Stranded

by Noelle Stevens

  Serial killer. For sure. I smile back, hoping he’ll spare me for a while longer. At least until I can feel my toes.

  “I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room, and a moment later he is back with a blanket.

  I take it from him, noticing how soft it is, and remember my earlier fantasy that a good-looking man would drape a warm blanket over me on a cold day, and feel a stupid grin form on my face. Stop it, I scold myself. You’re off men, remember?

  “Do you want some privacy?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I need to get the groceries out of my truck, then I’ll get some wood so we can get the fire going.”

  I wait until he leaves, then I toss his coat onto the seat next to me, and take off my jacket, then my shirt—it’s not completely wet, but the hem is soaked. I leave my bra on—I'm not planning on getting completely naked—and reach for my boots. But that’s when I realize I have a problem. I'm able to take the boot off my left foot, but my right ankle is hurting too much for me to remove my boot myself.

  Not knowing what else to do, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and wait for the man to return.

  I don’t even know his name. Here I am, taking my clothes off in the house of a complete stranger, and I don’t even have enough self-respect to find out his name first.

  Frowning, I snuggle into the blanket, but my wet jeans keep me from feeling very warm. Especially in this cold house. Why is it so damn cold in here?

  Ten minutes later the man comes back holding an armload of wood. He sets the wood on the hearth, then turns to me. He looks at my coat and shirt on the couch, and my one boot on the floor, and then he looks at my right foot. “Do you need some help?”

  “My ankle hurts. I can’t get it off.”

  He kneels in front of my right foot and gently pulls on my boot.

  “Ow!”

  He stops, then stares at me. “Sorry.”

  I bite a corner of the blanket, and nod.

  “Here goes.” He works the boot, tugging gently as he twists it slightly, until it finally pops off.

  I release a loud breath of relief.

  “Let me take off your socks.”

  “Okay.”

  That is simple and a moment later my feet are bare.

  “Wait here,” he says as he stands.

  As if I could move.

  A moment later he comes back with a pair of thick men’s socks. I expect him to put them on my feet, but instead he sets them on the couch.

  “You should probably take off those wet pants.” He gazes at me a moment. “I’ll start some coffee while you . . .” His words trail off, and he walks out of the room.

  I look at my feet and see that they are very white. And they feel numb. I know that isn’t good. Eager now to get warmed up, I set the blanket aside, unzip my jeans, then hitch my thumbs into my waistband. But when I try to pull my jeans off, they don’t want to move. They were form-fitting when I put them on this morning, but now they are soaked through and it is like they are glued on.

  Well, that’s just great. I know I have no choice but to ask the stranger for his help. I really need to find out his name. Tucking the blanket back up around my shoulders, I call out, “I need some help.”

  A moment later he walks into the room.

  “I can’t get my jeans off.” My face turns five shades of red. “They’re too wet.”

  A smirk turns up one corner of his mouth.

  Too cold to care, I lift the blanket so that it covers my top half and just touches the top of my jeans.

  He walks over and kneels in front of me, then reaches for my pants.

  “Hold it,” I say.

  His hands freeze midway to my waist, and he looks at me with a question on his face. “What’s wrong?”

  “If you’re going to undress me, I should at least know your name.”

  He grins. “Colton. Colton Drake. But everyone calls me Drake.”

  I hold out my hand like this is a job interview. “I’m Ashley Spencer.”

  He shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Ashley.” His grin grows. “Now let me take off those pants.”

  Chapter Four

  My face turns a deeper shade of red. “Fine.” When he grabs the waistband of my jeans, his warm fingers brush against the bare skin of my stomach, sending a shockwave of heat to my core, and I gasp.

  He stops as his eyes meet mine. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, half-wanting him to touch me more, and half-wanting him to back far, far away.

  This time he gets a firm grip, then starts peeling my soaked jeans down my hips. The only problem is, since they are stuck to me, my panties want to go down with them. That won’t do. Not at this point in our relationship. I hold back a giggle at the thought, then remind myself that I’m not interested in a relationship. In fact, I’ve just gotten out of one.

  As my jeans slide further down my hips, I reach down and grab the top of my panties to keep them from sliding off too. When he looks at me with a question on his face, I smile. “Those are staying on.”

  He grins. “Whatever you say.”

  Once my jeans have cleared the halfway point of my backside, I manage to lift my hips so that he can pull my pants past my butt. Once he’s cleared that hurdle, I quickly use the blanket to cover myself, and he easily pulls my jeans completely off.

  My bare legs are damp from my wet jeans, and goosebumps rise on my flesh.

  “I need to get that fire going,” he says. “And you should put those socks on.”

  “If you live here,” I ask as I pull the socks onto my feet—being very careful with my sore right ankle. “Why is it so cold?”

  He bends toward the fireplace, setting the logs and kindling on the grate. “I don’t live here full-time.”

  “Oh.” As if that explains anything.

  He lights a starter log, then coaxes the flames until they begin licking the logs, then he turns toward me, still kneeling on the floor. “Evidently the pilot light went out on the furnace. I turned it back on, but it’s going to take a little while to heat the house.”

  Now he’s making sense.

  “Sorry it’s so cold.” He gazes at me a moment. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little warmer, but my ankle is throbbing.” I don’t want to be a complainer, but he asked, and I'm hoping he has something for the pain.

  “Let me see if I have some ibuprofen or something. And I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”

  “Thank you.”

  He leaves the room with my clothes in his hands, and when he comes back, he has two steaming cups, and a bottle of ibuprofen. He holds out one of the cups, as well as the bottle. “These should help.”

  Smiling with gratitude, I take the cup and the bottle, then after popping two pills into my mouth, I sip some of the hot liquid to wash them down. The hot coffee warms me. That, plus the blanket and warm socks, helps tremendously, and I feel some of my earlier chill seeping away.

  Drake sits on the floor with his back to the fire and gazes at me. “So, Ashley Spencer, what were you doing standing in the middle of the road in the middle of a blizzard?”

  “I was only there by necessity.” I take another sip of the hot brew. “My car went off the road and got stuck, so I had to get out.”

  He sips his drink as he watches me, and I find it hard to look away. “Where were you headed?”

  I really don’t want to get into my life story. “North.”

  He chuckles. “Okay.”

  “Maybe we can call a tow truck and have them pull my car out of the ditch.”

  “Not tonight we can’t.”

  He wants to keep me hostage. Great. “Why not?”

  “Number one, no one wants to go out in that storm unless it’s an emergency. And number two, there’s no cell service out here.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’d like to take a look at your ankle though.”

  I hesitate. Is this just an excuse to touch me? Or does he really know what he�
�s doing? The throbbing of my ankle decides it for me. “Okay.”

  He kneels on the floor next to the couch and pulls the blanket away from my foot, and gently touches my right ankle.

  “Ouch.”

  “I think it’s just a sprain,” he says. “But we should apply the R.I.C.E. method.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.”

  “How do you know so much. Are you a doctor?” The idea excites me. My own private doctor.

  He laughs. “No. I just do sports a lot and I’ve had to deal with this type of injury before.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now that you’re not freezing, we ought to put some ice on your ankle.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the expert.”

  A short time later he has my right foot propped up on a stack of pillows with an ice pack wrapped around it.

  “We’ll leave it on for twenty minutes or so, then we’ll wrap it.” He gazes at me a moment. “Is there someone we need to contact? You know, to let them know you’re okay?”

  Is he trying to trick me? “I thought you said there’s no cell service.”

  “There’s not. But if we need to call someone, I’ll figure out a way to do it.”

  Then a new thought comes to mind. Is he asking so he’ll know that he can off me and no one will miss me? I decide to play it safe. “Yeah,” I lie. “My boyfriend’s expecting me to get to his place in a couple of days.” My reason for giving this answer is twofold. One, if he thinks someone is expecting me, he’ll be less likely to kill me. Two, I figure the two day timeframe will buy me enough time to get out of there before he feels obligated to get a phone number and call my fictitious boyfriend.

  I think I see a look of disappointment flash across his face, but it’s gone so fast I could be mistaken. Or maybe I did see disappointment, which means my lie has put him off his plan to kill me and add me to his list of victims. Bad for him. Good for me.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  I haven’t eaten in hours and I'm famished. “A little.”

  “Would you like me to fix you something to eat?”

  I half-grin. “It’s the least you can do after nearly running me over.”

  A look of irritation fills his eyes, but he covers it with a laugh. “It’s your own fault for standing in the middle of the road.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Blame the victim.”

  He frowns as he leaves the room.

  Chapter Five

  A few minutes later he’s back carrying a plate with a sandwich. He holds it out to me. “I hope you like tuna fish.”

  That is about my least favorite canned food, but I'm so hungry I'm willing to eat nearly anything. I take it from his outstretched hand. “Thanks.” After a few bites I notice that Drake isn’t eating anything. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  He shows off his gorgeous smile. “I ate earlier.”

  “Oh, so you’re just going to watch me eat?” I take another bite and wonder what kind of fetish that means he has. I’m not surprised of course. All serial killers have some sort of fetish. Then it occurs to me that maybe he’s poisoned the tuna fish and I consider making myself throw it up, but hunger gets the better of me and I keep eating.

  His smile grows. “Yep.” Then he sits on the floor with his back to the fire, facing me.

  Five minutes later the power goes out. Some natural light still comes in from outside, but with the grey cloud cover, not much gets through. And the only sound—besides me chewing—is the crackling of the fire.

  “So much for using the furnace,” he mutters.

  “My clothes,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Yep. The dryer stopped too.”

  “Great.”

  He stands. “You can wear one of my t-shirts, if you’d like.”

  Since all that covers my bra and panties is the blanket, I think a layer of t-shirt would be welcome. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  A moment later he is back, wearing a grey hoodie, and with a red t-shirt in his hand. He hands the t-shirt to me, and after I take it from him, I stare at him.

  “Would you mind turning around at least?” I say, feeling exasperated. If he wants a free show, he isn’t going to get it from me.

  “Oh, sorry.” He turns his back on me.

  I remove the blanket from my shoulders, and pull his t-shirt over my head, but with my foot propped up, I’m not able to get it under my hips. It is at that moment that I realize I need to pee. I pull the blanket up to my waist. “Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Can I turn around now?”

  I hide my smile. “Yes.”

  He turns and faces me, then points to a hallway off of the living room. “It’s down there.”

  After setting the ice pack on the couch, I lift my foot from the stack of pillows and gently set it on the floor, careful not to jar it, then, with the blanket still covering my lap, I sit on the edge of the couch.

  “Are you sure you should walk on that?” he asks.

  I'm not sure of anything, except that I need to pee. Bad. “Uh . . . I don’t know.”

  “I can help you.” He smiles, deepening his dimple. “If you want.”

  I'm not in the habit of bringing strange men with me into the bathroom, and prefer to go on my own. “I think I can do it.” But I'm not sure if that is strictly true. Putting all my weight on my good foot, I push myself to a standing position. The blanket slides from my lap, and when I feel a cool breeze, I know my underwear is exposed. In my haste to yank the t-shirt down to cover them, I lose my balance.

  Drake dashes to my side and grabs me by the arm, keeping me from toppling over.

  “Thanks,” I say as my face heats with embarrassment. But at least I’ve managed to pull the t-shirt down as far as it will go—which is a few inches below my behind. I try to pretend I'm just wearing a mini-dress. Never mind that I practically swim in the thing—at least it covers my unmentionables—barely. As long as I don’t have to bend over, I’ll be golden.

  “Why don’t you let me help you?”

  “I can manage.” That is doubtful, but I’ve had enough of playing Miss Helpless. I'm an independent woman, damn it, and I will get to the bathroom by myself, even if I have to crawl—although that would screw up the avoidance of bending over.

  He steps back with his hands in the air. “If you say so.”

  Giving him a sideways glance—and confirming that he is smirking—I scowl, then take a tentative step away from the couch. When I put the slightest bit of pressure on my bad ankle, pain jolts through me, but I'm determined to show this obnoxious, but insanely hot man, that I don’t need his help. The last thing I want is to have a man help me. Not after the way they’ve screwed me over in the past.

  Hobbling forward, I make slow but steady progress toward the hall he pointed to. I just hope I won’t pee myself before I make it to the toilet.

  “Are you doing okay?” he calls after me.

  “I’m fine,” I yell back, but that is so far from the truth. Any throbbing that’s diminished due to the ibuprofen has come roaring back, but I can see the bathroom, and I know I can make it.

  Thirty seconds later I'm there. Fortunately the window lets in enough light for me to see what I'm doing, and after taking care of business, I balance on my good foot and wash my hands, then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I'm a mess. My hair, tangled. My eye make-up, smeared. My face, pale. Yuck. I frown at myself, then decide to do what I can to fix it.

  First, I splash water on my face, but the water is icy cold and I gasp as it touches my skin. I grab the towel hanging next to the sink and pat my face dry, then after hanging it back up, I open the medicine cabinet to see if there is anything in there I can use to fix my face and/or hair.

  Nope. Just an unopened bar of soap. But then I think What the hell? After splashing more water on my face, I open the soap and wet the bar, then rub it between my hands, creating a nice sudsy handful of soap. I squeeze my eyes closed, then massage the suds
into my face, taking special care to rub it under my eyes where my mascara has smeared. Then I rinse off my hands and my face.

  After drying my face, I take a look in the mirror and I’m pleased to see that the smudged mascara has vanished. And as a bonus, the cold water has brought some color back to my face. Hopeful my luck will hold out, I open the cabinet doors under the sink to see what I can find.

  “Are you okay in there?” Drake says through the door, then knocks for good measure.

  His voice startles me and I feel like he’s caught me doing something wrong. Well, technically I probably shouldn’t be snooping through his medicine cabinet and vanity, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” His voice sounds uncertain, but I hear him walking away.

  I bend over—I feel safe doing that where he can’t see—and take a look in the under-the-sink cabinet. Spare toilet paper—good to know—cleaning supplies, and a trash can, but nothing else. I straighten and mutter, “I guess I’m done in here.”

  Forcing myself to ignore the insistent throbbing of my ankle, I open the door and work my way back toward the living room, but as I reach the end of the hallway, a sharp bolt of pain zooms up my leg and I fall to the wood floor, landing on my behind.

  Chapter Six

  Drake races to my side. “Are you okay?”

  Mortified, I feel tears of humiliation pushing into my eyes. “I’m really not . . . helpless.” My voice hitches on the last word, which seems to negate my statement.

  He laughs, which infuriates me.

  “I don’t like you,” I say, sounding like a petulant four-year-old. But his laugh confirms all my beliefs about men—they only want one thing, and as soon as they get it, they move on when something better comes along. They don’t care about me at all.

  He just laughs a little harder. “I’m sorry, Ashley.”

  Despite my irritation toward him, my name in his mouth gets my attention. I like the way it sounds, even though he is laughing at me. “What’s so funny, anyway?”

  “This whole thing.” He gestures to the general space we occupy. “You standing in the middle of the road during a blizzard, me finding you in the snowbank, and to top it all off, you wearing my t-shirt, which is about twenty sizes too big.”