by S. E. Hall
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 14
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 dramatic, 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—"
I've never heard the sound before, and if this pans out in my favor, I will give anything to ensure I never do again—but it's unmistakable and I'm instantly paralyzed in a fear worse than actual death.
Ice just splintered beneath me.
Why or how I think of this now, I don't know…maybe hopeless abandon of all rationale? What runs through my head is terminal patients and their doctor telling them, "You have a month, at most, so live it up."
No. Don't tell me. Because I would spend the last month miserable and searching down whatever black market organ needs replaced. I'm not the go into the light without a fight sort of girl.
"Paige?" he yells, but I don't, can't, answer. Any loud noise could crack the not-so-frozen impending death waiting under my feet.
Shit, he'll probably assume I'm back to ignoring him and won't come looking. Or what if I fall through and he never knows it, just assumes I went back inside the cabin? Sweat beads at my neck, my knees—hell, every sweat gland in my body is like an overactive geyser.
How wrong they all were—my smart mouth isn't gonna catch up with me—the exact opposite, really. I'm gonna die without saying a word.
"Paige? Answer me! This isn't funny!" His tone is livid, and I detect this because he's getting closer. Thank God!
No, wait, I have to stop him before he's too close, so I slowly raise my trembling arm and hold my hand up and out to say "halt," then freeze.
"Goddammit, why'd you come out here, yelling, if you were just gonna clam up again? If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were—"
That's when I see him, stomping toward me on an irritated mission. "Vaughn, stop!" I brace for Mother Nature's consequences, but I had to say it, he was mumbling to the ground and wouldn't have seen my hand.
"What, why?" He looks up and when he finds the morbid dread on my sure to be pasty white face, his brows dent to one long worry line and his eyes darken. "Paige?"
I speak quietly, deliberately, while remaining as still as possible. "I'm standing on ice, and it cracked." Oh God, this is really happening. Harsh certainty sets in, tears welling up and clouding my vision. Defeated, I let my extended arm drop to my side. "Don't come any closer," I whisper, but he hears me. I see it written all over his desolate expression. "No reason for you to die too."
"Maybe it's ju
st a puddle," he finally replies.
If he wants to sell me optimism, he should've gulped less visibly and kept his voice from shaking. He lifts his foot and taps in front of him once, then again to the left, right, and finally stops, looking into my eyes, his skin now ashen as well.
"Babe, don't worry, you're gonna be fine. I won't let anything happen to you. But I can't come out there, so I need to go grab a branch. Can you stay right there? Do not move!"
Umm, yeah, I think I can handle that. I don't answer. I don't even raise a brow, telling him to think about what he just said.
"Two minutes," he whispers. "I'll be right back." I watch as he whips around and darts in the opposite direction and sure as taxes and death, he's back in about two minutes, lugging a huge branch on his good shoulder.
Well, I have to speak now. "Too heavy," I gasp, terrified at that thing smacking down on the ice. Is he insane? "That will break it."
He shakes his head, gently placing the branch on the ground. "No, I'll slide it out to you, slow and careful. You grab it with everything you got and no matter what happens, do. Not. Let. Go. I'll pull you to me or die with you, Paige. I swear."
"It won't work," I squeak, the scalding heat of tears rolling down my cheeks. "I'll jump. Three leaps and I'm to you."
"One jump and you're dead. Worst thing you can do."
"No, I can make it," I respond, hoping like hell I'm right.
"We're running out of time. Quit arguing." He tugs his hands through his hair, frustrated, then squats, ready to slide the branch my way.
"I'll run. I'm really fast when I need to be, Vaughn. I can—oh, shit!" I scream, the gut-wrenching crackle of ice fracturing further pounding in my ears. "I can do it, I'll run."
Of course this is how it goes!
When I escape outside like an immature brat, everything's fine. When I come to help carry wood, I die. Such is the Book of Paige, an ironic tragedy.
"Listen to me," he says determinedly. "You're out of time. I need you to trust me, Paige. Just this once, baby, please." It's the absolute terror in his voice that wins me over, claiming me fully before I even notice the fear in his watery eyes as well. "Very, very slowly, bend your knees, and get down on your stomach. All your weight, flat and even, gentle, but at once. Got it?"
"Yeah," I croak, trembling uncontrollably as I follow his exact directions. Wow, so this is what it feels like to hand control over to another person, sharing your load, risking disappointment and hurt on the off chance of gaining better, greatness even? It's new and not completely unbearable.
"Good job, babe. Just like that; steady and smooth." He pushes the branch out and when I'm finally on my stomach, it's right there waiting for me, him on his stomach too at the other end. I won't ask why. If it works, I don't care. If it doesn't…
"All right, Paige, lock your hands on that bad boy and hang on, but don't help me. Keep your weight evenly distributed and flat, no pulling or squirming. I'll do all the work. Trust me and go weightless, babe."
I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I'm a feather. "Ready."
My hands are so painfully numb from the cold and fright, I'm not even sure if my grip will hold, but it must be working because I feel myself sliding across the solid surface. I open my eyes and Vaughn's are zeroed in on mine…he winks, then tugs with only his arms twice more and I'm there.
I hear his rush of relieved breath as he leaps to his feet, grabbing me up under my arms and clutching me to him in a suffocating, glorious hug.
"You're safe. I got you. I got you." The repeat is a reverent husk, as though he's convincing himself. "Babe, Paige…" He kisses my head, then leans back, unburying my face from his chest with one hand, kissing my lips, nose, then lips again. "So scared, baby."
"Me too." I try to smile, but I'm not there yet. My knees are knocking, my body quaking from near hypothermia and shock. "Thank you. God, thank you, Vaughn." I cling to him tighter, burying my face in his chest.
"Let's get you back to the cabin," he grunts, tossing me up in his cradle hold. "I'll come back for the wood. And I swear to God, Paige, you so much as peek out the fucking window while I do, I will test your fine ass 'til my hand hurts. You hear me?"
Facing your mortality takes a lot out of you, because I don't have the energy to even think "did he just say that?" Let alone argue.
"I hear you."
Chapter 15
I burrow deep into the sleeping bag, waiting for Vaughn to return with the wood and get a healthy fire going again. Lying on the floor no longer feels hard and uncomfortable like before—it's a helluva lot better than a sheet of ice underneath me.
But I still have to wonder—hunting cabin—guys—where the hell's the couch? Or beds? Surely they don't all hunker together in bags on the floor too? I'd go searching for the air mattresses I bet are stored somewhere, but we've been over how I feel about surprises.
The burst of cold air seizes my attention, preceding Vaughn through the door, his arms stacked full of logs.
"Don't move, babe, I got it." He kicks back a foot to slam out the chill then walks my way, somehow able to see over the pile he's toting.
Once he places the load in a corner, he stares down at me, assessing how I'm holding up, if I had to guess. The smile he's fabricating is trimmed with worry.
"Let me get a good fire going and then we can heat up some water. I think a hot bath might help you relax. Sound good?" he asks without one ounce of seduction.
A bath? Hell no, it doesn't sound good. Just imagining what's growing and/or simultaneously hibernating in the tub gives me the heebie jeebies, but he's being so sweet…and I'm pretty sure the odor I'm getting whiffs of is partly my own.
We'll play it by ear. So I nod.
"Great." His smile now genuine, he rubs his hands together then snaps his fingers, crossing back across the room and digging through his duffle bag. If he has soap in there, well, I don't even know how I'll properly thank him. He searches longer than usual, a barely audible sigh escaping him before he turns back to me, eyes clouded with something almost disheartening.
"Here." Vaughn crouches down, water and a Slim Jim in his extended hands. "You have these. I'll start on the fire."
"Where's yours?" Huh, I didn't realize I hadn't spoken in a while until I was speaking. Not a situation I usually find myself in. Ever. My own words are louder than I remember to my ears.
"I'm fine. Eat up."
Eat up? No way do I buy that crap, especially not with the concerned expression on his somber face he can't seem to hide. It's like a flashing sign that something's wrong.
I sit up and cross my legs together. "Vaughn…" I shoot him a glare, but he's already turned to grab some logs. "Vaughn, is this the last of the food?"
"Didn't really check," he mumbles, concentrating on his task.
"Liar. You're not the only one with a read on the other one, you know. See, what I heard was, 'yes, it is, but I won't outright lie so I'll give my answer, which is technically true, in an unclear voice!' How'd I do?"
"Busy here," he throws out quickly.
"I'll eat and drink half, since you're busy, and just hold on to yours until you're done."
He doesn't see fit to respond, hurrying back outside with two buckets when he's got the flames glowing brightly, instantly smothering the chill in the room. I've long wolfed down exactly half of our so-called meal by the time he comes back in, setting the pails of snow close to the hearth.
"Those will be a hot bath soon," he says, still refusing to look at me.
"Thank you." I nudge him. "Here ya go. Dinner."
Finally I have his attention, his eyes locked on mine. "I. Want. You. To have it, Paige."
"And I want you to cooperate, saving me the trouble of tackling you to the ground and shoving it down your fucking throat."
A smirk finally wins the battle with his stubborn mouth. "Promising to tackle me hurts your cause, Firecracker. Come on." He gives me a hand to help me up and wiggles his eyebrows. "We'll fight about it in the
bath."
While the ring around the tub's not actually moving, even Vaughn agrees—it's damn close. No way in hell we're gonna soak in a pool of…it. So we decide to stand and take turns pouring a bucket over each other. Thank Christ! I know he thought a bath would be more relaxing, sweet, but no way in hell.
There's no towels, but Vaughn had one extra shirt and pair of socks in his bag we can use, plus a travel-size shampoo and toothpaste. No brush, but who cares? My finger's dying to help out! Had he not already seen me naked plenty of times, the shampoo alone would've earned him a show. We're both stripped and anxious to feel somewhat clean in a blink.
"You first," I tell him, standing face to face, completely naked, in the porcelain home of what may very well be Ebola…and yet I can't keep my eyes from appreciating his magnificent body.
It doesn't seem quite fair that every piece of him be even better than the last. Kinda like the lottery. Don't give one person $385 million, no one needs all that. Give 385 people $1 million and spread that shit around! And Vaughn? At least level the playing field with a funky toenail or something.
Too late now though, the gene pool has spoken. Might as well enjoy the view. He takes one of the socks, dipping it in the bucket of water, then squirts some shampoo on it and starts scrubbing. The Peeping Tom shower thing is all kinds of better up close. His hand glides across the hard planes of his chest, arms, and neck, then he stops for another dip in the pail.
I use this re-dip to swallow, trying to conjure up some moisture in my bone dry mouth and assume an unaffected mask. Smart move on my part cause he commences the show by cleaning his long, engorged dick and surrounding area with mostly languid strokes up and down himself, the corner of his mouth curling while his eyes are trained on my reaction.
"All right, front's done!" I say loud enough to be awkward, then clear my throat. "Rinse!" I shout and rear back, drenching him with a blast from the bucket.
