It isn’t my fault.
I avert my gaze, the rush of memories, regrets, too much to bear. When I open my mouth, I find it’s gone dry, so I bite back the reminder for her to be careful.
She isn’t my responsibility. She can barely look at me without wincing. Maybe I am the monster the media made me out to be.
With that thought, and her frightened stare weighing down my shoulders, I turn on my feet and stalk back to the lodge.
Chapter Three
Peyton
For many months, I was a prisoner in my own home.
You’d think it couldn’t get worse than that, but it can. When I did venture out into the world again, it was with the fearful innocence of a child.
Except I didn’t have any parents’ legs to cling to, to turn to for comfort. All I had was myself and the nightmares that haunted me.
As I hike through the forest, the early morning sun blotted out by the thick canopy of trees, the cold fingertips of fear grip my heart as though no time has passed between that night and the present. All the work I’d done, all the physical space and time had gone the instant he caught me off guard. My blood still pounds like a metronome on speed in my ears.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter to myself, kicking at pine needles littering the forest floor and dusting up the air with the scent of still-cold earth.
It took me a long time after that night to even be around men I knew without having a panic attack, let alone strangers. Despite all the therapy, all my affirmations, and progress, big men like Ford still made me jittery. I had to tell myself to calm down and ball my hands into fists in order to remind myself not all men are bad guys. Not all men want to hurt me.
Once Ford stalks off back to the lodge it takes longer than I want to admit for the panic to fade. I don’t want to blame him specifically. Even if it had been the nicest guy in the world, having someone come up behind me would have freaked me out.
Ford Collier, from his shitkicker boots to his permanent resting bitch face is no nice guy, that’s certain.
He could be on covers of magazines if it weren’t for the permanent scowl.
And the terrible attitude.
What was it about being so good-looking that turned men into insufferable jerks?
It’s not really him I’m annoyed with, if I’m being honest with myself. It’s me. Cut that out, Peyton. I can’t go down that line of thinking. Only a shame spiral with a dose of depression will be the result, so I focus on the scenery around me, trying to lose myself in the scents and sounds.
I stomp through the trees with more energy than I’ve had in months, but it still takes me over an hour to get deep into the low rise of the mountains. Since it’s my first time, I didn’t pack the bulkier of my supplies. I figured I’d save that for my trip to the fabled Windy Point, where the views were lauded by the brochures to be even more spectacular. I’d be able to bring my paints along then, maybe an easel and a larger canvas.
Some artists take photos of the landscape and compose in their studios, but for now on location will do. Not only do I not have a studio to speak of at the moment, but I’ve spent so much time locked up behind walls, staying indoors is the last thing I want to do.
A bird trills and then a flash of white darts in front of my vision to take roost at the top of the trees. I refocus on my surroundings, pushing the interaction with Ford to the farthest reaches of my mind. I’ll apologize when I get back to the lodge. It’s not his fault I’m so damaged.
My cell rings in the pocket of my backpack and my lips press into a white slash as it breaks my tentative serene mood. The display reads Uncle Bradley.
“I’m alive,” I say immediately.
Uncle Bradley doesn’t respond with his customary snort. Instead, he says, “Thought you were supposed to be here by now.”
“Everything is fine,” I say automatically. “I stopped at this little town in North Carolina. It’s so cute, you’d love it. I think I’m going to paint here for a while.” I tell myself not to babble, but the words keep coming. “I promise I’m okay. You don’t need to worry.”
Uncle Bradley is—was—my mother’s brother. After she passed, his incredibly overprotective instincts transferred to me like some sort of wacky familial inheritance.
“Without telling me,” he says. I wince, grateful he can’t see me.
“I knew you would have talked me out of it.”
His sigh fills my ears over the line. I can picture him at the desk in his study, his glasses hooked on the vee of his shirt, a snifter of whiskey at his elbow, and the bottle never far away. I’d conquered my demons…mostly. Uncle Bradley had a harder time with his.
“Am I really that bad?” His soft question makes me pause more than a sharply worded admonishment would.
I pause the trek up the path, wipe at the sweat dripping down my brow, and take a drink of water. The interruption helps me gather my thoughts.
“Of course not, Uncle Bradley. I just, I could feel myself dying there. I knew if I didn’t leave that house, that town, I’d never get out again. Please don’t be mad.”
“You know I’m looking out for you, Peanut.” I’m not sure, but I swear I can hear his voice thicken. In the years since I lost my parents, I rarely saw evidence of his own grief so knowing I hurt him tears me up inside.
My nose stings as I tear up in turn. I blink my eyes rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. “I know you are, but you don’t need to worry. I’m staying at a really nice hotel, I’m not sure how long, maybe a week or so. It’s so gorgeous here. I’m actually on my way up one of the mountains to paint.”
“No shit?” he asks, and I can tell my admission stuns him.
“No shit. I decided to drive for a while to see if anything moved me and this place, the views. I had to paint them the moment I saw them.”
“That’s wonderful, Peyton.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”
I begin walking and with each step, the bands around my chest loosens. The sun warms my chilled skin. Nothing can hurt me here. “You worry too much, Uncle Bradley.”
But he has good reason to worry. A long time ago, the decisions I made affected us both.
“I think I worry enough. You going to tell me where you ended up or do I need to take more drastic measures?”
“North Carolina. A town called Windy Point.” It makes me smile to hear the sound of fingers tapping against a keyboard. He may be overprotective, but he’s mine. No doubt he’s already searching the hell out of the little town. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a detailed report within twenty-four hours. My uncle may have been a nerdy professor, but he was an efficient one.
“Are you safe?”
I think of Ford and grimace a little. He is definitely not what I would classify as safe.
“This town is a regular Pleasantville, Uncle Bradley. You know, before it turned Technicolor. Nothing is going to happen to me here. You can relax.”
“You know I only want what’s best for you sweetheart.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Of course I do. I promise you don’t have anything to worry about while I’m here.”
“Are you planning to go somewhere else after?”
The hill crests and I pause to study the view. What little air I have after the climb releases from my chest in a whoosh. I’m not the type of person who believes in fate or whatever, but looking out over the trees, seeing Bear Lake in the distance, feels a lot like it.
“I’m not sure,” I say, answering his question. “I have a feeling I’m going to like it here.”
“You’ll make sure to lock the doors, right?” We both know a locked door won’t stop a determined psychopath, but it makes him feel better to say it, so I let him.
“It’s a hotel, not the ghetto, but I will, I promise.”
“Take care, Peanut.”
“You, too.”
I made it back to the lodge right before nightfall. The trail may have been a bit t
oo much for an amateur like me, but it had been worth it. Something about being outside soothed me when it had terrified me a short time ago. Repeating it helped to make it true. I’d never quite be comfortable in my own skin again, but the process was to be celebrated. Being outside, alone, vulnerable. That was major progress for me.
Maybe when I got up to my room I’d order room service. Something decadent to celebrate. A good meal with wine and a hot bath sounds heavenly. I deserve a special treat for completing my first painting in months. It wouldn’t win any awards, and it certainly isn’t my best piece, but putting brush to canvas again is like seeing again after being robbed of sight. The catharsis is worth all the aches and pains.
The straps of the backpack dig into my shoulders. My thighs and calves scream with each step. I pull open the front door and a wave of warm air from the lit fire in the massive fireplace hits me, making more sweat pop out under my arms and between my breasts. A shower. All I want is a shower. Then the food and wine.
One person, a woman in a tight red dress that seems a little out of place for a town like Windy Point, leans over the front desk talking to Ford. From her body language—I’d gotten good at watching people over the time I’d spent too afraid to go outside and interact with them—tells me she’s clearly in seduction mode. Ford, being seduced. I almost snort.
I’m on the bottom step of the grand staircase when her voice turns shrill. Even though I don’t want to be involved in whatever scene she’s trying to orchestrate, I can’t help but turn around. Maybe because a little part of me wants to see Ford knocked down a peg or two. Then, I recognize her—the bombshell from the diner. Lola, the owner I admired the day before.
“You can’t tell me no. My family practically runs this town. We need your meeting space for the small business owners’ meeting this weekend.”
There’s another couple sitting near the fire, but their intimate conversation halts at the banshee’s shrieks.
From my place across the hall, I can’t hear Ford’s response, but I can imagine, vividly, what effect threats have on a man like him.
The woman pushes away from the counter. “This is ridiculous. My father will hear about this,” she says, then blanches.
Her father must have some clout in town or something because Nell claps a hand over her mouth and giggles behind her hand.
Now that the woman’s moved back a half step, I can see Ford behind the counter. He doesn’t look as threatening or intimidating as a charging bull, like he had a couple hours before. In fact, he looks completely blank, almost calm. He catches my eyes, holds my gaze for a half second, long enough for heat to rise up the column of my throat.
I turn away and remind myself to apologize. Later. I definitely don’t want to do it in front of the woman determined to make a scene. I don’t want to do it at all and have already made my mind up I want to spend as little time with Ford as possible.
He’s too big. Too intimidating. Too…dangerous.
I may be trying to get back out in the world and test my limits, but Ford isn’t a test I’m willing to take.
“You should be grateful I’m even willing to do business here,” I hear the woman say over my shoulder as I reach the top of the stairs. “Considering your reputation,” she adds before gliding out the door.
My head turns involuntarily, curiosity overwhelming common sense, but Ford isn’t behind the desk or anywhere in sight from my vantage point. Shaking my head, I insert the key into the slot and step into my room.
It takes a moment for me to realize I’m surrounded by shadows and my heart thuds in my chest. Frozen by fear in the entryway, I almost can’t force myself to take another step inside. Only by telling myself there’s nothing to be afraid of am I able to take the remaining steps forward.
I dump my backpack on the chair by the dresser and click on a lamp to dispel the darkness. I thought I’d left it on before my trek, but I must have forgotten. Not like me, considering in addition to my other phobias, I have an intense fear of the dark, especially being trapped in dark places.
Striding to the bathroom to confront whatever ghosts may lurk, I tell myself to stop being silly. It’s a new place and that’s why I feel unsettled. I repeat the affirmations given to me by my therapist and start the hot water running for the bath.
When I order dinner a few minutes later, I ask for the whole bottle of wine.
Chapter Four
Ford
The next day, I open the employee-only door to find something worse than a spoiled princess waiting for me on the other side. I’d rather face a porch full of socialites armed to the teeth than my baby sister, Mercedes.
As if things couldn’t get any worse.
“Now’s not a good time, Mercedes.” My parents thought they were clever naming their kids after vehicles. According to them, we were lacking in a sense of humor when we didn’t find it as funny. I thank God they didn’t name me Volkswagen instead of Ford.
“It’s never a good time with you,” she says, then adds, “Don’t call me Mercedes.” But I can’t help it. I’ve bugged her about her name since we were kids, and I don’t expect that’ll change anytime soon.
“Hi, Lexie,” I say to my niece, who's standing behind her mother working on a champion sulk.
Thankfully, my sister curbed her desire to continue the Collier christening tradition enough to name her Alexus instead of Lexus. She nods to me then goes back to texting or chatting or whatever the thirteen-year-old girls are doing these days.
Mercy shifts, and I notice the large duffle bag she has slung over one shoulder. “It won’t be for long.”
I scrub a hand absently over my hair and roll my shoulders. “I wasn’t kidding when I said this isn’t a good time. We’re fully booked. Can’t you stay at Mom and Dad’s?”
Mercy purses her lips, and then Lexie adds, “We already asked them,” causing Mercy to glare.
At my look, Mercy explains, “They’re going on a trip to see some lighthouses up north or whatever and having the floors in the house ripped up and replaced while they’re gone. Please, Ford. Don’t make me beg.”
Lexie can’t look me in the face at the pleading tone in her mother’s voice and it causes me to relent. “Of course you can stay, if you don’t mind sharing the spare room in my apartment. It’s not fancy,” I warn. “I’m still fixing up the top floor and it’s cramped.”
Mercy perks up. “No, that’s fine. I promise, you’ll hardly even know I’m here. We promise.”
I snort as I hold the door open for them to come in. “That’s what you said last time.”
“The waterbed wasn’t my fault,” Mercy says. “How was I supposed to know it would rip?”
“I lost my deposit over the mess you made, I hope you know.”
They throw their bags in the last room down the hall and we all take a seat on the couches in front of the TV. I have to admit, I hadn’t realized how lonely my part of the lodge had been until their senseless chatter fills the silence.
“Ugh, Mom,” Lexie rolls her eyes and takes the controller to change the movie I had on. “I really don’t want to hear about your sex life.”
“Me either,” I say.
“The both of you can shut your cakeholes. It was an accident. And Lexie, I don’t ever want to hear you say the word sex again.”
“Sex, sex, sex,” Lexie retorts and sticks out her tongue.
Lexie’s foot is within reach, so I grab hold of her ankle and yank her across the length of the leather couch and dig my fingers into her ribs. She shrieks and bats her hands at me, but I subdue them with my free arm.
“Who’s your favorite uncle?” I ask her.
Her face turns red with the force of her laughter. “Stop, omigod. You s-suck.”
Her screams make my ears ring, but they also pull me out of the funk I’ve been in ever since I woke up, after a nightmare with Peyton’s terrified face lodged firmly in my memories. I don’t know what trouble my sister’s found herself in, but I’ll take it in
exchange for this.
“I give,” she says after a few more minutes. “Fine, I won’t say it again.”
“Promise?” I ask.
She draws in deep gulps of air, her long, dark hair askew. “I promise.”
Mercy jumps to her feet and rushes to the door the moment a knock sounds. “I’ll get it,” she says. I don’t miss the telltale way she fluffs her hair or the slight tremor of excitement in her voice.
“Expecting someone?” I ask as I sit up straight. There’s no way she could have called someone to come over. She’d barely been here a half hour. If I know Mercy, and sometimes even though it shames me to admit it, I wish I didn’t; she’d told her new flavor of the week to meet her at my place because here she has a built-in babysitter. I may say no to Mercy, but we both know I’ll never say no when it comes to my niece.
Lexie keeps her eyes squarely on the TV as her mother snatches the door open so quickly I fear for the hinges. “You made it,” she says to the person on the other side.
“You know I’d do anything for you, sugar,” comes the responding male voice.
A part of me wonders what she would have done if I had told her about my troubles, about the debilitating injury, the nightmares. But it had been a long time since I confided anything to her. Not that she didn’t try. After my first deployment, she made it a point to come by and talk, but at the time I wasn’t interested. Sometimes talking about things makes them all the more real. And there are some experiences I don’t need to be more realistic. There are enough complications from the hell I’ve endured—I don’t need to add a pissed-off Mercy to them.
“Ready to go?” the guy asks.
Mercy glances at me from around the door and I wave to her. I don’t have the energy to argue and Lexie and I will probably have more fun by ourselves as it is.
Mercy squeals and grabs her purse. “It’ll only be a couple hours, I promise.”
“Yeah, right,” Lexie says with a large dose of sarcasm.
Traitor (Last to Leave Book 1) Page 3
