by Vivien Vale
On the worst nights, I’d imagine that she was my own daughter. A daughter I knew I’d never fucking have, since on the worst nights, I didn’t think I’d ever be coming home.
It’s almost like thinking about all of this again just renews how pissed I am about frying up so many goddamn pancakes and seeing each and every one of them disappear between the pretty little lips of this Avery with me now.
Even Buck got a taste—and there he is, sitting by her side, his big shaggy tail thumping against her chair while he looks up at her adoringly, hoping she might let him lick the plate.
And none for Jack. Just fucking swell. See, this is why I don’t like being around people. They feel entitled to your shit. Whether they actually are or not never even gets called into question.
“Mmm,” Avery moans, licking her fork clean in a way that makes my cock throb and my temper flare up even hotter. “Those were…amazing.”
“Hope so,” I grunt, trying to swallow my temper and avoid blushing with pride all at once.
Fuck me. Blushing over a compliment and getting all worked up over pancakes. I’ve been up on this fucking mountain all alone for too long.
But it’s like Avery can recognize that something’s wrong from just the look on my face.
“Wuh…why do you hope so?” she asks with uncertainty.
“Because,” I find myself grunting as I gather up the two plates she’s managed to clear. “You ate mine, too.”
Those were big fucking stacks of pancakes, goddammit. Trucker-sized stacks. And she’s so goddamn tiny, I could practically fit her in the pocket of my flannel—so where the fuck is she even putting it all? Hiding it beneath the big, puffy skirt of that fucking wedding dress?
“Oh,” I hear her say in an ashamed little voice. When I look over my shoulder, she’s staring down at the table and looking upset with herself. “Well…freakin’ crap. Sorry.”
Freakin’ crap. This fucking girl can’t even swear properly.
For some reason, that’s the thing that sends me over the edge.
I slam the dishes into the sink and wheel around on her, slapping my big, manly hands down on the table so hard that the wood shakes and Buck startles, barking at me suddenly like he thinks I’m going to hurt her.
I give him a look that says, down boy. But Buck stands his ground. Traitorous little mutt.
“Fuck,” I sneer at Avery, whose pretty blue eyes are wide fucking open. “You’re a fucking adult, aren’t you, girl? So, use your fucking words like one.”
“And how…how would that be?” she asks hesitantly. Her fucking voice is shaking. She looks scared.
Good. Let her see what a fucking monster I am. Let her be afraid, so she stays the fuck away from me with those pretty lips that I still swear were half a second away from sucking syrup off my fingers a minute ago.
“How about this,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me, ‘Fuck, Jack. I’m ever so fucking sorry for eating up all your limited fucking rations, for fuck’s sake!’”
I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest and fuming.
Go on then, girl. Say it. Let’s hear that pretty mouth swear for once.
“F-fuck, Jack,” she begins with a stutter, to my amazement. But the way she keeps blinking, she looks like she’s about ready to cry. “I’m ever so f-fucking sorry…”
Christ. What business do I have going and getting angry at a girl like her for? After the shit she went through…of course she was hungry.
Immediately, regret sets in once again.
“That you’re such a goddamn fucking prick!” she finishes.
Fuck’s sake.
I should have let her finish.
“I didn’t know that we were rationing,” she snarls at me with a glower.
She looks so damn cute when she’s angry. It just makes me even fucking angrier.
“Didn’t you? Miles away from the nearest town—snowed in for five days at least—of fucking course we’re rationing,” I snarl right back.
“Boof!” Buck barks, looking up at me like I’ve given him the wrong fucking dog food.
“Don’t you go taking her side on this,” I warn the dog.
That makes Avery giggle. And damned if it’s not the cutest fucking giggle I’ve ever heard—but that’s beside the point right now.
I know she didn’t mean to. I know she must not have realized. She doesn’t belong in this place; of course she wouldn’t know.
But dammit, being angry at this sweet little angel feels fucking good right now. At least I can live with the guilt of being angry at her. It only serves to validate my previous fucking theories of myself.
I’m a monster. I’m a bad fucking man, and Avery would be the dumbest bitch I’ve ever met if she sticks around here any longer than she absolutely has to.
Plus, being angry at her is better than the alternative: wanting her.
I want this girl worse than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole fucking life. Just looking at her, I know that she’d be a great fuck.
And it’s more than fucking that I want from her. That’s the worst part. I want to lay this girl down on a bearskin rug that I’ve killed for her myself, smooth my hands down her body and—
Thank fuck, I notice my growing erection before she does. If it gets any fucking harder or longer, I’m going to have to take off my goddamn belt.
And I shudder to think of what a monster like me would do in the same room as an angel like Avery when I’ve got a hard, thick cock and a leather belt in hand.
“Forget it.” I snarl and turn away from the wounded angel at my breakfast table and my traitorous mutt at her side. I start in on the dishes to take my mind off things.
I scrub at them so hard, you’d think I could scrub my sexual frustration away. All I manage to do is leave the plates fucking spotless.
But when I move to put it in the drying rack, wouldn’t you know it—there’s fucking Avery, getting all up in my personal space and taking the plate away from me to dry.
“Go,” I rasp, pointing toward the living room. “Out.”
“Nah,” Avery says, like she can dismiss my own fucking orders just like that. In my own fucking house! “I…I really do feel bad, okay? I’m…I’m kind of stupid sometimes. Plenty of people say so.”
“Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”
“But,” she levels with me, struggling to balance the plate and the towel in her hands at the same time. “I always try my hardest to do my best, and I always try even harder to do what’s right. So…let me help.”
I’m about to relent. Give her my okay and let her dry while I wash. If she doesn’t, I know I’ll let those fucking plates sit in the drying rack until the next time I want to use them.
But before I can, she drops the fucking plate.
Jesus goddamn Christ.
“Shit!” she yelps, and I sigh.
“Whelp.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb before bending down to gather up the shards. “At least you fucking cursed properly this time.”
“Huh,” Avery says. She sounds proud of herself. “I…I fucking did, didn’t I?”
The plate’s a clean break. Three even pieces and one long, slender shard. I snort, almost chuckling at her newfound ability to swear.
But then she moves to try and help pick up the pieces of the broken plate, and I have to reach out to grab her ankle just in time to stop her from putting her bare little foot right down on that broken shard.
“Nope,” I grunt. “Stay put. You’ll find some fucking way to hurt yourself if you don’t.”
For some reason, I’m in a better mood now. Maybe because, truth be told, she’s fucking sassy, and that amuses the shit outta me. Or maybe because when I wash the next plate, I can feel her against me. Working together, side by side. Her tiny little body next to my big, burly frame.
Boldly, I wrap an arm around her and show her how to position the plate so she can hold it and dry at the same time.
“There,” I say.
“Just like that.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she says, suddenly bashful. “I’m…uh. I’ve never done dishes before. I’m sorry about your plate…and the pancakes…and, well, everything.”
“Don’t,” I grunt, removing my touch from her hands. Fucking kills me to do it, too. Once I start touching her, I don’t fucking want to stop. “Shouldn’t have shouted. We just don’t get many visitors up this way, is all.”
“Boof!” Buck woofs, trotting up behind me and licking my calf through my jeans.
Little fucking turncoat. I’m beginning to this my dog likes this goddamn girl more than he likes me.
We wash dishes in silence for a few minutes. There aren’t many to do, and what few there are, we make quick work of.
When one of us isn’t unconscious or at the other’s throat, we don’t make all that bad of a team.
As I’m fishing about in the water for the final fork, Avery reaches down to grab it at the same time I do. Our fingers curl around it simultaneously, and I feel an electric fucking current running through the water as they do.
“Sorry!” Avery yelps, pulling her hand back like my skin burns her.
At the same time, I grunt, “Sorry,” recoiling at her touch like she might turn me to gold beneath her fingertips.
Who fucking knows.
After, when she’s gone back into the living room to pet Buck and watch the fire, I take a look at the place on my hand where her fingers touched. I can still feel where her skin was against mine. It’s like she burned her fingerprints right into me. Marked me as hers forever.
And damned if when I hold my hand up to the window to look at it, it doesn’t seem just a little more golden in the light.
Chapter 8
Avery
My eyelids are getting heavier with each blink. All of those pancakes just left me so comfortable.
I gaze into the fire for a moment, nestled into the couch. The dog, whose collar has a little tag on it that reads BUCK, settles down next to me. His warm, furry form curls around me, and I curl around him right back.
Daddy only ever had hunting dogs—and they always seemed just plain mean. Mommy had a lapdog, but it wasn’t anywhere near as nice as Buck is. Mostly, it just piddled everywhere and tried to bite the fingers of anyone who wasn’t Mommy when they tried to pet it.
All things considered, I’m as comfy as I can be with all these bruises and bumps all over me.
I turn my head to face the back of the couch and close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths, relaxing myself as best I can and I drift quietly off to sleep.
When I wake, I impulsively want to stretch. I go to try and whimper at the soreness of my body.
Destroying a car seriously takes its toll on you. I still can’t believe it even happened. Yesterday is such a blur to me now that I don’t even know what to call real.
I yawn, padding to the window to look outside. Yep—still snowing. I feel Buck’s tail thumping against my leg as I stare out into the white oblivion that the world has become while I was asleep.
Five days. Isn’t that what Jack said? Five days, maybe more.
Suddenly, just outside the window, Jack appears. His tolerance for the extreme cold just baffles me. Where I’m from, a slight breeze puts a hot cup of Starbucks in my hand and a brand-new designer coat on my back.
But I guess living out here there’s no Michael Kors nearby. Not that I could see Jack ever stepping foot in there. If he did, he’d certainly be turning some heads.
They’d have to make something special for him, just so it would fit those broad, rugged shoulders of his. They’d have to sew two coats together for a man the size of Jack.
I study him as he loads the bird feeder just outside this quaint, rustic cabin. I still can’t believe he built this entire place by himself. I’m intrigued by Jack. He’s so different from anyone I’ve ever known.
He’s not afraid to speak his mind to me, but he’s still so kind at the same time. He’s rugged and robust, but that’s not a bad thing at all. It’s just so different.
I’m used to men being so groomed, so sleek. And Jack, he’s the exact opposite of that. He’s large and muscular.
Cardinals begin to flock over to the bird feeder once Jack’s refilled it. There’s an incredible beauty out here in the real wilderness. I don’t think I’ve ever been so off the grid before, and I’ve never seen many animals in their natural habitat.
Jack’s created an entire life for himself out here. Everything he does, everything he owns—it all has a purpose and a routine.
On one hand it sounds like exactly what I need. I need a place to disappear, and Jack obviously built this place to do just that.
On the other hand, I know what kind of girl I am. I’m not cut out for roughing it, and Jack knows it. I’m thankful that this is just for a few days while I recover enough to get back to town.
Ugh. Town. Town means civilization, and back in civilization, everyone is going to know what’s happened.
No. They’re going to know what Adam told them happened.
If he’s feeling generous and still wants to salvage his little deal with Daddy, he’ll have said that I’m just a silly little thing and must have gotten cold feet.
If he’s feeling cruel, he’ll tell them all something worse. That I was cheating on him, or that I’m just being a bitch. That I ran off to embarrass him because I’m a spoiled, vindictive little cunt.
That’s what he called me before I left, after all. I can’t imagine he would have a hard time repeating it.
In Adam’s story, I’m sure I made no effort to even try to love him. In Adam’s story, I’m sure it’s me that’s the liar—not him.
I freaking hate politics. I hate my father for putting me in this position. I hate myself for never asking my father for the brutal honesty that I decided way too late that I actually need to survive. I just blindly trusted everyone and everything.
I look down at my body and I’m reminded of my escape. As soon as I broke free from Adam’s restraint over me, I booked it. I found my keys, hopped in my car, and just hauled my ass as far off as I possibly could.
Do I even have my shoes? I lift my leg in the air, looking at my foot and see my toes. Right. I kicked them off so I could drive. They’re probably still laying abandoned in the resort parking lot, or perched on Adam’s desk at the lodge—proof of the cruel flight of his runaway bride.
I wore stilettos for my wedding so Adam didn’t have to bend down too far to kiss me. But when I look back up at the window to Jack’s massive form as he stoops to offer a handful of bird seed to a tiny, fluffed up bird that’s obviously too scared to fight the cardinals for its share of the food, I have a stupid thought.
Jack would bend down to kiss me.
Jack wouldn’t mind.
I look down again at the tattered tulle and silk resting against my thigh. It’s covered in dirt and still stinks of gas, but it doesn’t change anything.
I’m still wearing my wedding gown.
This awful, ugly reminder of the worst day of my life remains wrapped around me like a prison. It’s nothing more than a badge of dishonor, a token symbol of the abuse I experienced on my own wedding day.
I didn’t think such horrible things could happen to such sweet people. I’ve always been a good person. I’m kind to others, and I’m very giving, just not in the way Adam wanted me to be.
I kept shouting at him, “NO! NO! NO!”. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. I blink and turn my head away from the window so Jack can’t see me in my indecency.
He yelled at me for not swearing properly. I can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw me cry.
When Adam tore my dress apart trying to take me, I screamed so loud. Why didn’t anybody come to save me then? Where was my rescuer then?
If Jack had been there, he would have ripped Adam in two and fed both halves to Buck.
But Jack wasn’t there. Jack was probably standing at the top of the mountain, masturbating to the brisk gl
ory of nature or something.
I can only be thankful that in that one, singular instant, I actually took care of myself.
I kicked Adam so hard in his balls that I hope I turned his voice back to a prepubescent state.
Adam isn’t a man. Men don’t disrespect women like that. It’s deplorable.
And I know for certain that when I get back, I’m making my abuse known. I’m going to tell the whole world about how Adam tried to rape me.
I want to keep this fire he’s lit in me going, but as I stare down at the tattered remains of my gown again, all I can do is weep. I can’t even reach behind my back to take it off—after the car crash, my shoulder is too bruised for me to move my arm in that way.
As I wallow, the doorknob turns, and I hear a CREAK.
For a dumb, stupid second I’m afraid that it’s Adam, come to make sure that I’m wearing some form of this awful fucking wedding dress for the rest of my life.
But duh. Of course it’s not. It’s just Jack, his cheekbones tinged pink with cold and frost in his beard.
“Everything alright?” Jack asks, his brow furled and his mouth slightly agape, breathing in the warm cabin air after being out in the cold.
“Puh...Peachy,” I lie. Badly.
How the heck can I impose my troubles on this poor man? He’s already accommodated me for so much. But reading his face, he’s not buying my answer.
“Avery, I’ve carried you out of a burning car,” he says, shrugging his coat off and throwing his gloves on the floor next to his boots. “I’ve given you a place to rest, a place to sleep, and all my damn pancakes. I think we’ve established that anything you need, I can provide,” he assures me.
I take a deep breath. How far into this do I go?
Do I tell him about Adam? About my attack? Should he know why I was speeding up the side of the mountain?
It’s all so much, and even though he’s offered to help, I just can’t impose like that.
But since he asked…
“I need…a favor, ” I start.
“Alright,” he responds. His arms are now crossed and he’s waiting for my request, his brow still furled in expectation.