crosshairs, I can see the figure much more clearly.
It’s a girl.
What the fuck?
A woman, I suppose – maybe twenty years old. She’s walking sideways just a little, like she’s not really looking where she’s going, and stumbling every once in a while. She’s not carrying anything, but as she approaches I can see there is a small backpack strapped to her back. It’s not big enough for any real supplies, but more like one of those things the college girls wear for a purse – something that is certainly more decorative than useful.
As she comes closer, I get a better view and learn a little about her. She’s been walking for maybe an hour or two at most because she’s not showing any signs of dehydration and she doesn’t appear to have any water with her. Her shoes are very dusty, though, so it’s not like she just started walking, either. Her hair is pulled up on top of her head, but I’m pretty sure she’s only done that recently. It’s haphazard and definitely not done with the aid of a mirror. She was either in a rush when she put it up, or it was done as she walked to cool off her neck.
She’s a freaking klutz, tripping about every forty steps over nothing but her own shoes, as far as I can tell. For some reason, that makes me smile a little. I shift the weapon and scan the horizon behind her from left to right, but there’s no one else to be seen. I consider my options.
Option one – shoot her. I really don’t want or need any company, and company in general is a risk. Pros – I don’t have to think about it anymore, and it’s generally safer for me. Cons – she’s just some innocent chick whose car probably broke down, and killing her is kind of a shitty thing to do.
Next option – let her walk right on up here. If she was from Rinaldo, I’d have some notice about it, and if she was from Greco’s organization she wouldn’t be approaching the house tripping over the dust with nothing on her but a little bitty backpack. Pros – I wouldn’t have to dig a big ass hole in the dry, packed ground. Cons – I will probably have to talk to her.
She stumbles again – just a little. It is barely noticeable if you aren’t really paying attention, but I am. I always pay attention. She’s maybe five-foot-four and a hundred and twenty pounds. Her tennis shoes are covered with a pretty thick layer of dust, and as I lower the scope a little I can see a slightly clearer spot on the edge of her left shoe – near the laces. She must have tried to wipe it off, but it’s been some time ago and it’s all dirty again. I re-estimate and decide she’s been walking for at least two hours, and she’s got something serious on her mind – at least serious to her. As she walks she is completely oblivious to everything around her.
Either it is really that important, or she is really that ignorant. A few hours in this heat is not a good thing. I try to come up with any other alternatives, but I don’t think of many. She’s obviously not Native American, so she probably doesn’t have family too close.
Odin’s head pops up, and he growls low as he looks out towards the young woman.
“You’re a little late,” I tell him, and he huffs at me. I focus the scope back on my visitor, and my finger hovers over the trigger for a moment, but only a moment. I have no problem shooting a woman – done it plenty of times before – but she is just lost, and that doesn’t seem like a decent reason to die.
I lay the rifle back across my lap. She’s close enough to watch without it now, though she still hasn’t even looked up from the dirt road. If I am quiet enough, I’m pretty sure she’ll run right into the house.
She trips again, right at the perimeter of the property, and the truck’s horn starts blaring. Awakened from her trance, her head jerks up and she falters in her steps as her eyes take in the shack, the Chevy, and then me as I stand up, rifle still in hand and pointed in her general direction.
Odin immediately stands alongside me with hackles raised and starts to growl loudly. He doesn’t take it any further because he can tell I’m not particularly alarmed. Wary, yes – because I’m not stupid – but I’m not overly concerned, either. Even if she started running, it would take a track star at least a minute to reach me, so I stand up from my chair, walk over to the truck, and disconnect the alarm so the horn stops.
I walk back towards the porch but stick to the dirt instead of going up the steps. I don’t need the extra height to keep her closely in my sights, and I figure since I’m obviously not shooting her just yet, I am probably going to end up talking to her.
Odin is walking in a figure eight pattern in front of me, watching the girl’s approach. I snap my fingers near my hip, and he walks around behind me. He sits on the ground and looks up
to me expectantly.
Her approach slows as she gets near me. She almost seems to hunch down a little, as if there would be some advantage to making herself invisible at this point. Her eyes are trained to the rifle in my grip as she takes a final step forward, stops, and opens her mouth.
“Um…hi!” she calls out. Her eyes dart around, showing her nervousness. Her hand comes up in a short wave, but it’s not too convincing a gesture.
I look her up and down, reassessing now that she is closer. My conclusions are all the same – she’s lost, been walking for about two hours, and she came from the south. The closest road in the south is Highway 264, so she is definitely going in the wrong direction. She has another twenty-five miles before she hits another road. If she wasn’t standing in front of me right now, she’d probably be dead before nightfall.
“Do you want to die?” I ask her. My tone is probably a little harsher than needed, but the question just had to be asked.
Her eyes go wide, and she takes a step back from the barrel of the rifle. I resist the urge to snicker as I gesture out towards the open desert with the dangerous end.
“Not the very best area to look for a picnic spot.”
She glances around the barren landscape, then at the weapon in my hands as it points back towards her head. She laughs nervously and wraps her fingers around themselves in front of her stomach. Her top teeth pop out and bite into her lower lip as her face turns to a grimace, and she stares hard at the ground for a while. When she looks up at me, I can see her throat bob before she speaks again.