by Liz K. Lorde
My heart drops right down into my gut. I can almost feel the kersplosh! it makes as it does a belly flop into my stomach acid.
“And… and why not?” I ask indignantly. The wives of my father’s colleagues use the same tone when the waiter has to explain to them that the restaurant is fresh out of oysters.
The man holds my gaze for a moment, saying nothing. My bright blue eyes meet the dark pools of nothing that stare back at me beneath his heavy brow. His irises smolder like hot coals on a fire that’s not yet dead—just waiting to be stirred.
Then, he looks out the window and my gaze follows his.
Whiteness. Blinding, all-consuming and so thick you could baste a quilt with it. I tiptoe across the creaky, polished floorboards of the living room over to that window to look out at the world around us.
Snowfall has enveloped us completely. It’s coming down harder than I’ve ever seen it. There’s a brief flash of red as a cardinal swoops down toward a well-stocked bird feeder outside, but even the birds don’t linger for long.
Not in this weather.
“I can’t be here anymore,” I assert, punctuating that statement with a little stamp of my tiny, barefoot.
That makes him laugh. Not a proper laugh, of course. Men this big and dangerous looking don’t laugh. They snort in amusement.
“Too bad,” he says, turning around and walking away. Like that’s the end of it.
Which, it is most certainly not.
When I see the opportunity, I jump on it. With his back turned, he can’t stop me as I rush toward the door towards freedom. What I’ll do with that freedom once it’s mine, I haven’t exactly sorted out yet—but this is America, isn’t it?
Freedom is all I need—after that, I’m sure the rest will fall into place.
But the floorboards creak beneath my meager weight as I make my move. The huge jacket around my shoulders slumps off and falls heavy in my wake.
I get five or six of my little strides in.
It only takes him one.
His rough, massive hand captures my wrist with ease, shackling me to where he stands. My body slumps forward. Even with all that momentum, I don’t have enough force to rip myself free.
Which doesn’t stop me from trying. I cry out in pain as I strain and struggle against his hold until he takes my shoulder in his other massive hand and gives my body a single, firm shake.
“Stop,” he commands. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“No…I’m…NOT!” I insist, twisting harder against his hold than ever, even as pain wracks every cell of my body.
“No?” he growls, raising his voice. I can see the fury in his eyes. It’s like I’ve tipped him over the edge. “You almost got yourself killed out there once, little girl. Want to make a second pass at it?”
“I—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. “I didn’t think so.”
“You have no right to keep me here!” I snarl at him.
“I don’t? You don’t think so?” Now he’s shouting—bellowing, snarling back at me like he’s more beast than man. “You know what happens in sub-zero temperatures with no socks, no shoes, no fucking gloves and only half a wedding dress to keep you warm?”
He twists my wrist, bringing it between us and holding it before my face. His hands are so big, he could practically wrap his fingers around my wrist twice.
“First, these pretty little fingers go pale. Your toes will go faster since you’ll be thigh-deep in snow and your bright little self must have left your dancing shoes in your other car crash.
“You’ll feel a prickling on your skin—that’s the ice crystals forming inside your soft tissue, either killing the cells or piercing right through them. But it’s not just that—those ice crystals are going to form blood clots, too.
“Which leads to inflammation. Which leads to necrosis. Not just in your fingers and toes, either—all this thick blonde hair won’t protect those pretty little ears, and you won’t be so fucking pretty anymore when that cute little nose of yours goes dead and black with cold, all because your prissy little ass can’t be fucked to follow simple fucking instructions.”
His chest heaves, and I say nothing. I’m too busy counting the sharp points of his teeth in his snarl.
“I SAVED YOU ONCE!” he shouts in my face. “Maybe next time, I won’t be so fucking generous!”
His words pulse through my body, knocking me back. I flinch, and I know he sees it.
“Avery,” I say softly. If only so he’ll stop calling me little girl and making me feel even weaker than I already feel. “My name is Avery.”
My voice is fragile and small. Like a porcelain teacup so tiny, you can thread it through the eye of a needle.
He moves back then. Let’s go of my wrist. I watch as he tries to recompose himself. Apparently, he succeeds.
“…Good,” he says, dropping my wrist. He turns his back to me and cocks his head for me to follow.
I wouldn’t dare disobey.
He leads me into the kitchen, where the smell of pancakes and coffee is at its source. The dog trots behind us, wagging his tail. I watch the man plate two mountains of thick, fluffy, golden-brown flapjacks, then toss a spare cake to the giant black mass of fur that goes boof!
The plates clatter to the table as he drops them there, then points for me to sit.
I sit.
You better believe I sit.
Next, he slices two thick pats of soft, yellow-gold butter and dollops them onto each of the stacks from the blade of his knife. I watch them melt atop the hot, steaming surface of the topmost pancakes, soaking into the porous surface and dribbling down the stacks’ sides.
Wordlessly, he returns to the table. A knife and fork clatter down before me.
I’m drooling.
I’ve never been this hungry in my whole life.
I grip each of the handles with all the care that this man isn’t currently giving them, ready to dig in.
I’m scared. I’m in pain. And I don’t know what I’m going to do next—although, having lost the argument with my captor, I’m finally in agreement that going outside is not an option.
But like I said. I love pancakes.
Before I can dig in, he looks back over his shoulder and stops me.
“No,” he says, pointing his finger at me like I’m a bad dog chewing up his stupid mountain man boots. Then, seeing the look of disappointment on my face, he adds: “Not yet.”
The door slams shut before I can even ask him why. I pop up slightly to look out the window and see my mountain man—the big, burly guy who just scolded me with the threat of frostbite not to go outside—traipsing through the blizzard towards a tree in nothing more than his flannel, his Levis and his boots.
When he comes back, he has a bucket.
He thunks it down on the table, and for a moment, I swear I see a proud little glint in his eyes. When I peer over the edge of it, I see something dark and sticky looking with the undeniable scent of sugary sweetness contained inside.
“Syrup?” I ask, blinking up at him.
He nods, dips his finger in, and holds it up to my lips.
There’s a big, glistening glob of cold, hard syrup on his fingertip. I can see it softening against the warmth of his skin.
What does he expect me to do? Lick it off of him?
I stare up at him, breathing heavier than I mean to.
He’s undeniably handsome. But at the same time, that handsomeness is buried under several layers of untouchableness.
He’s rugged and rough—rougher than any man I’ve ever known. More than a little scary.
To touch him would be like extending a hand to a hungry black bear.
So why am I getting butterflies in my stomach and a red-hot blush on my cheeks as I consider taking his big, thick finger into my mouth and sucking freshly tapped maple syrup off of it?
I take a deep breath and decide.
I want to taste.
But jus
t as I’m about to wrap my lips around his finger, he pulls it away, sucking it into his own mouth instead.
“Jack,” he says with a little raise of his chin. He’s studying me with a deep interest in his black, hooded eyes, but what he’s thinking, I could never guess. “My name is Jack.”
As I dip my knife into the bucket and scoop out syrup to drizzle my pancakes with, my hand is trembling, and no matter what I do, I can’t make it stop.
Jack
Little bitch didn’t just wolf down her own stack of pancakes—she ate mine as well.
Ah, Christ. Even as I think that, I regret it. Pretty little Avery is plenty of things—sweet and grateful and too fucking stubborn to function—but she ain’t a bitch.
Stuck-up? Maybe a little. Spoiled rotten? Definitely.
She reminds me of the only other Avery I’ve ever known—a cute little blonde kid, not so different from the Avery seated before me except for the difference in age. The child of one of my parents’ friends, must have been.
I remember pushing her on the swing set of a playground in DC just before I got deployed. Bought the little shit ice cream and she ate mine too while I wasn’t looking.
Must be something about the name.
Look at me, being all sentimental and shit all of a sudden. I haven’t thought about that little girl in fucking years. While I was overseas, on the bad nights I used to replay that memory, trying to call up that smug, self-assured look on Little Avery’s face with both of our ice creams smeared all over her sticky fingers and face.
On the worst nights, I’d imagine that she was my own daughter. A daughter I knew I’d never fucking have, since on the worst nights, I didn’t think I’d ever be coming home.
It’s almost like thinking about all of this again just renews how pissed I am about frying up so many goddamn pancakes and seeing each and every one of them disappear between the pretty little lips of this Avery with me now.
Even Buck got a taste—and there he is, sitting by her side, his big shaggy tail thumping against her chair while he looks up at her adoringly, hoping she might let him lick the plate.
And none for Jack. Just fucking swell. See, this is why I don’t like being around people. They feel entitled to your shit. Whether they actually are or not never even gets called into question.
“Mmm,” Avery moans, licking her fork clean in a way that makes my cock throb and my temper flare up even hotter. “Those were…amazing.”
“Hope so,” I grunt, trying to swallow my temper and avoid blushing with pride all at once.
Fuck me. Blushing over a compliment and getting all worked up over pancakes. I’ve been up on this fucking mountain all alone for too long.
But it’s like Avery can recognize that something’s wrong from just the look on my face.
“Wuh…why do you hope so?” she asks with uncertainty.
“Because,” I find myself grunting as I gather up the two plates she’s managed to clear. “You ate mine, too.”
Those were big fucking stacks of pancakes, goddammit. Trucker-sized stacks. And she’s so goddamn tiny, I could practically fit her in the pocket of my flannel—so where the fuck is she even putting it all? Hiding it beneath the big, puffy skirt of that fucking wedding dress?
“Oh,” I hear her say in an ashamed little voice. When I look over my shoulder, she’s staring down at the table and looking upset with herself. “Well…freakin’ crap. Sorry.”
Freakin’ crap. This fucking girl can’t even swear properly.
For some reason, that’s the thing that sends me over the edge.
I slam the dishes into the sink and wheel around on her, slapping my big, manly hands down on the table so hard that the wood shakes and Buck startles, barking at me suddenly like he thinks I’m going to hurt her.
I give him a look that says, down boy. But Buck stands his ground. Traitorous little mutt.
“Fuck,” I sneer at Avery, whose pretty blue eyes are wide fucking open. “You’re a fucking adult, aren’t you, girl? So, use your fucking words like one.”
“And how…how would that be?” she asks hesitantly. Her fucking voice is shaking. She looks scared.
Good. Let her see what a fucking monster I am. Let her be afraid, so she stays the fuck away from me with those pretty lips that I still swear were half a second away from sucking syrup off my fingers a minute ago.
“How about this,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me, ‘Fuck, Jack. I’m ever so fucking sorry for eating up all your limited fucking rations, for fuck’s sake!’”
I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest and fuming.
Go on then, girl. Say it. Let’s hear that pretty mouth swear for once.
“F-fuck, Jack,” she begins with a stutter, to my amazement. But the way she keeps blinking, she looks like she’s about ready to cry. “I’m ever so f-fucking sorry…”
Christ. What business do I have going and getting angry at a girl like her for? After the shit she went through…of course she was hungry.
Immediately, regret sets in once again.
“That you’re such a goddamn fucking prick!” she finishes.
Fuck’s sake.
I should have let her finish.
“I didn’t know that we were rationing,” she snarls at me with a glower.
She looks so damn cute when she’s angry. It just makes me even fucking angrier.
“Didn’t you? Miles away from the nearest town—snowed in for five days at least—of fucking course we’re rationing,” I snarl right back.
“Boof!” Buck barks, looking up at me like I’ve given him the wrong fucking dog food.
“Don’t you go taking her side on this,” I warn the dog.
That makes Avery giggle. And damned if it’s not the cutest fucking giggle I’ve ever heard—but that’s beside the point right now.
I know she didn’t mean to. I know she must not have realized. She doesn’t belong in this place; of course she wouldn’t know.
But dammit, being angry at this sweet little angel feels fucking good right now. At least I can live with the guilt of being angry at her. It only serves to validate my previous fucking theories of myself.
I’m a monster. I’m a bad fucking man, and Avery would be the dumbest bitch I’ve ever met if she sticks around here any longer than she absolutely has to.
Plus, being angry at her is better than the alternative: wanting her.
I want this girl worse than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole fucking life. Just looking at her, I know that she’d be a great fuck.
And it’s more than fucking that I want from her. That’s the worst part. I want to lay this girl down on a bearskin rug that I’ve killed for her myself, smooth my hands down her body and—
Thank fuck, I notice my growing erection before she does. If it gets any fucking harder or longer, I’m going to have to take off my goddamn belt.
And I shudder to think of what a monster like me would do in the same room as an angel like Avery when I’ve got a hard, thick cock and a leather belt in hand.
“Forget it.” I snarl and turn away from the wounded angel at my breakfast table and my traitorous mutt at her side. I start in on the dishes to take my mind off things.
I scrub at them so hard, you’d think I could scrub my sexual frustration away. All I manage to do is leave the plates fucking spotless.
But when I move to put it in the drying rack, wouldn’t you know it—there’s fucking Avery, getting all up in my personal space and taking the plate away from me to dry.
“Go,” I rasp, pointing toward the living room. “Out.”
“Nah,” Avery says, like she can dismiss my own fucking orders just like that. In my own fucking house! “I…I really do feel bad, okay? I’m…I’m kind of stupid sometimes. Plenty of people say so.”
“Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”
“But,” she levels with me, struggling to balance the plate and the towel in her hands at the same time. “I always try my hardest to do my
best, and I always try even harder to do what’s right. So…let me help.”
I’m about to relent. Give her my okay and let her dry while I wash. If she doesn’t, I know I’ll let those fucking plates sit in the drying rack until the next time I want to use them.
But before I can, she drops the fucking plate.
Jesus goddamn Christ.
“Shit!” she yelps, and I sigh.
“Whelp.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb before bending down to gather up the shards. “At least you fucking cursed properly this time.”
“Huh,” Avery says. She sounds proud of herself. “I…I fucking did, didn’t I?”
The plate’s a clean break. Three even pieces and one long, slender shard. I snort, almost chuckling at her newfound ability to swear.
But then she moves to try and help pick up the pieces of the broken plate, and I have to reach out to grab her ankle just in time to stop her from putting her bare little foot right down on that broken shard.
“Nope,” I grunt. “Stay put. You’ll find some fucking way to hurt yourself if you don’t.”
For some reason, I’m in a better mood now. Maybe because, truth be told, she’s fucking sassy, and that amuses the shit outta me. Or maybe because when I wash the next plate, I can feel her against me. Working together, side by side. Her tiny little body next to my big, burly frame.
Boldly, I wrap an arm around her and show her how to position the plate so she can hold it and dry at the same time.
“There,” I say. “Just like that.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she says, suddenly bashful. “I’m…uh. I’ve never done dishes before. I’m sorry about your plate…and the pancakes…and, well, everything.”
“Don’t,” I grunt, removing my touch from her hands. Fucking kills me to do it, too. Once I start touching her, I don’t fucking want to stop. “Shouldn’t have shouted. We just don’t get many visitors up this way, is all.”
“Boof!” Buck woofs, trotting up behind me and licking my calf through my jeans.
Little fucking turncoat. I’m beginning to this my dog likes this goddamn girl more than he likes me.
We wash dishes in silence for a few minutes. There aren’t many to do, and what few there are, we make quick work of.