Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  Looking around, I can’t find Bella anywhere, so I head inside where I bump into the bride splashing cold water on her face at the kitchen sink.

  “Are you okay?”

  She swivels around and grabs a towel to pat her face dry. “Fine, just a little hot from dancing. Where are you off to?”

  “I’m looking for your sister-in-law, actually,” I confess, and watch Kerry’s eyes reach her hairline.

  “Really? Well, she just darted out the front door to head home.”

  I’m already on the move before she stops talking, but I can hear her soft chuckle follow me. Outside, I find Bella digging through a ridiculously large purse she has perched on the hood of an equally ridiculously small car, cursing up a storm under her breath. I startle her when I walk up behind her, stick my hand in her purse, and come out with her keys firmly clasped in my hand.

  “Jesus, you scared me.”

  “Sorry, I forgot to ask how your leg was.” I realize how lame an excuse that is the moment it’s out of my mouth.

  “It’s fine,” she responds with a smirk, “given that I was just dancing with you.”

  “Right.”

  “How’s your shoulder?” she counters. I inadvertently grab my left shoulder where, aside from the occasional pinch, my injury is healing just fine.

  “Just about good as new.” Determined to end the inane conversation that only seems to get more awkward, I change topic. “You sure you’re okay to drive home?”

  “I’m fine. I can take care of myself, but to put your mind at ease, I had two glasses of wine with dinner and only ice tea after.” Her tone is still mildly annoyed, but her eyes look at me studiously, making me feel like a bug under the microscope.

  “Well, good,” I mutter, suddenly unsure what the fuck I’m doing here.

  “Good,” she echoes, unlocking her car door, which I hold open as she climbs behind the wheel.

  Reluctantly I close the door for her, but when she starts the car, I follow my impulse to knock on the window. When she rolls it down, I bend over, stick my head inside, tag a hand in her thick hair, and kiss her surprised lips.

  The taste of her is as sinful as her curves, and it takes an outside light, coming on over the garage doors, to alert me to the fact I’m standing in front of my boss’s house, kissing the air from his baby sister’s lips.

  Abruptly I pull back, hitting my head on the fucking doorframe, and stupidly tap the roof of the car.

  “Drive safe.”

  Turning around on my heel, I make my way back to the house, willing myself not to turn around and pull her from the car so I can kiss her properly.

  I don’t hear the car drive away until I have the front door open.

  CHAPTER 3

  BELLA

  “So?” Kerry leans her elbows on the counter and props her head on her hands.

  “So what?” I glance at her, my arms up to my elbows in flour, as I knead the dough for my pesto bread.

  Today will be another invasion of my family, only a week after we were here last for the wedding. This time it’s to send my brother and his wife off on their three-week Mediterranean honeymoon. They’re starting off in Alicante, Spain, where they’ll rent a car, travel up the coast, along the French Riviera, through Monaco, and into Italy. The plan is to end in Naples on the other side.

  Personally, I could think of other things to do on my honeymoon than drive fifteen hundred miles or however the hell long that is, and soak up the culture. I’d probably find a spot on a beautiful beach, somewhere along the Riviera, where they serve drinks with umbrellas and park my ass in the sand for the duration. Confined in a car with my brother for three weeks is not my idea of a good time, but Kerry is over the moon at the prospect.

  So we’re having a party, and it is something worth celebrating I guess, because I can’t remember a single time when Damian has gone away on a holiday. The send-off today was Ma’s idea, not surprising, but she has no idea the reason my brother agreed so readily, is because he has his own agenda for this get-together.

  I smile at the prospect. My mom is going to go ballistic, which is why this is actually a brilliant plan. Damian is no fool. He’ll drop the bomb and hightail it out of town for three weeks tomorrow, giving my family—really just Ma and my sisters—a chance to calm down. Smart move.

  Anyway, that’s why I’m over at my brother’s place on a Saturday morning, making my pesto bread, trying to ignore my sister-in-law.

  “Well?” she prompts, and I briefly close my eyes. “I saw him go outside after you.”

  “He just wanted to make sure I was good to drive.” I use the same excuse he gave me, but apparently Kerry’s not buying it either.

  “Right. And I guess you never cozied up with him on the dance floor either?”

  “He was just being polite,” I suggest, shaping the dough into two balls.

  Kerry’s derisive snort is loud, and I have to admit, the excuse sounds lame even to my own ears.

  “Polite would’ve been dancing with your mother, but he only danced once, and that was with you.”

  “Look,” I enforce, smacking a ball into one of the loaf pans. “You know I’ve never seen eye to eye with that man. He may be pretty to look at, but even if he were interested—which I’m sure he’s not—there’s not a chance in hell I’ll let myself go down that rabbit hole again. I’m done with players, no matter how smooth his moves.” Not to mention how soft his lips, but I’m leaving that bit of information out. I’ve been trying too hard to pretend that kiss never happened, I’m not about to share it with Kerry.

  I fill the second pan and press down on the dough, when Kerry’s hand reaches out and grabs my wrist.

  “He’s not like that. Jasper is a good man,” she offers softly.

  I don’t even have a chance to respond when the front door slams open and the Gomez clan marches in, the house instantly filled with their loud voices. Kerry gives me a little knowing smile, and my arm a light squeeze, before turning to greet the family. I quickly throw a damp towel over the loaves for their final rise, wipe my hands, and steel myself before joining them.

  “HAVE YOU TRIED PAPA’S dessert wine?”

  My sister, Chrissy, holds up a bottle for me. Christina is the second oldest in the family, after Gabriella. After her comes Damian, then Francesca, and finally me. Of all the women in the family, Chrissy is the most laid-back. That’s not saying much, not in my family.

  “I’ll try some.” I hold out my glass over the table, littered with the remnants of our dinner.

  Also customary in my family is the sheer quantity of food for any gathering. Inevitably there are enough leftovers for everyone to enjoy another full meal the next night.

  “Kerry? Would you like some?” Chrissy goes to pour some in Kerry’s still pristine wine glass, but it is quickly covered with my brother’s big hand.

  “None for Kerry,” he says, and a collective gasp of indignation can be heard.

  Not from me; I’m smiling as I sit back in my chair and wait for the announcement I’ve been anticipating all night.

  “Damian!” my mother exclaims, followed immediately by protests from the rest of the family.

  I wink at Kerry, who wears a mild look of panic, but whose eyes are suspiciously shiny. A quick glance around the table finds my father quietly observing everyone, as he usually does, a gentle smile lifting his craggy face as his eyes land on his daughter-in-law. Very observant, my papa.

  “Quiet!” Damian’s booming voice instantly silences the acrimonious titter around the table, and all attention focuses on him when he gets up out of his chair. “I have an announcement to make.” He lowers his eyes to Kerry, and the look of sheer adoration they share makes my heart ache. “We’re going to have—”

  “A baby?”

  I’m sure they can hear my sister Gabby’s screech back in Durango, and chuckle when Damian rolls his eyes to the sky in exasperation. In the chaos that ensues, my father’s warm eyes find mine. This time the gentle smile
is for me, and I hold on to his calm, a lone tear rolling down my cheek.

  Later, when the family is getting ready to leave, Papa pulls me aside.

  “Proud of you, mi preciosa. I don’t know if I tell you enough. If it were up to your mother and sisters, they’d have you swept back home to Farmington, but you’ve thrived on your own. You’ve stuck your neck out, forged ahead to follow your dreams, instead staying safely in the family fold, and that fills me with pride.” He holds me by my upper arms and gives me a little shake. “Don’t let fear hold you back now.”

  I still have those words bouncing around my head when, ten minutes after the clan finally drives off, and I’m in the kitchen helping Kerry clean up, Damian suddenly barks out my name from the living room.

  “What the fuck is this?” he asks, when I walk into the living room, Kerry on my tail. He’s pointing at one of the pictures my family took at the wedding.

  “What are you talking about?” Kerry leans over the back of the couch to get a good look. “That’s Asher on her lap.”

  “Look at her goddamn leg,” he growls, his angry eyes never leaving mine.

  “I didn’t know you got hurt. When did that happen?”

  “That’s what I’d like to fucking know.”

  “It’s nothing,” I start, perching on an armrest, intending to blow him off, but then Papa’s words come back to me, and I square my shoulders. “I had a patient with PTSD in the middle of hallucinations. I scared him, he thought he was defending himself.”

  “Show me.”

  “Damian, you can’t—”

  “I want to see,” he grinds out between clenched teeth, cutting off his wife’s protests.

  “It’s okay,” I assure her, figuring I’m in for a penny—in for a pound—and stick my leg out, lifting my dress to expose the scar.

  “Jesus,” he hisses, taking a good long look. “Who is that son of a bitch? And why didn’t you call me?”

  “It’s taken care of, Damian. I didn’t call you because I was trying to avoid a scene like this. You know these things happen. Besides, your right-hand man was right there looking after me.”

  “What the hell—Jasper knew?” I realized my mistake the moment those words were out of my mouth. Last thing I wanted was for him to get in trouble over this.

  “Leave him be. I asked him to keep it to himself.”

  “He should’ve told me.” My brother is as stubborn as the day is long. “And as for these things happening? They wouldn’t fucking happen if you had the sense to pick a less risky job.”

  “Damian!” Kerry’s admonishment is accompanied by a solid punch to his shoulder. “I can’t believe you’d say that. That’s misogyny at its worst! How dare you talk to your sister like that.” Her sharp words clearly shock my brother, and his retort is meant to appease.

  “She’s my baby sister, it’s my job to look out for her.”

  “Actually...” I interrupt their little spat on my account, “I stopped being a baby about thirty-six years ago, and looking out for me is my job—not yours.”

  Any gatherings with family are always exhausting, and this particular one leaves me feeling a little bruised. By the time I drive through Durango on my way home, I’m in dire need of some comfort. In my case that translates to food: unhealthy food.

  I make the well-rehearsed turn into the McDonald’s drive-thru and place my order. I’m almost ashamed to admit I recognize the shy smile of the kid at the window. The soft-spoken young man with his pock-marked face is like my dealer, the brown bag he hands me the fix I need to soothe my soul.

  My favorite kind of drug—French fries.

  Jasper

  A quick glance at my watch tells me I stayed at the office much longer than I intended. It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re trolling the darknet for information on a possible security threat.

  Last week, our office in Denver contacted me to give them a hand. Apparently there’s been some online chatter, since the beginning of this year, suggesting major tourist destinations as possible ISIL targets, and I’ve been putting in extra hours, screening the net.

  Tossing my reading glasses on the table, I run my hands over my face and through hair that could probably see a cut again soon. I’m beat. Sixteen hours a day, seven days a week on a diet of coffee and fast food, wears you down quick. And if that doesn’t do it, lack of sleep will. The few hours a night when I’m actually in my apartment, and should be sleeping, are spent staring at the industrial ceiling.

  I had plans to get some groceries, cook a proper meal, and spend the night watching something on Netflix to help my mind shut down so I could maybe sleep. Given that it’s almost eleven at night—again—looks like that’s not going to happen.

  With a groan, I push myself up out of my chair, stretching my back as I do so. This shit is hell on my body too, and I haven’t taken my bike out once since the snow melted. There was a time when I could go forty-eight hours nonstop, barely getting up from behind the computer to take a leak, but those days are gone. I’m feeling every one of my forty-one years after this week and am in dire need of exercise. This is underscored when I dive under my desk to unplug every single one of my computers—a habit I still haven’t been able to shake, despite all the security walls I have put up—I swear my joints creak.

  The sudden shrill ring of my phone, through the otherwise empty office, startles me and I shoot up without actually clearing my desk, banging my head, yet again.

  “Greene,” I snap, rubbing the bump on my head that never quite gets a chance to go down.

  “You’d better have a fucking stellar reason why you wouldn’t call me right a-fucking-way when my sister is in the damn hospital.”

  I’m tired, hungry, sore, and have a doozy of a headache forming, which is probably why I do something I rarely ever do.

  Lose my cool.

  “Last time I checked, your sister was a thirty-seven year old, grown-ass adult, who can stand on her own damn two feet! If she asks me to keep something to myself, I will fucking keep it to myself. You may try to run her life, but you sure as shit ain’t gonna run mine. Now, I’d love chatting with you some more, but I’ve gotta get home: I haven’t eaten since breakfast, haven’t slept since sometime last week, my eyes are rolling out of their sockets, and I’m starting to look like Grizzly Adams on a bad day. Feel free to leave any work-related information in an email, but other than that, don’t come pissing to me because your sister has to resort to secrecy to keep you off her damn back!” I take in a deep breath, expecting return fire, but the line is surprisingly silent. Good, ‘cause I’m not quite done. “I’m going home to get some rest, so I can be ready to cover your sorry ass when you leave for your three-week vacation, and I suggest you do the same. And by the way—a good fucking evening to you too.”

  Now I’m done.

  I end the call, turn the ringer off, and shove it in my pocket. My blood pressure is a little elevated, and I would normally work off any emotions on my computers, but I already shut those down. I take one last look around the office, momentarily tempted by the laptop I promised myself I’d leave behind. Still, I force myself to flick off the lights and pull the door shut behind me.

  Looks like it’ll be takeout again.

  “QUARTER POUNDER WITH Cheese, a Southwest Grilled Chicken Salad, and a large ice tea, please.”

  Instead of my usual two Quarter Pounders, I order a single and the salad as a healthier concession to my recent lack of proper nutrition. Although, one has to wonder how ‘healthy’ those fast food versions of a salad really are. Definitely not something I’m going to concern myself with tonight. I’m too fucking tired.

  I watch the kid—who looks like a much younger version of Ray Liotta, with the squinty eyes and acne-scarred skin—punch my order in on his screen and pull out my billfold to pay.

  The place is deserted, and I sit down at a close by table to wait for my food, which always takes a couple of minutes this time of night. I should probably be worried I’m
that familiar with McDonald’s routines. I’d go somewhere else, if there were other places open this time of night between work and home.

  Home is my one-bedroom apartment in the historic Jarvis building on the corner of Main. I’d much prefer a cabin on a mountain somewhere, but high-speed Internet can be a problem, and besides, this place is close to work, which means I usually just cycle in. Which reminds me, I need to get my bike out of storage. The weather has been nice enough since that last storm.

  Just as I’m about to get up to see about my food, I notice a familiar candy-apple red Fiat 500 come out of the drive-thru. If my guess is right—and I’m betting it is, since there aren’t that many people driving a dinky toy like that in the mountains—the woman who apparently raises my blood pressure, by mere mention of her name, will be behind the wheel. As the car passes by the window, I get a good look at the driver. It is Bella, and she looks like she’s stuffing a fistful of fries in her mouth.

  “Your order is ready to go.” I turn around to grab my own meal from the kid behind the counter.

  But when I head out to my car, I do it with a grin on my face.

  CHAPTER 4

  BELLA

  “She’s crashing!”

  Fuck, I hate these calls.

  A residential fire on the north side of town, in the early morning hours, resulted in a young girl—maybe five or so—pulled from an upstairs bedroom. By the time we got there, trucks from Fire and Rescue stations two and three were already on scene, battling what looked to be an out of control blaze. I’m not sure about the details, there was little time for that. We were notified there were two critical patients for immediate transport, so we weren’t the only ones called out.

  We weren’t on the scene long, just barely enough to stabilize the little girl and load her up, while the other crew focused on the mother. The woman had managed to get a toddler and an infant to the safety of concerned neighbors, before apparently braving the spreading flames to pull the girl out.