“You’re beautiful enough,” Si adds, all flippant and cool before he goes on. “Did he tell you his brilliant plan?”
“Other than me laying low at his place upstate? No.”
“We’re supposed to pretend you’re my girlfriend. We met online and this is our first time meeting in person. We decided it was finally time for you to come stay with me.”
“Ah-uh. Interesting.” I let out a deep breath and for once embrace the ache in my ribs. It reminds me that I’m not in good enough shape to jump on Scott’s shoulders and snap his neck.
“It makes sense,” Si says. His tone is flat, but he sounds like he actually believes we should go along with this stupid plan. He sounds like he’s annoyed that Scott was smart enough to come up with the idea first.
“Really?” I say, tilting my head. “Does it?”
“Well it’s pretty bootleg witness protection, but if you’re trying to stay out of sight for awhile it wouldn’t make sense for me to tell anyone who you really are. Unless you want me to.”
I push my knuckles up under my chin for a second and reconsider every moment I’ve ever spent with Scott and how badly I want to chase him down whatever dirt road he just pulled off on so I can cuss him clean the fuck out. “I don’t. I have a family and friends I’m worried about. It’s better if no one knows where I am.”
“So that’s settled. How do you want to do this?”
“What do you mean ‘how do you want to do this?’ Do you want to pretend I’m your girlfriend? Are you okay with me coming into your life like this? We’re going to your home. I assume you have at least a few friends, maybe some coworkers you go drinking with. I don’t want to mess up whatever you have going on. You and Scott don’t seem all that close, and it looks like he wouldn’t have a clue if I was screwing with any part of your life.”
“You’re not,” he says.
“Okay, well. Do you have any weird shit that I should know about since I’m going to be staying in your house? Shit a girlfriend should know about?”
“Not really and it won’t matter. You won’t see me much.”
I don’t know how to respond to that.
He sighs. “I just mean, it’s more than just a farm. We have a country mart, a little cafe, animals—I’m busy. I can’t babysit you.”
“Wait. Time out. You own a farm?”
Si finally looks at me, his mouth hanging open. “He didn’t tell you anything.”
“He just said he had a place upstate.”
“Unbelievable. He’s a piece of shit,” he adds under his breath. “Yes, I own a farm. It’s our family farm.”
“You have no life because you spend all of your time dealing with the farm?”
“Exactly. I hope boring works for you in a make-believe boyfriend.”
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever. I mean, thank you. You didn’t have to do this and it wasn’t right for Scott to not be upfront with you about whatever plan he was cooking up.”
“We can agree there. You ready?”
“I guess. You can tell me about yourself on the way there and we can make up a nice little backstory for me.”
“Awesome,” he says. He already regrets this. “You want me to call you by your real name or do you have an alias you’ve been saving for a moment just like this?”
“Not sure I’ll actually respond to any other names,” I tell him honestly, but immediately something comes to mind. “Ebie. Like the letters E and B.”
“Ebie. Done.”
“Should I call you Si?” I ask
“No,” he says. “Only Scott calls me that. Silas McInroy. Owner of McInroy’s Farm. Great to meet you.” He doesn’t shake my hand or anything though. He just starts his pick-up truck and backs out of the lot.
We’re both quiet again for a few minutes after Silas pulls out of the gas station. We drive down a dark road, illuminated by the moonlight overhead. I have questions, but I don’t know where to start. Also, the longer I spend sitting next to this man, the more aware I become of him. He is large. So large and nothing like Scott, even though I can see the stark resemblance in their facial features. I like Scott, I do, but he’s such a fucking obnoxious man in the way he walks and takes up space. And Scott never shuts up. He doesn’t talk over me, but if the opportunity is there, Scott’s mouth is open.
Silas is comfortable with silence. He doesn’t even turn on the radio. I glance at him and then turn my eyes back to the road. I can’t remember the last time I was somewhere so quiet and empty.
“You allergic to dogs?” he asks out of nowhere.
“I don’t think so. Why, you have a dog?”
“We have five. A few wander a bit and usually sleep near the barns. Two sleep in the house. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“As long as they aren’t face-biting dogs that can smell fear, we should be fine.”
“No, they don’t bite. They should lose interest in you pretty quickly. I will be busy, but tomorrow, in the afternoon after you get some rest, I’ll take you around and introduce you to everyone.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“The farm is like a little city. People are curious and nosy. It’s better if I introduce you to everyone who works on the farm and give them strict instructions not to bother you once they’ve seen your face. Otherwise, one person will get a whiff of a visitor and people will start showing up while you’re trying to sleep or work just to introduce themselves.”
“Ah okay. Small town nosy.”
“Yes,” he says as we come to the most quaint country four-way stop. There’s no one out. It’s the dead of night, but he stops anyway and waits a few beats before proceeding through the intersection.
“You have any hobbies? Things you like. I see you’re a Jets fan.”
He glances over at me and smiles. I almost gasp. It’s Scott’s smile, but about fifty times sexier for a whole host of reasons. “You a Pats fan or something?”
“Not much into sportsball,” I say. “But I do enjoy the occasional Yankees game.”
“Well in that respect we’ll get along just fine. Anything you hate? Things I shouldn’t do that will get me smacked?”
“I can’t remember the last time I actually smacked someone, so just don’t be a piece of shit and I think we’ll get along just fine.”
“Fair enough.”
He’s quiet again for a bit and then we hit the first real signs of civilization. A few cute houses pop up on the right side of the road. On the left are sprawling fields. Further down the road I see the first sign for Mom’s Apple Orchard. A cute white fence lines the road, closing in rows and rows of trees. The next sign I see is for Boot’s Farm, then a sign for Hoyt’s Farm and Country Tavern.
“It’s a bit of an apple town.”
“You own an apple farm?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Huh. Interesting.” I look back out the window and watch as we pass three more farms and a sort of strip mall that features several different restaurants made up to look like a street in an Old West town. Finally I see it. The sign for McInroy’s farm. Below the giant cutout of an apple with white letters scrawled across it are smaller white signs. U-Pick. Cafe. Petting Zoo. Cannery. I realize a moment too late that I’ve made a little noise. It’s a noise I’m not sure I’ve made me before, a gasp of genuine excitement. I glance back over at Silas. I’m sure he heard me, but his expression is blank and his eyes are still on the road.
Silas slows down and he keeps driving another three blocks or so to an unmarked road. He pulls in and we drive down a long, wide dirt road until we get to a for real white farmhouse with a wrap around porch with a porch swing. It has charming black shutters and everything. There’s even a large tree with a tire swing right out front. As we get closer, I can hear dogs barking and sure enough, two dogs jump off the porch and come running toward the truck.
Silas comes to a stop. “Don’t be afraid of the dogs. They won’t jump on you. They just greet everyone who drives up.”
“Good
alarm system too, I guess,” I say instead of “they better not, ’cause I’m not above kicking a dog in self defense.”
“Come on.”
I climb out of the truck and wait as Silas grabs my duffle out of the back. I reach for it, but he ignores me. Sure enough, a golden retriever and something that looks like a lab pitbull mix come sprinting up to us and are all over him, but aren’t so interested in me.
“This is Morty and Gala.” He pets them both for a moment, cooing at them like they are his most precious babies, before he snaps his fingers and tells them to go sit. On command, both dogs run over to the far end of the porch and go back to their guard duties. I watch them as he opens the screen door and the red door beyond that. It isn’t locked. He gestures for me to enter and I step into a large front room, with a long staircase. All the lights in the front of the house are off, but there’s some illumination coming from the end of the long hall. If I didn’t know he lived there for a fact, I’d think the place was abandoned. I can’t see much, but even a quick glance in the near dark tells me no one has been in the dining room off to the left in years, same for the sitting room off to our right. I can’t see it, but I can just feel the dust. The place feels haunted.
“There are technically two bedrooms upstairs, but they don’t have any beds you’d want to sleep in,” he says. I almost jump at the sound of his voice. I don’t like it here.
“You don’t have overnight guests.”
“No. Hey Joe Namath.” My heart almost stops as he says the words. We’re in this creepy ass house and now he’s hallucinating retired football players, but when I look down the hall again I see an old golden retriever ambling into the foyer. The dog stops, then looks at Silas and me before he turns around and heads back to whatever room he came from.
“Hmm.”
“I'm dealing with people all day. I don't need houseguests. Those running from the mob excluded.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Come this way.”
I close the front door behind me and lock it on instinct, then follow him down the hall to what turns out to be his bedroom. I don't want to call him a hoarder. I can see all his furniture. There's a king size bed with a nice Shaker style headboard. The bed is big enough to accommodate his height and the whole situation with his muscle mass, which is good. There’s no footboard. There’s a dresser, two big wooden chairs with leather cushions, and there is just shit everywhere. Clothes and sneakers and boots. Papers, antique crap like glass jars and old wooden crates. There are clothes spilling out of the closet. It won’t close.
There's a little stack of receipts on top of the AC unit being weighed down by a toy tractor. It's not a big deal, but I know he's not joking when he says he doesn't have company. There’s a large, shaggy copper furred dog sleeping on top of the pile of clothes in the chair. It cracks an eye open, but otherwise ignores us. Silas ignores the dog too so I decide to ask about it while I keep looking around.
“The bathroom is right through there.” He points toward a half open door. There were three towels hanging over it. “It's not clean, but I’ll call someone to come scrub it down tomorrow.”
“You don't have to,” I say.
“Go have a look for yourself.”
I set down my purse on the leather chair that doesn’t have a dog in it, then walk to the bathroom door. I find the light switch and also find that at the very least Silas is not one to exaggerate. The bathroom is nasty. It’ll do in a pinch, but I know I’ll die from long term exposure to whatever is growing in the corner of his shower. And I realize I have no idea what color the sink really is. I turn around and face him.
“Like I said, I'll have someone come clean it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“There's a couch in the living room. I'm not gonna make you sleep there, but I'm not sleeping out there either. I need real rest. Hope you’re okay with that.”
I think about the couch for a second and decide a night in a bed with a stranger will be better than a night on another piece of lumpy furniture alone in this creepy ass house.
“We’re both adults,” I say. “And I don't have a groping problem. As long as you’re cool keeping your hands to yourself, I’m fine sharing the bed.”
“I’m not going to touch you,” he says before he turns his back.
I stand there a little dumbstruck as Silas steps out of his boots and socks and starts unbuttoning his jeans. I take that as a cue that it’s time for bed. I risk toxic shock and step back into the bathroom to change, wrap my hair and brush my teeth. When I come back out, Silas is laying on his back on top of the covers, looking at something on his phone. I try not to check him out, but it’s hard. He’s so large and even though his boxers are fairly loose, I cannot ignore the situation down there. Friend is packing something serious.
I clear my throat and try to stash my hormones before I dig out my phone charger.
“There’s an outlet right there,” he says pointing toward the wall near the dresser.
“Thanks.” I plug in my phone, then text Brook.
I’m where I needed to be. I’m safe.
She responds immediately.
Okay good. I’m still worried. Text me tomorrow.
Keep me in the loop as much as you can.
I will. Love you.
I set my cell down on top of a tattered copy of an Old Farmer’s Almanac from 1975. Then I turn around. Silas is looking at me with his hands across his chest. We’re just going to sleep. I’m hiding from people who literally want me dead, but my body doesn’t seem to give any kind of a shit. I feel a heat I haven’t felt in a long time wash over me. It stops directly between my legs.
“If we met online it would be this fucking awkward, right?” I say.
He shrugs, his lips tipping down. “This isn’t awkward for me. You want to get in bed so I can turn off this light?”
I glare at him, but cross the bit of exposed, tattered area rug and sit down on the edge of the bed. He turns off the light before I lie back, and my eyes quickly adjust to the moonlight that is streaming through his bedroom curtains. The curtains have also seen much better days.
“Goodnight,” he says, his voice sounding a little deeper than it was a moment before.
I mean to roll away from him before I respond, but that part of my brain that’s in charge takes over and rolls toward the heat of Silas’s body. My arm brushes his. I pull it away and clear my throat.
“Goodnight.”
Five
Silas
I should have slept on the couch.
I also should have beat Scott’s ass. When he called me and told me to meet him at the old Getty, I knew whatever he had going on was something serious. I haven’t heard from him in almost a year. Not that a cursory “Happy Birthday, Fuck Head” counts as quality communication, but it’s his way of doing things, an excuse to let me know that he is still alive. Scott leaves me the fuck alone. I leave him the fuck alone. It works best for both of us.
Yeah, when I left the farm I was expecting something big. He did sound pretty panicked and insistent on the phone, but I was expecting something along the lines of him asking me to stash a dufflebag full of cash for some shady client.
Or his famous move, the old twin identity swap. No one would mistake me for him these days, but doesn’t mean that would stop him from trying. When he stepped out of his car, he looked like he’d exchanged his gym membership for a steady diet of speed. But of all the shit that came to mind when my piece of shit brother’s number popped on my phone, him showing up with one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen was not one of them. I was really contemplating punching Scott right in his fucking face when he told me that I had to do something for him, that he needed my help. My fist was twitching when he said he actually expected me to let some woman he worked with in the city come live at my fucking house until he figured out exactly who was after her and why.
This was always Scott’s problem. Nothing is ever simple with him. That’s why
I stay away. I get that the cops aren’t always the most reliable. We of all people should know how badly they fuck up. That doesn’t mean he needs to try his hand at vigilante work. I asked him flat out who this woman was and when he told me it didn’t matter, she was in trouble, I almost walked, until she stepped out of his car and I knew something was wrong. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks and she was limping a little bit, but that didn’t change the fact that she was fucking beautiful. Statuesque, with curves for days and beautiful dark brown skin that seemed to glow even under the shitty lights of the Getty. I knew exactly why Scott was calling in this favor. He wants to fuck her. When it was clear he was lying to us both, I decided to put me and this woman out of our misery.
It was obvious she needed some sort of help and I needed to get the hell away from Scott before I did something I would regret, or at least never hear the last of when our mom found out. I knew I’d regret bringing her into my house, but I didn’t really regret it until about two hours ago. People think people who live alone are lonely because they can’t wrap their minds around the idea that they could possibly enjoy being alone. I do. I like being alone. It’s fucking glorious.
It’s been awhile since I’ve shared a bed with a woman for any period of time. Years since I’ve spent the night with a woman, just sleeping and now I remember why. I like my damn space. I have no idea why Liz—or Ebie, as she asked me to call her—even made the comment about groping and personal space. It’s almost two a.m. and she is glued to my side. To make matters worse, Honeycrisp, who has slept in the same chair since I got her from the Browns, decides to join us and has wedged herself on the sheets between our feet. I’ve gone from sleeping alone to sleeping with a strange woman and a dog who’s had philosophical differences with me since day one.
SANCTUARY: Beards & Bondage Page 5