“Well.” He transfers several pieces at a time to a ceramic plate. “Whoever lived here were extreme survivalists. There are several crates of freeze-dried MREs and drink mixes in the pantry.” Flipping off the burner, he grabs a nearby towel and wipes grease from the cabinet. Once he finishes, he scoops more bacon onto the plate. “The house uses propane, too, and the tank still has gas. So, I liberated the bacon and cranked up the stove. Hope you like it extra crispy.”
“Hell, I’ll take it triple crispy at this point.” I lick my lips in anticipation. “It smells like heaven in here.”
He stops scooping for a moment and looks at me. “Well, if it’s heaven in here, I guess that makes me your God.” There’s amusement on his face and in his voice. “Maybe you should give me a sign of your affection.”
This time, instead of the bluster turning me off, I find it endearing.
Yep. Doomed. Utterly and completely.
“In your dreams, pig boy.”
Sucking his teeth, he clicks his tongue. “Don’t be so quick to say no, Red. You might like it.”
My head shakes. “You’re impossible.”
“Dig in.” Carefully, he sets a heaping plate of crispy goodness on the table. “It’s all yours.”
“You’re talkin’ about the bacon, right?” I follow his every move.
“Sure I am.” A well-staged wink makes his dimple wave a seductive hello.
Kodiak, standing next to my leg with his tail pointed in the air, watches with avid interest. His nostrils flare with each whiff of the meat.
The cook, kiss-less despite the apron, turns to the counter and grabs something hidden underneath a cloth towel. Pulling out homemade bread slices, he sets them on another plate.
The yeasty aroma of the crusty bread reminds me of the jar of homemade strawberry jam in my pack. If this doesn’t scream celebration, I don’t know what does. It’s in this moment I realize—there’s no one else I’d rather share it with than Jareth and Kodiak.
Sissy, we can make our own when I get there.
Without a word, I turn and race up the stairs, taking two at a time. Reaching the bedroom, I grab the small jar from my backpack.
Shaking and giddy with excitement at the thought of hot, crispy bacon, a thrill shoots through my body just thinking about what awaits me downstairs.
I’m about to have a damn feast for breakfast. It’s sad that bacon can get me this worked up, but I don’t care. Meat like this doesn’t come around very often anymore—if ever.
After springing down the stairs, my feet slide when I reach the kitchen floor. To stop my forward momentum, I grab the door frame with one hand and hold the precious jam in the other.
Jareth has his back to me and is wiping down the stove.
A certain dog stands on a kitchen chair. Two front paws rest on the table’s surface. He stretches his neck toward the plate of bacon.
“No, Kodiak.” Terror tries to take over when I envision his toothy mouth eating the whole plate of savory, salty goodness in one gulp.
Kodiak freezes in place, left side in profile, muzzle less than an inch away from the top of my bacon mountain. His ice-blue eye rolls to look at me.
Out of my periphery, Jareth turns to the unfolding scene and leans his back against the counter. His arms cross over his chest.
He must think this scene is amusing, because he makes no move to grab the food. Doesn’t he care he’s about to lose all the bacon he just cooked?
Or he’s not a pig like someone else. A pig—ha. If the situation wasn’t so dire, I’d laugh at my joke.
Taking a step toward my dog, I walk with hands out in supplication. Desperation spurs me on. “No, no, no, please? I’ll get you your own plate, ‘kay?”
He licks his lips and gazes at the tempting delicacy assaulting not only his nose, but mine, too.
“Come on, boy. I’ll give you some. I promise. Cross my heart, see?” I make the sign over my heart, and inch closer, ready to whip the plate out from under his nose when within reach.
His face points at me. Parting his jaw, his pink and black tongue rolls then curls. Quick as lightning, his head turns to the plate, and he grabs for bacon mountain.
Pieces dangle and stream from his mouth when he streaks away. Escaping with the stolen loot, the click and clack of his scrambling nails on the ceramic tile floor sounds loud in the airy kitchen.
A harsh, unintelligible cry leaves me and fills the room. Certain he took it all, I stumble to the table, prepared to lick whatever crumbs cling to the dish. “Goddamn dog.”
Several slices gleam against the backdrop of the plate they lie on, safe from his grubbing muzzle. Though not as much as earlier, I’m so happy there’s still a few pieces left that the anger with my four-legged, bacon-stealing best friend dissipates.
I throw the jar of jam on the table and guard the few pieces of meat with my body, encircling arms around the plate like a precious baby.
Jareth pulls out the chair on my left and eases onto the seat. “So, you going to share what’s left? Or do you plan on sitting there and guarding it like a troll?”
I try to hide my pout and stop hunching over the rare delicacy to slide the plate closer to his arm.
Five pieces remain, and he transfers three to his plate.
A piece disappears into his mouth, and I whimper.
His eyes close for a moment, and he chews.
A look of bliss softens his face, then he opens his lids again. That crooked grin appears. “It’s fair I get an extra piece since I found it and cooked it, right?”
“That’s some bullshit logic.”
“No. It was your dog who stole most of my vigorous work. Man, I slaved in the kitchen to make those tasty morsels. Actually, you owe me restitution.”
I shoot him the finger. “So, now, you’re a sadistic bacon tyrant?” How could I have thought I was experiencing feelings for him last night?
“That all you got?” His arm lifts eye level. He holds a piece of meat and wiggles it in the air. “I might be willing to part with this for a price.”
No longer endeared by his attitude, my nose wrinkles, and I purse my lips. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
I pop one of my two pieces into my mouth. An explosion of sensation rocks my taste buds. The salty, smoky flavor in the first bite causes neurons in my brain to dance in ecstasy.
While I’m lost in my senses, he shoves something along the table near my elbow. It’s the jar of jam. He opens it and spreads the sticky sweetness on two pieces of bread. He uses the back of a finger and slides the plate my way.
I wipe the grease from my mouth with a sleeve before I remember there’s a cloth napkin on the table. Hell, I haven’t used a napkin in over a year. Now I really do look like a troll.
Biting into the jam-covered bread is as blissful as the bacon. “Where’d you find the bread?”
“That—” A sly wink crinkles the corner of his eye “—I made.”
His words conjure an image of slender fingers tugging and pulling at a doughy mess, flour puffing in the air.
“Where’d you make it? The hermit-cave?” I half-joke.
How does one bake an entire loaf of bread without an oven? I guess it’s possible to cook it at a campfire, but he’d still need specific supplies at the very least.
“Nah, I made it this morning. I stumbled on some little packets of yeast out of date by a month or so. This place is a treasure trove when it comes to survival.”
His arm brushes mine when he reaches for another slice of bread on the plate between us.
“You know, I never got the chance to cook before”—he pauses for a moment, as if in thought, then restarts the conversation—“before everything changed. Found out I’m rather good at it if I do say so myself.”
Though he says this with his usual bluster, there’s a joy in his statement that catches me by surprise. An unusual show of tenderness on his face makes my heart squeeze inside my chest, a sweet pain so balanced it’s impossible to say where on
e sensation starts and the other stops.
After I regain control of my emotions, I arch a brow at his self-congratulatory tone. “What time did you wake up?”
The sun hasn’t been up for long, and it takes several hours to prep bread, let it rise, and then cook.
“Or did you even sleep?”
He chuckles, the sound wicked and promising. “Yeah, I slept, but not long. I’m one of those weird people who can run on a couple of hours of shut-eye and be fine. After you went to bed, I got bored and started scrounging around the kitchen.”
“Must be nice.”
His face tightens in confusion. “What do you mean?”
I transfer the slice of bread to my plate of bacon and chew the last piece of meat, which wouldn’t be the last if a certain shady mutt hadn’t gone rogue.
“I mean—it must be nice to not need a lot of sleep. Wish I could function on a couple of hours. It’d get me to Florida way faster.”
He puts some jam on a new slice of bread while he talks. “So, you must be excited to see your sister again.”
My fingers swirl the bread on my plate, not answering the question right away. Is this something I want to discuss in detail with him? My whole life, at least for the past few months, revolves with thoughts of my sister, worry about her welfare, and a deep fear she may not be alive.
He hasn’t been his usual annoying self since last night—for the most part. Can I trust him with my hopes, fears, and dreams? He had your life in his hands yesterday and you came out relatively unscathed. I finger the bandage at my neck. He also made an awesome breakfast this morning.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah, excited and nervous at the same time. I hope everything’s okay with her, that she’s—” my throat closes on the word I want to say, but I force it open “—still alive.”
The kitchen is quiet. It may be my imagination, but there’s a static pull in the air, like the charge from a balloon against one’s head—the electricity lifting and pulling each strand of hair upwards.
Get a grip, woman. Mission, remember? Survive and find Sissy, not fall head over heels for some guy who was going to leave you for dead when he first saw you. Yeah, but it’s more complicated trying to remember this when said guy ended up saving me from an asshole yesterday and is feeding me a real breakfast this morning.
A creak sounds when he leans back in his chair. “You were really going to walk the whole way to Florida by yourself, weren’t you?”
“No, not by myself. With Kodiak, too. Why do you find that so hard to believe?”
Peeking through the scruff is that sexy dimple. He throws his hands behind his head. “Just gutsy, I guess.” His lips purse together. “Especially for a little girl like you.”
My head tilts. “Little girl? I’m twenty years old—well past the age of a girl.”
His eyes sweep down my face to my chest and then back up again. “Well, you might have a point there.”
Heat floods my face. “Is that all you ever think about?”
I guess he senses the anger in my words because he becomes serious. “No, Red, not usually, but it’s on my mind a lot more when you’re around.”
A small breath leaves my lungs and I shake my head. I’m not sure how he expects me to take the comment.
Biting back a grin, he becomes serious. “Back to your sister. I get being nervous about what you might—or might not—find. Family means everything, and it’s about the only thing left that makes any kind of sense.”
My eyes narrow and I study his posture, expecting a lascivious comment to follow.
He leans forward and props his elbows on the table, giving his full attention. Since he’s trying to be serious, I give him the benefit of the doubt and let his little girl comment slide.
The past mention of losing loved ones causes me to check out his ring finger. Nothing there, but a pale band of white skin encircles the middle digit.
“So, you mentioned you lost people, too. Who’d you lose?” I doubt he’ll answer such a personal question, but I still try. The real Jareth, the one who hides from deep emotion, feels close, and I’m willing to take the dive.
This is a bad idea, Tilly. Yeah, bad ideas are plaguing me of late, but if I’m going to be on the road with this pretty jackass, I need to tolerate him. The first step in tolerance is education.
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes distant with pain, or some other emotion.
Guilt gnaws at me, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
It’s not right to push him if it’s something he’s not ready to do. “If you don’t feel like talking about it, I understand.”
The silence that follows my statement makes me cringe. God, why’d I have to keep nudging him? My feet push on the floor and I scoot from the table to stand. When I grab my plate, he reaches out a hand and touches my wrist.
“Have a seat, Red.”
Bewilderment causes me to do as he asks. Dare I hope he’s going to share his past?
The sound of his throat clearing is loud. He drags in a breath, and I notice he’s biting the inside corner of a lip, as if he’s nervous. When he meets my eyes, their color is lighter than usual, more amber brown instead of the usual dark chocolate shade.
Wiping his hands on one of the purple cloth napkins, he refolds it several times, fingers smoothing and straightening imaginary creases.
A feeling of dread settles into my stomach. I’m not sure I want to hear what he has to say if it unsettles him this much. I have a feeling I’m about to see the side of him I’ve been longing to glimpse. My mother’s voice whispers Be careful what you wish for.
He frowns and pushes the napkin aside. Tapping his index finger on the table, he drums out a steady beat, as if he’s thinking.
Shifting his weight, he leaves the table and moves to stare out the window above the sink.
The golden morning light pours through the open curtains. Between us, in the gilded glow, dust motes dance—swirling and bumping into one another before bouncing away to collide with other dancers.
Stuffing his hands in his front jean pockets, he keeps his face toward the window, as if he’s not willing to meet my gaze. “Only one other person knows what I’m about to tell you.” He fiddles with the faucet. “Yes, I lost family members some time ago. The virus, you know.”
He stops for a few seconds, and his wide shoulders seem to draw in on themselves. “I was married, if you can believe that.”
Actually, no, it’s unimaginable. “Poor woman.” I snap my mouth shut, afraid I’m spoiling this moment of truth.
A small snort comes from his direction. “We had a three-year-old daughter, called her Ani. Black curls like me and eyes of ice like her mother.”
His voice tightens with pain, but he pushes onward. “It took them both and left me with sorrow and agony for company. At first, I didn’t understand why I didn’t get sick, too. When they left, every day I prayed for death, so I could be with them again.”
My breathing accelerates, and weight settles on my chest. I can’t even imagine losing a spouse and a child—and at the same time. The thought of him being alone with that kind of misery makes my heart feel like a blunt knife is cutting and digging the organ from of my chest cavity.
“Damn. That’s horrible,” I whisper, voice uneven. A tear forms, but I wipe it before it has a chance to fall.
A long-fingered hand reaches to the back of his neck and rubs. “It got to a point where I tried to force it to happen. It’s not something I like to admit, but I was a pathetic mess. There was nothing left anymore—no reason to smile, no reason to love, no reason to live. My entire world gone in the blink of an eye.”
He grabs the edge of the sink with both hands, like he’s steeling himself against the flow coming from his mouth. “A week or so after they died, I held a weapon to my temple, took a breath, and pulled the trigger.”
The breath in my chest is hot and painful, and it feels like I’m suffocating. Forcing out a ragged exhalation, I lean my head into a palm. I
want to clap my hands over my ears to block out the rest of the story but suspect it’s cathartic to have someone else hear his pain.
Another chuckle follows, but it’s humorless, and more like a sob. “Nothing happened. The hollow click was just as empty and meaningless as my life. Every moment I’d ever spent with them came rushing into my mind with crystal clarity. From the day we got married to the day Ani was born. I fell to the floor and bawled like a damn baby.”
His chest expands with a long inhale. “Hours later—or days—I stopped crying when I felt Ani standing in the room, judging my actions. Of course, it wasn’t her, but it felt like her spirit was there, waiting for me to get up and be a man—stop being a coward.”
As if a great weight holds him down, he turns around, grief etched in the hollows of his eyes and the downward turn of his mouth. “It was in that moment I decided to go on. My sole purpose became clear, and I let rage become my driving force. Nothing and no one got in my way.” His fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, tracing their circular shape as if in thought. “I fought with unleashed havoc, with Ani always at the back of my mind, believing I was doing the right thing at the time. Losing myself like that, another part reared its ugly head—and that part controlled me for a long while.”
He fought? Who did he fight—the aliens? I want to ask, but don’t dare interrupt. Later, ask him later. Right now, let him funnel the anguish into the open, get it out of his system.
When he drags his hands to cover his eyes, the contact of his fingers skating his beard rasps. A couple of steady breaths, and he scrubs his entire face like he wants to wipe away the memories.
“The person I became after that was just as pathetic as who I was before. I . . .” he tips his head back and looks to the ceiling. “I did things, Red, terrible things—things I’m not proud of and will haunt me for the rest of my life. That’s why you found me out there. I wanted to get away from who I’d been, who I’d become, and try to find who I wanted to be.”
Minutes of silence pass while he stands in the light.
I sense he needs this time to get his headspace clear.
Another moment passes, and I can no longer bear the thick, pain-filled air in the room. “I’m sorry.” My voice comes out as a whisper. Uneasy with this vulnerability he’s showing, I want to give him comfort. “I’m sure you did what you had to do—we all did. To be a survivor sometimes means making tough decisions.”
The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1) Page 19
