Text (Take It Off)

by Hebert, Cambria

  I took a quick shower and threw on a pair of dark-grey Nike sweatpants and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Then I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and sat down in front of the flat-screen.

  I turned on the news, hoping to see some breaking story about the arrest of Lex.

  But I didn’t see that.

  “Local police are still searching for the man they believe responsible for the disappearance of Mary Alderson several weeks ago. They now believe the suspect, a Mr. Lex Sullman, is responsible for many of the kidnappings in the area over the last year. The police department issued an arrest warrant for Sullman early this morning when another young woman, who happens to be best-selling author Honor Calhoun, was brought into the Allentown ER for treatment to several injuries that she claims she received at the hands of Mr. Sullman. Ms. Calhoun claims that Sullman abducted her early yesterday morning and held her hostage near the town of Slatington. Ms. Calhoun’s injuries have been treated and sources tell us she has been released from the hospital and is now resting at home.

  “The search for Mr. Sullman continues. If you have any information about this man, please contact your local police department immediately.”

  I stared at the pictures that flashed on the screen as the anchor blabbed to all the damn world. When she said Honor’s name, my blood ran cold, and then she flashed a picture of her, one that showed her face completely unmarked.

  I was right.

  She was even more gorgeous without bruises.

  Then a photo of Lex popped up on the screen. He looked like a regular guy. He was someone that no one would suspect of something like this.

  He was still out there.

  And if he was anywhere with a TV, he now knew Honor’s full name. And that meant her address wouldn’t be hard to find.

  I got up from the couch, leaving the beer on the coffee table. I grabbed my keys, another jacket, and jammed my feet into a pair of sneakers. I left the TV and the lights on and locked the door behind me.

  When I got behind the wheel, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I could just call her. Ask her how she was.

  I shook my head and started the engine.

  A phone call wasn’t good enough.

  I had to see, see with my own eyes that she was okay. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave her alone the entire night while her kidnapper was pissed off and still out there.

  I swore. Thanks to the f-ing news, not only was Lex pissed off, but now he was very well informed.

  I called up her address in my memory and drove there in record time. Across the street from her house was a small pull-off shoulder on the road. I pulled off there and parked, checking out the surroundings, looking for anything that seemed out of place.

  Her house was dark, and I wondered if it was because she wasn’t home or if it was because she was asleep.

  I settled back in the seat, thinking I was acting like a crazy stalker and how my mother would kick my ass if she saw me now. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just sit around at home and wonder if she was okay, not after watching the news.

  Her house was pretty nice looking. Not real big, but still a decent size. It was newer looking with vinyl siding and white trim around the windows. The driveway was gravel and led to a two-car garage. A set of concrete steps led up to a covered front entryway and a large porch light hung just above. It was on, which made me think she might be home. The front door was painted yellow, a welcoming sunny color.

  Off to the right of the house was a wooded area. The perfect place for some crazy ass to hide. I was pretty sure that behind her house ran the Slate Heritage trail. The trail ran for thirty miles and was built on an old railroad. It was also the trail she was attacked on. It would lead Lex right to her door.

  I knew then that I would be spending the night. I would rather feel like a stalker than hear about her murder on the news in the morning.

  Besides, I was a lot of things. A stalker wasn’t one of them.

  Outside, the wind beat against the ragtop of the Jeep, rattling the vinyl windows, but I didn’t mind the sound. It helped keep me awake. I was tired. I was operating on a couple hours of sleep, and the thorough workout I did mellowed out my body.

  A little while later, a light clicked on in one of the windows of Honor’s house. I sat up a little straighter. Now I knew she was home. I watched the house, wondering what she was doing, waiting for the light to click off or another to click on. Neither happened.

  The suspense of not knowing what was happening in there drove me insane. I debated for a while until I couldn’t debate anymore.

  I was knocking. I was just gonna have to admit that I was out here. She would probably be mad. She would probably tell me to leave and then bolt the door.

  But at least I would know she was safe.

  Mind made up, I jumped out of the Jeep and jogged across the street. She had potted flowers lining the concrete steps. I paused at the front door, listening for any kind of sound. There was none.

  I lifted my hand and knocked.

  Several minutes ticked by. I didn’t knock again. I could almost feel her hovering on the other side of the wood. She was probably scared.

  “Honor, it’s Nathan,” I yelled.

  I heard a few locks unlatch and then the door opened a fraction, enough for one blue eye to peer out. Above her dark head was a sturdy-looking chain across the door. “Nathan?”

  “Hey,” I replied. “I know it’s late. But I was worried—”

  She slammed the door in my face.

  I figured that meant she didn’t want to see me. As I turned to walk away, I heard the chain on the door being slid free. I turned back.

  The door opened.

  Honor launched herself out of the house and into my arms.

  “Hey,” I said, catching her against me, trying not to squeeze her too hard around the chest. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  She nodded against me but said nothing. Her feet were bare against the cold concrete of the porch. I lifted her up and went inside, pushing the door shut behind us. I took a moment to throw a couple of the locks before turning back to her. I chose not to acknowledge the knife clutched in her hand. But later we were going to have a talk about proper weapons.

  She was wearing an oversized gray T-shirt and a pair of skintight black leggings. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders and cascaded down the center of her back. She still wore a bandage on her hand and some of the swelling around her eye had gone down.

  “Are you okay?” I asked again.

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing up? It’s late?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes met mine. I knew the look that swam in their depths.

  I ran the pad of my finger over the dark smudge beneath her eye that wasn’t swollen. “Bad dreams?”

  She nodded again.

  “You should have gone home with your mother,” I said sternly.

  “I’m making pie.”

  I couldn’t really be mad about the change of subject. I mean, she was talking about pie. “You’re making pie?”

  “Apple. Wanna help?”

  “Do cows have tails?”

  She giggled and started up the steps that led into the living room and kitchen. I left my shoes down by the door and followed behind her.

  I would have followed even if she didn’t have pie.

  25

  Honor

  The relief that flowed through my veins when Nathan called out from the other side of the door wasn’t surprising. Considering the fact that I thought it was Lex, anyone would have made me weak with relief.

  Except that isn’t why I was relieved.

  I wanted to see Nathan. Even through the silence of my thoughts, the taunting of the memories, and the nightmares of my dreams, there was one constant.

  Him.

  It was his image that I clung to when I finally fell asleep. And it was him that pulled me into the kitchen to bake a pie when I was feeling sort of lost.
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  And now he was here—standing in my kitchen, staring at me like I might up and disappear. I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t go anywhere without him. But that was stupid. I was a grown woman. I was independent. I was holding a knife, dammit.

  He didn’t ask me why I was baking a pie. In fact, he seemed thrilled. It made me smile. This guy loved his pie. I looked at him, feeling my heart accelerate just a little as I remembered how close we’d come to kissing earlier.

  What a sharp disappointment that had been. My lips practically ached to touch his. Looking at him now only made that ache deeper, made it reach all the way down into the deepest places inside me.

  He was wearing a pair of dark-grey Nike sweatpants. They were a little big so they dipped incredibly low on his hips. The drawstring wasn’t tied and the white ends trailed down, peeking from beneath the white shirt that clung to his body. I wondered what he would do if I grabbed hold of those strings, if I gave them a tug. Would he follow? Would he press me up against the counter and kiss me senseless?

  He still hadn’t shaved so the bottom half of his face was shadowed and prickly looking. He looked tired around his eyes and I wondered how much sleep he really got the night before.

  Maybe I should’ve asked him what he was doing here in the middle of the night, but I didn’t really care. I trusted him; I knew him. No, I guess I didn’t know him, not in a traditional sense. I didn’t know his favorite movie. I didn’t know about his hobbies, his past, or his job.

  But what I did know was far more important.

  I knew the type of man he was.

  I could spend years with a man and still never learn the kinds of things I already learned about Nathan. We’d already been through the kind of situation that showed what people were made of. We’d already been through an event that totally bonded us.

  The rest was just details.

  As I mentioned before. I’m a writer. I’m a romantic. Go with it, people.

  Nathan was the kind of guy who would literally stick his neck out for someone who needed help. He was the kind of man who wouldn’t run from a dangerous situation. He barely flinched when I told the police what Lex had done to me, and while I could feel the anger that sometimes simmered just beneath his surface, I knew that he would never turn that anger on me.

  I was safe with him.

  “Nice place,” he said, looking around my simple kitchen with the dark cabinets, dark-green countertops, and black appliances.

  “Thanks.” It wasn’t a palace, but it was comfortable, and I was able to buy it off the money I made from my books. Never in a million years did I think my dream would afford me enough to live without having to work a day job. I owed it all to my readers.

  That thought gave me a little pang of guilt. Those readers were probably wondering what happened to me.

  “Honor?” Nathan asked, watching me closely.

  I smiled and extended the knife toward him. “Wanna help?”

  “I usually don’t make pie. I just eat it,” he said as he took the utensil.

  “You eat, you cook.”

  He saluted me. “Aye-aye.”

  I showed him the apples. “You can peel these.”

  We worked silently side by side. I liked having him here. Even though he didn’t say much, it wasn’t so quiet anymore.

  After I rolled out the crust and draped it in the pie pan, I added the sugar and smidge of flour to the sliced apples. Then I reached for the cinnamon and after I added a tablespoon, I went to set it down.

  “It needs more.” Nathan observed.

  “You like cinnamon?” I asked, intrigued.

  He nodded. I grinned. “Me too. I always add extra, but I wasn’t sure if you’d like it or not.”

  “Add it in there, woman.”

  I added another generous heap.

  “That’s the stuff,” he said.

  After it was all tossed together, I poured it all in the crust and added the top layer, crimping the edges and cutting a few slits in the top. Nathan watched me carefully as I added an egg wash and sprinkled extra sugar over the top.

  When it was done, he held open the oven door as I slid in the pie to bake.

  “Want some coffee?” I asked.

  Once we both had coffee with generous amounts of cinnamon creamer, I led him into the living room where I settled on the couch. He sat down beside me and I was glad he was close. That’s one of the things I liked so much about Nathan. There was an unapologetic honesty about him. A “this is who I am” attitude. He didn’t sit farther away from me because he was nervous or because he thought it would be more appropriate. He did what he wanted.

  I was really hoping he wanted me.

  “Wanna tell me about your dream?” he asked quietly.

  I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into me. I think one of the reasons I loved coffee so much was just because I liked holding the warm cup. “Not really.”

  He nodded and didn’t press. “How’s the ribs?”

  “Peachy.”

  He chuckled. “When’s my pie gonna be ready?”

  “Your pie?” I asked and arched a brow.

  “Do you often make apple pie in the middle of the night?”

  “All the time.” I scoffed.

  He grinned. He knew I was lying.

  “Will the dreams go away?” I whispered.

  His smile slipped away. He sat forward and placed his mug on the coffee table and turned his body toward me. “I hope so.”

  “You have them too,” I said, knowing his understanding went far beyond empathy.

  “Sometimes.”

  I glanced at the scars on his face. Then I leaned my cheek against the cushions. “You should tell me about your problems. It’ll make me feel better.”

  He chuckled. “Hearing about someone else’s drama will make you feel better?”

  “Yep.”

  I thought he might tell me to bug off.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I really do.”

  “I work as an armor man in the Marines. I’m in charge of inspecting the weapons, cleaning them, putting them together properly, stuff like that. A couple years ago, my unit deployed to Afghanistan. It’s a rough country. A hellhole really. The Corps’s presence over there was fairly new when I was sent. There wasn’t much in the way of comfort. We hadn’t been there long enough to get things fully set up. We didn’t have phones, the Internet was shoddy, and mostly we slept in tents.”

  I listened aptly, taking it all in, and the writer in me constructed a setting in my head that went along with his words.

  “I’m not a grunt, meaning I don’t fight on the front lines… but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t danger.”

  “I would think being there was danger enough. For anyone,” I said.

  He nodded. “For some more than others. It really just depends on the person’s billet—their job.”

  I nodded and he continued. “One night the guys were short staffed and due out for patrol. It’s basically routine—some guys go out and walk the perimeter of the base. They check certain areas, make sure our security is still tight. Make sure no enemy threat is lurking or lying in wait.”

  “Right,” I agreed and took a sip of my coffee. The sound of his voice was incredible. I could listen to him talk for hours and not once get bored. There was a richness in his tone, a southern lilt that made his words a little more drawn out than most of the people that lived in this area.

  “I volunteered to go with them, me and a couple other guys. We got some weapons and all of us headed out, small groups of us going in different directions.”

  He got this faraway look in his eyes, and I knew he was going back there, that whatever scene he was reliving replayed vividly in his mind. I scooted a little closer, something pushing me forward, like I instinctively knew he was going to need the comfort.

  “It was pretty typical at first, us just patrolling, making sure everything was fine. And it was. Until we were attacked.”r />
  His voice took on a more gravelly tone. “I was out with two other guys, good guys. Young guys. They had their entire lives ahead of them. One of them just had a baby. All he could talk about was getting home to meet his baby girl.”

  Please, God, tell me he made it home.

  “We were on the far side of the base, near the weaponry tent. We didn’t keep too much else around the weapons. It was just a safety precaution. There were a few tents here and there, as was the tent I spent a lot of my time in, readying weapons. It was night, so there weren’t many men around. Most were at chow or already bunked down for the night.

  “Everything seemed fine and we were about to head back toward the other side of base when I caught a slight sound. The sound of a weapon being cocked. I knew that sound. I knew it better than most. I heard it hundreds of times a day. It was my job to know that sound.

  “I pivoted toward the sound, only it wasn’t coming from within the base—it was coming from outside our boundaries.”

  A look of sheer despair crossed his face, and I reached out, wrapping my hand around his. He looked down to where my hand touched his. Without saying anything, he threaded our fingers together and gave mine a gentle squeeze.

  Then his brows knit together when he took in the bruise and rash across the top of my hand. He lifted my arm and pressed a soft kiss to the irritated area. “IV?” he asked once his lips left my skin.

  I nodded. “I have sensitive skin. That tape was brutal.”

  “I should have watched the nurse.”

  “You did more than enough for me,” I told him.

  His thumb began to make slow circles across the back of my hand, and his eyes began to slip away once more. “I called a warning as enemy fire started peppering the sand around our feet. We all dropped to the ground and returned fire, but it was so dark out there it was hard to know where to aim. I listened for the popping of gunfire and aimed in the direction of the sound.”

  “If this is too hard,” I told him gently, not wanting to hurt him further by making him speak.

  He shook his head. I think he wanted to get it out there.