by P. Dangelico
So I move closer, with only an arm’s length separating us. It’s the first time I get a good look at…my savior? Meh, too melodramatic. Good Samaritan? Yeah, that sounds a little more dignified.
Barely fitting in the chair, he’s as big as I remember from the night before. His forearms bulge against the faded red thermal he’s wearing. The sleeves pushed up to the elbows reveal a black tattoo branching up his arm. It’s then I notice his shirt is covered in paint. So are his hands, loosely hanging off the arm rest. I can even see a streak of green on his forehead. As for the rest of him––well-defined trapezius muscles bridge the distance between his neck and shoulders. His biceps are thick but not bulky, and his forearms corded. Covered in grey sweatpants, his long legs hang past the foot rest.
His face makes a much better second impression. He’s younger than I first thought. Maybe early thirties. His hair is a deep rich brown and in need of a trim, his jaw is covered in a very short beard. His nose has seen better days; it looks like it’s been broken a time or two judging by the bump on the bridge. But it’s his eyes that get all the credit. His brows are dark slashes that end in an exaggerated natural arch, and his lashes are thick and spiky.
His face is too harsh to be pretty, but he has a certain appeal. I’m sure he drives the boys crazy in his own way. I mean, if you like that sort of thing––the alpha, he-man, gym rat type.
Which I don’t.
I like men that can debate the merits and detriments of the European Union, sophisticated men who like to travel and share books, who know more about the world than I do. Ben, in other words, that motherfu––
Gay Santa snorts and repositions his head. This guy sleeps like the dead.
Time to wake the sleeping beast. I tap a very hard forearm with my index finger, then wait. “Umm, hey guy…hi…hello?”
No reaction, so I tap again. This time his face puckers, brow contorts, lips nearly disappear. If I met this face in a dark alley I would definitely run. Unless, or course, it was in the middle of the mother-of-all-snowstorms. In which case I would need him to save me before he turned into beef jerky.
Aside from the face scrunching business, good Samaritan doesn’t budge. On the carpet next to the chair, my attention falls on a shiny object. An empty bottle of whiskey. Jesus, is he hung over? Leaning in, I sniff, sniff again. Definitely sauced. Which makes sense now. He said some strange things last night. I just happened to be too cold to care at the time.
“Hello. Hey there. Hiii.”
The forced cheerfulness finally does the trick. His eyes crack open, focus on me with all the intensity of a sniper rifle, and wait.
Automatically, I reach up and touch my buns. I may be half dead, but I’m still a girl. No surprise, they’re destroyed, hanging off my head. More limp biscuits than cinnamon buns. In addition, my eye makeup is undoubtedly down my face with all the crying, and my arms are sticking out to the side with all the clothes I have on. I must look a fright, but that works in my favor right now.
“Hi. Sorry to wake you but…hi, I’m Carrie Anderson, the woman you saved last night from, well, basically freezing to death. I can’t thank you enough. Really, thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t found me…umm, I mean, except die. Anyway, do you have a landline? I don’t have any bars on my phone.” I hold up the phone as evidence, but he doesn’t seem to be interested. His gaze hasn’t left my face once since he cracked them open. Not to mention, his silence is starting to unnerve me.
It’s then it dawns on me…he doesn’t speak English. That’s why he sounded strange last night. He was speaking in Spanish.
“Shoot…shoot. I’m sorry I don’t speak Spanish. No speak Español.” I make a face because it really is a travesty that after four years of living in Arizona and four more living in L.A. and listening to my Spanish For Dummies audio on my way to work, all I can say is, “Dónde está el baño.”
“Do you understand? Phone? Telephone? I need to call people,” I repeat with some deadass cringe pantomiming of a phone.
He blinks. “Turner.”
Turner? What the heck does that mean? It doesn’t even sound like Spanish. This is where Google translate would come in handy.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I reply, my exasperation coming through loud and clear. By the way he’s staring at me, he must think I’m insane. “I can’t believe the month I’m having! Make that the year. 2020 sucks!” I tip my head back, searching for guidance, a sign, anything.
The silence persists and my attention returns to big gay Spanish Santa. His brows draw down.
“I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry I’m shouting. I have a bad habit of talking to myself out loud…”
A habit I picked up during all the late nights I spent in an empty office doing research. As a way to quiet the fear of being there alone. Why I’m telling this guy is beyond me. “Dónde está telephono?” I whine one last time.
Sitting up, he stretches his neck side to side. Then, once again, he aims the full power of his attention at me, and I shrink back. Those dark blue eyes are very intense.
“Step aside please.”
What the heck…what the heck. Burning shame crawls up my neck. “Oh, ha…uh, yeah, sorry.”
I’m having a really bad month.
I scoot out of the way and he rises from the recliner in one fluid motion. Then he stretches. Arms to the ceiling, he bends left, then right, and his shirt tags along for the ride, revealing a happy trail and a set of grooves next to his hip bones only comic book villains and gym rats possess.
The shirt comes down and my eyes slowly climb over him. It’s hard not to. This is when I get the full picture of how powerfully built he really is. His shoulders, his chest, his thighs. What’s equally hard to miss is how powerless I am in comparison.
Despite that I’m no slouch at 5’6,” I have zero muscle and even less desire to build any. I’d go so far as to say my thumb is my strongest appendage, clearly due to all the ill-advised tweets I like to send. Or maybe my tongue for obvious reasons. Either way, this guy could squash me with one hand if he wanted to. Let’s hope he doesn’t.
While I remain rooted to the floor trying to look as unappealing as possible, I catch him eyeballing me––measuring me up. It’s a stealthy quick assessment, but I catch it anyway. I’m a pro at observation––wouldn’t be very good at my job if I wasn’t––and the disinterested act he’s putting on isn’t fooling anyone.
Not that I’m a great temptation or anything––I look like the Pillsbury dough boy right now––but if he wasn’t gay, I’d be a little more concerned. All I can hope for is that he’s not sizing me up for a skin suit.
His gaze drops and he walks out of the room without a word.
“Turner…” I scurry after him, out of the room. “Turner, right? That’s your name?”
“Don’t wear it out,” he replies, his back retreating down the hall. He enters what one would hypothetically call a kitchen, but in reality looks more like a dungeon for butchering things. Fingers crossed it isn’t people.
Slowly, I follow and stop at the threshold of the room. Physical distancing is my friend right now. I don’t know who this guy is or what he’s really capable of and I will not be the dumb girl in this story.
“Turner…do you have a last name?”
His brow furrows as he fills the glass coffee pot with water from the sink. “Just Turner.” Turning on his socked feet, he heads to the refrigerator on the opposite wall. “How’s your head?”
Subject is obviously not a fan of eye contact. He’s doing everything to avoid it.
I brush my fingertips over the knot on my head and wince. “Okay, I guess…a little sore.”
Pulling out a bag of coffee grinds, he lays it on the counter. “Advil in that drawer”––he points to the drawer of the cabinets closest to me––“Ice in the freezer.”
“No, thank you. Ice and I are no longer on friendly terms. So, umm, I take it you don’t have a landline…”<
br />
“Nope.”
“When do you think this storm will let up? You know––since my phone has no signal”––once again, I glance down at the phone in my hand. Yup, zippo––“and your television doesn’t seem to be working.” I motion to the room with the TV with the hockey puck stuck in the middle of it.
“Maybe a day or two,” he grunts while he pours the grinds into the filter and turns on the pot.
“A day or two?!”
He makes a face, implying I’m taxing his nervous system. Or his hangover. Whatever.
“Maybe more.”
“More!”
No way. No freaking way am I staying holed up in the Amytiville Horror house with this guy. A stranger. When nobody I know knows where I am. I’ve seen too many true crime documentaries to know this never ends well for the female.
He motions to the coffee pot with his chin. “Only one bathroom working so you’ll have to wait till I’m done. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. Cups above the sink.”
Chapter 5
“Subject seems ornery,” I mutter sotto voce. “Not much for verbal communication…” The way he looks at me comes to mind: apathy with a mix of annoyance. “Plenty of non-verbal, however. He glares like a champ.”
I’ve been on the couch attempting to read for the past three hours with little to show for it. I’m still on chapter five and not because the book isn’t good. It’s because I’m having a hard time concentrating with Turner, the mystery gay mountain man, behind closed doors down the hall.
He disappeared into one of the other rooms three hours ago and hasn’t surfaced since. In the meantime, I’ve located the bathroom and done my best to clean up and that’s not saying much. I need my stuff and my stuff is out there somewhere. In the mother-of-all-storms.
One thing’s for sure, I don’t need to worry about being violated; it looks like I have the tip of an unimpressive penis growing out the side of my forehead. A mildly purplish-red protrusion. No exaggeration, it looks like a bell end. No amount of makeup is disguising it.
The door to the mysterious room opens and Turner emerges covered in fresh paint, gaze cast on the floor, his expression indicating he’s in deep thought. He lumbers past the couch scratching––swear to God––something in the vicinity of his groin. Thankfully, over his sweatpants. Ignoring me, he walks into the kitchen.
“Hungry?” I hear him shout.
Am I hungry? As my Nan would say, “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
When I cross the threshold, he’s washing his hands at the sink.
“Starving. I’ll eat anything.” Then I rethink my answer. “Except beef jerky. I don’t eat beef jerky of any variety.” Sliding onto one of three folding chairs at a 70s looking green vinyl kitchen table, I watch him pull out paper plates and napkins out of the cabinet above the sink. A couple of red Solo cups.
“Beef jerky?” He makes a face.
“Yeah, do you have any?”
The confused expression persists. “No.”
“Good.”
I checked out the refrigerator earlier. It’s packed with fresh produce. Nice to know my host is well-prepared to weather out the storm. Hopefully, he’s willing to share because judging by his size he must eat an unseemly amount, and I didn’t want to take anything without his express permission. Something about him tells me he’s one Facebook post away from building a pipe bomb and driving to D.C. and I’m not about to do anything to anger him.
“Did you have anything for breakfast?” he asks as he peers into the open fridge, the massive width of his shoulders obscuring everything inside.
“No. I didn’t want to disturb whatever you were doing––“
“Painting. And I told you to help yourself to anything you wanted.”
Painting? This guy seems about as sensitive as an anvil. “Like…the walls?”
Looking over his shoulder, the glare he levels at me is a full-bodied one. This is not his usual glare-lite. This one means to intimidate. I’m guessing he found my question offensive. “No.”
“Sorry…” I mutter. “I might have a concussion. Everything’s that coming out of my mouth today sounds wrong.”
He pulls a loaf of sliced wholegrain bread out of the refrigerator and places it on the counter, follows it up with three bags of cold cuts, tomatoes and lettuce.
“Turkey or roast beef?”
“Turkey please.”
“Mayo or mustard?”
“Mustard.”
Turner moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’s comfortable preparing a meal. A few minutes later he places a plate in front of me. On it sits a perfectly made turkey sandwich sliced in two, bread lightly toasted, a bag of potato chips next to it. It looks and smells so good I can barely wait to sink my teeth into it.
“This is delicious. Thank you,” I say around a mouthful. “And thanks again for saving me.” He grunts in answer as he bites into his sandwich. “How did you find me, by the way?”
He puts his sandwich down and wipes his hands on the napkin. “Dumb luck. I was asleep on the couch and your headlights came through the window and hit me in the face.”
Dumb luck is right. Talk of the car reminds me that I need my toothbrush and a fresh pair of underwear ASAP. “Turner…I need my things. From the rental.”
He blinks, expression blank. Then he scowls and shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous for you to go out there.”
Yeah, I know. I’d probably never find my way back. “I need certain things in that luggage. Important things.”
“Nothing more important than your life.”
I’m glad he thinks so.
“You don’t understand…” I say softly, imploring him to understand with my eyes.
Sighing tiredly, he places his elbows on the table and claps his hands. “You want me to go get your stuff.”
“That would be really nice of you.”
He picks up the remains of his second sandwich and pops it in his mouth. Chewing, he cranes his neck to see out the window. “It’s still coming down pretty hard. You can borrow something of mine.”
This one was clearly not raised to be a gentleman, so I decide it’s time for the nuclear option. “Flo’s in town, Turner. So unless you can lend me some tampons…” I shrug. “I need my stuff.”
It takes my grouchy host thirty minute to walk sixty feet to the end of his driveway, rescue my suitcases out of the orange Cube, and return.
Slamming the front door shut, he drops my bags at my feet and glares at me. That’s alright, I can barely see with the blast of freezing cold air making my eyes water. Shivering and teeth chattering, he strips off his coat and gloves, kicks off his Timberlands.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
All I get in return is silence. After which he disappears again.
Two bars. That’s all the service I have by early evening as the storm moves out of the area leaving behind flurries and an enormous pile of snow.
In the meantime, I managed to take a hot shower. It’s official, he’s gay. I found Moroccan Oil shampoo and a rainbow bath towel in the decrepit bathroom. For a mountain man, he sure has expensive taste in hair products. The towel looked familiar. It was the same one he had wrapped around his shoulders last night.
After the shower, I wrapped my hair in buns and put on clean clothes, layering Jackie’s already ruined sweater on top. On closer inspection, this place hasn’t improved in cleanliness, and I don’t want to ruin any more clothes that don’t belong to me.
By nightfall, I am so out-of-my-mind bored that I begin to live dangerously––I knock on the door of the room Turner is hiding behind. I figure maybe a little conversation will help kill time, and he did make me arguably the best turkey sandwich I’ve ever tasted.
“What,” the grouch calls out.
This does not bode well, but I persist. “It’s Carrie…Anderson. Can I come in?” Am I curious about what he’s doing in there? You bet. I mean, who is this guy really?
An artist? Why does he live here? Does he have a boyfriend? What’s his story? And God knows I love a good story. Is he equally curious about me? Probably not.
“Suit yourself,” I hear an eternity later.
Slowly, I turn the knob and peek my head in. The room is large and well lit. Stretched canvased populate the room, leaning against the walls, on the floor. They are everywhere. Some virgin, others covered with tarps. Yikes. He must be really bad at this if he’s covered all the finished paintings with tarps.
I step inside and find Turner by a large window standing in front of an easel and side table. He’s in the process of cleaning a brush with a rag.
“Do you need something?” he says without looking at me.
An abandoned stool sits close to the door. I stroll over and lean my butt against it. “No, I’m just…really bored and I can’t seem to concentrate enough to read.”
Glancing around, I take note of all the different paint staining the old wood floor, the rolls of linen stacked against the wall. “Is this what you do for a living? You’re an artist?”
“Not for a living…but I do sell them.”
Which begs the question,“What type of art?” I mean, he has them all covered up. He’s clearly broke; this house is the pits. He’s probably not selling many….and I ate his food. I’ll send him a check when I get back on my feet, I decide.
“Landscapes mostly.” He’s still not looking my way, and I’m getting the acute feeling that I’m bothering him.
“Did you always want to be a painter?” A memory jumps out. Of me gathering the personal items on my desk and shoving them in the worn-out LL Bean tote I’ve had since high school. The look on the security officer face as he watched. I may as well have been at Harry Winston planning a heist. A chasm opens up in my chest. This is really not how I saw my life going.
“No…played hockey for a while.”
“Oh, yeah? I could see that.”
He looks my way for the first time since I interrupted his work. “You can see what?”
“You playing hockey.” It certainly makes more sense than Turner, the sensitive artist. Although he does have the tortured thing down pat. “Your size––for one thing. Were you any good?”
