No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  I don’t blame them. The nights have been getting colder, the days greyer, the Montana wind sharper with winter’s biggest roar.

  I don’t think anyone could enjoy the carnival with frostbite.

  Blake says we’re maybe a week or two off from a big one—a blizzard that buries everyone in place, and when people just hunker down and stay warm.

  Roads get snowed in, sometimes covered by landslides.

  I look up from the road just now, though, watching in my mirror as the girl leans against a familiar tall figure—Justin. He’s holding up his phone again, snapping quick selfies, before laughing and clapping her on the shoulder, watching her as she trudges off.

  She heads through the open gate, pausing outside and looking briefly left to right before bowing her head into the wind and pushing forward, thumbs hooked in her backpack straps and shoulders hunched. The sharp gusts blast her bright purple rainbow-tinted hair away from her face, making her wince, turning her head away from the blast.

  Wait.

  What the hell.

  That is Andrea.

  And isn’t she supposed to be with Holt, instead of out here walking alone in the freezing cold?

  I slow my car, then pitch a U-turn and go cruising back.

  When I stop next to her, she doesn’t notice at first, until I lean over and put the window down. At the whirring sound, she lifts her head, squinting suspiciously.

  Her face clears, and a bright smile of relief breaks across her face.

  “Hey,” I say. “Looking for a ride?”

  * * *

  However I expected to end this day, it wasn’t with a tearful teenage girl in the passenger seat.

  We’re parked at the diner.

  She insisted she doesn’t want to go home, she doesn’t want to go to Holt’s. She just needs some space from stupid men with their dumb opinions and dumber egos.

  And that’s when she bursts out crying, and it all comes spilling out.

  Clark isn’t missing.

  He ran away.

  “Because Dad’s such an asshole,” she says.

  Because he blamed Clark for the fires and Clark knows it, and he just wants to lay low until everything blows over and they find the real person doing this.

  Andrea was sneaking out from Holt’s to see him, to bring him food, to make sure he was warm and safe wherever he’s been hiding.

  But they had a fight this morning.

  She’d tried to actually defend her dad.

  To tell Clark that if he just talked to Blake, if he came home, her dad would listen and believe him, and that right now Blake was out trying to find Clark not because he thought he was guilty, but because his Uncle Rog is worried sick about him.

  But that wasn’t what they’d really fought about in the end.

  My heart nearly tumbles out of my chest when she looks up at me with her eyes gleaming bright and wet, tears streaming down her face, her expression so pink and miserable.

  “He knows,” she says, gulping the words. “He...he knows who did it. And he won’t fucking tell me because he says I might get hurt.”

  I can’t breathe.

  How?

  “I don’t understand.” I grip her hands, squeezing them warmly, silently begging her with the touch to focus on me when this is critical. “How does he know? How did he find out? Is it a friend of his?”

  “That thing Dad had,” she mumbles, sniffing and lowering her eyes. “The wrist flamethrower or whatever...Clark’s the one who gave it to the guy. He made him do it. He made Clark be quiet, and he said...he said if Clark tells anyone, he’ll kill them, then kill his Uncle Rog, then kill him.”

  Then she bursts out sobbing again, and I gather her close, murmuring softly, offering her the only comfort I can.

  God.

  I feel like crying myself.

  Clark’s innocent.

  But I can’t possibly believe Blake’s own brother would kill someone, either.

  There’s something deeper going on here than a family feud turned ugly.

  And I don’t know what to do to help.

  Or if I even can.

  * * *

  Andrea cries on me for almost half an hour, but at first I can’t coax her back home.

  So I talk her into having a late lunch and something hot to warm her up. We’re already at the diner so no use in wasting the opportunity.

  After two cups of hot cocoa and a breakfast platter piled high with pancakes—which, frankly, is the best lunch—she reluctantly agrees to go back with me and talk to Blake.

  It’s the only way to protect Clark.

  Get him where the arsonist won’t find him.

  And once Clark’s under adult supervision, once he’s protected, once he’s cleared his head, then maybe he’ll give up a name and put an end to this madness.

  “I don’t think it’s Uncle Holt,” Andrea says woefully. “I know Dad thinks that, but...I never saw one thing out of place when I stayed with him. And I told Clark I’m staying with Uncle Holt, he would’ve freaked if that’s who made the threat.” Her lower lip thrusts out. “Ugh, I don’t understand. Why won’t he tell me? He says he cares, but if he did, why doesn’t he trust me?”

  “He cares about you,” I assure her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “He does. Or else he wouldn’t be holding back to protect you. His heart’s in the right place, even if he’s going about it wrong.”

  I pull my hand back as the waitress returns with my credit card and the receipt. I quickly sign off on the bill.

  “C’mon,” I say. “Let’s go home. Mr. Hissyfit’s been missing you.”

  * * *

  I was wrong.

  Mr. Hissyfit isn’t lonely.

  He’s pissed off.

  And I don’t blame him, when Andrea and I pull up outside the door and see it.

  Someone’s broken in.

  I realize something’s off the second I park. The front door is open, swinging loosely on its hinges, and the lock’s busted out, splintered wood in jagged little spears against the frame.

  A sick, nervous feeling curdles my stomach.

  “Stay here,” I murmur. “Stay in the car, keep the engine running. Doors locked.”

  Andrea just gives me a wide-eyed, frightened look and nods.

  I creep out of the car, moving stealthily up the steps, skipping around the one porch board I know creaks every time and edging over the threshold.

  Only to nearly jump out of my skin at the loud smacking sound inside the house. It takes me a slow motion second to peer into the living room.

  Mr. Hissyfit darts his head hard at the glass of his heated enclosure, banging against it with a little bonk, his teeth bared, a loud hiss erupting over the room.

  “Peace?” Andrea’s voice echoes behind me from the open window, panicked and sharp. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I croak, barely getting the word out, pressing my hand over my chest and my racing heart, then calling over my shoulder, “Nothing, honey. Stay in the car while I finish looking around.”

  Not that I even know where to start.

  Jesus. It looks like the entire house was trashed.

  The sofa and easy chairs are turned over, the glass coffee table in shards, the shelves are tipped, books scattered everywhere. The cushions have even been cut open, stuffing erupting out in big white puffs, the rug slashed into ribbons, the coat rack cracked in half and stabbed like a wooden spear into the underside of the overturned sofa. The huge HD TV is broken in half, like someone body-slammed it over their knee.

  Holy crap.

  Someone clearly had rage issues, and they took them out here.

  The only thing that hasn’t been touched is Mr. Hissyfit’s aquarium.

  Good thing, too.

  As cold as it is in here, I think whoever did this has been gone for a bit.

  Long enough for the heat to leak out through the open door, leaving the entire house absolutely freezing.

  But Mr. Hissyfit’s s
afe inside his heated enclosure, protected from the cold that might have killed him.

  And maybe, just maybe, the snake is what scared the intruder off.

  At least, I hope he’s gone.

  So I back out slowly and run for the car, diving into the driver’s seat and shivering with more than just the cold.

  Andrea stares at me, her lashes trembling. “Peace? What happened?”

  “Someone broke into the house,” I say, already digging my phone out, tapping Blake’s number. “But I don’t think they took anything.”

  “Mr. Hissyfit?” she whispers with a worried look.

  “Safe. Warm inside his tank and just...agitated,” I tell her.

  She starts to open the car door, her breaths sucking in, but I catch her arm, shaking my head firmly as I lift the phone to my ear.

  Blake’s line rings. Again and again and again.

  He doesn’t pick up.

  Crud.

  I start to dial again, only to stop as I hear the roar of an engine.

  Something finally goes right. Blake’s Jeep comes tearing into the driveway.

  I go tumbling out of my car just as he screeches to a halt, nearly spinning the Jeep and sending up a spray of snow.

  He leaps out, his face set and tight, flushed with fury, but it’s the worried darkness in his eyes that gives away his real concern.

  “Peace?” he strides toward me. “Where’s Andrea? Have you seen her? Holt called, and—”

  “Dad?” Andrea says behind me, emerging from my car. “I’m right here.”

  Then they’re crashing into each other.

  Blake hugging his daughter tight, Andrea clinging to him hard, letting out a soft little whimper that he echoes in a deep, reassuring growl. Dad buries his face in his daughter’s hair.

  “He said you were missing,” he chokes out. “Fuck, Andrea, I freaked out.”

  “I’m fine,” she mumbles but clings to him even tighter. “I didn’t tell him I was going to the carnival, but I...Dad, I gotta tell you something...”

  Blake pulls back enough to look down at her, gripping her shoulders. “Anything, Little Violet. What’s up?”

  She bites her lip, looking up at him worriedly. “Clark’s hiding. He’s afraid you think he did it when he knows who really did,” she says hesitantly. “But he won’t tell me who. I don’t know. And now someone broke into the house.”

  “What?” It comes out of his mouth like a gunshot.

  Blake stiffens, parting his lips—only to stop and go stone-still, lifting his head, staring at the house, his eyes blue fire as he finally notices the door.

  He detaches from Andrea, and then it’s my turn. His huge, fierce arms lift me right off the ground, and I’m suspended in the air for a couple seconds before he lets me down again.

  “Did they hurt you?” he growls, his eyes flashing to mine.

  It’s so sweet but almost scary. The edge in his voice is a death warrant for anyone who’d ever dare.

  “I...no. They were gone before we got here, I think. I’ve already been inside,” I say. “The living room’s trashed. I didn’t check anything else because I think they’re gone, but not a hundred percent sure.”

  “We’re about to find out, sweetheart,” he says darkly, then nudges Andrea toward me. “Stay here. Both of you. Keep 9-1-1 handy. And if I tell you to run, get in your car and drive. Don’t look back.”

  I can’t stand watching him go in there by himself.

  And I know if something happens, I won’t leave him.

  Andrea and I huddle together, clutching each other’s hands, watching the door.

  I strain, listening for any sound, any hint of a fight, but all I catch is a bit of furniture scraping and moving—then a flicker of motion in the upstairs windows. Blake’s tall, dark shape moves past the curtains. All seems well.

  But I still don’t breathe easy until he’s back outside.

  “No one home except one mad snake,” he says grimly. That tired stoop bows his broad shoulders, his eyes blue shadows. “It’s only the living room. Bastards didn’t touch anything else. Didn’t seem like they were looking at anything in particular, just wanted to piss out some rage. Maybe send a message.”

  He stops, though, squinting down the front steps and toward the snow along the side of the porch.

  Several heavy footsteps leave prints in the packed snow surrounding the house.

  And I’m pretty sure they aren’t mine, his, or Andrea’s.

  Blake slowly descends the steps and moves to the edge of the walk, then crouches down, peering at the closest tracks.

  “And send a message he did,” he mutters tightly. “Shit. I recognize these prints. They’re standard safety issue for work crews...including hired construction contractors.”

  * * *

  Somehow, we’ve come full circle.

  With Blake’s house a mess and the door refusing to totally shut, we can’t stay there.

  So after a call to Sheriff Langley, we end up packing everyone up and heading back to my cabin at the Charming Inn.

  Sure, the arsonist tried to set it on fire after I’d already left, but it’s somewhere warm and safe where we can all be together.

  In a town this small, the arsonist could get to us anywhere.

  We’re with each other.

  That’s all that matters.

  That’s what’s going to keep us safe.

  Not the location of the four walls we have around us.

  Still, it’s somber as we load our things into my car and Blake’s. No one talks—except Mr. Hissyfit, who’s entirely vocal about how unhappy he is with having his aquarium moved, and as riled as he is, Andrea can’t even soothe him without risking getting hurt.

  So we settle in with a very angry snake and a very upset teenage girl.

  And Andrea doesn’t even argue about being sent to bed early.

  Leaving just me and Blake.

  He settles on the sofa in the living room, while I turn the thermostat up to warm a cabin that’s been left idle and freezing for over a week. Not even the insulation on the windows stops the cold from creeping in. I’d piled Andrea with blankets before sending her to bed.

  By morning we should all be nice and toasty, but these first few hours are going to be chilly.

  Blake doesn’t even seem to feel it. He props his elbows on his knees and presses his mouth against his clasped knuckles, staring blankly at the coffee table.

  I’ve never seen his face like this.

  This terrible mask. Not quite anger.

  It makes me think of grief, deep and painful.

  And it makes me hurt for him so much.

  Once I’ve got the warm air circulating, I settle down next to him and lean against his side, offering my support without intruding.

  And he leans back against me, letting me in.

  I curl my hand on his arm, resting my head to his shoulder. “It’s not looking good, is it?”

  “I don’t want to believe it,” he says, deep and gritty and pained. “My own goddamn brother. But with all the evidence, who else could it be?”

  I don’t have an answer.

  I wish I did.

  I can only press snug in his arms and hold him as close as I possibly can.

  * * *

  I can’t stand seeing him like this as we settle into bed.

  Maybe that’s why I’m almost expecting it when he moves on me, hard and swift, his thick, hard weight suddenly on top of me. His fingers push through my hair.

  “How?” he growls out his question.

  “Come again?” I’m totally lost, even if there’s no mistaking what he wants. His hips move against mine, pushing his bulge between my legs.

  “How the hell you stay so beautiful in the middle of all this ugliness, darlin’?” His eyes shine so bright, two blue gems set deep in his tortured face, almost like a wolf’s.

  I answer him the only way I can. With a kiss so long and hot and intense it’s all twirling tongue.

 
If I made some mistakes today through this mess, it might be my best mistakes ever.

  Because soon he’s throwing off the covers, tearing at my clothes, then shedding his own like a second skin. He winds my hair around his fingers, then guides my face to the huge, pulsing, angry hard-on throbbing between his legs.

  “Take me away, baby. Make me forget,” he orders.

  I only let myself blush in stunned silence for a split second before I obey.

  I’ll never comprehend what makes men so hot when they’re tense and pissed off. But tonight, Blake freaking Silverton just might burn me down.

  He lets out a sharp, muffled groan as my mouth sinks down on his length. He’s so big, so full, so wired I can barely fit him in my mouth. My fingers wrap around his base, pumping, going to town on his steaming skin.

  I play him like an instrument, loving how he plays me back so effortlessly. He grabs my other hand, pushes it down, and gives me a feral look.

  “Play with your clit. Only thing better than getting sucked off by that sweet mouth is hearing you, seeing you, while you do it.”

  “But—” I ease off him for a second, staring into his eyes.

  “Play, woman. You heard me.”

  Holy hell.

  I don’t even think I have any words.

  So I do what he wants, trying to keep my focus tight on his magnificent cock. Heat flares against my hand, hot and wet and thick. It isn’t long at all before we’re losing control together.

  Blake starts thrusting in my mouth, his hips moving in angry strokes, keeping my concentration with his fingers in my hair, guiding my head down. I find the sweet spot just under the head of his cock and push, murmuring a helpless moan.

  My fingers move faster, circling, technically this close to bringing me off. Only, that’s not quite right.

  Because it’s Blake who ignites my body, my blood, every time he pulls his lip with his teeth.

  Every time he picks up his speed.

  Every time he growls, cursing, trying to stay quiet for Andrea’s sake.

  If my mouth wasn’t full of him, I’d totally be in trouble, too.

  He never peels his eyes off me. They just stick to my body, so intimate and intense, stripping me barer than stark naked, watching my nipples swell and my pace quicken.