Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Bennett
E leven minutes. That’s how long she’s been gone. I know, because I set a timer on my watch as soon as the door closed behind her. I told myself I’d give her fifteen minutes, but I’m already dressed. I might as well make sure she’s okay while the clothes are still warm.
I take the food off the stove. Despite my best attempts, I can’t get the pot of beans any warmer than cold. Cold is better than freezing, though. If Cat wants to complain, she can give it a fucking shot.
After pulling my gloves from the hearth, I slide my fingers into the slots and revel in the warmth. That will soon pass. The cold has a way of sucking every degree of warmth from anything it touches, and in Alaska, it touches whatever it wants.
Headlamps wait in the pantry, so I fetch one before I head out the door. If Cat hadn’t rushed outside on legs made of lightning, I’d have given her one.
I stop walking toward the outhouse. What the fuck am I doing? This sudden protective streak needs to stop. First I go running at the first sign of her discomfort, and now I’m trudging through the snow...for what? To make sure she didn’t get her ass stuck to the toilet seat? To help her again ?
And yet I’m walking forward once more, heading straight for that outhouse with the hope that she’ll just tell me to fuck off. That she’s okay and I’m a dirty pervert for trying to catch a peek of her with her pants down.
That’s not what I hear from behind the outhouse door, though. There are no words, just muffled thuds and thumps over the sounds of crunching snow beneath my feet.
“Cat?”
“Bennett! The door is stuck!”
I reach forward and give the handle a tug. It holds fast. “The door won’t open from my side, either.”
“No shit? You figured that out all on your own? Well, gosh, I guess the scarecrow has a brain after all!”
After a few more bumps and bangs, something clicks from her side of the door, and then it opens. Cat stumbles into the snow. Her eyes look straight ahead, and she walks with a faux arrogance to her posture.
“Locked yourself in, huh?” I say.
She squints into the headlamp light and tries to screech her rage, but a pitiful and hoarse wheeze putters out of her throat. “You know what? You’re right. I did. I guess that makes me the scarecrow.”
“Aw, then who will I be?”
“You’re the fucking tin man, remember? No feelings.” She stomps toward the cabin, not needing my light to guide her. There’s a slight tilt to her walk, but it has more to do with drinking hard liquor on an empty stomach than lack of light.
I follow her into the cabin, and we strip down to our underwear again. It doesn’t even strike me as odd until I grab the cold beans—that are now colder beans—and set them on the coffee table beside the bottle of whiskey.
“Why are we both in our underwear?” I sit beside Cat and hand her a spoon.
“I’m not sure. For me, it’s habit. You want some of this?” She takes another swig from the bottle, then holds it toward me.
“Why not?” I grab the bottle from her and take a long pull. I’ll regret this tomorrow, but that’s a problem for later. Then the whiskey nearly goes down the wrong pipe when my brain registers what she just said. “Wait, habit? You habitually walk around in your underwear?”
She laughs and takes the bottle from me. “What? No!”
“Okay, because I was about to say?—”
“I habitually walk around naked.”
“That’s...Naked? Really? I knew Rosie and Grim were part of the Bare It All club, but you too?”
After she swallows another mouthful of whiskey—and these swallows are getting bigger by the minute—she nods her head. “Yeah. I have an aversion to certain textures on my skin. It gives me the serious ick. When I’m home, I just stay naked as much as possible.”
“Do you lock yourself inside the bathroom at home, or is that only for vacations?”
“Do you fuck food at home, or is that?—”
I dip my hand into the pot of baked beans, curl my fingers around a fat clump, and ram it into her mouth before she can finish her sentence. Huge mistake.
Her mouth is so fucking warm, and as her soft tongue pushes against my fingertips to get me out of this sacred space, I nearly come in my pants. When I don’t move my fingers, the push becomes more exploratory.
I’m about three seconds into a rapid-release boner when her teeth clamp down.
“Ah, fuck!” I yell. “Okay, let go, let go!”
She releases her death grip and commences to chewing the mouthful of cold beans like she didn’t just try to take off my fingers at the first knuckle. This bitch is savage.
Closing her eyes, she lets out a moan. “Mmm, cold baked beans and filthy fingers. What a combo.”
Fuck her. I grab the bottle and gulp down more whiskey as she pulls the pot onto her lap and digs in. This is going to be a long fucking night.
I lean back and watch the fire as Cat plays the part of a starving animal that’s just been given a meal. The alcohol must really be doing its thing now. I’ve never seen someone so satisfied by a pot of cold beans. But with the way she’s chowing down, there won’t be any left for me.
That’s okay. I can just make something else.
After gathering the courage to venture back into the freezing pantry, I shuffle into the tiny room and use a headlamp to light the labels. A few jars of honey snag my attention. That would probably be good for Cat’s voice.
My hand moves toward the jar, but as I pull it closer, I realize I’m doing it again. I came in here to find something I could eat, yet I was about to walk out of here with something to help her . Am I sick? Am I dying?
I keep my grip on the honey and look for something to pair it with. The stovetop is big enough to warm up more than one thing at a time. Canned chicken might be okay. It’s already cooked, so I don’t have to worry about foodborne illness. My bigger problem will be heating the honey enough to break down the crystals that have formed in these freezing temps.
I take the honey to the hearth and set the jar near the fire. “You mind turning this every few minutes? It needs to warm up if I want to cook with it.”
“You’re cooking more food?” She wraps the quilt around her shoulders and shuffles to the fire. “I always get so hungry when I drink. That’s why I wanted the alcohol. My appetite is pretty shit.”
She settles down beside the hearth and touches the jar, then pulls her fingers back with a wince.
“It’s the temperature fluctuation,” I say. “Your fingertips will be more sensitive for a while. Maybe forever.”
Her gaze moves to her hands. “I won’t lose my fingers, will I?”
“It’s possible.” I step away from the fireplace and head toward the kitchen again. Her fingers won’t fall off, but life is more fun if she thinks they will.
“Why aren’t your hands as bad off as mine? You’re touching everything, and you don’t have any pain.”
I shrug. “I had good gear. Yours looks like you picked it out of a bargain bin.”
“I did.”
That wasn’t what I expected her to say, and I don’t like this game. Instead of lobbing the ball back to me, she aimed it right at my chest.
“I, uh, I need to cut more wood for the stove. Will you be okay in here for a few minutes?”
She tips the whiskey bottle against her lips and turns the jar a few inches, but she doesn’t answer me.
“If you need the company, I can bring the logs inside and cut them,” I say. “I might put some gouges in the floor, but Jim can replace the boards with his pocket change.”
She still doesn’t say anything, which is enough of an answer for me. Her pride won’t let her speak her truth. She doesn’t want to be alone.
If I’m just running out to grab the logs and the ax, there’s no need to put on all my gear. Hell, I could probably make the run to the woodshed in my boots and underwear. I pull my warm socks from the hearth and put them on, then slide my feet into my boots. The thought of the winter wind hitting my chest gives me pause, but I won’t be out there for longer than a minute.
Still, I take another pull from the whiskey bottle to give me a little extra warmth. I have a mild buzz going, which also helps with the poor decision making.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “Don’t forget to keep turning the bottle.”
She gives me a drunken salute, then returns her focus to the honey.
After fastening the headlamp on my head once more, I grip the doorknob, take a deep breath, and race into the cold.