by Lindy Zart
With a frown on my mouth, I lift my eyes. “You use the name of a dog for an alias?”
The clouds are instantly erased from her eyes, and she laughs. “I loved Piper more than any of the people I met. Her name is my favorite to use.”
We lock eyes just as the sky explodes, the walls shake around us, and the house goes black.
* * *
Opal
“What’s going on?” I demand, trying to keep my voice calm. Even so, it is not all that calm.
“The power is out,” a disembodied voice answers. “A line close by was probably hit.”
“So, what? What do we do?” I slowly stand, my drawings pressed tightly to my chest.
“We wait until it comes back on.”
“How long is that going to take?” Panic adds volume to my words, and I swallow it down.
“I don’t know,” Blake responds, with annoyance clear in his tone. “However long it takes.”
“Great. Wonderful. I appreciate how specific that answer was,” I mutter.
With one hand before me, I carefully shuffle in the direction of the table and set my drawings on it. The rest of my belongings are still on the floor, out in the open, able to be stepped on and ruined. In the present dark, chances are they will be. I drop to my knees and crawl toward where I think they are, my head bumping into something warm and covered in soft hair. Blake’s legs.
My face burns. I saw him naked, and it was glorious. The last, and only, man’s anatomy I’ve seen in such depth was Jonesy’s. He’s tall and muscular, but he’s also covered in hair—Blake is not. His pale skin is like marble, and his muscles aren’t bulky like Jonesy’s. They’re more natural, the kind granted with genetics and manual labor. I could have looked at him for hours; I could have drawn him. I’ve never coveted that kind of creative intimacy before, but with him, yes, I did.
I do.
“What are you doing?” he asks curiously.
I realize my forehead rests against his shins, and I jerk away. Next thing, I’ll be kissing his feet. Worshipping his butt cheeks. I let him kiss me, and I kissed him back. And it felt like perfection. I loved kissing him, or him kissing me, or however it happened. Us kissing. I could kiss him for hours, days, forever. Blake is turning me into a sex-crazed hooligan. With his looks, and his lips, and—
“Nothing. Just…trying to get the rest of my stuff.” My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I inhale slowly, letting it out even slower.
I feel him next to me, hear him moving papers as he helps me. The blackness seems erotic, puts a forbidden spin on the scene. Plus, Blake is still in a towel. This is torture. If he reached for me, I would throw myself into his arms. Without hesitation.
“I think that’s everything,” he says.
I blink, realizing I’ve been sitting in one place, not moving as I daydreamed about the guy beside me while Blake picked up my stuff. Get a grip, I scold myself.
“I’m going to get dressed upstairs, and then I’ll try to find us something else to eat.”
I hear the sound of his retreating footsteps and jump to my feet, banging my hip against the corner of the table. An immediate sting follows. “Wait! What? You’re going upstairs? Don’t—don’t leave me.” I clamp my teeth together at the pathetic words, wishing I could take them back. The large house suddenly seems ominous, especially with the thought of me being alone in the dark, downstairs while he’s upstairs.
A rustling sound meets my ears, and then a light is shining in my face. I squint my eyes and turn my head to the side.
“Flashlight,” Blake supplies.
“That would have come in handy about five minutes ago.”
“Yes, but it would have made the situation so much less interesting.” The light moves back and forth, blinding me a time or two. “Here. Take it. It won’t take me long to find some clothes and get dressed.”
As I take the flashlight, I hesitantly ask, “Can I go with you? I mean, not into the room, but just to wherever you’re going.”
His head tilts, his silver eyes glowing as the light hits them. “Sure,” Blake says quietly, no hint of condescension in his tone. I appreciate that.
He offers his hand, and my heart melts at the gesture. Fingers loosely locked around mine, Blake leads the way to the living room. He opens a door on the opposite side of the wall from the bathroom, and we start up a narrow stairwell. The steps creak as we go, and I aim the flashlight over his shoulder, seeing a wall and not much else. My hand unconsciously drops, the light showcasing his backside, and I hastily lift the light back up. I swear I hear him softly chuckle, and I shake my head.
“You own this house? I know you said it’s your grandpa’s, but…you said…I mean…he’s…” Dead. It feels insulting to say the word, although I am not sure why.
Blake’s back stiffens, the motion drawing my eyes to the bare skin. “He left it to me.”
“It’s a nice place. Lots of land. Seems peaceful.” I’m talking to fill the silence, but everything I’m saying is true. This is the kind of place I’d like to have as a home. “You’re lucky.”
“It needs a lot of modernizing,” he says, letting go of my hand as he reaches the top.
“Still, the framework seems sound.”
His eyes shift to mine, curiosity in them. “Yeah. It is.”
I move away from the stairwell and to the wall opposite it, shining the light around. There is open space to the right of the stairs, a row of windows taking up most of the wall. An antique Singer in black sits on a desk with a chair behind it. The brand name is lettered in gold.
“My grandfather built this house for my grandmother. After she died, he kept a lot of her stuff exactly the way she left it,” Blake tells me. “This was where she had her sewing machine set up. She never worked outside the home, but she did a lot of seamstress work and earned a little money that way.”
I touch the cool metal, my fingertips coming away dusty. “What did she die from?”
“Cancer.”
I drop my eyes.
“My mom had it too,” he says.
My eyes lift as I turn to face him, surprised that he told me such a personal thing.
“She’s okay,” Blake continues, not looking away from me. “It’s in remission.”
“That’s good,” I say, because what do you say to that?
“Yeah,” he says, directing his attention to the sewing machine.
“I never learned how to sew,” I say wistfully as I follow his gaze. I blink my eyes at a memory of me watching a middle-aged woman use a needle and thread to sew up a hole in her grandson’s jacket. I smile. “Jackie—one of people I stayed with as a kid—sewed, and she offered to teach me, but we never got around to it before I had to go. She baked too. I blame my love for all sweet things on her.”
“It sounds like you never got to do a lot of things,” Blake comments, moving to stand beside me. “What did you do?”
I shrug, stepping toward a closed door. “I never did a lot of things, but at the same time, I did more than most kids. I got to live a bunch of different lives. Each time I was sent to live with a new family, I learned about new people.”
“That’s my room,” Blake says as I turn the doorknob.
Lifting my eyebrows, I smile mischievously as I step into the room. It has the white walls and hardwood flooring like the majority of the house I’ve seen. A dresser rests along one wall, what looks to be a king-size bed is in the middle of the room, and there is a bookshelf full of books set between two windows. I aim the flashlight on the spines of the books, noting the majority of authors housed on it are suspense and mystery writers. There’s a door that I’m assuming leads to a closet, and an array of pictures on one wall. The other walls are bare.
I walk to the pictures, studying images of Blake at various stages of adolescence. He was rougher looking as a teenager; he wa
s sadder looking as a child. In the few pictures where he’s smiling, he is with his grandfather. Still pale, still with those eyes that seem to hold all the problems of the world inside them.
“I used to spend as much time as I could here, and because of that, my grandpa gave me my own room. He told me this was my home too, and that I was always welcome. Weekends, holidays, during the summer—I was here whenever it was allowed. I wanted to live here, but my parents wouldn’t let me. I pretended Grandpa John was my dad.” His voice is soft, thick with emotion.
I turn to look at Blake, wondering what I’ll find in his features, but he crosses the room to the dresser. Hiding his expression. I had an unusual upbringing, but it wasn’t all bad. Except for a couple jerks, all the families I stayed with were good to me. The worst part of it all was not knowing who my parents were, or why they chose to give me up. Something in my gut tells me Blake didn’t have the greatest childhood, and I already figured out he has issues with his parents. It’s his dad, though, who hurt him the most.
With his back to me, he goes through multiple drawers, selecting clothes. His face is blank when he finally faces me. “Unless you’re hoping for a second show…”
I spin around, my cheeks heating up. I hastily click off the flashlight, bringing the room to absolute dark. “Go ahead. I won’t look.” Even though I want to look.
The ceiling lights flicker and stay on just as he tells me he’s decent. I smile at the Duran Duran T-shirt he’s wearing. I knew he had band T-shirts somewhere. The house comes alive, humming and popping as it does so. Blake takes me on a quick tour of the rest of the upstairs. There are two more bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the bedrooms is set up as an office, and it makes my head spin with possibilities. If this were my house, I would use that room as my art studio. If this were my house—I shake my head, knowing some of my fantasies are best unrealized.
“The storm seems to be slowing down. When your clothes are done drying, we can head into town,” Blake tells me in the kitchen as he prepares peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I told him I could at least handle making those, but the doubtful look in his eyes told me he thought otherwise.
“Great,” I say cheerfully.
A lump forms in my throat at my lack of future plans. Do I keep going when I get to Bismarck, or do I see what the city has to offer before moving on to Montana? But if I stay in the area, why? Why would I stay? My eyes shift to Blake. If I stay, will I see him again? Would that be my reason for staying?
I pull off a chunk of the mostly ready sandwich and chew it up and swallow. My mouth and stomach say hello to the taste of sweetened, smooth peanuts with sugary strawberry. “What do you do for a job?”
“As of last spring, I was a college student.”
The lump grows. Blake has a life, a career in the making, goals. He seems so much more responsible, and grounded, than me. And I guess he is. I don’t even have a home, or a car. Or a job. Or a phone. Or—I shake my head against all the things I don’t have.
I focus on Blake. “Oh? For what?”
Blake’s motions become jerky as he closes the jar of peanut butter. He hands me the plate with the sandwich I taste-tested, and a glass of water. “Child psychology.”
We sit at the table.
“Why child psychology?”
His grin is mocking and fake. “Didn’t you know? Women love a guy who’s invested in kids. It’s good for picking up chicks.”
Following Blake’s way of calling out an untruth, I say softly, “Lie.”
Blake’s smile gets twisted, showing me I’m right. “My plan was to take a break from college and go to Australia.”
I choke on the drink of water I just took. “Was?”
Blake studies the table as he chews. His gaze touches mine before moving on. “Yeah. Was. Now, I don’t know. I don’t know about anything.” He lowers his eyes, his shoulders stiff. “I already have a passport and ticket. There is no reason for me to not go. It wouldn’t make any sense to waste the passport, or ticket. They’re not exactly cheap.”
“Why Australia?”
He shrugs. “It’s warm, and the sun is always out.”
I give his colorless skin a pointed look. “Right. Because you obviously love the sun, vampire boy.”
Blake looks at me, one half of his mouth lifted.
“How long do you plan on being there?” Unease sharpens my tone. What if he never comes back? What if he stays in Australia, and that’s that? Why do I care? I’m never going to see him again anyway. I guess the finality of it bothers me. If he’s in the United States, maybe, at some point, I could see him again. If he’s in another country, then no, I won’t. I don’t like the thought of never seeing him again.
“I don’t know.” Blake studies the tabletop, his eyes tracing a nick in the wood. “For however long I want.”
“For forever?” I whisper, dread thickening my voice.
With a frown marring his face, Blake focuses on me.
“I just mean, um, how will I ever pay you back, for—for the food, and stuff, if you’re in Australia?” Lame. So lame.
“I guess you won’t.” His eyes flicker with amusement. “You can always send snail mail.”
“For real, why did you choose child psychology?” I ask as I swallow the last of my sandwich and gaze mournfully at his. I’m still hungry.
He notices, tearing off a large chunk and handing it to me. “Tell me why you’re running.”
“Tell me why it’s so important that you see your parents,” I toss back, consuming the food in three quick bites and emptying the glass of water.
“Who are you running from?” Blake returns, his eyes telling mine not to even try to look away.
“You don’t want to know,” I say, honesty reverberating through me. I’m not even sure who is after me, if anyone; I just know there are bad guys out there somewhere, and that there is a good chance they’re looking for me. I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell him anything. The less he knows, the better. Like Paisley? my conscience mocks.
He squints. “Interesting.”
I shift in the chair, procuring a sticky hand. I already said too much. “Truce,” I announce, wiggling my fingers near his face. “You don’t ask me questions, and I won’t ask you any.”
Blake stares at me, and then turns his eyes to my hand. His mouth quirks with naughty intent and he leans his head forward, bringing his face near my fingers. I feel his breath on my skin, and goose bumps break out on my arms. My throat tightens like the fingers of desire are wrapped around it.
“You have jelly on your hand,” he says in a voice like silk.
I wonder if he’s going to lick my finger. I kind of want him to lick my finger. That sounds so weird.
Alas, he wipes my finger off with a napkin.
My nerves are shaky, something potent sweeping through me. It feels oddly like disappointment. Maybe yearning. My shoulders slump as I lift my gaze to his and catch the humor in his expression. It’s fleeting, but pure, and it changes his harsh features. Makes them more boyish. Entirely too kissable.
I stand, grabbing the plates and moving to the sink. I hurriedly wash them in the old porcelain sink, setting them in the white strainer to dry. Everything about this house is old, but to me, that only enhances its character. There have been a lot of memories made here, I can tell. A lot of good ones for Blake. I blink at the pinch in my chest and let out the sink water.
“How long until the clothes are dry, do you think?”
Blake’s response is slow in coming. “I’ll go check.”
I wait until I hear his fading footsteps to turn around. Through the windows, I can see that the sun is trying to make an appearance. I look at the blue rooster clock near the door that leads to the backyard. It’s a little after six. Hours have transformed into days while in Blake’s company. Another oddity to add to a list of unusual occurre
nces since I’ve met Blake.
I dry off my hands on a threadbare blue dishtowel and move for the door. It sticks before opening. Cool air and the scent of rain washes over me as I step outside. With the passing of the storm, the humidity has been cut from the air. The cement is cool on my bare feet as I take in the little stone deck with two lime green metal chairs.
Just as the wind picks up, blowing my hair about my head, I notice the view.
Pushing locks of hair from my eyes and mouth, I drink in the sight of endless hills that look like mountains, and blue skies. There is no separation from earth and sky. It’s a picture-perfect scene of country life, and what peace looks like. I wonder if Blake sees it.
I walk around the house and venture farther out. Tree limbs are down, scattered along the grass like a misguided trail. My feet are covered in wet grass, and the hem of my pants is damp. I roll up the pants to my calves and continue toward the pond. It looks tranquil now, not so dark and mysterious as it did under the blanket of the storm.
Without looking, I know when Blake approaches. His eyes are hot on my back, full of questions and thoughts. I face him, holding back wayward strands of hair that want to blind me. He looks at my face, and then his gaze travels down and up. The sexual tension between us is of epic proportions, and so, so dangerous. But I like danger, and I like his mouth, and before our time together ends, I’d like to know more of him. Physically.
“The clothes are just about dry,” Blake says, his deep voice breaking the silence.
I nod and turn to look at the pond, dropping my arms to hug myself. Our adventure is just about over. It was a quick one, but so far, my favorite. I ask him a question I’ve always wondered, and never had someone around I wanted to ask. I think Blake will take my question seriously.
“What do you think happens to people when they die?” I glance at him, taking in his unnaturally straight posture before returning my eyes back to the water. “Do you think they’re just gone? It doesn’t seem possible. But then, there was a time when they weren’t here, right? It isn’t like they always existed, even though it feels like they had to.”