I Hate to Stand Alone

by Casey Winter

  “Well, fricking phew,” I snap. “That’d be icky times a thousand.”

  “Still damn curious, though,” Luke mutters, giving my leg a squeeze before he changes gears. “But like I said, this is about us, Hannah, and I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  When we reach the road that’ll take us right out of Little Fall toward Lorham, he takes a left turn instead, into Little Fall Forest. “Uh, Luke … I think you missed the turning?”

  “No,” he says, smiling. “We’re going the right way. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you,” I say, meaning it. “Even if that makes me a fricking idiot.”

  He grins, winking. “Then that makes two of us, twinkle toes.”

  —

  “Why am I getting flashbacks to the last time you drove me into the middle of nowhere?” I ask, pretending to scramble for the door. “Help. Help. I’m stuck in a big ugly car with a big ugly man.”

  “Hey,” Luke says lightly. “My car’s beautiful, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Yeah? Or what?”

  He smiles darkly. I love when he smiles like that … even if, yeah, blah-blah-fricking-blah, I’m not supposed to. But supposing is getting more and more difficult the further from Little Fall we get. It’s like there’s a magical aura around the town, a Past Spell, and it loosens its hold when we cross its limits. Or maybe that’s a whole lot of mumbo jumbo to explain how badly I want to sink sinfully into our easy repartee.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

  “I think we both know what I want to do to you, Hannah,” he says. “But I’m a patient man. I once waited fifty two hours in a stone hut in the middle of nowhere, and then the fella who was supposed to show couldn’t be bothered.”

  “I bet you didn’t want to screw him, though, right?”

  He laughs. “No, you’ve got me there.”

  He pulls up in what seems like a random patch of forest.

  “Seriously, what the heck?”

  “I used to have a cabin out here,” he says. “Built it myself. I was thinking we’d do a bit of shooting.”

  “Shooting? Shooting what?”

  His eyes gleam. “Don’t worry, just tin cans. I’m not a monster … most of the time.”

  “You’re being ridiculously cheeky tonight, Luke Nelson. I just want you to know that.”

  Both of us are flushed, intoxicated with each other, as we climb from the car. He goes to the trunk and returns with a heavy flashlight and a skinny gun. “It only shoots BBs, don’t worry.”

  I toss my head. “Do I look worried? But, to be honest, if I’d known you were going to drag me through the forest, I wouldn’t have worn heels.”

  “Ah, there’s an easy solution for that.”

  He moves toward me.

  “No, Luke, don’t you dare—”

  But it’s too late. He totally dared. He throws me over his shoulder, carrying the gear easily in the other hand. As far as I can tell, it’s completely dark, but he moves effortlessly.

  “Is this the part where you tell me you’re a vampire?” I ask, hugging tight to his broad back. He feels solid, steadying me. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “No,” he says. “It’s not your blood I’m interested in.”

  “Probably the creepiest, sexiest sentence ever uttered, just so you know.”

  He stops when the lights come into view … which I only know because he mentions it, since I’m facing the other way. “Lights,” he mutters. “Odd.”

  “Lights?” I repeat.

  “Yeah … hang on, your highness. I might have to put you down.”

  There’s an edge to his voice, the sort of edge I imagine he had overseas. I wonder if that sort of thing ever leaves a person. He puts me down and wanders toward the lights. I trail behind him, sort of adoring the way he moves in front of me, as though protecting me.

  We end up at a half-built log cabin, not the sort of thing you’d imagine a teenage boy to build, and definitely not the sort of thing you’d expect to stay standing for over a decade. It’s like a holiday cabin, with a large deck, hanging lanterns, and a chair on the porch. A man is sitting in the chair. He’s just picking up his guitar. He pauses when he spots us, and then winces.

  “Charley,” he mutters.

  “Charley?” I ask, confused.

  But then Luke mutters, “Guessing it’s his dog—”

  Yep. A giant huskie dog comes barreling out of the house, barking like a feral wolf, teeth bared.

  “Charley,” the man snaps.

  He must be about twenty five or twenty six, I think, near my age, anyway. He has messy black hair and a thick black beard. With his plaid shirt and muddy boots, he looks every inch the wild man.

  “Easy does it, boy,” Luke laughs, extending his hand.

  “I wouldn’t,” the man mutters. “Charley don’t like strangers much.”

  Luke nods, keeping his distance, as the man rises from the porch and goes to the dog. He ruffles his hair and then makes a click noise with his tongue. The dog spins gracefully and disappears back into the cabin.

  “Wow,” I mutter. “What a well-trained dog.”

  The man nods. “Had him since he was a pup, the little loon.”

  “You’re Zakary, then?” Luke says. “Coach … the sheriff mentioned there was a man living in the woods. I never guessed it’d be in my old hut.”

  He walks over to us, hand extended. “Zakary Clinton,” he says. He offers me his hand, too, and we shake. “And you two are Luke Nelson and Hannah Coleman-Ortiz.”

  “Yes,” Luke says, his tone unreadable, “we are.”

  “Chill, man,” Zakary smiles. “It’s a small town, and I even venture into it from time to time. You’re welcome to shoot those cans out back. Makes no difference to me.”

  I notice a faint twinge of British in his accent.

  “You’ve done a hell of a job,” Luke comments as he leads us around the hut.

  “It looks great,” I agree.

  He smiles slightly. “Ain’t finished yet, but thank you.”

  He doesn’t hang around for long, though, and soon it’s just me and Luke with his giant flashlight aimed at a row of tin cans. In the background, a guitar sounds, and Zakary’s voice rises in the air. Luke turns to me, mock-serious. “If he’s trying to seduce you with that song, this could get ugly.”

  “Ha-ha,” I mutter. “You know, Luke, jealously is such an ugly emotion.”

  Okay, so I’m a liar. It’s not ugly at all, especially when he’s just kidding. It’s awesome. Warning sirens are blaring so loud in my head, they’re deafening. But I ignore them, every single one. I’m living firmly, unapologetically in the moment.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, loading the gun. “You showed me your talent. I think it’s time I returned the favor.”

  I wave a hand at the cans. “Go on then, frogman, show me what’cha got.”

  There are nine cans. Then, in a blur I can’t really follow, all of them are lying flat on the ground. Ping-ping-ping, the impacts resonate through the night, crazily loud, and then Luke turns back to me, a cocky smirk on his face. “Your turn.”

  “No one likes a show off.” I pout. “I mean, except for when they’re wearing skates …”

  He chuckles, wandering over to the cans.

  “Is the gun still loaded?” I ask.

  He pauses, half turning back to me. “Why?” he says, suspicious. “Are you thinking about shooting me, twinkle toes?”

  “Well, I was considering it …”

  “Try,” he goads. “But I’d be over there before you got the first shot off. And I’ve gotta warn you, once I’m over there, I’m going to be real pissed off with you. I might have to punish you.”

  I swallow, thinking that I like the sound of that punishment, both glad and annoyed that Zakary Clinton is still within hearing distance. If he wasn’t, I might just drag Luke into the forest and scream until all the needles fell off all the trees.

  “We’ll let you have a practic
e run,” he says, returning. “And then we’ll get down to the competition.”

  “Competition?” I gasp.

  I’m finding it really difficult to not, like, gasp or exclaim or giggle every time I say something. But I’m that flushed sort of happy, having the sort of spontaneous fun that takes on a life of its own. Luke casually slides his hand down my back, stopping just above my ass. The closeness is tantalizing.

  “How is that fair?” I snap. “You’re distracting me.”

  “I’m keeping you steady. Don’t want the recoil knocking you over.”

  I glare. “Okay, so I’m not a firearms expert, but I’m pretty sure a little gun like this doesn’t have recoil.”

  “Oh, no,” he says, squeezing me harder. He inches down, and then loops his other arm around my waist, resting his hand on my belly. He slides up behind me, whispering in my ear, “You’re in serious danger here. You could get really hurt.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I actually think I could.”

  We pause, because we both know we’re not talking about the BB gun.

  Then I lift the gun and aim, and fire. And … hell, so I’m not exactly going to be a sharpshooter anytime soon. If his ping-ping-ping was like a boxing bell being rang, mine is more like somebody is dropping a pea—a single frozen pea—into a metal bowl. I knock one over.

  “I’m counting that as a victory,” I say, handing him the gun. “Now, what’s this competition about? Please tell me it involves skates.”

  “A shoot-off,” he grins. “Winner gets to choose dessert.”

  His black hair wavy across his forehead, his green eyes stark and penetrative, he looks like a man ready to conquer the world. Or me.

  “Luke, can I tell you something, seriously?”

  He moves closer. Somehow, we end up pressed right up against each other. Both our heartbeats are trying to escape. My mouth is dry, like I’m a teenager and I’m about to have my first kiss.

  “Anything, Hannah,” he growls. “Out here, just the two of us, in our secret world … any damn thing you want.”

  “When you look at me like that, I forget that I hate you—oh, jeez … Ah—”

  My voice catches all dorky when he kisses me, but then I return the pressure, our tongues tangling, and I don’t care anymore. I throw my arms around him and then leap up, wrapping my legs around him. Our skin is boiling. We want every inch of each other. We don’t care about anything, not when we’re this close.

  Our history fades away.

  I don’t care about Noah. I don’t care about what he did to me. I just care about kissing his perfect lips. And he’s hard. Oh, Jesus, he’s so hard right now …

  “H-Hannah,” he groans, taking a step back. “That man, Zakary, might hear us. And I don’t want another man hearing you. Those sexy moans, the way your body pulses against mine—hell, Hannah—that’s just for me. Nobody else. Understand?”

  I grip his shirt, kiss him again, urgently. “Yes,” I moan. “I get it, Luke. But I might just have to let you win this shooting competition.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  I smile. “Because I think I know what you’re going to choose for dessert.”

  In the end, though, he makes winning look boring, even yawning and winking at me as he sends the last can hurtling to the ground. Cocking the gun, he grins. “Let’s get to Lorham. I can’t wait for dessert any longer.”

  —

  It feels so elegant and comfortable to sit across from Luke at El Palacio, even if both of us are wearing huge sombrero hats and big silly grins. Well, maybe my grin is big and silly, and Luke’s is more, well … Luke. I order a cocktail and Luke orders a cola, and then we tuck into the best nachos I’ve ever tasted except for Mom’s.

  “Jeez, you weren’t joking,” I say, shamelessly licking my fingers. “If you were expecting a lady with table manners, I guess I’ve just shattered your dreams.”

  “Perhaps I like a lady who doesn’t feel the need to pretend,” Luke says, suddenly serious.

  I get the sense that, all the time, there’s something both of us think we should say. Like: we know we shouldn’t be doing this, but we can’t help ourselves. And so we just ignore the big, pink, sombrero-wearing elephant in the room.

  Later, he says, “Why don’t you draw anymore, Hannah? I’ve seen some of your stuff. It’s great. I’m not artist, or an art critic, but it’s really great.”

  “Where did you see my stuff?” I say, surprised.

  “Google, genius,” he grins. “You posted a whole portfolio of it.”

  “Did I?” I gasp, so shocked I almost backhand my cocktail. “Where?”

  He takes out his phone, types a few words, and then shows it to me. He’s not lying. Eleven years ago, I posted some pictures to a website with the tagline: Be gentle, guys. I’m just practicing.

  “I like the nature ones the best,” Luke says. “They’re peaceful, somehow. You don’t go into too much detail, which is good. You let the shadows, I don’t know … you let them speak for themselves.”

  Even if this is a shock, his words send a pang of nostalgia and joy surging right to my heart. I hand him the phone back, suddenly certain that I’m blushing. “Maybe I’ll start it again,” I mutter. “It’s sort of funny. My two biggest passions in life, skating and art, are so fricking niche that I’m destined to be a poverty-stricken wanderer.”

  “Aren’t you sponsored by the biggest skating brand out there, Hannah?”

  I shift around. “Well, yeah.”

  He leans across, tweaking my nose. “Then stop being a spoilt brat, eh?”

  Giggling, I slap his hand away. “Just so you know, I’m angry with you, Luke.”

  He laughs. “Why?”

  “One: because you stalked my art, like a weirdo. And two: because you’re a liar. You definitely are an art critic if the way you just described my nature sketches is anything to go by.”

  “I’m okay with both of those,” he counters. He’s smirking, full of himself, and I’m enthralled by every cocky inch. “Because one: if it takes a little stalking to make you blush that shade of red, then I’ll pay the price. And two: I was just saying what I saw. If that’s what critics do, it seems like the easiest damn job in the world.”

  “Maybe you see the world differently,” I sass.

  “Oh, I do,” he murmurs. “But not in the way you think.”

  “How so?”

  He shakes his head, sipping his cola.

  “Come on, Lukey,” I tease. “Don’t go all caveman on me now.”

  “It’s boring,” he says, awkward. He shifts around in his seat. I’ve never seen him like this. “It’s not civilian talk.”

  “Civilian talk? What, are we a different species?”

  He forks around the remains of his enchilada, sighing. “Yes, you are. And you don’t need to hear my crap.”

  But I persist. “Try me.”

  He lays the fork aside, leans forward, and then takes my hand with an intensity that sends tendrils of pleasure moving up my arm. “Have you noticed that we’re sitting right in the corner, in the booth where the walls go right up to the ceiling, no windows? Have you noticed that we can see the entire restaurant from up here?”

  His hand has tightened on mine. His eyes are dark, brooding. I glance around the restaurant: at the Lorham families, at the novelty sombreros on the counters, purple and green and yellow and several other flaring colors.

  “I didn’t, until now.”

  “We’re twenty feet from the fire escape. The main entrance is forty, give or take. This booth isn’t thick enough to withstand gunfire, but it’d make a decent enough hiding place. The better chance would be to run, though.”

  “Luke,” I whisper. “Jesus. Do you always think like this?”

  He nods silently.

  “It must be like living in hell, though, always scared, always … always over there mentally, overseas. But you’re home now. You do know you’re home, don’t you? You don’t have to live like that. You can let go ev
ery now and then.”

  He snorts, and then lets go of my hand. I can tell he’s trying to act cold after revealing too much of himself. He nods at the menu. “So, what about dessert? Don’t forget, I get to choose.”

  “Luke, you don’t have to be ashamed,” I mutter. “You can talk to me about it, if you want. Sometimes talking helps. You were trained to be on high-alert all the time. It makes sense that you’d find that difficult to let go.”

  “You said I’m home,” he says coldly. “But that’s not true. A soldier is never home. Not really.”

  “Luke—”

  “Please, Hannah,” he interrupts. “Just … just don’t. I shouldn’t’ve mentioned anything. You don't need to hear about my problems. And they are just my problems, twinkle toes. My friend, Morgan, he isn’t like this. My pals in the teams, they’re not like this. It’s just some of us …” He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

  I sit back. Even if he should be right—what are Luke Nelson’s problems to me?—I can’t help but think about how wrong he is, too. The grimness that came into his expression when he was talking like that, about his … what? His PTSD? Would he get angry if I labelled it like that? I can’t help but feel like he needs me, that I could be there for him.

  But I’m not a psychologist. It’d be unfair to start throwing terms like PTSD around.

  “You know, I don’t like the look of anything on this dessert menu,” I say, eyeing him playfully.

  He grins, and we silently agree to let that little episode pass. For now.

  “Me neither,” he says. “Let me get the check and we’ll get the hell outta here.”

  “Oh, no, frogman,” I say. “We’re going Dutch. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

  “Maybe it’s not,” he growls, gesturing to the waiter. “But let me tell you something, Hannah, and I’m one hundred percent serious.” But he’s not. He’s smiling, almost laughing, just like I am. “If you try to pay one cent of this bill, we’re done. I’ll ghost you for the rest of your life.”

  When the waiter comes and I go for my purse, Luke darts his hand out, grabbing my wrist soft-hard, in that just-Luke way. Like he’s going to hurt me and give me the sweetest pleasure at the same.