The NorthStar

by Elle Keaton

  Several full bags later, he stopped and took them down the hallway to the back, where there was a dumpster in the alley behind the theater. Crap, he’d have to remember to stop the garbage service. John unlocked the back door and propped it open with a wooden doorstop. He’d always meant to buy a new one, but he’d never gotten around to it.

  At first he was disoriented by the light outside. It should have been full dark by now. The snow hadn’t stopped; it had continued falling while John had been packing up his life. The pavement was covered with a few inches of fresh snow, and the sky had the yellow cast John had learned to associate with a Pacific Northwest snowstorm.

  “Huh.”

  He stood for a second, hands on his hips, letting himself be amazed instead of angry. Then he remembered his chore and turned to grab the trash bags. One by one he heaved them into the Dumpster, where each landed with an echoing clang. When the sound died away, everything was eerily muffled and quiet except for a little rustle, a sort of squeak.

  His was the only trash container in the alley; the theater took up most of the small block. The other businesses shared a small trash and recycling area around the corner from him. But that’s not where the sound had come from. The sound had come from underneath his own Dumpster.

  John was just about to go back inside and quit heating up the outdoors when he heard it again. With a disturbing feeling of déjà vu, he knelt down in the damp snow, getting the knees of his blue jeans wet as he bent and peered underneath the trash container. Two tiny sparks glowed back at him.

  “Hey, little guy, it’s too cold to be out here—don’t you have someplace to be?”

  John was pretty sure it was a kitten and not an opossum or raccoon hiding under the bins in the dark. Plucking his cell phone out of his back pocket, he turned on the flashlight feature and shone it underneath the huge trash container. As far back as it could get, shivering with cold and probably terrified from the bags landing above it, huddled a tiny, fuzzy form. Definitely a kitten.

  “Well, fuck. You aren’t going to come out here on your own, are you?” John grimaced and sat back on his haunches, trying to think of how to get it out.

  “Are you hungry, little one?” he asked. Wouldn’t it have been funny if it had answered him?

  He stood and raced back inside, leaving the door open, trying to think of something he had at the theater that might entice a kitten to come in out of the cold. Trying not to think how he’d rescued a kitten much the same way a few years earlier. Cat was gone now, no warm, slightly grumpy form spending most of its days sleeping in the middle of his bed. No querulous meow demanding breakfast at an ungodly hour of the morning.

  In the concession area he gathered a handful of creamers and a cup he hadn’t tossed yet. Quickly ripping the cup so the sides were only about an inch tall, he opened the creamers and poured them in. The stuff was gross, but the kitten had to be hungry.

  Back out in the alley, John knelt and set the creamer next to him. He leaned down again and shone the light, but this time he didn’t see two little eyes peering back. Desperately he moved his phone back and forth, but the kitten wasn’t there. He wondered if he’d hallucinated it, if things had gone so wrong that now he was wishing it was several years earlier.

  When he stood to go back inside, John automatically wiped his eyes. That was when he realized he’d started to tear up.

  “Fucking hell, John, pull yourself together.”

  Yeah, and talking to himself was a great sign too.

  Chapter Two

  Chance Allsop cursed the promise he’d made to his ailing mother.

  “You’re all alone in this world after I pass, Chance. You have plenty of money; promise me you will go.”

  “I promise, mum.”

  His mother’s dry hand had clasped his, and she’d smiled, her faded blue eyes filled with love. He missed her.

  She’d whispered, “It’s magical. You’ll find someone just like your father found me.”

  Chance narrowly avoided rolling his eyes. All his life he’d heard how his father had swept his American mother off her feet and brought her to England, where Chance had been born—also a miracle as his mother was not supposed to be able to have children. Hence the ridiculous name he’d been saddled with.

  “Go,” Edmund had insisted. “You’re driving me bonkers hanging around with nothing to do but be in the way. Go to America and at least try to abide by your mum’s last wishes. She wouldn’t want you sitting around moping as you have been.”

  “I haven’t been moping.”

  “You have. Your mother would be very upset.”

  Rosemary Allsop would have been upset. Chance couldn’t deny that. Although he did regret telling his closest friend of the promise he’d made to her. Before he could talk himself out of going, again, Chance had logged on to his laptop, opened a browser, and clicked over to the travel website.

  The NorthStar Theater still existed; he’d done that much research before buying the plane ticket to Seattle. As far as he could tell it was still in business—although, from his internet research, it looked like it was more of an art house theater these days, showing independent films from around the world, with special showings of classics once a month. This month it would be a holiday movie.

  “The car you reserved isn’t available, but we can offer you an upgrade,” the semi-surly young woman behind the car rental counter muttered. Chance supposed working at the airport over the holidays had to be difficult, with the multitudes of humanity flying in from around the country and world, all needing to be at their destination hours earlier.

  “How much is that going to set me back?”

  His flight had been delayed. He wanted to head to Skagit, but it was dark and cold and he needed some sleep. He’d take the fancy SUV and try not to gripe about it. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, in the USA. Growing up an only child, he’d heard the story of how his parents met so many times it had become a sort of creation myth.

  Chance’s father had been in the US on a lark, having spent the summer slumming around, hopping trains and buses and sometimes hitchhiking. Skagit had been an unexpected stop, but the bus had broken down and he’d figured he might as well stay a few days. Edward Allsop—a quintessential English name for a half Brit, half East Indian—needed to kill some time while he decided what direction to take next, so he decided to catch a movie.

  According to his father, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen was standing in front of the theater when he arrived. After waiting in the short line, he impulsively bought two tickets. The girl was still waiting, and the movie was about to start. Edward felt bold, so he approached her and asked if she was waiting for someone.

  “I think I’ve been stood up,” Rosemary answered.

  “Ah, no,” said Edward, “I was just a little late.” And that, apparently, was that.

  Chance always rolled his eyes when he heard that part. Good lord, what had his mother been thinking? Regardless, Edward convinced Rosemary to go to the movies, and a month later Rosemary left Skagit forever, marrying her “prince” and living the rest of her life on the outskirts of London.

  There was an impatient “Sir?” Chance gave himself a mental shake and returned to the present, where the rental counter lass had a sour look on her face.

  “My apologies, jet lag.”

  She quoted a price for the rental that should have had Chance walking away, but he honestly didn’t care how much it cost at the moment, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have the money.

  After signing several pages of documents that declared anything and everything that happened to the car would be his fault, and no sort of insurance would cover any damage but he had to have the insurance anyway or hellfire would rain down on him (and that really wasn’t covered), thirty minutes later he was finally behind the wheel of the rental car and looking up a hotel room on his phone. An hour later he was dead asleep, flat on his face, still fully clothed.

  * * *

 
The next day, after a bit of a late start (jet lag having kicked his arse), Chance was on the road. It’d never occurred to him to worry about the Christmas holiday or the weather. The entire trip was absurd enough; he shouldn’t have to worry about extraneous things like the weather. And yet, as he drove northward, what appeared to be snowflakes started to fall, mixed in with the rain. He’d figured Skagit was much the same as home, wet and rainy over the holidays. Snow was unexpected. He was glad to have rented an all-wheel drive.

  The exit sign for Skagit appeared in the distance. Chance flicked the turn indicator and eased off the highway. At the bottom of the ramp he turned left and pulled to the side of the road. He entered the address of the NorthStar Theater into the car’s navigation system, cursing himself for not doing it earlier. He’d drive by and take a look, then find a hotel. With the way the snow was falling, he was going to be lucky to get there in one piece.

  The streets of Skagit were fairly empty, only a few other drivers risking the road, although when Chance passed what had to be the local mall he saw the car park had a few cars in it. Last-minute shoppers inside trying to find the perfect gift—or one for the person they’d forgotten. Chance had finished his shopping before leaving home, leaving Edmund a pleasant bottle of scotch to sip by the fire.

  A few blocks later, the navigator told Chance to take another turn, and there ahead of him was the theater. He drew a deep breath as he turned the corner, taking in the nearly one-hundred-year-old building. It didn’t bode well that the marquee was unlit. He knew from his internet search there was supposed to be a showing at five p.m. and another at eight. It was after five now, yet everything was dark.

  After negotiating a maze of construction barriers and cones from a work site across the way, Chance pulled over and parked behind a battered car that had definitely seen better days. Why was the NorthStar closed? Chance hadn’t traveled thousands of miles only to find the damn theater locked up tight—when online it very clearly had said it would be open.

  He got out of the car and made his way around the corner to the box office, trying to get a glimpse inside. He couldn’t see anything in the gloom except a lot of boxes and a countertop where he assumed refreshments were sold. There wasn’t anyone waiting to take his money, no ticket taker, no one guarding the door. Next to the window was a display case where, Chance presumed, movie times were usually announced. It too was empty. He knocked on the front doors: no answer. Firmly closed. Bloody hell.

  The theater took up most of the block. Chance shrugged and decided to walk around the building to see if there was another entrance. The hotel he’d found said check-in was available until ten p.m.; he had plenty of time. What if this whole trip had been for nothing? He’d traveled all this way to stare at an empty, broken-down cinema, the fates laughing at him. That would be more than ironic.

  He passed two doors, both of which were locked, before rounding another corner and discovering an alleyway. His heart rate picked up. There was a door propped open but no one in sight.

  Chance wasn’t dressed for skulking in alleys. His feet were cold and damp in his impractical leather loafers. He’d stopped and purchased a winter coat at an outlet mall on the drive north, but that didn’t help his feet. The mall had been an absolute nightmare; he hadn’t had the patience to look for wellies. Still, he picked his way across the snowy ground and peered in the open door. As he did, something brushed up against his ankle. Barely keeping himself from screaming, he looked down to see a tiny, filthy kitten.

  “Hello, poor little thing. Where did you come from? What are you doing out in this weather?”

  Chance bent down and scooped it up; it weighed almost nothing. He was chilly, but the kitten was shivering. Then he noticed a ragged paper cup with milk in it next to the bins. Someone else had been trying to lure the kitten to safety.

  He tucked the creature under his jacket, ignoring how dirty it was and the state his shirt would be in.

  “Let’s see if we can’t find your person. What were you thinking, coming outside in this cold?”

  Not surprisingly, the kitten didn’t respond, but Chance could feel its humming purrs as it warmed up inside his coat.

  “Hello?” he called out quietly. “Hello?” His voice sounded loud to his own ears.

  Chapter Three

  John was back on his knees—a position he historically enjoyed, but not in this scenario, checking under Dumpsters in foul weather. An unfamiliar voice startled him from his brooding. The sound came from the other side of the container, near the alley door he had left propped open. Focused as he was on searching for the kitten, John hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps.

  Dammit, he’d hoped the kitten would come inside on its own; another person was more than he wanted to deal with. Without the marquee turned on it seemed pretty obvious, to John at least, that the theater was closed. Why would anyone but him be back here in the alley? A chill ran down his spine. Was he about to get jumped? A bit hysterically, he wondered if his boxers were clean like his mother had always warned him they should be, just in case. But what hoodlum would call out a hello first? He was such an idiot.

  After unsuccessfully searching the hallway and places the kitten could have gotten to inside, he’d come back outside to look more diligently, thinking he couldn’t see it because it was hiding under the other side of the container or something.

  “Hello?” the voice repeated, coming closer. “Are you all right?”

  A distinctly English accent, asking if he was okay—so he wasn’t about to be mugged and left for dead in a dark alley.

  Carefully, John stood back from the trash container and turned to look over the top of it. It proved impossible for him not to stare at the handsome man waiting where he shouldn’t be. And, thankfully, he remembered taking a shower before leaving the house and putting on entirely clean clothing, including underwear, so he was good.

  The stranger was backlit by security lights mounted on the opposite building, and John was standing a few feet away from him, but thanks to a trick of the light, John could see his features clear as a sunny day. If he hadn’t been recovering from a terrible breakup and off men almost entirely, he might have thought an angel had decided he deserved a gift.

  “Is there something you need?” he asked, attempting to shove aside his immediate attraction to the dark-haired man standing in his alley.

  The man contemplated John for a moment before replying, “No, I think I’ve found it. I may have something of yours, however.”

  Lord save him, the man had a smooth, deep voice and an English accent.

  From underneath a ridiculously puffy, bright-orange down jacket, the stranger produced the errant kitten. It was filthier than John had imagined, but a spark of relief flared when the grayish puffball with huge green eyes blinked and peered back at him. A man with a kitten, a sexy voice, and an accent: What was John supposed to do? Throw them both back out into the cold?

  “Just a minute,” he said gruffly as he retrieved the last trash bag he’d brought out with him, dragging it past the kitten savior and heaving it into the container. When he turned back around, the stranger and the damn kitten were waiting for him just inside the doorway as if they belonged there.

  Once inside, he shut the door behind him, throwing them into darkness.

  “Shit, sorry. I forgot the lights were off.” Reaching out a hand, he found the other man’s arm. “Let me past you; we’ll go into the lobby.”

  As John slid by the stranger in the narrow hallway, his treacherous body reacted like the man was water and John a divining rod. John slowed a step, aware of the heat radiating from the man’s body. That must have been it; it was cold in the alley, and John wasn’t wearing a coat. Come to think of it, it was cold in the theater too; he just hadn’t noticed or cared. The man smelled good as well, in a way that had John wanting to stop for just a moment before moving on.

  Hadn’t he learned his lesson? John moved faster, berating himself for being an idiot.

&n
bsp; He held the connecting door to the lobby open for the newcomers. The kitten didn’t look scared at all. In fact, the rotten thing looked smug, its green eyes watching John as he went around the concession counter trying to think what he had to feed the little beast or clean it up with.

  “Why isn’t the theater open?”

  The stranger looked around, taking in the piles of moving boxes, some filled, some waiting to be filled.

  Rico, John reminded himself, Rico. He tried to bring up a visual of Rico: He’d had golden blond hair, right?

  “The short answer is, I’m behind on payments and the bank is putting the property into foreclosure.”

  “And the long story? Chance Allsop, by the way.”

  “Oh, right.” John stuck out a hand. “John Hall, owner—for the moment—of the NorthStar.”

  Chance Allsop shook it with the hand not holding the kitten. “And?”

  “And what?” John dropped his hand, even though he was feeling envious of the grubby kitten. Chance’s hand had felt good in his, warm and solid. John tried not to think about being wrapped in safe arms, large hands loving him and making him feel again.

  “The long story? Here, hold this for a moment.”

  Chance handed John the kitten without waiting for a response, then took off his jacket and laid it across the counter. It was like watching a present unwrap itself. Chance was lean and fit, not in a muscly gym-rat kind of way, just a man who took care of himself. He was probably somewhere around John’s age, which meant there were lines on his face from laughter and sorrow; a small scar at the corner of his mouth; more than a little gray in his hair and stubble. He wore a cozy light-blue sweater and dark denim jeans with a pair of impractical leather shoes. Sexy as hell.

  John looked away, trying to find something else to focus on, anything to keep from letting on that this man ticked all of John’s boxes. If Chance wasn’t gay, it might bother him, and if he was . . . well, he was probably taken.