by Sadie Grubor
Reaching down, she takes off her wet socks and says, "Jackson and Liza set it up, but they didn't tell me it was your place."
I sit back into the chair, my brow furrowed.
"Jack asked to use the place next week," I inform her.
She shakes her head and pulls the blanket around her tighter.
"No, he asked about this week. If he hadn't, then why would I have all the codes and directions to come up?"
Her body twists and turns, mimicking a butterfly about to emerge from its cocoon.
"That's impossible," I argue. "I am always here during this week."
One naked, pale arm emerges from the blanket, her shirt in hand. My eyes follow as she drops the wet fabric into a pile with her socks.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to go get dry clothes on," she says, standing and walking toward the stairs.
"We aren't done talking," I bark out to her retreating form.
"Calm down, ginger beard man. I'll be back down," she says, a little too much attitude in her voice.
Something I sure as hell don't need tonight.
"Don't give me your goddamn attitude," I snap, pushing out of the chair and following.
She might be a bitch, but changing into dry clothes sounds really great right about now. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I stop and pull it over my head.
At the top of the stairs, she turns just outside one of the spare bedrooms. Her eyes narrow on me.
"What are you doing?" she asks, her eyes roaming over me.
"Changing," I say, starting to unbutton my jeans.
Frowning, she pushes inside the bedroom and quickly closes the door. At the click of the lock, I shake my head.
Ten minutes later, I step out of the master bedroom. The first thing I notice is the silence. The music is no longer playing over the speaker system. Looking over the loft railing, I see Sid picking things up from the floor around the beanbag chair.
The firelight catches in her dark hair, casting her in a golden glow. When she bends over, her ass up in the air, I lick my bottom lip.
Padding quietly down the stairs, she doesn't hear when I reach the main level and approach.
"If only you would stay bent over and quiet all the time." I slap her ass.
"You bastard," she squeals, straightening upright and rubbing her left ass cheek.
Laughing, I fall into the soft, overstuffed couch.
"Fuck me, I needed that," I admit.
I didn't realize how much I'd needed something light and fun to ease the sadness and anger—at least, not until I unexpectedly stumbled upon her tonight.
"I'm so glad to be here for your amusement." She lays the sarcasm on thick.
"You should be," I taunt, rolling onto my side and watching her push the beanbag over with the others.
Coming back, she sits on the arm of the couch. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks down on my lounging form.
"Well, tomorrow you will have to find a new way to entertain yourself," she grumbles.
"Why is that?" I furrow my brow.
"Because I'll be leaving," she informs, shrugging.
I sit up and put my elbows on my knees. Angling my head toward her, I raise a brow, and ask, "Did you not notice the weather?"
She slips from the arm of the couch and shuffles over to the window.
"Well, fuck me," she moans, experiencing a mountaintop white out.
"If you insist," I say, earning a glare from over her shoulder.
Chapter Five
Sidra
"You made it up the mountain. I can make it down," I say, trying to sound sure, even though the thought of driving down the winding road in this weather makes my stomach turn.
Xavier's laughter pulls my attention away from the window and snow deterring my escape.
"What's so funny?" I ask, already knowing I shouldn't.
"The fact that you think you'd actually make it down the mountain."
He settles back into the couch, kicking his big bare feet up onto the coffee table.
"If I crash and die, you can call it a bonus," I snap, stalking to the opposite end of the couch.
"Why would you say something like that?" he asks, his tone suddenly serious.
"It was a joke." I plop down, getting engulfed in the couch cushions.
"That wasn't funny," he says, his voice still severe.
"Your couch is trying to eat me," I grumble, reaching for the arm of the couch and heaving myself forward.
"Lucky couch," he says low, grabbing my arm and pulling me in his direction.
He shoves extra pillows behind me and motions for me to sit back.
I ease into the pillows and find I can sit normal.
"Ha, take that Venus fly couch," I blurt.
"Did you just talk smack to the—"
"Don't judge me," I snap before he can finish.
Putting his hands up, he settles back into the cushions in his corner.
"So, why would Jack send you up to my cabin?"
"Because he obviously hates me," I answer, waving at him.
"I guess shit could've gotten mixed up," he says, resignation in his tone. "Shit's been a little crazy lately," he adds.
"Well, as soon as the weather clears, I'll be out of your way," I offer.
"It will be a couple days, so I guess we should…"
Before he finishes that sentence, I narrow my eyes at him.
He grins.
"I was going to say, we should attempt to be civil."
"Oh," I say, and purse my lips. "I guess."
Discomfort swirls in my gut. Not because I'm feeling unease around him. It's because this—him and me sitting here on a couch—is easy, comfortable like we've been friends for a long time.
"So, truce?" He holds his big hand out.
I hesitate for a moment before resigning myself to this. Reaching out, I take his hand. His palm is soft and warm, while his fingers are coarse and rough with calluses. The hand of a drummer. When I try to take mine back, he won't let go.
"What happened?" he asks, pulling my arm to his face.
"Let go," I demand, trying to retrieve my limb from his grip.
"What happened?" he growls.
"I carried wood," I explain, tugging to escape his clutches.
"Not these." He touches the fresh bruises. "These," he rumbles, his rough fingertips brushing over my wrist.
I cannot wait until those damn things finally fade.
"Nothing," I answer, and try to change the subject. "It's been a pretty eventful night, so I'm going to head up to bed."
This time, I make a noise of pain as I pull. He quickly releases me.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, guilt etched on his face.
I shrug. "It didn't hurt."
Standing from the couch, I make my escape to the stairs. Over my shoulder, I say, "I just made the noise so you'd let go."
"Who did it?"
His voice is closer than I expect. I glance over my shoulder to find him only a few steps behind me.
"If you must know," I sigh, and turn to face him, "my part-time job is a submissive. Bruises happen."
I give him a large, forced smile, turn around, and start up the stairs.
"It's the jerk who gives you a hard time, isn't it?"
His question surprises me and I stumble. Reaching out, I grasp the railing in an attempt to steady myself.
"W-what…who—?" I ask in a breath.
"I know there's some asshole in your life," he explains, crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't deserve that shit."
Embarrassment, shame, humiliation—every level of the emotion turns dark and ugly inside me.
"It's not really any of your fucking business, now is it?" It's not really a question, but he feels the need to respond anyway.
"I'm making it my business." The threat is clear and I know, without further explanation, if Xavier meets him, Paul is a dead man.
For the briefest moment, the image of Xavier mutilating Paul forms in my
mind. Biting the inside of my cheek, I hide how giddy it makes me feel.
"Well…" the fight in me dies, so my words come out shaky, "don't. It's taken care of."
Unable to take any more, I stomp my way up the stairs. Before I close the bedroom door, I swear I hear him say, "It's not taken care of until he's sporting his own bruises."
I curl up in the center of the bed and try to will away the tears burning my eyes. It's a battle I can't win. Putting a pillow over my face, I release my tears of shame and stupidity.
Xavier
Heat boils beneath my skin and every muscle is so tight, I'm sure they'll start cramping. Pacing around the main level of the cabin, I can't get it out of my head.
That fucker put his hands on her. Left marks on her pale, smooth skin.
My anger gets the best of me and I go down to the lower level, stalking toward the bar. Pulling out the bottle of whiskey and a tumbler glass, I pour a shot. I toss it back, reveling in the burn, but it's not enough. Pouring two fingers full this time around, I set the bottle down hard on the bar.
It catches the edge and shatters. I jump back to avoid getting glass in my feet, but my hand doesn't make out so well.
"God damn it!" I yell, the pain making me inhale sharply and exhale on a hiss.
Instinctively, I flex my hand, causing pain to shoot up my arm.
"Son of a bitch!" I shout, releasing the neck of the bottle.
It smashes to the floor, creating more glass fragments.
Grasping right below the shard sticking out of my hand, I step around the mess. Blood starts dripping onto the carpet.
"Damn it," I repeat on a growl.
"Are you okay?" Her voice draws my attention from my injury.
Her feet hit the carpeted floor, carrying her toward me.
"Stay back," I snap, harsher than I mean to.
"Don't yell at me because you hurt yourself," she says firmly.
"There's glass everywhere," I rush to explain, stepping away from the mess.
"You're also getting blood everywhere." She motions to the drops at my feet. "Lord knows what diseases you're spreading. I'm going to need a hazmat suit."
"If I recall, you're the one who insisted you had every STD known to man," I counter.
"Hey, that's a self-defense tactic," she argues. "That shit would've worked with a real rapist who knew what he was doing."
My mouth drops open, and I ask, "Did you just insult me for not being a rapist?"
"Do you have a first aid kit?" she asks, avoiding my question. Her eyes focus on my bloody hand.
"Yeah, it's upstairs under the sink." I give a chin lift, motioning toward the stairs.
"I'll get it," she says, rushing back the way she just came down.
I pull my shirt off with one hand and wrap it around the one with the glass puncturing my skin.
Sid comes back with the red canvas bag, paper towels, and a bowl.
"Sit down," she orders, using the bowl to indicate the old worn couch.
Sitting on the edge of the cushion, I'm reminded of why I've kept it. It's ugly as fuck, but so comfortable.
Sid kneels in front of me, placing the bowl between my feet and the other items to her right. Gently taking my hand, she puts it over the bowl and removes the t-shirt.
I can actually feel how comfortable she is around me and it's so fucking weird. The way we verbally spar with each other, there should be a paramount level of tension, but there's not. She maneuvers me like it's an everyday occurrence.
I like it. I like it a little too fucking much.
"Are you practicing for a Magic Mike audition or something?" she asks, keeping her eyes on the piece of glass.
Reaching for the first aid kit, she unzips it and pulls tweezers from a pocket.
"What?" I furrow my brow, confused by her question.
"You take your shirt off like you do it for a living," she explains, using the tweezers to get a hold of the glass.
"You keeping track of how often my shirt's off?" I ask through clenched teeth as she pulls the large sliver from my flesh.
"It's kind of hard not to notice when Sasquatch gets naked," she taunts, putting a wad of paper towels against the gash and pressing.
"I am not covered in hair," I argue, hissing from the pain. "Only tattoos."
Her eyes flicker to my chest before looking back to the kit.
"Point taken," she concedes.
Pulling the towels away, she pours peroxide over my hand and blots with new paper towels.
I catch sight of the bruises on her skin and it stokes my anger from earlier. But when she leans in closer, securing a large bandage over the wound, the anger dissolves.
Her scent surrounds me, filling my nostrils. My uninjured hand moves of its own volition into her hair, bringing the dark strands to my face. I bury my nose in the softness and inhale deeply. An urge to rub her all over me swells within.
"What do you smell like?" I ask, already deciding she smells like spring in heaven.
"Stop sniffing me," she orders with a scowl, taking her hair away.
"Tell me, or I'll smell you until I figure it out," I threaten.
A brief flash of amusement twitches at the corner of her lips before she puts a stern mask in place.
"It's called soap."
Standing, she takes the bowl and kit with her, carrying them toward the bar.
"Stop," I exclaim.
She pauses, looking back from over her shoulder.
"The glass went everywhere."
She twists her head to the bar, nods, and changes direction for the stairs.
Her scent lingers on my hand and I bring it to my face, reveling in it. I watch her climb the steps, committing the curve of her ass and sway of her hips to memory.
Sidra
Damn him. Damn his chest. Damn his tattoos and the sexy spattering of hair. Damn the feel of his large, calloused hands.
Unable to sleep, I decide to continue mentally damning Xavier to the pits of ridiculously hot drummer Hades.
This trip is supposed to be my heartbreak holiday, a time for my groove to be reconnected to my Stella—a place of solitude to channel my inner awesome.
"I hope he gets gangrene in his hand," I groan, rolling over and curling into a fluffy pillow. It's a large oversized pillow I'll be sure to take when I finally get out of here and away from the big distraction. We'll call it payment in return for my first aid services.
I rub the heel of my hand against my eyelid and instantly regret it. My contact shifts and instantly launches its attack to detach my retina.
"Ow, fuck," I moan, holding my eye all the way to the bathroom.
After correcting the irritation, I know there's no hope of putting the lens back. My eye is bloodshot and feels scratchy when I blink. I remove the other lens, tie back my hair, and follow my morning routine.
Face washed, teeth brushed, green frame glasses on, and bed head knotted in a high bun, I step off the last step and onto the hardwood flooring on the main level. There's a chill in the room and I wish I would've worn more than my pink elephant pajama shorts and NERD? I Prefer Intellectual Badass t-shirt.
The morning light illuminates the large open room, so I easily make my way to the kitchen. And the minute I step by the island separating the space, my stomach grumbles.
"First task, coffee," I mumble sleepily as I set my iPod and wireless ear buds on the counter.
I open the grounds, turn to the machine, and place a filter inside. Noticing it's not on, I flip the power switch.
Nothing.
I check the cord and move it to another outlet, but nothing.
Looking around the kitchen, I see no signs of power. However, I do see an old silver teakettle. Glancing from said teakettle to coffee, to filter, a plan forms.
I turn the knob on the stove and I'm thrilled to find its gas. I'm even more excited that my purchase of matches was worth the money spent. Lighting a couple of the burners, I set about making coffee and breakfast.
> The fridge is still cold, so I'm quick to grab the eggs, bacon, and butter. Returning to the counter, I set everything out.
I grab my iPod, find my It's About Me playlist, put my wireless ear buds in, and hit play.
The sound of Hailee Steinfeld's voice fills my ears, singing about loving myself.
Taking a deep breath, I allow the words to sink in for a moment. Soon, my body is moving as I mix, whisk, pour, and fry.
With the bacon and eggs sizzling, I take out two pieces of bread and put them in another pan to toast. During the third song, I do my awesome air guitar riff, signature spin, and freeze. Xavier sits, arms folded on top of the island, wearing a grin.
Fully emerged in my playlist, I raise one brow at him.
His mouth opens, but all I hear is The Clash.
I take one ear bud out and reach for the iPod to shut it off.
"Wait, I want to hear what we're jamming out to this morning." He puts one of his large, distracting hands out, a non-verbal request for the ear bud. "I'm digging the glasses, by the way."
"The song's over," I state as The Clash fades.
He opens and closes his hand in a gimme motion. Stepping forward, I drop the ear bud in his meaty palm.
"You know how to move." His eyes rake over me while he slips the ear bud in his ear.
"What?" he asks, his brow furrowed, catching the moment I cringe.
I use my spatula to point at his head. "You're getting your ear gunk on it."
"If it makes you feel better, your gunk is now in my ear," he offers.
I shrug, and say, "Guess we're even. Plus, I have disinfectant wipes in my bag."
His chuckle fills the room just as Jet blasts into my ear, asking me if I'm going to be his girl. I sigh and mentally answer the lead singer with a yes.
Out of habit, I drum on the counter and scream out, "Go…!" right along with the lead singer.
Forgetting about Xavier, I turn back to the food and flip.
Mid verse two, I feel him before I see the strawberry Sasquatch move in next to me.
I still as he sways and sings the song, grabbing more bread from the bag and tossing them into the pan with mine. Good lord of the wilderness, he can move.
Then, Taylor Swift comes on and he freezes. I watch him from the corner of my eye and fight not to laugh at the look of disquiet on his face. In a sudden movement, he grabs my arm and swings me around to face him as he sings Shake It Off.
