"I said leave."
"Leave what?"
"Here. Leave."
"Why?"
"Because everyone is sick of you being surly and snapping all the time."
"I'm always surly," I countered, waving off her comments.
"True. But this is a new extreme. I don't know what happened between you and pretty Blythe-Meuller. And," she talked over me when I went to interrupt, "I don't want to know. But I do know that whatever went down is making you pissier than usual. And while everyone else seems to just be ignoring it, or avoiding you, I do not get such a luxury. I have to deal with you. So do us both a favor... and leave."
"I need to work."
"You have no cases. Everyone else has been handling their own cases just fine without you. Take a vacation. Or just sit in your place being miserable. I don't care. Just don't be here."
To be fair, Jules wasn't being a bitch.
I actually was being that much of a dick.
I recognized it.
I just couldn't seem to curb it.
"Fine," I growled, slamming the file I was glancing at shut, grabbing my cell, and moving out of my office.
"Jules," Kai said to her as she walked out behind me, his voice almost chastening, a tone you rarely heard him use on anyone, let alone Jules.
"I know, I know," she said, shrugging at him. "I was supposed to keep my mouth shut."
"Yes," he agreed, but his lips were tipped up, "you were."
"You done talking about me like I'm not here?" I asked, grabbing my jacket from the rack by the door.
"Hey, you know... you still haven't checked out the barns and animals. It's good to unplug, and get away sometimes," Kai told me, giving me a direction I so clearly needed.
"Yeah," I agreed, nodding as I shrugged into my jacket, making my way out the door.
I fucked around at home, unable to stop thinking about it.
About her.
About what must have happened when she woke up.
Alone.
Would she have realized the reality immediately? Felt the empty side of the bed where I had been, and known I was gone? Or would she stumble out of bed, climb into that silk robe of hers that shouldn't have been sexy, but undeniably was, wander out into the apartment looking for me, maybe hoping I was brewing coffee, or making breakfast, thinking about sharing another meal, talking at the table, taking it back to the bed, or right there in the living room.
It was hard to imagine her reaction, how she would let herself react to it. Sometimes, she just let it out there, openly showed what was going on inside. Other times, she shut everything down tight, locked it up, wouldn't let it out.
Sure, we both knew this day would come, but would she be even more bothered by it because it came the morning after we went to bed?
Or was it smarter to cut the ties before they could wrap us up any tighter?
Would she be able to rationalize it that way?
Or would she just feel used?
The latter thought turned my spit sour, making me have to choke it back.
I didn't want her to think that. That I had used her. That she was just a convenient lay. I could get that anywhere. I actually preferred women who were practically strangers to go to bed with, not ones I had spent almost every waking moment with for a week, not one that I had gotten to know better than I even knew some of my coworkers that had been like my family for years.
Generally, I stuck around a couple days. Once they were settled. Not always at their side, but in the same town, checking in, making sure they were adjusting, and not calling old contacts or shit like that.
Not that Sloane really had any.
I wondered as I packed a new bag and threw it in my car, if that fact would make the transition easier or harder on her. Would she feel like it was just the same old thing, but in a new town with new faces? Or would this make her all the more acutely aware how alone she had always been, how empty her life could have been called by an outsider.
The drive down Jersey was one I could do on autopilot. Same roads. Same sights. An hour where my mind could do nothing but work in endless circles.
It wasn't until I saw the signs for them that I had to stop and focus.
The Pine Barrens.
One-point-one million acres of reserved land densely populated by trees, and next to no human inhabitants.
Unless you were like Ranger.
Holding up a finger to the law.
Building his place right in the middle of them somewhere.
The somewhere part was what had me idling on one of the sandy makeshift roads, looking in all directions, trying to remember the way to his place.
With a shrug, knowing my phone wasn't going to work even if I could call him and get an answer, I took the road to the end, like I seemed to remember having to do, then drove it in to park it between trees, grabbed my shit, and decided to take it on foot.
If nothing else, I would find a way to get my mind occupied with survival if I couldn't find him.
And off of Sloane.
It was four hours before I finally saw signs that I remembered, a lake followed by a certain line of tall Atlantic White Cedar Swamp trees.
Another fifteen minutes later, I saw the outline of the house.
Small.
Wooden.
With some brick reinforcements to keep it sturdy, a few windows, a roof made out of what seemed to be ceramic tiles, a row of solar panels, a huge pile of wood he used to heat the place when it was cold.
The barking met me first.
As one would expect.
Because Ranger had dogs.
A lot of dogs.
Dogs that were set to be destroyed because they were considered vicious and unable to be rehabilitated into a normal family.
I'd asked Quin once why he would take clients - often very wealthy, very important clients - to this place around a bunch of rabid dogs.
His answer had been simple, if a bit far-fetched.
When Ranger is around, they might as well be puppies still sucking on teats. He's got that pack leader vibe.
I guess you couldn't really argue with that. If you spent more than two minutes with the man, it was clear there was something almost feral about him, animalistic, something that other animals would naturally respond to. But it did seem like a risk.
And talk about a risk.
Ranger was nowhere in sight.
But I was staring down the snarling muzzles of eight - fucking eight - large breed dogs.
Pitbulls.
Rottweilers.
German Shepherds.
Mastiffs.
And, I shit you not, a single Jack Russel.
I liked dogs.
And, in general, dogs liked me.
Hell, Aven's dog hated her and loved me.
But I had a feeling these weren't exactly the types of dogs who gave a shit if you liked their species in general or not. That wasn't, after all, their purpose here.
They were meant to alert.
Guard.
Protect.
Against any outside threats.
Which included me.
"Announce yourself," Ranger's voice called from a distance, somewhere I still couldn't see him.
"Call off your fucking hounds," I shot back.
"Gunn?" his voice called, less rough, more curious. A couple seconds later, he moved out from behind his house in a pair of jeans, the button undone, no shirt on, his hair and chest wet. "The fuck?"
"Kai told me it was time to make a visit. After Jules kicked me out of the office."
"Enough," he told the dogs, tone just the slightest bit more growly than usual, so I wasn't sure how they even knew he was talking to them, but they all shut up and sat down immediately, still staring me down, though, like they were just waiting for an excuse to pounce.
"They ever a problem with clients?"
"Keep 'em from running off when I'm passed out," he told me, patting the mastiff on the head as he moved to sta
nd beside it.
"What's with the little one?"
"Jack Russels are ratters," he told me as the dog in question moved up to sniff my boots. "Got a lot of animals here now. Animals mean feed. Feed means rats find their way here instead of the campgrounds. Duggie handles them for me. So, what'd you do to Jules?"
"Pissed her off."
"More than usual?" he asked, lips curving up the slightest bit.
"Guess so. What?" I asked when his head cocked to the side, brows lifting.
"Just thinking," he said, shrugging a shoulder.
"About?"
"Time. Maps. How long it takes to get from point A to point B."
"I get it."
"Way I see it, you had just enough time to get to Nevada, do something fucking stupid, and get back to Jersey to piss off Jules."
"I said I got it," I told him again, shaking my head.
"Figured you got it when I brought it up in the cabin. Yet here we are."
"Shit happens."
"When you follow your dick, yeah," he agreed.
"When's the last time you followed your dick anywhere?" I shot back.
To that, he gave me a nod and the smallest of smirks. "It's been a while. Got me there."
"You got coffee?"
"And something stronger," he agreed, waving a hand back toward his house. As I moved past, he snagged my bag. "Staying a bit?"
"Need to get away."
"And away from temptation?" he asked, walking ahead of me.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you know cell reception here is shit. You won't feel tempted."
"To?"
"Reach out. Tell her you were a fuck."
"How do you know I was a fuck?" I asked as he opened the door, stopping to turn to look at me.
"It's you," he said simply.
"Well," I said with a smile that I actually felt for a change, "got me there."
The inside of the cabin was much like the one Sloane and I had stayed in. The only difference was there were two bedrooms - the master that was slightly smaller than the one in the other cabin, and a guest room for clients that was barely big enough to fit the twin bed that was in it.
Directly inside across from the entrance was a giant penny brick hearth, big enough to boil pots of water inside. To the left was a dining table he likely hammered together himself. To the right was the kitchen with all natural wood cabinets, countertops, and appliances that almost seemed out of place they were so new and stainless. A large eight-layer dehydrator was on the counter, running steadily.
"That doesn't eat up all your solar?" I asked, waving at it.
"What? Oh, probably. I don't use a lot of electric. Get up early. Go to bed when it's dark. No need for all the solar I got. Especially now with the roof."
"The roof?"
"Yeah, that's the new Tesla roof shit. Doesn't look like it, but it is solar. Got the batteries on the wall of the closet."
"What are you drying?"
"Blueberries."
"I was expecting jerky."
"Not really hunting season right now," he informed me, going to the cabinet to drag down two mugs, waving a hand to the coffee pot and the whiskey, silently asking which I'd prefer. It was late enough for it, so I waved at the whiskey.
"Not exactly blueberry season either," I reasoned.
"Got a couple bushes in a greenhouse a few acres back."
Ranger would likely be the only person in Jersey - outside of maybe Hailstorm - that would survive the end of the world as we know it. Hell, he probably wouldn't even know shit had gone down.
Aside from things he couldn't grow himself like coffee and booze, he lived pretty much entirely off the land. He hunted occasionally. Fished. Grew fruit and vegetables. And now, apparently, had animals for eggs and dairy.
He had medical supplies, and the training that went along with them.
Solar and wind power.
A well.
The lakes.
Everything.
He could live out his life here permanently. In fact, that was likely his plan. He only came out when he had to. He only dealt with other human beings when he happened upon them in the woods, when Quin demanded he come into the office, or when we threw a client on his doorstep.
"So, what happened?" Ranger asked, waving toward the center of the room where a couch and a chair were situated around a coffee table covered in books.
We moved in that direction, him dropping down on the couch, me the chair facing the front window where a line of dog beds were butted up against one another, big bones on each of them for gnawing down those massive teeth of theirs in their leisure time.
"You know what happened."
"Don't get a lot of conversation out here, humor me."
"Got to Carson City..."
"Kept your hands to yourself that long?"
"Fucking superhuman self-control," I admitted.
I would never consider myself someone who had a problem controlling his urges. Acting on them when I wanted to? Sure. But never struggling to keep my hands to myself.
Sloane changed all that.
Every moment of every goddamn day, all I could think about was touching her, reaching across the center console and putting my hand on her thigh, backing her up against the wall in the elevator, popping her up on the bathroom counter and getting a taste of her, waking her up with my tongue and fingers.
It was fucking constant.
Never-ending.
I had never needed to work so hard to avoid touching a woman before.
It was a goddamn miracle I held out as long as I had.
"And then?" he prompted as we both threw back our drinks.
"And then I lost control," I admitted as Ranger got up to walk across the room, bringing back the bottle of whiskey, pouring us each another round.
"And?"
I couldn't even meet his eyes as I admitted the truth, doing it while addressing my drink instead. "I left."
"Oh, you fuck," he said on a sigh.
"Yeah," I agreed, tipping up my second drink.
"Not a word about leaving?"
"Nope."
"Christ. Feeling guilty yet?"
"Felt guilty as I was fucking doing it."
"It's not just about a fuck."
"It was never about a fuck," I agreed.
"You got under those guards," he assumed.
"Yeah."
"Warm under there," he went on.
"Mhmm," I agreed, reaching for the bottle again.
It was surprising, actually, what a depth of warmth and sweetness that was under all that ambition, those guards, that coldness she wore to keep people from getting too close, from learning her secrets.
"Sucks," he told me, nodding, acknowledging the situation for what it was. And, somehow, it helped ease the anger I was feeling, the resentment toward the situation as a whole. No one would ever really accuse me of being the sharing sort, but I suddenly understood its merits. Not to have to hold everything in. Not to internalize disappointment, and end up turning it into rage.
I got it.
And what was my next thought, you might ask?
That I hoped Sloane could get that too, that she could find connections, that she could feel safe enough to open up, to let people in, to purge all that pain and disappointment, to see what good shit it could be replaced with.
"Got under your skin," Ranger commented a while later, after we had both sat there blankly, lost in our own thoughts.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Deep?"
"Deep enough."
"How long you staying?" he asked, not exactly a touchy-feely person, so I figured that was about all the Sloane situation.
"Couple days," I told him, figuring that it was the best place for me, that he would put me to work, that it was a good way to keep my body - and mind - occupied for a while. "How long has it been since you've had another body in this place?"
"Seven months," he told me casually, as if that was the most n
ormal thing in the world.
I was somewhat of a loner by nature, but I enjoyed interacting with my coworkers at least here and there. Lincoln and Smith especially. I couldn't imagine going months on end without speaking to another person.
"Before you came to help us at the cabin," I pressed, "how long since you saw another person?"
"Four months maybe. Saw some dipshit kids partying in the ghost towns over the winter. One of 'em likely lost a toe. Tried to warm them up a bit on their way to their car, but it was likely cut off."
"Do they do parties a lot around here?"
"Couple times a year. Mostly in summer though."
"And, what? You keep an eye? Are you the mayor of the Pine Barrens?"
"The law is too stupid or too lazy to do rounds most of the time. I want to make sure the assholes don't set my home on fire. If even a small one starts, half the forest could be gone in a matter of hours. Especially in drier seasons. And this far out, you gotta keep an eye on the guys."
"The guys?"
"Out here with booze and drugs and girls who got no one to call on for help."
"And when the guys try to pull something?"
"They learn real quick that no one gets away with that shit in my home."
His home.
That was a quirk of Ranger's; he thought the entire one-point-one million acres of the Pine Barrens were his home. And, in a way, they were. He had lived there for years. First, just camping out. Seeing the sites. Getting to know every inch of the forest across all the counties, across all the miles.
Then, Quin had gotten the business finally up and running. He had worked hard to track down guys he had met in the service - me and Smith and Lincoln. Then some other people he had happened upon with special skills over the years - Kai and Miller.
But he had spent months trying to find Ranger who had fallen off the face of the Earth as far as anyone was concerned. No one had seen or spoken to him. No financial records had been recorded. His accounts were all still active, full of money, but he never touched them. His house had been sold. His car had its insurance paid automatically, but it hadn't been spotted on a single camera in over a year.
He was a ghost.
So, of course, Quin enlisted me.
Because no one could go missing. Not really. Not truly. There was always a trace. There was always a scent of them somewhere that could be picked up on and followed.
It took me five months.
The Ghost Page 16
