Handled 2

by S. E. Hall

  I swing a swift, hard kick to the door with my good foot. "My stomach is eating itself and you hid your bag!" Slowly I turn to face him. "If there's food in there, I want it!"

  A mocking chuckle is his only response, earning a kick in his direction which he diverts. "Step aside, She-Ra, I got it." His hands cover my shoulders and he attempts to lead me a few feet away.

  I shrug out of his hold. "I know how to move."

  "Yes, you do," he speaks warm and softly into my neck, then returns to the door. "And the bag's right over there." He points, then tries the knob himself.

  Why didn't I think of that? The knob, of course. Gratuitous eye roll.

  Anxious to discover what treasure awaits, I stay right where I am…and that's when I hear it. Although I'm not sure what it is.

  "Wait, what's that noise?" I ask two seconds before he braces his hands on either side of the doorframe and kicks it open.

  I rush in front of him to get a better look like a dumbass, starvation making me crazed. "What the—" I gasp, backing up, unsure what I'm seeing. A mob of black and white fur huddled together, glowing eyes on me.

  "Fuck! Get out of there," he yells, yanking me backwards by my shirt. "Skunks!" Vaughn shoves me aside and pulls the door shut as fast as he can, but the damage is done. Although it could have been much worse, a few of them sprayed when they leapt up, pissed at being disturbed in their little winter den.

  The door is barely hanging on its hinges, a massive split down the center, jagged shards of splintered wood everywhere, from his forced entry. I turn, panicked, unsure how we stop a bombardment of critters into the only living space we have and find Vaughn holding the table over his head, coming at me.

  "Watch it," he says as I'm already moving aside. He places the table on its side, blocking the destroyed doorway, and shakes his head. "That should keep 'em contained." He runs his hands through his hair and turns to me, grinning.

  Maybe it'll keep the actual skunks at bay, but it doesn't take long for their delightful, farewell aroma to take over the airspace outside the pantry. And the worst part? Yes, I saw a shelf of canned food in there, but have suddenly lost my appetite.

  "There had to be like, a hundred of them!" I choke through my shirt, which is pulled up over my nose and mouth.

  He laughs, shoving something down the back of his boxer briefs then walking over to fan the back door open and shut, airing the place out but really doing absolutely nothing for the stench except making it a cold odor.

  "Maybe not a hundred, but enough." He laughs again, clicking his tongue. "Females."

  "How do you know they were females? I didn't see any babies."

  His lips curl up into that devastating smile I'm finding harder and harder to resist. "They were in a pack, weren't they?" He closes the door for good and walks toward me. "One of them probably had to go to the bathroom, so all her friends went with her."

  "And like a man, the fact that it smells worse than ripped ass in here doesn't bother you in the slightest. I swear—"

  "Look on the bright side, at least it wasn't rats." He winks. "And," he pulls out whatever he'd stowed in his waistband, "we've got magazines to entertain us now."

  I'd let my jaw drop open, but that'd mean uncovering and breathing through my mouth. So instead, my response is a muffled shout. "We just got sprayed by a hoard of rabid skunks and you thought to grab magazines?" If my thoughts could kill. And that damn smirk is making it worse, my voice raising an entire octave higher. "Not a can of food? Who even stores magazines in a pantry?"

  "Babe, don't you see what these are?" He holds up a glossy, overexposed and entirely too airbrushed, bikini-clad cover model. "Maxim. This day's looking up."

  "Maxim?" I rip the magazine from his hand and fling it across the room. "You jack off to that anywhere near me and you'll need to sleep with one eye open, Jawbreaker."

  He chuckles, sliding his hand over my cheek. "Mmm, I'm really starting to like this jealous streak you got going on."

  "You wish. I—"

  His mouth crushes over mine, demanding and hard and all too brief before he's backing away, scooping up the magazine from the floor and dusting it off. "Now go sit down. I'll grab you a snack out of the bag, and then I've got some reading to do." He strolls across the room, whistling, a spring in his step.

  Chapter 4

  Cabin fever, pun absolutely intended—except for the fever part since if you get too far away from the fire you can see your breath—has definitely set it.

  I've stoked the embers at least a dozen times, plus I shook out the sleeping bag and folded it. Hell, I'd sweep the damn floors if there was a broom, which I'm guessing would be stored in with the stink brigade. Opting for boredom, I'm left staring out the minuscule front window watching the blizzard flurry around us.

  Chances of a rescue anytime today are not looking good.

  Vaughn, however, either doesn't seem to notice or give two shits. He's more than content, kicked back in a chair reading his magazine…and by his fourth raucous laugh, I cave.

  "What's so funny over there?" Discouraged and needing a punching bag, I spin around to face him. "Lemme guess, once of the Maxim models attempted a coherent interview? I'd laugh too."

  Without so much as a glance my way, completely entranced in the article, he flips to the next page. "Catty's not your best look, babe. Trinity here is actually a pretty funny girl."

  "You do realize it took a whole team of editors paraphrasing and embellishing what really came out of her mouth for it to be decipherable, right?" I step forward with a rebellious smirk, my arms folded across my chest.

  His head raises, slowly, eyes snaring mine. "You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, Paige. It's beneath you."

  Oh, he's drawing me in, which is fine by me. Bantering with Vaughn is damn near sport, and not to discount its entertainment value, but a sport in which I hold the heavyweight title.

  "Why not? Everybody else does. Show me this Trinity and I'll tell you what she actually said."

  His aqua eyes dance with adrenaline, gearing up for what he knows will be the bout of the century, and he turns the page in my direction.

  From across the room, I'm already unimpressed. Oh, please. If that hooch can spell half the words that supposedly came out of her mouth, I'm Alberta fucking Einstein.

  "Okay, first question?" I challenge.

  He flips it and reads aloud. "What made you want to explore modeling?"

  I clear my throat, fluff my hair behind one shoulder, and puff out my tits. "I did modeling when I, like, figured out I craved attention and like, wasn't good at anything else," I answer in a saccharine tone, pushing the words through my nose and ending with an even more nauseating smile.

  Vaughn attempts to throttle his laugh, shaking his head. "And the claws come out for a girl in a magazine, hmmm."

  I open my mouth, ready on the defense, when he interrupts.

  "Question two. What regimens do you follow to keep yourself in top physical condition?"

  "Oh, that's easy, Bob. I—"

  "Wait," he cuts in with a stifled chuckle, "who the hell is Bob?"

  "The interviewer. Keep up." I roll my eyes. "As I was saying, Bob, I simply fuck any rich man who will pay for my reconstruction and upkeep. I never lie down on the job. Well, I mean, I do," insert obnoxious giggle, "but I bend over and get on my hands and knees too. Whatever keeps the lipo, tucks, lifts, enlargements, collagen, and Botox coming!"

  Shit. I helped her out with the word play there. She'd never have pulled it off.

  My face aches from the condescending smile I'm holding on to, waiting for the next question. But he doesn't speak, staring at me with an unnerving, scrutinizing stare, like a child who hungers for x-ray vision using full brain power to see through me. But he's no kid and I don't believe in superheroes.

  The longer the silence stretches, the further my smile slips. That look on his face…I don't like it. Not one bit. And the way it makes my b
ody squirm under the intensity therein makes things even worse. This was supposed be a fun way to pass time, lead to some playful jibes, not some fucking Hallmark heart to heart. "Next question," I snap way too harshly, prompting him.

  "Last one," he mumbles, forehead creased with several lines of…I don't know for sure. "What's your biggest fear? When the cameras quit clicking and the crew goes home, what do you keep hidden that belongs only to you?"

  He doesn't even glance down at the magazine, his eyes boring into my deepest, most hidden depths as he asks me what he really wants to know.

  With a scoff, I try to keep things light, forcing out a short laugh. "Just stop, Vaughn. It's a silly game to kill time. This isn't about me."

  He closes the magazine and sits up, his focus never once shifting from me. "That's where you're wrong. Everything you just said told me more about Paige than a biography would have."

  My nerves light, tension settling in my veins. My mind's reeling, unable to hurl some clever line to shut him down. His gaze penetrates, holding me hostage as he drops the magazine to the floor with a thud so loud I jerk back and then watch as he stands.

  What is my problem? I've been here before. He's not the first person to try and break me apart in some so-called therapeutic hoopla to figure me out. Another lame attempt to untangle the many fucked-up knots that have molded and created me.

  It's never gonna happen, and with that clarity, I hold out my hands to halt him mid-step.

  "So what? You're omnipotent now?" I snort, a bitter laugh cutting out. "Well, Yoda, do tell. Enlighten me all about Paige, please."

  "You really want me to?" His voice is hauntingly low, goosebumps crawling up my back and curling around my neck with each syllable.

  "By all means. Bring it on." I throw my hands up, already knowing what he'll say. I'm too tough for my own good and if I never allow myself to be happy, I'll die alone. Blah, fuckity, blah. He's far from groundbreaking, heard it all before.

  He moves closer. "I don't want this to turn ugly, so don't ask for things you're not equipped to handle."

  "Shoot." I adjust my stance, the proud lift of my chin and neutral cast to my eyes forced.

  "Paige Patterson is as beautiful as any model but not secure enough with who she is to put herself out there. Overconfidence and razor-sharp tongue are her pathetic covers for the exact opposite—low self-esteem and heart as big as any."

  A cold sweat breaks out on my palms and my breath hitches in my throat as I listen to him continue.

  "She doesn't follow any regimen," he continues, "too afraid her hard work and pride in her accomplishments might get criticized, and she knows she'd listen and let their words sink in, destroying her. Her biggest fear is rejection, tied tightly with being let down, so she keeps everything as her own. She trained herself a long time ago to live a lonely life because not one risk has paid off for her yet and she's sick of trying."

  I let the eerie silence loom for a minute, giving him time to enjoy his moment of brutally honest summation before I respond.

  "You done?" I ask, proud as punch there's not a hint of waver in my voice.

  "Yeah." A storm of thunderheads roll in through his expression. Possibly realization he's gone too far? He exhales a deep sigh. "Paige, I just—"

  "No." I hold up a hand and drag my jacket off the chair, darting for the front door. "I asked. No big deal, really." With the most contrived smile I can muster, I add, "I don't give a fuck what you or anyone else thinks about me, and I hope getting that off your chest made you feel better." I slam the door behind me, the unfamiliar pain in my chest more shocking to my system than the freezing drop in temperature the second I'm outside.

  I left him shirtless and shoeless, so I know I've got a head start. I make the most of it possible with a bum ankle, fumbling into my jacket as I walk away with absolutely no sense of direction.

  "Paige! Stop, Goddammit! Answer me!" I hear him yelling, twice as loud and angry as it'd usually sound, the complete silence of the snow-covered desolation around us amplifying his words.

  "Vaughn, leave me alone! Just…fuck off!" I scream right back. It's normally a bad idea if you don't want to be found, but the echoes out here are very deceiving of where they're coming from precisely.

  Or not.

  I'm hoisted off my feet in a surprise attack from behind I honestly never heard coming and slung over his good shoulder before I can cry out.

  "You hard-headed lil' shit," he growls. "I asked if you wanted to hear it. You're either a liar or thin-skinned, bitter, and actually sensitive. Which is it? Huh?" He slaps me hard on the ass and I yelp, squirming to escape his hold. "You know how easy it is to get lost in the woods, Paige? Ten times as easy when every landmark's covered in snow. You'd rather freeze to death and die than hear one opinion that you asked for?" he gripes at me, stomping us back to the cabin…I secretly hope. It's freezing out here and my ankle's throbbing.

  "You don't know shit about me, my life, or my feelings!" I exclaim. "You think you've got it all together?" I pound at his back, kicking and flailing.

  "Fuck no, not even close. But I know we mesh," he says, his voice softening. "I don't know why, we just do. And I know you're the first person in fucking ever I'd even consider opening up to. Do I think we'll get married tomorrow? No. Do I know I'll screw up and piss you off? Yes. But will I ever intentionally hurt you or disrespect any scrap of trust you give me? I'd die first, and you already know that. So grow the fuck up, Paige, and talk to me."

  I let my body go limp, frustration still raging through me, but aware when I'm up against the ropes…or held captive on a shoulder. "Y-you have no idea. Everyone has a pretty sales pitch, in the beginning, and they all leave. If your own mother doesn't stick by you, why the fuck would anyone else?"

  We've made it back to the cabin now, but he only sets me down once we're inside and he's blocking the door with his large body, holding me captive.

  "Boo fucking hoo, Paige. My dad's dead and mom's in prison for her fourth possession offense, leaving me without a single call or letter. I'm sure your story sucks, but aren't you tired of reliving it every single day? I may leave, you may leave—hell, we may die out here and leave together. But you wouldn't be missing much anyway, 'cause you don't do a whole lot of living."

  "Just who the fuck do you think you are, Vaughn Stone?" I yell, my scream ricocheting off his combative stance.

  "I'm a guy who doesn't buy your bullshit, wants you with a fire he can't snuff out, and loves to call your fucking bluff. Now sit your fine ass down and you tell me your interview answers. I got all the time in the world, Firecracker."

  Chapter 5

  If he thinks for one minute I'll be speaking to him, he's hootier than all the fucking blowfish. No need to anyway, right? He's so sure he's got me pegged that he gave a nice little speech on it—what would I possibly have to say he doesn't already know?

  Which is why I did not answer any interview questions and went straight to bed in silence, our angry, rigid bodies cramped in the sleeping bag doing the only talking.

  All today we've been at a stalemate, each engaged in our own battle of wills. It's a deadly stand-off of me glaring at him and him engrossed in the same three magazines he's read twelve damn times.

  Problem is, it's driving me insane. Like all-out bat shit crazy. There's absolutely nothing to do in this cabin and the tenseness in the air, mixed with the ever-lingering hint of skunk funk, is suffocating.

  My back's to Vaughn, stoking the dwindling fire like a pyro, when he finally breaks and speaks. "That was the last of the wood. I'll go chop some more."

  I respond only with a curt nod, not even in his direction.

  "You be all right here?"

  That doesn't even warrant a nod. I stab at the coals, chewing on all the brilliant things I could fire back…if I was speaking to him.

  He heaves out a long, over-reaching hum of frustration, or maybe aggravation, and stomps out with a racket just as dr
amatic, slamming the door behind him.

  The second he's gone, I hop up from my post as Fire Marshall, ankle be damned, and grab one of his magazines…something, anything, different than playing mental tic-tac-toe with myself—every single round a cat's game.

  I don't make it past the first attempt at an article, "10 Signs Your Girlfriend's Crazy." The chick gracing the top of the list might look like an angry she-devil, but she's still wearing a white come-back-and-fuck-me nightie.

  Screw this! If he gets to go outside for fresh air and a change of scenery, then I'm going too. I just hope I'm not too insecure and afraid of being rejected to help carry in the wood he chops. I'm willing to do my part, low self-esteem and all.

  I immediately shudder at the nip in the air, thinking how Vaughn's measly jacket's even thinner than mine, thankful he has a hoodie underneath, then set out to find him.

  I have no idea how far I've gone in the few minutes I've been walking, but I'm pretty sure I haven't walked in a circle, so I pause, straining to hear the sound of ax hitting wood. When the sting in my toes, fingers, nose, and tips of my ears becomes unbearable from the biting chill and wind, I concede defeat on the silent treatment.

  "Vaughn!" I cup my trembling hands around my mouth and yell. "Vaughn, where are you?"

  "Dammit, Paige, get back inside, ide, ide!" His reprimand bounces off every tree around me.

  "Just tell me where you are!" He found me last time…I can find him.

  "Look up," he screams back, and when I do, I can just make out his jacket waving wildly in the air. "Can you see this?"

  "Yes!"

  "Walk toward it. Follow my footprints in the snow."

  Some of the imprints are easily traceable, his imposing frame leaving quite the impression, but as the foliage overhead grows denser the deeper into the woods I journey, the fainter the trail becomes—shade casting shadows over his footprints.

  "Keep waving it, Vaughn, higher! I can't quite—"