by Holly Rayner
At the top, I collapsed onto the sheets and rolled over to make room for Brock, who was on the bed a few seconds later.
The two of us tossed and turned as we made ourselves comfortable. Then there was a stillness, although my heart was anything but still. It was shaking with anticipation, with a silent, painful longing. I lay there for who knew how long in a tortured purgatory of half-wakefulness. Too tired to be awake but too anxious to sleep, as chunks of thoughts clattered through my head.
Was he still awake too? What if I turned around and kissed him and felt his cedar scent on my skin and his warm fingers in mine and let what was bottled up inside me break free? What if I climbed down the ladder and ran away, ran outside and drove into the snow, into the snow storm that was nothing compared to what was raging in my head?
I lay there in the loft bed, twisting with impossible want, wanting to stay and leave, wanting to embrace this man beside me and run as far away from him as I could.
Finally, I flopped to the other side of the bed, to the cold side of the pillow, and faced him.
My eyes were squeezed shut, and the bed jostled. He was moving too, but he didn’t touch me. No, I felt nothing but his gaze. My eyes were closed, my body still, and yet I knew he was watching me. I could feel it. I didn’t move. I didn’t open my eyes. If I opened them, my lips would be his and all would be lost. I needed this job. I couldn’t do this.
I lay there as seconds joined into minutes and became hours strung together into whole years. And, once nothing less than a century had rolled on past, I opened my eyes.
His face was inches from mine, his eyes on me. He had never stopped looking.
What happened next was what had always been going to happen next, what was inevitable from the first moment we laid eyes on each other. Our lips joined once more, our hands too. Our clothes slid off, and in the dark, warm, cedar loft, we became one.
Chapter Eight
I awoke cold. The bed beside me was empty. Brock. Had last night been a dream?
I lifted the covers and gasped. I wasn’t wearing any clothes. No, last night had been no dream. Closing my eyes, I inhaled his still-lingering cedar scent.
Last night may not have been a dream, but it had been as good as one. I lay there, memories sliding in one after the other, and remembered it, feeling it once more. It had been so natural, so seamless. Brock and I—there was no denying it—we worked.
And now?
I turned to look at his empty spot on the bed. Now things would go back to how they had been. So I’d had one drunken night of fun, one slight bout of unprofessional conduct. No one needed to know. No one would know. I had a job to do. Brock had said it himself: this couldn’t work.
I slid into my clothes and then made my way down the ladder, nostalgia swirling through me on the final rung. If I could have told myself just what I was climbing the ladder to, would I have stopped? Should I have?
Brock wasn’t in the cabin. I put on my coat, then my boots, and grabbed my bakery bag.
I opened the door to see his feet poking out from under my car.
“Brock?”
He slid out and gave me a strained smile.
“Hey.”
“Hey… What’s up?”
“Ah, your car. It’s…I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The fuel pump’s somehow worked its way loose, and I can’t figure out where or how you even continued on without it. Your car can’t start without it.”
“Oh, yeah, that is weird.”
I stuck my hands in my pockets, feeling the offending fuel pump in my left one and wondering what exactly I was supposed to do now.
“Yeah. I can tow you into town later. There’s a good garage I know, East Street Garage.”
My face was reddening by the minute. This just kept getting worse and worse.
“Thanks,” I said, “but...my ex works there. If you could tow me anywhere else?”
“Well, not in Nederland, but...how about we have breakfast and discuss it then?”
I shook my head.
“I have stuff I need to do today. Would you be able to take me now?”
His face fell, but he nodded and headed past me into the cabin.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
I didn’t move, just stood staring at my car, gripping the fuel pump in my pocket. Should I try putting it back in? Before I could decide, the door behind me was shutting and Brock was hurrying past me.
A few steps away from the cars, Brock stopped.
“Actually, would going for a forest swim be crazy?”
He had addressed the question to the cars, but he turned to me to see my response.
My gaze fell.
“Brock…” I said softly.
He strode up to me and took my hands.
“Please, Alexa. It’ll be quick and then you can go. I promise.”
His voice was coaxing, but my inner voice was adamant. I had to leave now.
“Please. It’s just a few minutes away,” Brock said, pulling me toward the back of the cabin.
As my mouth prepared to say “no,” my feet followed him, so into the forest we went. Every step I took, the further my “no” burrowed down my throat until there was only me, my hand in Brock’s, and the beautiful, beautiful forest. Oh, how breathtaking it was! Morning dew glistened on every leaf and twig, while a gentle breeze ruffled them. As we made our way through it, there was the soft symphony of the forest: the crackling of leaves, the birds and squirrels chattering in squeaks only they understood, our own gentle footsteps.
We got there without warning. Everything was trees, trees, and more trees, and then, all at once, water.
It was a little pond just big enough for two people who didn’t want to get too close. Who couldn’t get too close.
“It’s not too deep. Or cold. Even after a big snow, somehow, it never gets too cold,” Brock said, already taking off his shirt.
“Good,” I said, walking over behind a pine so I could undress.
I didn’t want to get to talking to Brock, to joking as if things were like they had been before, like last night hadn’t happened or even like we were friends or lovers or something stupid like that. Brock Anderson was the target, nothing more. I had made a mistake, sure, but I was going to do the right thing now and distance myself so I could do my job properly and hand over what I’d found to my client.
A splash indicated Brock was already in the water.
“It’s nice!” he called.
Once my shirt and pants were off, I dashed in as fast as I could. Brock had been right: the water was cool, not cold; in between shallow and deep, it stopped just above my chest, thankfully. I swam from one side to the other and then floated on my back, my eyes closed.
“Look up,” Brock whispered from right beside me.
Surprised, I jumped and then did as I was told. The sky was a patchwork of tree branches, bright, happy blue between the black, red-leaved branches. It was beautiful; it was more than beautiful. It was awe-inspiring.
“Wow,” I said softly.
“Wow,” he said beside me.
And then we lay there, the criminal and me, quiet before the majesty of nature’s beauty.
After a few minutes of enjoyable escape, however, pesky worry started to return. How long was I planning to stay here, really? What if, as I lay here, another storm started up and I couldn’t leave again?
When I turned to look at Brock, I saw he was doing the exact same thing. Our gazes met, each flicking to the other’s lips. As we neared, a thousand more thoughts arose: You shouldn’t do this—Stop—There’s still time—Stop! So I did. An inch from him, I paused. My gaze searched his, for permission, for reassurance, for I don’t know what. But all I saw in the black of his pupils was the worried reflection of my own eyes. One last thought snuck in: You know what to do.
And I did. So, as Brock’s lips pressed against mine, I turned away. Then I swam to the shore and hurried behind the sa
me pine as before to get dressed.
Once I was dressed, I came out from behind the tree. Brock was still in the same place as before, floating on his back again, lost in the sight of the branch-patchwork sky.
“I think we should go now,” I said in a tone colder than I had intended. I added in a kinder tone, “Please, Brock.”
Looking at me with wide, startled eyes, Brock slowly made his way to the shore.
“Yeah. Of course, yeah,” he murmured half to himself.
He pulled his clothes on in the same daze and then, with a shy smile at me, started walking. I followed him. We returned the same way, though we were not the same people as the ones who’d walked there. Maybe Brock didn’t feel it, but I knew without a doubt that something had been decided. I had decided. I had chosen myself and my job, not the criminal I had unwittingly fallen for. Finally, I had made the right choice. And as we walked in silence through the forest, I smiled a little at that.
When we got back to the cabin, Brock stopped.
“Sorry about before,” he said.
I strode on ahead.
“Don’t worry about it. What’s going to happen with my car though?”
“Oh yeah, your car.”
Brock scanned it for a minute and then said, “I can tow it into town. Here, you can wait inside my pickup while I hook them together,” he said, gesturing to his maroon truck.
I got in, still gripping the fuel pump in my pocket. This job couldn’t be over soon enough.
A few minutes later, Brock was getting in beside me and starting the car.
“Oh, wanted to be sure you didn’t forget this. Your car was open and I saw it left on the seat there,” he said, handing me a piece of paper.
I gaped at him. Did he know? Why did he sound so casual if he did?
There, clutched in his hand, was the balled-up photo printout of him.
Chapter Nine
“What, was it for me?” he joked, starting to unravel it.
“No!” I barked, snatching it out of his hands and shoving it into my bakery bag.
Brock stared at me for a minute, his eyebrows raising in surprise and then in a questioning look.
“Just tax stuff,” I mumbled.
Not buying my unconvincing reply, Brock shrugged and said, “Anyway, got your car all hooked up. We’ll have to drive a bit slow down the bumpy old road, but we should be fine.”
Brock was better than his word. Our drive was smooth, easy, quiet. All of Brock’s attempts at conversation, I shot down. I couldn’t afford to get in another nice long talk with him; I would never want to leave. No, this was a job and nothing more, and I planned on keeping it that way.
And yet, the farther away from the cabin we got, the more a sick feeling twisted in my stomach.
By the time we got to New Moon Café, where I’d told Brock to drop me off, I felt downright nauseous.
“Wait here. This’ll just be a sec,” he said, hurrying out and unlatching my car. When he got back in, we sat in the car in silence for a few seconds before he spoke. “Alexa…I’m really glad I met you. I...you know where to find me.”
“Goodbye, Brock,” I said hollowly, opening the door and walking out.
When I turned to look at him, he was still motionless in the pickup, staring at me, as if he wanted to stay and would stay if only I asked him. But I turned my back on him once more and walked to the café’s door. When I turned back, the truck was gone. Brock was gone.
I hurried to my car, and when I got there, I reached into my pocket.
Nothing. I reached into the other pocket and found the same. I ripped off my coat and shook it over the pavement. I emptied my bakery bag on the ground, flipped and shook every item like an addict looking for a lost stash. In a way, it wasn’t all that different. I was screwed without that fuel pump, and yet there was no denying that it was gone. I had lost it, probably on our ill-begotten trek out to the pond.
Now my make-believe had become real. My car really was out of service, and I was far away from the garage.
What was I supposed to do now?
I took a miserable look at the Half Moon Café and rushed inside, past the empty tables, to the back, where I went into the flowery-wallpapered bathroom.
There, crouched over the toilet, I heaved, over and over again. Nothing came out, though I felt better afterward. I guessed what was making me feel sick had left in the maroon pickup.
In a dreamlike state, I wandered back to the counter, told the red-haired girl with the crooked smile I wanted four cookies, paid for them, and slumped into a seat. Only halfway through my third cookie did I notice I was at the same table as last time, the one under the picture of the mountain ridge. It was funny, being at the same table when I was already a different person than the last time I had sat there.
A traitorous current of uncertainty was coursing through me, making me devour the cookies rapid-fire, tearing off chunk after chunk until my mouth had all it could chew. When I was finished, having scarfed down every last cookie, I was left with nothing but my phone in my hand and the realization of what I had to do next.
I typed “East Street Garage” into the search bar and then called the number shown. They picked up on the sixth ring and replied with a terse “yeah, yeah, all right” when I explained that I’d need a tow to their location since my car was “somehow” missing the fuel pump.
Then, once I’d hung up and the next, bigger choice was before me, my fingers dialed again before my mind could think better of it.
“Hello?” said Russell Snow.
“Hi. This is Alex Combs. I did it. I found Brock Anderson, went to the cabin he’s staying at, and got pictures of some illegal guns he has. I’ll be sending you the pictures over email shortly. I just have to get home first.”
“Ah, excellent. Where is he?”
“Nederland.”
“And you’re still there?”
“Yeah. My car’s temporarily out of service. Needs a part replaced before it can get back on the road. They’re coming to tow it now.”
“I can give you a ride home.”
His answer came so fast and easily that I had to take a minute to think about it.
“Really? No. I should be fine.”
“Please. It would be my pleasure. You’re in town now?”
“At the New Moon Café, but—”
“I’ll be there in about two hours. I’ll bring the money.”
Then the dial tone signaled that the matter was settled.
I stared at my phone for a minute. Then I went back to the café’s front counter and ordered a sandwich, realizing I’d eaten nothing but cookies for almost 24 hours. It was going to be a long wait. Already my stomach was churning with ominousness. Clearly, staying unoccupied while waiting for the man I wasn’t sure I wanted to arrive wasn’t going to be an option.
The wait dragged on even longer than I’d expected. I returned my mom’s call (“Yes, Mom, I’m fine. Just working on a really big case. Yes, I’ll come down for dinner tomorrow. Yes, I love you too.”) and Tiffany’s (“Hey! Sorry about taking so long getting back to you. Been consumed by this crazy case. Yeah, things are looking up. Dinner Wednesday? Definitely!”)
And then, finally, just when two hours had rolled around to three and I’d given up on Russell Snow entirely, in he came.
Even the second time seeing him was jarring. He was taller than I remembered, more angular. His all black suit was hilariously out of place in the quaint little café; his whole body was, really. His face was all sharp planes that looked tacked together. The smile he tried to give me looked more sinister than if he had scowled outright. He sat across from me and bared his teeth into another troubling, yellow smile.
“Knew you could do it. Knew you were different,” he said in his cold voice.
“So you’re sure this guy is dangerous?” I found myself asking in response.
The thin white lines of his eyebrows lowered.
“You went to his cabin, you said?”
An unseemly smile crept over his face, and he gave my hand an icy pat.
“The worst ones never do.”
He took out an envelope and said, “Here’s your $2,000 as agreed upon.” Then he paused. “Can I see the pictures?”
“Sure,” I said, taking out my phone.
When he saw the guns, that same smile returned.
“Yes, yes.”
I took the phone away, perhaps too fast, because he gave my hand another pat, this time resting his bones over my fingers.
“Miss Combs, if only you knew what this vicious man has done.”
My gaze was rapt on his boney hands: their snakes of tendons, knobs of knuckles, yellow half-moons of nails.
“Try me.”
At this, his gaze grew hard. Russell Snow rose.
“You ready for that ride?”
His hand was clutching the envelope so hard the knuckles and tendons were standing out and white. His face was just as strained looking. Clearly, I was going to have to go along with Russell Snow’s ride in order to get paid.
“Yes,” I said.
With that, he strode out the café door. I hurried after him to find him at a fully blacked-out SUV.
Catching my stare, he grinned.
“Can’t be too careful.”
Just then a tow truck stopped, barring my way.
“That tan one yours?” a young ball-capped guy asked from the open window, pointing to my car.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you need anything else from me?”
The boy shook his sandy blond head.
“Just call us up and we can let ya know when we’re finished.”
Then the tow truck continued toward my car.
“Miss Combs!” a voice said.
It was Russell Snow, now in his car and waving me over with the hand holding the envelope.
I kept my gaze on it as I slid into the passenger side. Just a few more minutes and I’d have the money I so desperately needed and had more than earned.