by Tara Wylde
I shift my weight just enough so I’m not crushing her and bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair, thinking back to our first time together. Way back then I’d been amazed by how in sync we were and wondered if things would improve after we’d been together for a while, once we really knew and understood one another’s rhythms.
I was right. During the past year, I’ve lost count of the number of different times and different ways we’ve made love. The one thing that has never changed, which never will change, is how each time we come together, it keeps getting better. She keeps finding new and exciting ways to turn me on and take my breath away.
And I do the same thing for her.
I change the angle of my head and brush a butterfly-soft kiss to the side of her neck. “Lara Sullivan,” I whisper in her ear.
“Mmm,” she murmurs sleepily.
“I love you.”
Her arms tighten, hugging me close as her mouth bows into a sweet smile. “Right back at you.”
Part II
Dark Nights - A USA Today Best-selling Novella
He didn’t start out a psycho.
I guess they never do.
But he’s still chasing me through the stormy woods…
So why am I so happy to see a guy pointing a gun in my face?
She must think I’m crazy.
One moment, I’m enjoying my hideaway cabin.
The next I hear a gunshot.
So I do what any Army Ranger would.
I grab my gun and go for a look.
I certainly didn’t expect to find a girl running through the woods.
Definitely not one as hot as her!
She looks cold. I’m gonna warm her up.
And she’s going to see more than just my weapon…
39
Dark Nights by Holly Hart and Tara Wylde
Sam
I had the strangest dream last night. It started out like an ordinary day in my life: shower, coffee, sleepy commute. Indistinguishable from reality, till I stepped off the elevator and into an Army barracks, familiar from basic training. It was just like I remembered, right down to the vague odor of feet and disinfectant. Right down to the snoring of twenty recruits, tucked away for the night. No—nineteen recruits. My bunk was empty.
Dazed, I made for my bed. There was a lump under the covers. When I pulled the covers back, that lump proved to be an alarm clock, which immediately went off. I smacked it, searched it for a switch, smothered it with the covers, but it only got louder. Soon, everyone was up, shouting and throwing things.
It was all in vain: even stamping on the alarm didn’t kill it off. Soon, the elevator dinged, and R. Lee Ermey stepped out, dressed like the sergeant from Full Metal Jacket.
“You’re late,” he said.
I woke up.
I wasn’t late, but it was a weird day at work: long, frustrating, hard to concentrate. Hit the road as soon as I clocked off, and now here I am. Here I am, miles from civilization, and still thinking about work.
I go to the window. The rain’s coming down in sheets. It was spitting on the drive from Boston, drizzling on the way up the mountain, and now, it’s outright pouring.
“Looks to be a stormy one,” I say. When I get nothing back, not even a snuffle at my ankles, I realize I’m talking to myself. Boone’s deserted me, probably at the first rumble of thunder. I should go wheedle him out from the closet, or the laundry hamper, or under the bed—wherever the mutt has stowed himself away this time.
I should get away from the window. It’s not safe, during a storm.
I should light the old wood-burning stove, in case the power goes out.
Or...I could stand here a while longer, admire the rain-halo around the porch light.
I shake my head. I’m not tired enough to be woolgathering like this. What’s the matter with me? (Working too hard, an unhelpful inner voice supplies. Forgotten how to deal with spare time. Set up the stove; comfort the dog. Then a nice night by the fire. Easy as pie.)
Easy, indeed.
I tear myself away from the window—a little reluctantly; there’s something hypnotic about the way the rain’s battering itself against the light. I don’t often get to just...stand and appreciate something pointless. Can’t even remember last time I came up here. Long enough that I walked into a truly impressive cobweb on my way up the steps.
I resist the compulsion to brush at my head and shoulders again. I’ve showered, since then. There’s absolutely, definitely no spider in my hair. Or down my collar. Or…
“Eugh.” I bat at myself anyway. There’s nothing unmanly about hating spiders. They deserve to be hated, with their big bodies, and their fangs, and their multiples of everything. What needs eight eyes and eight legs? Nothing good—that’s what.
I definitely don’t think about all the spiders that might’ve been in the woodpile, as I set to work on the fire. I concentrate on how cozy it’s going to be, on the couch, with a snifter of brandy and a record on the turntable.
Boone can warm my feet—or, more likely, my lap, given the storm. I’ll turn down the lights, watch the fire flickering through the star-shaped vents in the side of the stove. I won’t think of work. Or spiders. Or the clunk my car made, when I hit that pothole on the way up the driveway. I’ll have to deal with that in the morning. Probably have to—
Damn. I’m doing it, again. What do people normally think about when they find themselves with time to kill?
I poke another cube of firelighter between the dry logs. It pops out the other side, and tumbles into the ashes. I fish for it and come up with black fingertips.
Back when this was still Grandpa’s cabin—two rooms and an outhouse—he used to send me down the mountain for supplies. I’d pedal past the old folks on their porches, taking in the sun. They’d be stretched out in their rocking chairs, mostly with a folded-up paper or a book face-down across their laps—but I don’t think I ever saw one reading. They’d be smoking, or sleeping, or watching the road. They’d holler out “Morning!” and maybe offer me a buck to mow their lawns.
I’ve never been able to space out like that—if that’s what they were even doing. Maybe they had some kind of rich inner life, some kind of imagination I missed out on at birth.
Or maybe you’ve got to be old to unravel the secret of just sitting still for a minute—get out of my hair, would you?
Perfect. Now the voice in my head belongs to Dad.
I light a match with my thumb. The fire kindles on the first try. Well, hey!—things are shaping up. Thunder rumbles again, closer this time. Better rescue the dog, before he shivers himself into a heart attack.
True to form, I find Boone squeezed into the tightest spot he can find: in this case, between the couch and the wall, in the guest bedroom. He snaps at me when I reach for him.
“Who’s a good boy?” I try.
He whines.
“Who’s a big, hairy coward?”
His tail starts to wag.
“Who’s about to get his fat rump stuck, again, if he doesn’t come out and get a treat?”
I’ve as good as won. Boone’s still wedged into his little thunder-fort, but he’s got the beginnings of a dumb spaniel grin on his face, and he’s quit with the trembling. Any minute, now—
The sound of a shotgun rings out, far too close. Boone backpedals, till his butt hits the wall. So much for my brandy, my fire, my quiet mountain retreat. That shot was on the property—down the hill a ways, but still far too close. It’s too early in the year, and too late at night, for a lost hunter. Somebody’s up to no good.
My deer rifle’s hanging over the fireplace. It’s mostly decorative, these days—Dad was always the hunter of the family. But I still keep it cleaned and oiled. I load it as I move toward the door. By my first step off the porch, I’m cursing myself. My jacket’s too thin, my boots not nearly waterproof—when did I become such a city boy?
No time to think about that.
I kill the lights, and head into the sto
rm. The woodpile’s a blacker shape, in the darkness, and I head toward it, keeping low. The lightning holds off just long enough for me to take cover. The brief flash I get of the dooryard’s enough to tell me there’s nobody there. Not that I expected there to be: the report came from the bottom of the hill. No one could get up here that fast.
I race across the dooryard, and start wending my way down the path to the carport. I stick close to the trees, not wanting to bump into someone coming the other way in the dark. Can’t hear much of anything, with the rain pounding on the leaves. Whoever’s out there would have to fire off another round for me to hear him coming.
When I hit the blind curve above the carport, I feel around till I find the big rock. (Wet moss. No gloves. Disgusting.) I circle behind it, and wedge myself into the bushes, to await the next lightning strike. The intruder would have to be practically on top of me, and looking me dead in the eye, to pick out my shape. I pull up my collar to make it even harder.
Cold water’s dripping down my neck. I ignore it.
That lightning’s taking forever.
Hope Boone’s all right.
That’s just rain, on my leg. Definitely not anything alive.
And, there it is: illumination! Someone’s standing there, maybe twenty feet down the slope—but not quite the armed intruder I was picturing. It’s a woman, soaked to the skin, long black hair plastered to her face and shoulders. She’s trying to shelter under a dead tree. Its bare branches make for a crappy umbrella.
I ease out from behind the rock. Going to have to approach with caution. Can’t have her panic and run off the path, where I might not be able to find her again. Can’t discount the possibility that she’s some kind of bait, either: that she’s standing out there, all pretty and helpless, while her boyfriend waits in the brush, to...what?
Shoot me? Hold me for ransom?
Only one way to find out.
40
Sarah
Driving in the rain is the pits. Especially up here, where one false move has an equal chance of wrapping you round a tree, slamming you into a rock face, or plunging you down a gully.
The rain’s deafening, but I can still hear my phone. It’s buzzing, again. Vince, of course. It’s never not Vince, any more. I quit sending everyone my new number after the third or fourth change. I drag my purse on top of my phone, but I can still hear the alerts, one after another.
I don’t have to look. I know the script:
babe?
where r u?
skyped you 3 times
pick up. pickuppickuppickup
where did you go?
i know where you are
dont make me come over there
please
i wont lose my temper
u owe me a chance
were not breaking up
didnt agree to that
answer ur FUCKING phone
bitch
“I blocked you!”
And now, I’m yelling at a phone.
Maybe he’s trying to drain my battery, so I won’t have a lifeline when he finds me.
I take a deep breath. The wipers whip back and forth. It’s almost soothing. Concentrate on that. Just that. Can’t be far now.
A sign whizzes by, too quick to read. It’s a big one, though. South Deerfield town limits? Turnoff for Conway should be a couple of miles down the road. I peer through the rain, but all I can see are the black lumps of cars, and what might be darkened storefronts beyond.
There’s a traffic light coming up. I slow down. I’m spacing out a little. The panic’s wearing off, and my lids are getting heavy. Soon, I’ll be curled up under one of Mom’s cheery quilts, with a hot cup of—
A set of high beams blazes to life just shy of the intersection. A truck peels off the curb. It nuzzles up behind me, practically kissing my bumper. I squint against the glare, but it’s no use. Can’t see a thing. I inch ahead, willing the light to turn green. Mr. Highbeams creeps up, too, and this time, I feel a nudge.
And my phone isn’t buzzing anymore.
My phone isn’t buzzing anymore!
“Vince!”
Lying in wait—he’s been lying in wait! He must’ve known the whole time, and—
I floor it through the light. The traffic cam flashes. I have a moment to hate the idea of my last close-up decorating a speeding ticket, before Vince fills my rearview mirror. He’s playing bumper-cars with my rental, the one I got so he wouldn’t see me leave. So much for that—and why didn’t I spring for insurance? Fuck!
Fuck!
I keep my palm to the horn all the way down Main Street. Maybe someone’ll be pissed enough to call the cops. I think I see a light flick on as I tear past a squat little building: success?
Vince slams me hard enough to spin me forty-five degrees. I accelerate into the skid—is that the right thing? Or am I thinking of flying? Accelerate into a dive; but do what for a skid? My mind is scrambled. Before the answer can come to me I’m bouncing over a parking block. I careen through a parking lot—old; deserted; potholed—and emerge on a street I don’t know.
I see sparks in my side mirror. Something’s hanging off my car, scraping on the asphalt. I will it to fall off. It doesn’t. If Vince didn’t see where I went, he’s sure to now. Those sparks are like a beacon: hey, psycho!
I spot another turnoff on the outskirts of town, barely more than a dirt road, and veer off at the last second, hoping Vince will hurtle past and have to double back. He doesn’t—and now we’re headed into the mountains. And my car’s starting to sputter. And he’s edging up beside me, and there isn’t room, and he’s going to run me off the road! He’s honestly going to kill me out here!
I don’t want to die like this.
I don’t want to die at all. And especially not out here.
I pump the gas, but Vince keeps pace. My back wheels lose their grip as he sideswipes me. There’s a blind curve coming up, and I swerve into it, knowing, just knowing there’ll be a deer, or an oncoming car, maybe a—
There’s nothing but open road.
I breathe in and out.
This isn’t how it all ends.
Vince is gaining again. On my left, there’s a wall of black rock; nothing but trees to the right. Pretty soon, Vince’ll hit me too hard. I’ll plow into one or the other—or be plowed into it—and—
(Don’t think about it.)
I scan for a place to pull over. The road only narrows ahead. I hit the window button, and am instantly drenched in driving rain.
“I’m trying to pull over,” I yell, loud as I can.
Vince bumps me again.
“Fucking give it a rest! Do you see a shoulder!?”
He can’t hear me. Of course he can’t. I stick my hand out the window, and instantly jerk it back as I feel myself losing control. It’s not like there’s a hand signal for “quit trying to ram me, you miserable psychopath,” anyway.
I scream around another hairpin turn, and there it is: a wide spot in the road. I aim for it, not daring to slow down. My eyes narrow involuntarily as I brace myself for a suicidal plunge into the bushes—but there’s nothing but mud and darkness ahead, a trail leading up the mountain.
Someone’s driveway—I’m on someone’s driveway. That means...that’s got to mean there’s a house up ahead with a phone, doors that lock, maybe a couple of big, mean dogs.
Vince hates dogs. Used to lose his mind when mine put his paws on his chest. Broke out that stupid lint-roller from his car.
Never trust a man who doesn’t love dogs.
Metal shrieks, as I scrape along the tree line. Something flies into the forest, either my side mirror, or somebody’s mailbox. Too dark to see.
Vince doesn’t make the turn. He whizzes by, but I know he’ll be back. My car grinds to a stop and I spill out. I think about running straight up the driveway, but Vince won’t be far behind, and I’m in heels. I don’t want to, but there’s no alternative.
I dart into the woods.
&nbs
p; Surely, he won’t follow. It’s pitch dark under the trees. I’m navigating by touch. A person would have to be insane to leave the path. And I’m not the insane one. I’m the cautious type, the stick-to-the-path-at-all-costs type. He’ll be looking for me around the car, and I’ll be….
Don’t think about that.
I’ll be...absolutely fine. It’ll work out. It has to. I didn’t come this far to tumble down a scree, or get eaten by a bear.
Are there bears?
Of course there aren’t bears. Or if there are...there’s a better-than-average chance they’re asleep, or on another mountain, or sheltering from the rain...right?
My foot squelches in mud, and comes up without a shoe. I toe around for it, but it’s gone; it’s gone, and now I’m hobbling.
Worst. Hike. Ever.
I slog through mud and dead leaves, and something that feels like a patch of toadstools. Pretty soon, my bare foot is numb with cold. At least I haven’t stepped on anything sharp yet. I start sliding my feet along the ground to make sure I don’t.
From somewhere down the hill, I hear a car horn blast. Good. Vince isn’t on my heels. I could survive this. A little luck, a little persistence—
Lightning flashes. It leaves me with a brief afterimage of trees, more trees, and something that might be the roof of a shed, below me and to the right, at the foot of a steep drop-off.
Not that way then. I shuffle forward, slow and steady. Can’t stop thinking about that drop-off now, the possibility of stepping into nothing, falling—I can’t even see my hands in front of my face.
The house has to be farther uphill—or, at least, I think it does—so I focus on climbing. It’s not so bad. It’s dark, and it’s wet, but I haven’t crashed into a tree yet, or tripped over anything spiky or dead. Next time the lightning comes, I can—
Crack.
It’s struck a tree. It’s struck me. I’ll feel it, in a second, a billion volts boiling my blood.
I blink. Still dark. That...wasn’t lightning.
Vince.
He’s shooting at me! What the actual fuck—he’s shooting at me!