by Chrys Fey
“Pretty fast.”
“Good. We’re going to give the pooch a proper burial before Sabrina starts swinging again.”
Donovan lifted the stiff animal out of the trunk and followed Beth to the backyard where he dug a hole next to a bed of flowers. She helped him settle the dog into the hole and used her sneakers to shove dirt over the grave. When they were patting down the wet mound, Sabrina sneezed. Wind lashed at their bodies and rain splattered onto their skin. They ran to the front door, dived through the burrow of pine needles, and back into the house.
Donovan took Beth’s hand and led her to the bedroom. “You managed to get more wounds,” he explained as he ushered her to the bed.
“They’re small scratches,” she told him as she sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked off her muddy shoes.
“Small. Really?” The tip of his finger glided above the deep slash across her chest.
She looked down. Her shirt was soaked with blood. “Damn.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said and popped open the first-aid kit. “I have to take off your shirt though.”
She nodded approval and he slowly pulled the cotton up her body. When he tugged it over her head, her brown hair fluttered around her bare shoulders. He stroked a wet cloth above her breasts to clean away the blood and tree sap. He also cleaned the numerous cuts on her arms, applied a bandage here and there, and layered thick gauze over the slash on her chest.
“You look as though you fought in a battle,” he said. She laughed. Her laughter came to a halt in the middle of her throat when Donovan took her chin with his fingers. “I’m beginning to wonder what you look like without cuts and bruises all over your body.”
Inside, Beth’s emotions were a raging storm. Outside, Sabrina was throwing a fit.
“Donovan, I teach women how to protect themselves, how to be careful, and what to do if they are in a dangerous situation, or with a man who could potentially harm them.
“You are a perfect example I would’ve given, and I would’ve told them to run far away from you as fast as possible. But I find myself not taking my own advice. I mean, you’re a suspected murderer, you fled from the police, and you killed a dog. Despite that, despite all of that, I believe you and I trust you with my life.”
“Thank you.”
He cupped her face and dipped his head, but he didn’t kiss her, so she took the last step to prove she meant what she had said. She closed the gap between their lips and pulled him down on top of her. Minding her shoulder, she switched their positions and grinned down at him.
“You’re very welcome,” she said.
****
Sometime later, Beth cracked open her eyes, awakened by the silence looming outside. When she pulled her aching body into a sitting position, Donovan wobbled out of his black dream.
“Why are you getting up?” he said groggily.
“I think Hurricane Sabrina got tired of knocking Florida around. It’s quiet.” She stole the sheet from the bed, wrapped it around her body like a dress, and sinking her feet into several inches of water, headed toward the dresser for clean clothes.
Favoring his ribs, Donovan sat up as Beth riffled through the clothing in a drawer, her back to him. When Beth turned back she saw him at the end of the bed, lifting the shovel high above his head.
It came down fast, striking hard.
The impact caused Beth to freeze with surprise. Two feet from where she stood the shovel penetrated the hardwood floor, severing a snake’s head. As soon as she saw the black, yellow, and red snake, she pounced onto the bed behind Donovan.
“Oh my God!” She grasped Donovan’s shoulders in fear. She knew by the colors of the snake it was poisonous. Donovan had saved her life. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Then she peered at the shovel and a frown developed on her face. “Where’d you get that?”
“I had it when we came in.”
“Oh.” Glancing down at the beheaded snake, she was grateful. “I am terrified of snakes,” she announced as a shiver raked her body.
“Well, I don’t like spiders, so I’ll kill all the snakes and you can squash all eight-legged bugs.”
She laughed. “I…” She stopped the next two words from tumbling out of her mouth. She couldn’t possibly love him. Not after a handful of hours, most of which she had spent thinking he was a murderer. She smoothly swapped out those two potentially dangerous words with, “wonder how the snake got in. There must be an opening somewhere.”
“Let’s check it out.” He tugged on his wet jeans and Beth put on a dry pair of shorts.
During the last two hours, the water had risen to a foot inside her house. Cards floated on top like fall leaves on a pond. Pieces of wood, strips of insulation, and chunks of plaster blanketed every surface. But what they saw when they entered the dining room was more shocking, as the entire screened-in porch had been ripped away and was now plastered against the side of the house next door. All that remained was the cement slab. Sabrina had kicked in the sliding glass door with her giant foot. It had fallen into the dining room where it shattered into large shards.
“That explains how the snake got in,” Beth murmured while mourning her beloved porch.
“I need to get to my brother’s house,” Donovan stated as he frowned at the decimated porch. “If by any chance it’s still standing, I need to get the security footage.”
Beth nodded in agreement. “I forgot something in my room, I’ll be right back.” She hurried to the nightstand, opened it, and took something out that she hid behind her back. Then she grabbed the shovel. Donovan lifted a brow. “It came in handy once already,” she explained. “I say we take it just in case.”
“Okay.” Donovan took it and led her outside.
The world was calm again. Behind the fast-moving clouds, the sky was blue and the sun’s face was visible, but the outcome of Sabrina’s tantrum was evident. The river of her bitter tears had expanded into a sea, making an island out of Beth’s house.
Together, they inched around the front yard where the water came within a yard of the garage door. Across the street, Donovan’s car was nearly submerged.
“Damn it,” Donovan cursed. “I’m going to have to swim or make a raft to get to my brother’s house.”
“Or you could use my canoe,” Beth offered.
Donovan turned to her. “You have a canoe?”
She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the crumpled garage door. Donovan looked and smiled at the head of a canoe that was peeking out at them.
“I love you,” he claimed and began to climb up the garage door.
Beth stared after him. Did he mean it? Did he love her? Or did he just love her for her canoe? Feeling confused, she helped heft the canoe off its rack and over the water until they were hip deep. Donovan pulled his body into the canoe and looked at Beth. “You’ll be safer here. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.” He planted a kiss on her lips and began to row away. Beth blinked in shock. Then she grabbed the back of the canoe, halting its forward motion.
“You are not leaving me here,” she told him. “From the moment I pulled you out of your car, we’ve been in this together. I am going with you, whether you like it or not.” Her eyes dared him to say she couldn’t go.
He smirked. “All right.” He helped her into the canoe and they paddled away together.
The sun was warm on their shoulders, the air still as if Sabrina had sucked all the wind out of the atmosphere. They glided down the middle of flooded roads as if they were navigating a course through intersecting rivers, but on either side of these rivers were houses. Few stood undefeated, many showed battle wounds, and occasionally, there were casualties. Beth sympathized for the families of the fallen houses and said a silent prayer they would all be able to move on after they grieved their loss.
After a while, sadness forced her to stop looking at the houses around her and to study the water. It was murky and filthy—leaves, pine needles, newspapers, beer bottles, and soda cans f
loated on top. Every now and then, they passed bobbing trashcans similar to ocean buoys. The sun reflected off the small waves formed by the canoe, making it appear as though fragments of broken mirrors swam on the surface.
Beth was pretending they were vacationing in Africa, drifting down the Nile when Donovan rotated around and blindfolded her eyes with his long hand. Startled, she grabbed his arm.
“What are you doing?!” A splash of water forced her to recall the oar she had let go of, which was now outside of the canoe. “Shit, the paddle!”
“Leave it,” Donovan told her.
Beth laid her hands over his. “Donovan, what’s going on?”
“There’s a dead body floating in the water ahead. I don’t want you to see it.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t want the image of a dead person to be imprinted on your brain like it is mine.”
Understanding, she stroked his arm. “Okay.”
“Lower your head and cover your eyes. Don’t look until I tell you to look.”
She ducked her head in her lap and pressed the heels of her hands to her closed eyelids. She could tell Donovan was paddling fiercely, because the canoe’s speed picked up fast. When Donovan finally bid her to uncover her eyes, she slowly lowered her hands, blinked the fuzziness from her site, and squinted to block the harsh sunlight until her eyes could heal. As they did, her curiosity rose like a fever; it became so powerful she snuck a peek over her shoulder. All that was visible of the dead body were the toes of two black boots.
She turned and put her hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
He didn’t stop paddling. “I’m looking out for you.”
With one paddle, he propelled the canoe to the outskirts of the city and through a small neighborhood out in the boondocks. When they stopped, Beth looked up at a brick house.
“This is my brother’s place.” He handed her the paddle and swung himself out of the canoe. “Stay here.” Beth scowled at him. “Please, Beth, it could be dangerous. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
“Fine,” she relented. “But if you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming in after you.” She lifted her wrist to show him the watch she wore. “Starting from the time you turn around.”
All of a sudden, Donovan cupped her face and claimed her mouth, kissing her with a passion that stunned her. She blinked at him speechlessly when he pulled back.
“Start timing,” he said and turned his back to her. She watched him trudge up the driveway and go inside the house.
Minutes crawled by as she sat anxiously in the rocking canoe. She had no idea what was going on inside the house or if Donovan was in danger. That’s absurd, she thought, the street is flooded and the city is deserted. But she couldn’t stop herself from looking up and down the street nervously, expecting someone to sneak up on her or tip the canoe out from under her. Every wave caused her stomach to jitter. Every noise made her jump. Post-Sabrina, the city was a corpse—frightening and full of secrets hidden beneath debris and rainwater.
Her hands sweated profusely on the handle of the shovel. She didn’t think she could wait anymore in the canoe, but she forced herself to stay. Donovan will be back any second with the footage, she told herself.
Then the sound of a gunshot and something breaking catapulted her heart into her throat. “Donovan,” she gasped, and before she could calculate the consequences, she hopped out of the canoe with the shovel in her hand and hurriedly sloshed her way up the driveway.
She peered cautiously into the living room window to see a police officer clobber Donovan on the side of his head with a hefty fist. Her heart seized when Donovan crumpled to the ground and the officer stood over him, sneering.
“Buck and I dumped your bother in the river not too far from here, but with all the flooding, he’s probably halfway to Puerto Rico by now, becoming fish food,” he taunted. “And now it’s your turn!”
Beth watched helplessly as the officer jumped onto Donovan, pinning him beneath the water. Knowing she had to help him, she moved away from the window. With all the loud splashing, she was able to sneak into the house, right behind the officer. She lifted the shovel and swung it with all her might. The metal scoop slammed into his back, flinging him off Donovan.
She was moving toward Donovan when the officer wobbled to his feet, locked an arm around Donovan’s neck, and pointed a gun at her. “Put the shovel down now!”
She slowly lifted one of her hands from the handle then tossed the shovel away. When she moved to take a step back in retreat, her right foot stepped on an object lying underneath the water. Risking a quick glance, she saw the barrel of a pistol beneath her sneaker. She didn’t know how it got there and she didn’t care. She flicked her eyes back to the officer as his head turned from the submerged shovel back to her.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Leave her out of this, Chewy,” Donovan growled between his teeth.
“She got herself into this when she hit me with a damn shovel,” Chewy shouted. He glared at Beth again. “Now who the hell are you?”
Beth flinched. “I…” She paused for a fraction of a second to adjust her reply. “I have what you want. I have his brother’s journal.” She glanced at Donovan’s wide eyes. “It’s out in the canoe. I can get it for you.” She went to turn, but froze with a spine-jerking flinch when Chewy fired the gun. Water flew into the air a few inches from where she stood.
“Don’t move,” Chewy shouted at her. “You’re going to back out of here one step at time. If you do anything stupid, I’ll blow a hole through your boyfriend’s head.” He pressed the muzzle of the gun to Donovan’s temple.
With her hands in the air, Beth slowly moved one foot back at a time, her right foot dragging the gun along the ground and all the way down the driveway to the canoe.
“I have to turn around to get it,” she explained. “When I raise my hands, all I’ll have is a leather journal.”
“You better or it’s a bullet into Goldwyn’s brain.” He motioned for her to get it.
She kept all of her movements slow and cautious even as she held up a black, leather-bound journal. The two men in front of her had opposite reactions. Chewy looked triumphant while Donovan looked betrayed. His eyes cut into her like lavender blades. She swallowed against the pain.
“Give it to me!” Chewy held out his hand for the journal.
Beth stretched her arm out, but before he could grab it, she heaved the journal down the road.
“No!” Chewy released Donovan and lunged for the journal as he shot a stray bullet at Beth. It punctured the top of the canoe where her head had been before she dived into the water for the gun at her feet.
Chewy rescued the journal from its watery grave. He opened it eagerly, but the vivacious grin on his face dissolved. He flipped through a few pages to find poems and lyrics. “What the hell is this,” he roared and spun around to point the gun at them. A loud pop sounded. Then silence.
The three of them stood in a triangle, none of them moving. Then blood began to trickle down Chewy’s nose from his hairline. His eyes were ghostly spheres in his face. It took a moment for his body to register his brain was dead before he fell into the water, dropping the journal.
Beth lowered the gun she held. “That was my book of poetry, asshole!” She faced Donovan. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but where’s my brother’s journal?”
She rummaged in the bottom of the canoe and took out a second journal identical to the one that was now at the bottom of the flooded road. “I had one like it that I used to write poetry in for fun,” she explained, as Donovan made sure the book he held was indeed the real thing. “I figured it would be a good idea to bring mine along as a fake.”
Donovan smiled at her. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“You can make it up to me later,” she told him with a wink.
An hour later, they reached the police station. Donovan climbed out of the canoe and held out a hand
to assist Beth. She looked up at him curiously. “You want me to come?”
“Of course, we’re in this together, remember?”
When she was standing in front of him, he pulled her to his body and kissed her with gratitude and something far more than gratitude.
“This may sound crazy,” he whispered in her ear. “But I love you, Beth Kennedy.”
She eased back to look into his eyes. What she felt from his lips and heard in his voice, she saw in his lavender eyes. Love—it was true, beautiful, and rare.
“I love you, too.”
Hand in hand, they entered the police station.
A word about the author...
Chrys Fey is the author of the short stories The Summer Bride and Fallen. She created the blog Write with Fey to offer aspiring writers advice and inspiration. She lives in Florida, where she is ready to battle the next hurricane that comes her way.
Visit her blog at:
www.writewithfey.blogspot.com
and find her on Facebook.
Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
