Wynter's Horizon

by Dee C. May

  He ran his hands over his face. “I don’t know, Wynter. I thought I had it all worked out, but now, here with you, I don’t know anymore.”

  My stomach lurched, my new-found confidence crumbling. I felt self-conscious, but I pushed anyway. “Are you just not attracted to me?”

  His eyes widened in disbelief. “Is that what you think? That I don’t like you?”

  I shrugged. “You haven’t given me a reason to think anything else.”

  The waitress appeared with our check, and we left silently. As he walked me back to my apartment, he kept glancing at me sideways, a perplexed look on his face.

  I turned to him as I exited the elevator and stepped toward my door, making one last ditch effort. “You know, Beck—”

  I didn’t finish the sentence, stunned as he pulled me to him and kissed me, his mouth fierce and ruthless on mine. If he intended to scare me, it didn’t work.

  I dropped my bag of leftovers in the doorway, pushing into him as I ran my hands though his hair, fisting them there. He didn’t stop, and I didn’t want him to. His mouth demanded more and I gave readily. The heat rose within me. I wrapped one leg around him and molded my body to his. Pulling my head back, he kissed my neck from ear to collarbone. My skin felt on fire. I dragged his mouth back to mine. His hand found its way under my sweater, and my nerves exploded as his fingers grazed my breast, stroking my nipple through my bra. It immediately hardened under his touch. My body pulsed for him.

  He stopped, pulling his mouth from mine, and eased me slowly away. I reached a hand out, steadying myself on the door jam. My breath ragged and fast.

  “Wynter—” he whispered.

  “What?” I gulped out.

  “You have no idea what you do to me. What you make me feel—and what I want to do to you.”

  My stomach curled at his words, dancing in anticipation.

  He stepped back, removing his hands, and his eyes became guarded, his voice hard. “I am totally screwed up. Half my qualities … I don’t know what they are but they’re sure as hell not human. Is this what you really want?”

  I reached out to touch his face, and he grabbed my hand halfway there, holding it gently in his.

  “I want you, Beck.” I said it quietly and firmly.

  He shook his head. “Why?”

  I wanted to tell him I loved him, but it seemed like that would probably just make him mad. “Why do you want me?” I countered.

  He didn’t answer, staring at the doorjamb next to me, his eyes unfocused. I waited for him to say something, anything. “We can’t do this.” He released my hand.

  “What?” I closed my eyes in disbelief, the frustration at coming so close rising in my chest.

  “No, no! That’s not what I mean. If we’re going to do this, if I’m going to give in against all better judgment and be with you, I don’t want to do it here like this, not with Brian and Julia in the next room. I want … I want you to come to Newport.”

  I opened my eyes and just stared at him, making sure he wasn’t kidding. He reached out again, his hand hanging in mid-air, inches from my hair, as if he wasn’t sure. My body ached so bad to have him now. His hand came to rest on my shoulder, twisting my hair through his fingers.

  “Do you think I’ll be too loud?” I asked, trying to be coy. Maybe I could convince him not to wait. Who cared how noisy we might be. I heard Brian and Julia all the time.

  He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up into a wide grin. “That little snippet we just had was me giving into about a fraction of my desire for you. I’ve waited a long time for you. Let’s just say, if I give in one hundred percent, well, I don’t know how I’ll be.”

  “Are you going to throw me through a wall?” I joked.

  “I’m going to try not to,” he answered more seriously than I liked. My stomach flipped as I realized he meant it. “Come up this weekend. Thursday, if you can.”

  He cupped my jaw in his hand, his fingers brushing my cheek. “Quinn’s gone for the month to Florida.” He held my eyes for a minute, smiling warmly now and running his knuckle down my cheek.

  “Okay.” My heart skipped a beat at the thought. He bent down, handing me my fallen bag and adjusting his jacket and hair all in one motion as he turned to go.

  I pushed myself up from the doorframe. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”

  He smiled back at me over his shoulder as he stepped into the open elevator. “In the words of Rhett Butler, ‘don’t you think you’ve had enough kissing for one day?’”

  I narrowed my eyes like Scarlett and smirked. “Go. And I don’t care if you ever come back.”

  The elevator doors slid closed, but I could still hear him laughing.

  Chapter Sixty

  Beck—Fruition

  The storm hit just before dusk. The news had been predicting a blizzard with at least a foot of snow, but I knew better than to believe dire weather predictions. Every now and then, though, they nailed it. The snow, which had started as flurries at four p.m., quickly accumulated into six inches by the time I headed back from my meeting in Boston with Drew.

  Quinn called as I turned off Route 138. “I heard you’re getting buried. Feel like Moscow yet?”

  “The Denowitz lift?” I changed the radio station, searching for a traffic report. “That was a thing of beauty.”

  “Not for everybody. Speaking of beauty, how’s Wynter?”

  I just laughed.

  “How did I know that was going to happen?”

  I didn’t bother to respond to that. “Coming home soon?” I hoped he wasn’t going to say tomorrow.

  “Yeah. Sara got called in on a job. We’re heading back after the weekend and then she’s taking off to Brussels. Is your friend visiting?”

  “Yeah.” I cleared my throat and dove in. “We’ve kind of made progress in … some areas.”

  There was an audible pause. I gazed out at the falling snow and wondered if giving in to my desire was the right thing to do. I had reacted Sunday—and succumbed to my own anger that she could think I wasn’t attracted to her. I hadn’t expected her desire to mirror mine. It had taken all my strength to stop. Even now, recalling the moment, my stomach jolted.

  “Well, so much for new resolutions. Didn’t your deep reflection on life tell you that the smartest answer was to stay away from her?”

  I could hear his voice dripping with sarcasm. I contemplated hanging up. “Yeah, well, apparently I’m dumb and have lost all sanity.”

  “All sanity or a little?”

  “All.”

  “Int … er … esting.”

  “What’s interesting is my meeting with Drew. He’s heading to Colombia. He said they’re negotiating for a few weeks, and then they’re going to take them.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him we wanted in and to call us.”

  “Huh. Let’s talk when I get back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, hey, Romeo, good luck.”

  “Whatever.”

  I slid the black box I had picked up in Boston across the passenger seat and opened it. Inside was a silver necklace made in the shape of a moon and star, a replica of the plastic one Wynter had won at the arcade. The star was made of diamonds and sparkled as it nestled in the belly of the moon. I was going to give it to her at dinner.

  The envelope that Drew had given me lay on the seat next to the box. Project One. It had taken a few months, but I had run it down. I wondered what she would say.

  I took my time as I got closer to home, the snow heavier the further south I went. The roads were slippery and the swirling snow made it almost impossible even for me to see. Wynter had a late class on Thursdays and usually didn’t get to Newport until after dark anyway. I stopped to pick up some food and drinks and then headed all the way home.

  I had forgotten to leave on any lights, and the house appeared dark and foreboding. The wind had picked up, and it whistled around the corners as I unlocked the front
door. The light on the answering machine flashed, and I pushed the button as I dropped my parcels. Wynter’s frustrated voice came across the wires, filling the quiet of the house.

  “Beck, I tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up. I’m calling your ancient home phone and leaving a message. Seriously, I can’t believe you still have an answering machine.” I smiled. “Check your phone and make sure it’s on. Anyway, I’m not going to make it. I can’t drive, and Amtrak just closed down and won’t go up there. We have a foot of snow already. It hasn’t stopped, and they say it’s heading up to you. I knew I should have left this morning, but I couldn’t miss that stupid class. Call me when you get this.”

  I grabbed the landline phone, punching in her number while I searched through my pockets for my cell phone. I had just had it in the Jeep. Where the hell had it gone? Her phone rang once and then her voicemail picked up. “Wynter…”

  Suddenly, I realized I wasn’t alone. Had I been paying attention, I would have smelled them before. But I had been caught up in the snow, and the possibilities the night held. I had let my defenses down. The first punch knocked the phone out of my hand, the second one across my back brought me to my knees but gave me enough time to rip the leg off the dining room table and use it to defend myself as I caught my own end iron on a descent toward my stomach. It was insulting to be eviscerated by one’s own accessories.

  I jumped to my feet and saw them, half my crew from Colombia—and a woman just behind them. I blinked and blinked again. Deep copper-colored hair spilled down her back and out around her face in rippling waves. Lilly. What the hell was she doing here?

  ***

  For all her craziness, Lilly had planned her revenge well. Not for me, a quick, painless demise. Furniture splintering, bones cracking, we careened from one room to another, destroying my house before their numbers won out. I struggled vainly, fighting even from my knees, but they eventually subdued me.

  “Hold him,” Lilly yelled, her voice deep and scratchy, like she had a permanent case of laryngitis. She’d always had a great voice.

  “Lilly. What are you doing here?” I coughed then, the pain from my ribs radiating throughout. She yanked my arm out and stuck something in it. Fuck. The room pitched and my vision wavered. Why did people feel the need to drug me?

  “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

  “You left me there. They locked me up for years in that hospital, and you, you didn’t do a thing.” My mind tripped backward. I could see Lilly as she was then, twenty and beautiful, smiling at me as the door closed. Before I ran off and spilled my guts over her plan, betraying her and what we had. I had never searched for her afterwards, never went to visit her, the guilt overwhelming me.

  Something sharp dug into my other arm. “What about us, you bastard? You left us in Colombia.”

  I pried my eyes open. Miguel’s face came into focus and then faded.

  “You bastard, we were waiting for you in the mountains. You never came back.”

  “They took me.” My tongue felt fat and swollen. “What did you give me?”

  Lilly laughed viciously. “You’re going to take a nice little trip down memory lane. And at the end of it, you can jump into Hell.”

  They dragged me out then like a dead animal, my feet bumping down the porch stairs. Abandoning me in the middle of the field, as far from anything as possible, they walked away laughing.

  “Well, this isn’t good.” A familiar voice.

  I opened my eyes. Wheels stood next to me. I was on the beach again. I felt warm, flushed almost.

  “Am I going to make it?”

  Wheels smiled sadly at me. “I don’t know but you look like Hell.”

  I lifted my arm and stared at it. There was a gaping hole in it that ran from my bicep down until my wrist. Blood poured from it. I heard a bell ringing.

  “You should go back, Beck. I don’t think it’s your time yet.”

  I looked at him, even as he started fading from view. “Wheels?”

  “Go back, Beck. Listen to the bell.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Wynter—Blood

  I knocked on the door urgently. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d gotten that dropped-message on my voicemail—and not since I had called Quinn—scared as hell and knowing something was wrong. I put my ear to the door, contemplating whether to walk in or go around to the porch if no one answered.

  “Beck? Quinn?” Nothing. I banged harder. “Beck? Are you in there? Let me in.”

  I pounded with both fists now, trying to see through the shutters on the window. “I want to know what’s going on. Let me in.” I sounded hysterical, I knew. I tried the handle. Locked. The cold in my stomach turned to an absolute pit. Abandoning the front door, I ran around to the deck. The snow was higher here. Shit. It fell over the edge of my ankle high hiking boots, melting in my socks. I could see footsteps in the snow, weaving back and forth toward the deck. I headed for the side door.

  It was open. I stepped in. The room was in shambles, the table broken, cabinets ajar. I pushed a broken chair out of the way with my foot. Fuck, what happened here? Something came from the other direction. I whipped my head around but too late. My legs left the ground, and I was flying. Pain radiated as I collided with the pantry door. I sucked in a breath, trying to replace the air that had been pushed out. Kicking furiously, I scrambled up, grabbing the edge of the counter for leverage. He was up, too, staring at me, swaying slightly, hair stuck up in all directions, and blood covering his face. His t-shirt clung to him in places, drenched through with sweat and stained red. One eye was nearly swollen shut. The other, bloodshot, roved the room crazily. Balling his hands into fists, he started for me again. Holy fuck!

  “Beck.” I called to him, gasping for breath. “Beck. It’s me, Wynter.” He stopped and stared at me blankly. My stomach dropped into my toes, and my heart took off at a sprint. Something had happened, and, whatever it was, it was fucked.

  “Beck. Beck. It’s me.” He shook his head once. A flicker of hope surged within me. I could do this. I could make him see me; I could make things okay.

  “Do you think you’re going to torture me again?” He took a step forward.

  Maybe not. I glanced toward the door to his left. I needed an escape plan. Think. Think. My mind felt like it was filled with quicksand. I felt along the counter, staring at him and slowly moving backward. Inch by inch. He stood between me and the door to the living room and my car. I just needed to get past. But he was quicker and stronger. He took another step, swaying as he did. The side door was still open, but there was nothing that way but an open field and the woods. Fast as I was, I knew I couldn’t outrace him, even in his current condition.

  “Beck. I don’t know who you think I am but it’s Wynter. Remember me?” My voice shook so hard I could hardly get the words out. What was wrong with him? “I’m the one you sit in the tree with; we walk on the beach. We run together. And we stay up all night talking.” I tried to smile. My fingers brushed against something. I felt around frantically while still talking to him. Wooden block. Knife holder. I fumbled a bit for the handle. Quiet. Quiet. Slowly, I pulled it out, tucking it into my hand. God help me.

  I stared at the space between Beck and the door. Abby’s voice filled my ear. The best thing about Wyn is that, just when you think she’s going left, she ducks right and gets open. It was one of the only compliments she gave me. The moments ticked by. I could feel the sweat beading on my lip despite the cold air blowing through the side door. Beck’s breathing, labored and angry, filled the room.

  “Beck. Please.”

  “I’m going to kill you, you mother fucker.” His voice, hoarse and deep was layered with hatred. I wanted to close my eyes and hold my ears. Oh God. Clearly it wasn’t me he saw. He tensed, crouching a bit. I tightened my grip on the knife. As he jumped, I ducked right. Springing with everything I had, I made for the opening. I passed through the doorway, lungs bursting with the effort. Something brushed me. Finge
rs. Almost there. Almost. The living room was destroyed. I tumbled forward as my foot caught on a broken chair on the ground. I threw my hands up to stop my rush, sliding along the wooden floor. My knuckles scraped the ground, the knife still clutched in my fist. Glass. Everywhere. Broken shards. I could hear him behind me. I scrambled up again. Fast but not fast enough. He tackled me from behind, and we crashed into something wooden. Fuck! My side! His hands fitted around my throat. I gulped and found nothing. Black points danced in front of my eyes. Swinging wildly with my knife hand, I connected with flesh. He screamed, and the pressure lifted from my neck. Sobbing, I hurled myself forward again, eyes set on the front door.

  Just a few more feet. My head yanked backward, nearly lifting me off the ground. Pain seared through my scalp.

  “No!” I cried out. He pulled me against him, hand against my mouth. The sharp edge of the knife on my throat. I wriggled desperately. His hand slipped. I bit down hard, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I didn’t let go, swallowing blindly, teeth clenched. He screamed. Loosening his grip on my hair, he slapped me hard. I fell to my knees as pain, white hot, exploded above my cheek and through my head. He jerked his hand free.

  “You son of a bitch, Colombian.” He tightened his hold on my hair again, lifting me. Blood dripped down his arm. My palms ached. I turned over my hands. Glass bits glittered, embedded in the skin. Twisting my hair, he pulled until my head came back. The tears flowed freely then.

  “Please. Please don’t, Beck,” I whispered. The knife pressed deeper.

  “How do you know my name?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Tell me.” He pressed harder.

  “Your guy, your Colombian guy. He didn’t have long hair.” It was all I could think of. Something slid down my neck. My plastic necklace. I loved to wear it and hear him make fun of me for how ugly it was. It dropped on the floor, pinging slightly. His grip loosened, the knife dragging downward, scratching but no longer pressed against me. Something crashed behind us. He whirled unsteadily, releasing me. I stumbled forward. Quinn came from the kitchen.