by JC Gatlin
He turned his head. She followed his gaze to the metal grate attached to the rear, then to the long sheet of plywood running from the ground up to the porch. She could almost see the wheels inside his head spinning. Suddenly he turned and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“It probably belongs to those teenagers on the lake,” he said.
“You think they live here?”
“I doubt it. This looks like some trapper’s shack.” Owen paused, observing the structure. “You didn’t go in there, did you?”
“No.” Rayanne moved past him off the porch, across the dirt path, and headed for the trees. She paused and turned back to him. “Owen, please, let’s go.”
He stared at the shack a moment, before waving his arm. “This way, babe. That leads to the county road. Our campsite’s this way.”
He headed in the opposite direction, and Rayanne ran to catch up to him.
When she was by his side, walking along the narrow dirt path, he asked, “Where’d you go?”
“I was just … exploring.” She thought about a hundred things she wanted to tell him. “I saw some deer and almost got attacked by a gator.”
“A gator? You okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You’ve got to be more careful. You’ve been gone for over an hour.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I got lost.”
“I was worried about ya, babe.”
The words made Rayanne pause. She studied his face and noticed he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. “Really?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I was worried about you.”
She hugged him again, and they continued on their way.
Owen put an arm around her shoulder. “So you were telling me about The Bellas and they let Becca back in the group?”
Rayanne laughed. “I thought you didn’t want me to ruin the ending.”
“Too late now.”
His mood had changed. He sounded happy again, content, and it reflected in his voice. “So what happened?”
“It gets really good,” Rayanne said. “After coming in third at the semifinals, the whole group has this big heart-to-heart conversation where they all realize they need to adopt a more modern style …”
Rayanne described the movie plot all the way back to the boat ramp, thoroughly enjoying her husband’s undivided attention and the intimacy between them. It was exactly what she had wanted for the weekend, and from Owen all along.
He laughed at her story, causing her to genuinely giggle, blissfully unaware that someone was behind them, hidden in the shadow of the trees.
Someone was stalking them.
7
The sun had already dropped behind the trees when Rayanne and Owen returned to the boat ramp. The tent stood near the truck, casting a long shadow in front of it that nearly reached the lake. A stack of wood piled up beside it, ready for the campfire. Owen grabbed a couple of logs and stacked them within a makeshift fire pit that was little more than a circle of stones in the sand.
“You gett’n hungry?” He lit a crumbled paper towel and tossed it on the kindling around the logs.
“I’m famished.” Rayanne carried several long sticks in her arms, which seemed to amuse him.
He pointed at the log pile by the tent, and she dropped the sticks among several larger pieces of wood.
Turning to him, she asked, “So, what are we having?”
Owen didn’t answer. He struggled with the kindling, achieving no more than a flicker and a little smoke. He cursed and kicked the sand.
“I think the wood’s wet,” she said. “It’s been raining.”
“We need lighter fluid.” He wadded another paper towel and lit it. He tossed it in the fire pit.
Rayanne smiled and went to the truck. She opened the back door and pulled out a canvas bag and Owen’s guitar, carried them to the wet fire pit, and sat down beside him. She handed him the guitar.
“You want me to sing to you?” he asked, taking the guitar.
“I thought it would be romantic,” she said, watching him set the guitar on the ground against the log. She looked at it as he lit another paper towel. Shrugging it off, she grabbed a green box of granola bars from the bag.
“Forget the fire. We can have one of these for dinner,” she said, handing him a bar.
He threw the smoldering paper towel onto the kindling and took the granola bar from her hand, keeping his eyes on the fire pit. They watched the flame rise and dissolve into a wisp of smoke.
“I can get these logs to light, I’m tell’n you.” He tore open the wrapper and chomped down on the granola bar. Turning to Rayanne, he talked while chewing. “I got dry wood. I just need lighter fluid.”
“You want to know what really goes with granola bars?” She reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Merlot. She held it up in her hands. “They go very well with this.”
Owen grinned. He took the bottle from her and she handed him a corkscrew. He popped the cork and inhaled the aroma rising from the narrow opening. “Now it’s a party.”
“And we’ve got the whole lake to ourselves.”
Rayanne flipped around and grabbed two Solo cups from the bag. She held them toward Owen and he poured wine into one cup, then the other.
“Maybe you were right.” He took the red cup from her right hand, gulped his drink, and threw it down at his feet. “But I’m still gettin’ this fire started.”
Rayanne stared at the cup lying on the ground for a second, and looked back at Owen. “We don’t need a fire.”
She put an arm around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. She felt the warmth of his body as she watched the last remnants of the sun disappear over the lake. When he shifted his shoulder, she turned her head to see that he wasn’t moving away from her, but reaching for the guitar. He picked it up and strummed a few chords.
“Anything you want to hear?” he asked her.
“ ’Country Roads.’ ” She’d barely waited for him to finish the question. It was exactly what she’d hoped for, what she needed. Rayanne brought her hands together and rested them on her lap.
He laughed at her. “You always want to hear ‘Country Roads.’ ”
“It’s my favorite,” she said as he began playing the first chords.
“Take me home, country roads …”
His voice soothed her. It always had. Listening to him sing, she sat on the large round log and watched the woods grow dark. When he finished, Rayanne picked up the cup he had thrown on the ground and poured more wine into it. She handed it to him.
His smile widened. “You tryin’ to get me drunk?”
“You look like you needed another drink.” She winked and poured another cup for herself. “Play another song.”
Owen watched her a moment before taking the cup from her hands. “Where you going with this?”
“I’m having a romantic moment in the woods with my husband.” She laughed as she spoke. It hid the tension she felt. “We’re having fun, right? You’re going to be glad you skipped out on that stupid bass tournament with Darryl.”
Owen took a sip of wine, never taking his eyes off her. “Is that what this is? A romantic moment.”
“It could be.” She pulled out a black negligee from the bag and twirled it on her index finger. “Because when you guys go on your fishing trips, I’m sure Darryl doesn’t bring this along.”
He stared at the negligee. His eyebrows rose. “That’s some bag. What else you got in there?”
Rayanne laughed and set down her cup. She positioned herself slightly behind him on the log, and worked her fingers slowly across his broad, tight shoulders, down his spine. His back felt taut, the muscles coiled. Her fingers gently plied them, and she felt him relax and breathe, his body softening under her probing.
He leaned forward and turned his head toward her. “I’m getting sex vibes here,” he said.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled off the large T-shirt she’d been wearing all
day, revealing a white tank top cut low in the back, and exposing the back of a nude-colored bra. She turned and faced him.
“Babe, are you sure?” He leaned on his right elbow and cocked his head. “You sure you want to—”
She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. “Don’t talk,” she whispered.
Owen cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. Rayanne reached up and ran her fingers through his thick hair, pulling him down to her. Together, they rolled off the log and onto the dirt.
Owen was on top of her, kissing her cheek, her chin, her neck. He slipped a hand behind her back, unsnapping her bra. Rayanne pulled him tighter. Her body tensed. Her heartbeat hastened. She felt her body perspire with the rush of emotions invading her brain. Tenderness. Desire. Lust. Blood flow. Aching. Pain. Fear. Restriction. Claustrophobia. She couldn’t move. She needed to move, but she couldn’t. She was trapped. Owen was on top of her, kissing her. She could feel his breath on her neck. It was hot. Feverish. Burning. His heavy body was pressing her down into the earth, mashing her into the ground. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was racing.
“Stop,” she said under her breath. She fought to move her arms, to push him away. She struggled to breathe. “Stop,” she said again, louder this time.
He didn’t respond. His weight was too much. He was crushing her.
“Stop,” she yelled, and Owen moved. He raised up on one arm.
“Babe,” he said.
She maneuvered her arms beneath him, pressing her hands against his chest and pushing him off her.
“I can’t.” She was crying now, and rolled over onto her side. “I can’t.”
Owen sat up. “You initiated this, Rayanne.”
She could feel his stare boring into the back of her head, but she didn’t care. She tried to block out his voice. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms tightly around her shins.
“I just can’t,” she said again. She was no longer crying and her voice was emotionless. “I … can’t.”
“I was fine leaving you alone, Rayanne. I gave you space. But you initiated this.”
She heard him shuffle to his feet, then yell. Startled, she threw her head back as a flashlight beam cut into the darkness. It shined in her face.
Rayanne screamed, sat up, and covered herself. The beam of light moved down to her arms and across her chest, highlighting her breasts.
“Did we interrupt someth’n?” The teenager holding the flashlight erupted in laughter.
It was the kid from the boat. Tattooed spider webs covered his arms, and his black hair was cut in an angry-looking flattop short enough for the white of his scalp to show through. His combat boots, laced well above his ankles, were crusted with mud. When his head moved, Rayanne saw the web pattern continue on his neck.
Behind him, she saw two more boys. One was large and thick, easily three hundred pounds. A shaggy black beard hid his face. He raised a hand to his head, removing a knitted black beanie that revealed an even thicker, uncombed mop atop his head that fell below his eyes. He had piercings in his nose and ears that reflected the moonlight. His smile, clear evidence he was either high or psychotic, revealed two buck teeth. He hit the shoulder of the boy on his left.
That boy, with dark blond hair parted on the right, was slightly older and looked somehow out of place. Dressed in a tan button-down shirt and faded jeans, he reacted to getting hit in the shoulder. His left arm hung in a sling and his hand was wrapped in bandages from which only a thumb protruded.
Finally, a girl, seventeen at the most, pushed her way between the two boys and stood next to the alpha in the front. Rayanne recognized her from the boat. The girl’s shoulder-length, bleached-white hair fell to the left side of her face; the right side of her head was shorn short and spiky. Her eyes were encircled by dark eyeliner, almost to the point of looking like two deep holes in the middle of her face. Contrasting against her pale skin, her face looked skull-like. She wore black boots too, laced tight up her calves, and she stepped closer to the boy, resting an arm around his shoulder.
Rayanne reached for Owen as he took a step forward. He was immediately in the alpha’s face. He swatted the flashlight from the boy’s hand, and it struck the ground. The other hand wrapped around the boy’s neck, squeezing the tattoo webbing.
“What the hell do you kids want?” Owen said through his teeth.
The teenager raised both arms, forcing the girl to step back and Owen to release him. The boys behind him moved forward as the girl flipped her head, waving a swath of bleached hair, and whistled.
Answering her call, something large moved in the bushes behind her. It was almost as if the night itself was taking form.
Then Rayanne saw a large black dog emerge from the undergrowth. For a second, she thought it might be some kind of gorilla. As the dog padded out of the shadows to stand beside the girl, Rayanne saw its black, focused eyes and realized it was a Rottweiler.
Rayanne cast a nervous glance at Owen, who was biting his bottom lip, a dead giveaway that he was uneasy.
Then the teenage girl leaned slightly forward and ruffled the dog’s head as the larger boy stepped closer.
“You Owen Meeks?” he asked. “That your name?”
“Yeah,” Owen said slowly. “We know each other?”
“Willow is a small town, old man.” The boy cocked his head, grinning ever so slightly. “It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else. You know what I mean? The kinda place that is naturally suspicious of strangers.”
His voice chilled Rayanne, and she looked at Owen. Both his hands were balled up into fists. She reached for him, grasping his left arm.
He shook his head at the teenagers. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m Scut and this is Rude Roddy, and Nelson.” He motioned to the two boys behind him. “Dru’s my girl and that’s Dru’s little baby,” he said, smiling and nodding toward the dog. “We call him Luger.”
“Luger?” Rayanne asked. “As in a wad of spit?”
“As in our pet Rottweiler,” Dru answered. She leaned on one leg as she spoke, clearly proud of herself. Her dog growled at Owen, and this brought a smile to her lips. “You wanna meet him?”
The dog shot forward, springing at Owen and snapping his jaws. It grasped a mouthful of jeans and shook its head. Owen stumbled backward, kicking his leg to force the dog to let go. He raised his arms and yelled.
Rayanne screamed too, grabbing the dog’s collar and pulling its head back. It was useless, though, as the dog’s jaw clamped shut. Scared that the Rottweiler was about to rip her husband’s leg from his body, Rayanne lost her grip of the collar and shouted, “Call him off,” though she could barely get the words out. “Call him off!”
Dru whistled. The dog released Owen’s pant leg. It returned to her side, never taking its black eyes off Owen.
Rayanne launched herself into Owen’s arms, then fell to his feet. His pants were torn, but he wasn’t bitten. His leg was red, though the skin wasn’t broken.
Owen pushed her away and leaned toward Scut. He raised an arm and shouted, “Whaddya want?”
Scut laughed at this and bent down to grab the flashlight lying on the ground.
“C’mon, Owen Meeks,” Scut said, turning the flashlight off and on in Owen’s face. “You know what we want …”
8
Scut shook the flashlight. The light reappeared and he shined it in Owen’s eyes. “I’m givin’ you a chance to just hand it over and keep things simple.”
“I don’t know what yer talk’n about.” Owen waved his hand, pushing the flashlight from his face. He reached for his back pocket as Scut returned the light to his face. Owen shrank back. “You want money? I got seventy-five, maybe a hundred dollars in my wallet.”
“We don’t want your money, old man.”
Owen raised his voice. “Then whaddya want?”
Luger growled again.
Owen looked at the dog, then at Scut. “I don’t know what you
want.”
Rayanne had the large T-shirt back on and stood up. “Scat, wait. Do you own a black van?”
“It’s Scut.” He eyed her and grinned. “And, yeah. Maybe.”
“You’ve been following us?” She took a step forward and stood beside her husband. “I saw it on the interstate and then in town and then again at the cabin a mile or so from here.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly, running a tattooed hand over the top of his head, smoothing down his spiked hair. The little hairs instantly flipped up as he nodded at Rayanne. “Yeah, we been track’n you all day. But if you tell your hubby to give it back, we’ll leave you in peace.”
Owen clenched his jaw. “I don’t know what you want. This mechanic in town suggested we come out here. Said we could use the boat ramp—”
“Look,” Scut said, cutting him off. “I don’t care about your boat. I don’t care about your wallet. You got someth’n that don’t belong to you and I’m askin’—nicely—for ya to give it back.”
Owen didn’t blink. He seemed to be mulling something over. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
The group fell silent. Rayanne watched her husband. Scut shook his head and held up his hands.
Still gripping the flashlight, he waved it like a sword as he spoke. “We ain’t lett’n you leave till you give it back. Besides, it’s dark and when the sun goes down, that little dirt road that got you here gets all kinds of dangerous and …” He looked over at Rayanne and his grin widened. He aimed the flashlight at her. “Freaky.”
Owen sidestepped in front of his wife, blocking her from the teenager. “Dropp’n F! Get outta here. Leave us alone.”
Owen balled both his fists and stepped a foot closer toward Scut. Luger growled and leaned forward, ready to pounce. The growl was deep in its throat, almost a rumbling. The animal watched Owen, and there was something bitter and calculating in its eyes.
Rayanne didn’t like it and reached for her husband’s arm. “Owen, don’t.”
“It’s all up to you, old man.” Scut stretched his arm and opened his hand, palm up. “Put it here in my hand and this is all over.”
