by Zahra Girard
And get away from Violet.
Ever since last night, when she went off the rails with her stunt at city hall, when she confronted me in the kitchen about the strangulation marks on my throat, and when she put me in a situation where the only way to get this whole kidnapping mess over with was to trade away some of the very guns my club has entrusted me to protect, things have been different.
She still gets my blood pumping, still fills my mind with thoughts of fucking her every time I see her bend over or swivel her hips, but that level of trust we’d developed so quickly and so tightly feels altered. Weaker. Almost broken.
She’s got regrets. And so do I.
Even if none of us will say so out loud.
But, for the time being, I’m stuck with her.
“You’ll want to conserve your energy. This isn’t a fucking race,” Blaze says as we start up the trail. “If I’m reading this map right, we’ve got a fifteen mile hike ahead of us, through switchbacks and some hard terrain. It might take us four hours, if we’re lucky. Then we’ll be in a valley where most of these cabins are. We should have about three hours to search the valley before we have to head back. And trust me, we do not want to fuck around up there. I know nature is cool shit, but it will get cold enough to freeze your ass off up there at night and we do not want to die of hypothermia.”
“Blaze, you’re the only one among us who is excited to do this shit. No one else thinks a hike in freezing weather is fun.”
“I’ll have to take you out sometime once we’re back in Lone Mesa. We’ll go up to Big Bear. Get some nice training in at elevation. Then, when we’re done, we can head to some of the cool lodges they’ve got up there. Toss back a few drinks in front of a fireplace. Man, Crash, I tell you, nothing satisfies as much as a nice whiskey in front of a warm fire. They’ve even got a good cigar shop in town; the owner will sell you the good Cuban shit, too.”
“Sounds great, Blaze, but let’s get this nightmare over with first, OK?”
“Man, learn how to appreciate the fucking beauty of it. Fresh air, green all around, nothing but you and your thoughts.”
“All I’m thinking about is how we need to get a move on before my best friend gets murdered by a psycho. Do you think we can pick up the pace?” Violet says.
“Yes, ma’am,” Blaze answers.
We start up the trail, our breath fogging in the icy mountain air. Blaze sets a quick and relentless pace, and it’s everything that Violet and I can do to keep up. Neither of us are out of shape by any means, but the wilderness is Blaze’s domain, and it shows.
Hours pass by, with only a spare minute break every so often, just long enough for us to catch our breath in the thin mountain air. It’s misery. Lung-burning, lightheaded misery.
By the time we get to the entrance to the valley, my legs and arms feel like they’re full of lead. And Violet looks like she feels the same way. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink, and her chest is heaving with exhaustion.
The only one who doesn’t look affected is Blaze; son of a bitch looks like he could go all day.
“I hate you, you dick,” I mutter as we come to a stop on a switchback that gives us an excellent view of the valley below. “Do you ever get tired?”
“Only after a night with your mother,” he answers. Then, holding up the map, he scans it and then the valley below. “The cabins are clustered in two primary locations. There’s only two streams in this valley and people tend to build next to water. So, that’ll make things easier for us. We should split up. Some of us will search the east side of the valley, and the others will search the west. We’ll meet back here at the trailhead.”
“Split up?” Violet says. “Fine by me. I’ll take west, you two take east.”
She sounds way too eager to get away from me. And it’s an attitude like that that’s liable to make her hasty and get her into trouble.
I shake my head. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“It would be quicker, Crash. We have a lot of ground to cover, and we were slow getting up that trail. There’s only two hours at most before we have to turn around.”
“I’m not letting you go off on your own, Violet. What would happen if you ran into Switchblade while you were alone in the fucking woods?”
To answer, she slides her backpack off her shoulder, opens the outside pocket, and pulls out a pistol. “I think I can handle myself.”
“Where the fuck did you get that?”
“From my bar. I keep one around for protection. Usually I to use the baseball bat, because I find guns disgusting and the thought of killing someone repulsive. But, for this, I’ll make an exception.”
Blaze and I trade a look. I fully believe if I left her on her own and she ran into Switchblade, Violet Cassidy would end today as a murderer.
“No. We’ll split into two groups. You and me in one, and Blaze in the other.”
“Crash, do you think I’m not capable of protecting myself?”
I shake my head. “That’s not it. I’ve seen you handle yourself in a fight. But I sure as shit won’t let you get in that kind of situation if I can help it. This is the way we’re doing it and I won’t hear any argument, got it?”
She rolls her eyes and then starts down the trail. Grinding my teeth, I follow. What the hell has gotten in to her that she can’t see how I’m trying to protect her? All the things I’m doing just to make sure she comes out of this mess with her best friend and without the weight of any dead bodies on her shoulders.
We walk in silence. Nearly an hour goes by in angry quiet as I follow that woman through the woods. I pass the time by imagining how damn good it will feel to leave Carbon Ridge behind me and get back to Lone Mesa. Yeah, it’ll suck telling Stone about the cargo we lost, and it’ll sure suck explaining to our customers why we’re days behind schedule, but I’ll gladly take the ire of my club president and the bitching of a whiny customer over Violet Cassidy and her silent treatment any day.
That hour takes us to our first cabin. A rundown thing wit ha moss-covered roof that looks ready to collapse in on itself if even a stray pine cone crashes in to it.
It’s deserted.
“Fuck,” Violet snaps. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Keep quiet,” I say. “Sound carries a long fucking way in the woods like this and you never know who might be listening.”
She doesn’t answer. Just turns on her heel and starts toward our next target. I follow, and about every five minutes I think about turning around and just leaving her to her fate. Maybe a night alone in the woods would fix her temper.
The second cabin is even further on, deeper in the valley. And also empty.
The sight of it brings out another storm of curses from Violet. This time, I don’t even remind her to be quiet. The less I have to talk to her, the better.
Another hour passes before we reach the third cabin. We’re past the time we’re supposed to rendezvous with Blaze, but I doubt I could convince Violet to turn around without checking this last cabin. And I sure as hell will not leave her to face these Death’s Disciples on her own. Yes, she might be acting like a bitch, but there’s no way I’d leave her to face even a risk of running into Switchblade.
The third cabin is empty.
And in just as bad of shape as the other two. A neglected relic of some dead hunter’s hideout. Maybe at one time it was a serviceable place, but those days are long gone.
Violet doesn’t react at first. For the longest time, she just stares at the empty cabin, with her back to me and her arms hanging down limp at her sides.
Then, in one sudden movement, she drops to her knees, her head cradled in her hands, and her body shaking with sobs.
I rush to her side. Forget about every angry thought, every single resentment or bit of frustration, and I throw my arms around her and pull her to my chest. She sobs, body wracked with pain and sorrow, and her tears soak through my jacket and my shirt to the bare skin of my chest.
“Where is she?” She says. “Whe
re is my friend?”
For a time, I don’t answer. How can I when I don’t even know what to say to her? With each empty cabin, this feeling of dread and desperation grew, further and further, as the idea that we might never locate Kendra, or that it might already be too late to save her, grows from this nagging doubt at the corner of the mind to a disgusting reality staring us right in the face.
So I do what I can: hold her, give her a shoulder and a chest to cry on, and soak up every bit of pain and sorrow she’ll give to me.
Who knows how long we sit there; I don’t count the time and I don’t think Violet is aware of anything other than the fear of losing her best friend that is gnawing at her heart.
Then the wind changes.
It’s subtle at first, a slight chill that comes as the wind switches from east to west. But that brief moment of peaceful change gives way to a thunderous darkening of the sky, a flash of lightning that tears through the fierce clouds above us, and the descent of soft, pillow flakes of snow.
She shivers in my grip.
Another flash of lightning reflects in her misty blues.
“We should leave, we need to go find…” her words end in a clap of thunder and a howling wind that cuts right to the bone with its frightening frost.
I hold her tighter, for warmth as much as comfort.
“We can’t,” I shout. She’s inches away, but I have to scream to be heard over the violent wind. “He’ll be fine, be we need to get inside.”
Doubt and anger flash through her eyes. Is it anger at giving up the search? Or is it at being trapped with me?
“Where?”
I point at the rotting cabin. “There.”
Shivering takes hold of her so violently she can’t respond. In seconds, the temperature drops another ten degrees, heat chased away by the smothering snow and the screaming wind. My fingers tingle as the first bite of hypothermia sets in.
“No time to argue, slugger,” I say as I heft her in my arms and toss her over my shoulder with a grunt. She’s heavy, but it’s more from her equipment than anything else.
I trudge through the snow that’s quickly piling at my feet.
We need to get inside and we need to stay warm. And, if this storm doesn’t pass soon, it doesn’t matter whether Blaze finds Kendra, because we’ll all be dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Violet
Trapped in a cabin with a man who terrifies and excites me. Who deals in death one second and then soothes me with his hidden tender heart the next. Temptation and fear all combined in one fierce and handsome package. What kind of hell is this?
He carries me into the ruined cabin. I don’t want to be here. Don’t want to be trapped with him. I’d rather be anywhere but here, to be honest. But mostly, I’d rather be outside, in the cold, searching for my best friend.
Inside, it smells like musty rot, but at least it looks a little better than it smells. There’s a sofa in the middle of the room that’s collapsing in on itself like a dying star, there’s a cabinet and shelf set against one wall that, beneath a monumental layer of dust, looks like it contains at least a couple bottles of some liquid that I dearly hope is bourbon, there’s a table and washbasin against another wall — both of which look like they’re home to a million spiders — and there’s a fireplace.
And nothing else. Except for the two of us and the simmering emotions — a knotted mass of attraction, distrust, respect, and anger — that we carry.
Yeah, this is hell. I died out in those woods and Satan brought me here, just to suffer for all eternity with the man who pushes my buttons like none other.
I mean, he even wears a patch that says ‘Twisted Devil’ on his cut. That has to be a sign that he’s the devil, right? I mean, it fucking says so on his label.
Crash carries me over to the sofa, dusts it with his free hand, and then sets me upon it.
I’m grateful to be off my feet after a long day of hiking, but I kind of wish he hadn’t put me on this rotting piece of furniture. It smells like moldy cheese.
“Rest here, I’m going to try to get a fire started.”
It’s when he mentions warmth that I realize how cold I am. My clothes are soaking wet from the melting snow and I’ve got nothing else to change into. I break out into spasmodic shivers as soon as that thought sinks in.
I’m going to freeze to death. In hell.
“Will you check that liquor cabinet, please?”
“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckles. “But first the fire.”
He sets his backpack down and takes out a cigarette lighter. Then, with a few heavy grunts and a couple of blows, he dismantles the old rotting table into firewood. After making a pile in the fireplace with some wood, he sets it ablaze.
Warmth. Blessed, lovely, wonderful warmth fills the interior of the cabin.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the flood of shivering recede. “Now, can you check for the booze, please?”
Laughing again, he opens the cabinet and takes out two bottles. After blowing off an impressively thick layer of dust, he squints and reads the label.
“Well, fuck me sideways, we’re in luck. We’ve got here a 15-year-old bottle of scotch and it looks like a bottle of Polish vodka. This should keep us warm for a while.”
“I’ll take the scotch, you can have the vodka.”
“You want the entire bottle?”
“Yeah, one for each of us. I’m trapped in a snowstorm in cabin with you, do you think I want to go through this experience sober?”
“Fair point,” he says.
He hands over the bottle and I eagerly unscrew the cap and take a long guzzle. It’s smooth, the smoky peaty flavor that usually comes with scotch has faded. This bottle must’ve been up here for years and years, I think.
But, even as old as it is, it still does the trick and, within seconds, I feel the ache in my body and the edge of the cold fade away.
Grunting, Crash settles on to the couch beside me. The couch groans at the additional weight, but holds together.
We sit and drink in silence, both probably wishing we were some place — anyplace — else.
Finally, with just a third of the bottle of scotch left, I hit the point of drunkenness where I feel like I can give voice to the thoughts and questions bouncing around inside my head. This is the point where, as a bartender, I’d usually cut my customers off but, fuck it, I’m trapped in the woods with a hot criminal, so I might as well drop all my inhibitions. I mean, I will probably die soon anyway, right?
“Why are you such a colossal dick?”
“Excuse me?”
“You. Are. A. Gigantic. Fucking. Dick. Why?”
“Where the fuck is this coming from?” His words are slurred a bit. Which isn’t a surprise considering he’s even closer to finishing his bottle than I am.
“I’m a bartender. I’m used to figuring people out. They come in, they get drunk, they drop their fucking facades, and they spill their guts.”
“You saying you want to spill my guts?”
“Mostly figurative, sometimes literally,” I say. My words might be a little slurred, too. I cough — the dry mountain air has taken its toll on my throat — and take another long drink of scotch. “I hear their complaints, their hopes, their dreams, their fears. It’s taught me how to see through people, you know? But I still don’t know what the hell to make of you. And I can’t even wrap my head around why you are such an asshole of monumental proportions.”
“After all the shit I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me?”
“Oh, so now you’re trying to put this on me?” I say, my voice so loud it makes him flinch. “Are you seriously fucking victim blaming right now?”
“I’ve been trying to stay out of this mess the whole fucking time.”
“Really? Because you started this whole fucking thing by putting your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You say you’re trying to stay out of this ‘mess’ that is my life, and yet you somehow can’t stop making
things worse.”
“The fuck are you talking about? If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead or in jail.”
“Oh, I suppose I should be grateful? That I’m now party to multiple felonies, including a fucking arms deal. I mean, selling fucking weapons, what in the literal fuck is that?” I stand up and stick my finger in his face. “Guns. You sell guns. I like you, Crash. I like you so goddamn much. But every fucking time I feel like I can get close to you, you do something that makes me want to run away as far and as fast as I can and I just can’t take it. I’ve dealt with a man like that before, I know where it leads, and I sure as shit am not allowing myself to go down that road again. You’re a handsome, caring, terrifying menace and I hate your fucking guts.”
My tirade ends with a last pull from my bottle of scotch and I hurl the empty bottle against the far wall. It impacts near the fireplace, shattering into a million pieces.
And then the wall groans.
And groans again.
It’s a sound, deep and low and mournful, that starts right against the chimney column of the fireplace and then extends to the roof. The building shudders, old timbers straining under tremendous weight, and then snow falls, a white stream that comes from inside the chimney column, filling the open maw of the fireplace and extinguishing the warmth within.
In moments, what paltry heat our fire provided is smothered, and a biting cold fills the room.
“Look at what you did,” he snaps. “You impulsive fucking maniac. There’s no fucking way we can get that fire started again, and it’s still fucking hours until daylight. What the fuck are we going to do to stay warm? Because I don’t know about you, but my coat is fucking soaked and I sure as shit don’t see a spare.”
“God damn it. What the fuck are we going to do now?” I say.
Crash finishes the last of his vodka and glares at me for a long while. I’m sure he has something he wants to say, but he wants even more to watch me squirm. My rage wilts beneath his gaze. And the oppressive cold that is slowly filling the interior of the cabin.
“If we want to survive, we will have to use our body heat.”