by Lindy Zart
He flicked his wrist before raising a hand to his forehead, the gesture absentminded. He didn’t speak until his arm was lowered at his side once more. “How about I show you the trophy room?”
Trophy room? Why would he want to show her a trophy room? Without knowing his real name or what he looked like, anyone could be reclined in the chair a few feet away. She knew he had money, and now she knew he was exceptional at something. Beth stood on legs that felt heavy and uncooperative. She supposed if he didn’t want to talk about himself, she could get a feel of him from the objects that made up his world. Of course, maybe the trophy room would be empty of anything, much like the entryway. A trophy room without trophies. It wouldn’t surprise her.
“Okay. Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want,” he repeated slowly. A bitter sound left him. “If only it were that easy.”
His response was puzzling. What did he mean by that? The longer she was in the same room as him, the more peculiar he seemed. Beth didn’t like anything that could not be explained. To her, there had to be an answer for everything. Even this man whose face and name she did not know.
He placed his hands on the armrests in preparation of standing. His muscles bunched, repressed strength visible in the forearms. His form hardened to stone. “When you signed the contract, you agreed to keep my anonymity. No one is to know you’re here, or who I am.”
She wanted to tell him that in a town like Crystal Lake, his identity probably wouldn’t remain a secret for long. The town was like a swarm of aggressive bees, and they stung before they were aware of what they were stinging.
“Do you understand?”
Beth’s lips parted at his words, more because she was finally going to be able to put a face, and possibly a name, to the voice. She studied his arms, noticed the faint tremble as his muscles held a pose they no longer wanted to. Who are you? What face do you hide? Her heart pounded a dull, heavy beat.
Around a dry throat, she said quietly, “Yes. I know. And I won’t tell anyone who you are. I promise.”
In the silence that followed, she knew he weighed her words, her tone, deciding if he would trust her. And then when she felt like she would go mad from the stalemate, he stood, revealing unkempt red hair that was sun-streaked with lighter shades of red, blond, and a hint of gold. It was like looking at fire. Rumpled waves hung over a high forehead, a bit of mutiny on an otherwise reserved man. Pale eyebrows were presently lowered over empty eyes—black eyes.
There were lines around his chiseled mouth, darkness beneath the fathomless eyes staring at her. He dissected her as she did the same to him. The air got colder, as though his gaze sucked everything warm from the room. Beth swallowed, and swallowed again, fighting for air that wasn’t there. Her stomach swooped, settled, and dipped again. He was lovely, like the sharpest blade, the agilest panther. The most destructive tornado. Lovely and deadly.
The man’s cheekbones were slanted slashes of bone across an intimidating face, his jaw narrow yet strong, proud. He was cuttingly attractive, but the coldness evident in his face detracted from it. And he was too thin, the height of his frame making it more so. Beth was five and a half feet tall, and he had to be close to a foot over that. She guessed him to be in his mid to late thirties, the hardness of his appearance possibly adding years that weren’t there.
Beth felt like she should know him, recognize him from somewhere, but there was nothing there.
Something happened to his eyes. They narrowed, lightened to the darkest brown, crinkles forming around them. If eyes could smile, she’d say his were, faintly, grudgingly. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Brushing a hand over the top of her blonde hair, she shook her head and dropped her hand. “Other than you obviously being a guy…”
His eyes narrowed.
“I mean…” Not knowing what she was trying to say and deciding the least she said, the better, she ended with, “Not a clue.”
A grin, crooked and unexpected, flashed across his mouth. “That’s what I was counting on. Follow me.”
It took her ten seconds to remember to draw air into her lungs, the hint of boyishness she’d witnessed in his smile making her stomach swoop and fog form in her head. It tossed away years from him, and built up a wall of ammunition against her sensitive bearing. She’d always been a sucker for a pretty smile—one twist of Ozzy’s lips and Beth forgave him almost anything. This man’s smile was more disarming than pleasant, and she instinctively knew he wouldn’t do anything that he felt necessitated an apology.
Beth tugged at the hem of her shirt that was down as far as it could go, needing a shield that wasn’t available, and hurried after him. He made her feel inside out and upside down. She didn’t want to get lost in the house, fearing if she did, that would be the end of her, and any future contact with the outside world. She’d be stuck with a brooding, intimidating, unstable man. She didn’t want that unless it was by choice.
“HOW DO YOU like the area?” Beth asked lamely as they walked.
He shot a look over his shoulder, showing swooped down eyebrows and a frown. Without a word, he faced forward, clearly dismissing her and her question.
“I take it, really well then,” she muttered to his back.
The stranger’s shoulders stiffened and released within the span of a second, but she caught it.
“I’ve lived here my whole life. The most entertainment we have is trying to determine if the current gossip of the day has any truth to it or not. It usually doesn’t,” she added.
He didn’t reply.
Her mouth, without first asking her brain, had decided to fill the awkward silence with even more awkward conversation. Beth pressed her lips together and hoped they stayed that way, at least for a little while.
She studied his shoulders as they walked, her footsteps sounding uncannily like her pounding heart. His shoulders were wide, telling a tale of muscle, once known even if no longer there. Hair curled up on either side of his neck, like the strands were trying to hug his skin. He didn’t walk—he ambled—a predator lazily prowling its domain, knowing prey was near, and his. Like Beth was his. She blinked. She wasn’t completely repulsed by the thought. There was something about the broadness of his shoulders and back, the multifaceted strands of his hair, the darkness in his eyes and the distance in his expression.
Everything about him told her to stay away, and yet, something in the man called to her on some level she didn’t entirely understand, but also didn’t think she should ignore.
“Stare any harder and maybe you’ll get lucky and see all of my secrets,” he taunted without turning.
Her eyes jerked away from him as he took a turn down the hallway she’d earlier avoided. She didn’t want him to think she was watching him with such intensity because she was fascinated by his appearance of mystery and aloofness, although she was. Beth wanted to know his secrets. She wanted to delve into the blackness of his mind and find the light within, however small, however dim, and learn his thoughts.
They walked through a dining room with sky blue walls that housed only a rectangular table and six chairs, not even a picture on the walls. Every room was missing something, as if someone had started to set them up and then abandoned the mission. She wanted to ask why, and instead made a flippant remark. Damn her nerves that made her talk first and think second.
“I like your minimalistic decorating sense. It shouts: space is underrated.”
The man paused and lifted an eyebrow, his expression telling her she’d have to do better than that to get a verbal reply out of him.
The tall windows let in blinding white light, showing a view of a snow-capped countryside. The outside was overtaken by a blanket of white fluff, like someone stood in the clouds and dumped powdered sugar on the world. Unease weaved down her spine and dwelled in her stomach, growing into a pool of worry. How would she make it home later?
“Do you know how much snow we’re supposed to get?” Her voice was faint, scratchy.
Beth cleared her throat.
“No,” he replied abruptly, continuing through a doorway on the right.
She frowned. “Don’t you keep track of the weather?”
“Do you? If so, you wouldn’t be asking me if I know how much snow we’re supposed to get.”
His offhand answer was correct, and it put a sour taste in her mouth. She ignored his words. “How do you ever know if it’s okay to go anywhere?”
“I don’t need to know what the weather’s like. There’s no reason for me to go anywhere.” The words were hard, and brooked no further discussion.
“Why not?” she demanded, pretending she hadn’t heard the closed off tone in his voice. When he didn’t answer, she went on. “But you have to have a radio, or a television…”
“No television.”
Beth’s footsteps momentarily faltered. It was inconceivable. Who would intentionally go without a television? Not that she watched a lot of it, but she liked knowing that if she wanted to plop down in front of her television and vegetate, the option was available. How did he know what was going on outside of his house? Maybe that was the point—maybe he didn’t want to know. She opened her mouth to comment on it, but then she saw where they were.
The trophy room.
And it was full of trophies.
Stagnant air constricted her throat, thick from being still for too long. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but the unpleasantness made its way up to her nose. Plaques and statues took up most of the space, gleaming gold, copper, and silver under the gauzy overhead light. There was no order to them, almost like they’d been dumped wherever and forgotten. Uncared for; an obligated, unwanted display.
Beth tried to focus her eyes, to remove the fuzzy lines from everywhere she looked. She coughed, realizing it was dust. She was breathing in dust, smelling it, looking at it, being suffocated by it.
“There’s a fan.” He brushed past her, flipping a switch.
His shirt sleeve barely touched hers as he swept by and it felt like a spark ignited in the space between them. Beth shivered and rubbed her arms in the chill that followed. He paused, his eyes shooting to hers as if he felt the charge too. The whir of blades sounded, pushing around the dusty air. Neither spoke, neither moved. It was a perfectly tense instant full of unmentionables.
Beth was the first to look away, training her attention on the mess around them as she fought to steady her nerves. She didn’t have to ask how often he came here. Rarely, if he ever had. Why boast about a trophy room he didn’t care enough about to enter? Why show her something he clearly neglected? Rubbing at her stinging eyes, Beth leaned down and squinted at the closest award. It said something about a national football league and was addressed to a name.
Harrison Caldwell.
“Your name is Harrison Caldwell.” It was a question, but it came out as a statement. The name didn’t mean anything to her; sparked no knowledge of who he was. It wouldn’t, though, if he was a football player. She didn’t follow sports.
Beth looked at his clenched fists, tried to imagine them wrapped around a football.
“Yes.”
Harrison stared unseeingly at a spot beyond her shoulder. She studied his dark brown eyes; wondering what they saw, because it wasn’t anything in this room. His eyes were glazed, like he was only halfway with her, the other part of him in some faraway place only he could witness. He was fractured. It seemed an apt description of the man.
“You asked why I hired you.”
She started to nod, and then stopped. He wasn’t looking at her.
“You had no idea who I am. You still don’t, although I am smart enough to realize your ignorance won’t be for much longer.” His tone was faint, and then hard. He shifted his gaze to her. The singular focus with which he watched her was unnerving. “That’s why I contacted you, and that’s why I hired you.”
Beth swallowed. “But…how would you know that? I don’t—I don’t understand.” She heard the tremble in her words, and wished he hadn’t.
He shook his head, nothingness replacing the heat of seconds before. He raised a hand, and just as quickly let it drop. “You don’t need to. But when you leave here, Beth, and you do your research, just remember that you already signed a contract to write my story. There is no backing out at this time. It’s too late.”
Shocked to hear her name pass his lips, and not sure why, she lowered her gaze. Her pulse beat out of tune, electrocuted into a song it didn’t recognize. Beth’s name on Harrison’s mouth sounded like an endearment to her ears, which was silly. It was her name. All he did was say her name. But that voice, with just the right inflection, and it went from a name to more.
“You’re a football player.”
“Was.”
She crossed the room to put greater distance between them. Standing that close to him felt dangerous to her. He’d suck her up into his vortex, and that would be the end of Beth; she might not even care. She stopped near the door, her limbs firmer with an escape only a few steps away.
“I don’t know a lot about sports, but aren’t you young to be retired?”
He didn’t reply, moving toward her. Beth went still, her pulse escalating. He got closer. And closer. His face was a mask, giving away nothing of his emotions, but his eyes did. They burned, scalded. Made her body weightless, spun her heart around and around in her chest. Her lungs were singed, and she feared if she didn’t break eye contact soon, there would be nothing but a pile of ashes in her place. And yet her eyes remained a hostage of his.
When he was close enough to touch her, he abruptly turned and left the room. She blew out a noisy breath of relieved air and rubbed her forehead. He made her jumpy, and she couldn’t breathe properly when he looked at her a certain way—the way he just had. Beth dropped her hand and frowned, studying how it trembled. She clenched it into a fist, refusing to consider what her reactions to him meant. They weren’t all bad. His words told her to stay away, but his aura said otherwise.
“Are you coming?” Harrison called, irritation prickling his words.
She flinched at the barbed tone and went in pursuit of him, finding him back in the initial room in which they’d met. Her eyes flicked to the coffee in longing. Coffee was good on cold days, but coffee was just as good on all the days.
He stood facing the bookcase, his long fingers traveling along the spines of the books. It was a gesture that could be easily overlooked if someone wasn’t paying attention, but she was. It was reverent, loving. Harrison was a reader, which meant he was a thinker.
She’d always felt a certain kind of loneliness, a trickle of sadness, with Ozzy, who didn’t read. Beth was never able to discuss books with him and how she interpreted them, or find out what he thought they meant. Beth wasn’t able to talk about likes and dislikes of the story, and what knowledge was learned from reading it. She read, and she kept the magic of the stories locked inside her, cherished only by her. Books needed to be shared with others. She longed for that connection, however small it seemed. It meant something to her.
Beth was a thinker as well, a dreamer. Knowing she and Harrison had something in common made her head spin. She was in the presence of an anomaly, a contradiction. There were words, and there was tone, and there were expressions, and there was body language. All of his were at odds with one another.
“Help yourself to the coffee.”
Not needing further encouragement, Beth poured a cup of the steaming black liquid, adding a hefty amount of creamer and sugar. She stirred it, the coffee tone changing from black to milky chocolate. Biting back a moan of ecstasy at the strong, smooth flavor, Beth resumed her place near her laptop. The coffee warmed her, muted the cold clinging to her frame.
Harrison’s fingers paused on a black, hardcover book, and he pulled it from the row, leaving a slim crevice to mark its spot among the others. He paused with the book in hand, his head bowed. Time ticked off a nearby clock, holding his large body enthralled. Though he stood stiff and unmoving, Beth not
iced weariness about him, possibly bleakness. His shoulders weren’t straight; a twist of discord seemed ever present on his mouth. She shook the illusion away. Her eyes were malfunctioning, probably from the lack of coffee needed to jumpstart her senses.
Harrison turned and outstretched his hand, nothing but shadows and blankness meeting her gaze. “I want you to read this until it’s time to go.”
“But I’m not—I’m here to write, not read.” Beth set down the coffee cup and stared at the book. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes. You’ve said that. I remember, and I hope that isn’t your favorite saying, but if it is, find a better one.” He looked from the book to her, carefully motionless while the energy around him hummed with the need to move. “Take it. And read it.”
“You’re giving me homework?” Confusion formed a line between her eyebrows. Beth barely got through having to do homework during high school and college, and that was to graduate. Homework from anyone else was abhorrent, even if she was getting paid to do it.
“Think of it as a personality enhancer.”
Beth studied his hand as she stood and slowly accepted the book. The palm was wide, the fingers unbelievably long. It was a graceful hand, elegant and strong. A dusting of red and gold hairs covered the base of it. His hand fell away, like an unfelt caress against fevered skin, and Beth swallowed, feeling the touch in the air between them.
Impossible, she told herself.
“Yours or mine?” Beth grumbled.
Harrison blinked. “What?”
The book was heavy, bulky with unread words. Beth took a much needed breath of air and trained her attention on the book. Her eyes traced the gold cursive letters that spelled ‘In the Storm’. Just looking at it made her depressed. She was betting it was dull rubbish that made the reader either contemplate life a great deal, or fall asleep—not the kind of light, fun entertainment she went for. Beth wanted to read about happy things, because reality was full of a lot of unhappy ones.
“Nothing. Why am I reading this?” she asked, her eyes down.