Chapter 2
I sat next to the campfire, enjoying the mild temperature. April nights in central Texas didn’t require extra heat, but my canvas did. Smoke spiraled upward, filling the air with the scent of burning oakwood.
Glancing above, I smiled at the simple, warm LED bulbs strung across the site. Between their glow and the fire, even at night, I could see well enough to make the images of the world come to life with a few strokes of my brushes.
“Hmm.” I tapped the thin, wooden end of a fan brush against my chin. “What’s missing?” With a sigh, I leaned into my camping chair and watched the stars twinkle against a black blanket of sky. The trees, with their slim, sharp needles and triangular tops, seemed to point to the heavens.
I gave my painting another critical eye. It’s missing something, but what? It matched my view above almost exactly, but it still felt unfocused. Maybe something in the foreground? Gray smoke winding through the air?
The fire crackled, sending a spray of embers bursting high, then falling onto the rocky ground. “I need to give it up. I’ve got a long day of painting tomorrow.” With one last sigh, I stood and stretched, then placed my brush into a cup of water to soak overnight. The fire would burn itself out while I crashed on the twin mattress in the bed of my truck. My life might not have been glamorous with an ancient Ford truck as my home, but it beat living on the streets.
Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.
One day, I’d have enough saved to buy a place of my own. One day. But until then, I’d keep moving and taking whatever jobs came my way. Freedom—my number one motivator—would always trump the bindings of staying in one place for too long.
Snap.
The noise, possibly the cracking of a stick, came from the far side of camp near the tree line.
I stilled, cocking my head to listen. The song of the crickets disappeared, but a radio blasting at another camp didn’t. The hackles on my neck stiffened, and a shiver ran across my skin.
Maybe it’s nothing, or an animal. Get moving, Gerri.
Obeying my inner voice, I grabbed the small cylinder of Mace from my front jeans pocket, keeping my attention on the trees with their dark, secret spaces between the trunks.
Another snapping, shuffling sound, closer this time.
Not an animal, unless it’s a bear. Did this part of Texas even have bears? I’m supposed to make a lot of noise to scare them away. That’s what I’d read in one of the many state park brochures I’d collected over the years.
I slapped my denim-clad leg with my free hand. “Who’s there?” My voice shook, but I held my ground, carefully unlocking the tiny canister’s tab with my thumb, just in case.
Someone cleared their throat, the sound distinctly male.
“Don’t come any closer. I’m armed.” I held my hand toward the dark trees, the metal cylinder pointed toward the general area of the noise.
Not a bear, but a man. A gun would be super useful here, Gerri. Why don’t you have one?
I’d never gathered the courage to own a gun. My stepfather had tormented me with his silver pistol when I was ten. ‘I could pull this trigger, blast your fucking brains all over the wall, and your mother would never know.’ Cold metal had kissed my temple as he’d threatened me, and I’d always squeezed my eyes shut, never knowing if that would be the day I’d die. The mere thought of touching a gun drenched me in cold sweat.
Get it together. Now’s not the time to relive the past.
“Hello.” A tall person stepped from between two tree trunks, their shoulders wide.
Definitely a guy.
“Get back,” I shouted, my thumb ready to unleash pepper hell on anyone and anything.
Though I could only see his silhouette, it was enough to show him holding up his hands. “I do not wish to be harmed.” Shining eyes peeked from the dark.
“Stay there or I’ll shoot.”
“I will not hurt you.” He had an odd way of speaking, putting inflections on letters that weren’t normally emphasized.
“What’re you doing over there, creeping up on me like that?” I wanted to run to the cab of my truck and lock myself inside, but that would mean turning my back.
He took a step forward, clearing the trees, then stopped. “Your creation.” He pointed to my painting. “It is beautiful.”
I narrowed my gaze. “How in the hell can you see it all the way over there?” How long has he been spying on me? A chill crept across my skin.
“I see it with my eyes, just like you.” He nodded once. “May I come closer?”
“No.” True panic began fluttering its wings inside my chest. “Go back to your own camp and leave me alone.” I wasn't sure if he was a psycho or just overly friendly, but I had no desire to find out. I’d been alone since Roger, my stepdad, kicked me out nineteen years ago and I liked it that way. No one to answer to, no one to love, no one to hurt.
He frowned. With those two steps he’d made, I could see his face a little better. He sported a buzz cut. Could he be in the military?
No, there’s something strange about the way he moves, like water dancing over rocks.
“I apologize. It is not my intention to scare you. I am not familiar with your ways.” He held out his hands. “I will leave.” Nodding, he swiveled around and walked back to the clump of trees separating each camp.
There’d been a flash of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Shame? Sadness? My intuition told me he was lost—or disoriented, at least.
Don’t do it. You don’t know him from Adam. You’re an unarmed woman who doesn’t even own a cell phone. The chances of someone hearing your screams are fifty-fifty.
But my intuition had never failed me, not since that night all those years ago. It had kept me alive in my teen years as I’d survived on the streets, under the underpasses, and the wooded lots outside the city. There had been times where others had shown me how to keep warm, what dumpsters held the best food scraps, how to protect myself when I slept. What if this stranger needed help? Could I refuse?
I cleared my throat. “What campsite you staying at?” I lowered the mace and stepped closer to the light. Unfortunately, due to it being night and my clumsy ass, I tripped over a rotten piece of wood I’d collected for the firepit. Reflexes made my hands stretch outward as I fell toward the yellow and orange blaze with its merry glow.
I didn’t even have time to yell. A flash of my soon-to-be melted face and clawed hands raced through my brain. I don’t want to burn. The heat intensified as I fell in slow motion. I squeezed my eyelids shut, dreading the ensuing agony.
Instead of being scoured in burning flames, though, strong arms wrapped around my torso and yanked me to my feet. “Are you okay?” His breath smelled of iron and mint—a strange combination, but not unpleasant.
I clawed at his shirt; my eyes bouncing from his muscled chest to the burning logs, not quite believing I hadn’t been seared.
He grabbed my wrists and gently pushed me away, his gaze scouring me from head to toe. “Did I hurt you?”
“What? No. No, not at all.” I jerked my hands from his grip. “Thank you. If you hadn’t—”
“Stop.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “I could argue the fact that had I not stumbled into your home, you would not have been startled and therefore would not have tripped.”
I laughed. Not because what he said was funny, but because I felt such relief at being saved. Normally, people—especially those I’d never seen before—made me extremely wary. But this guy? He’d kept me from burning, or at least from smashing my brains on a rock or breaking my wrist.
“I’m Gerri. Gerri Johnson.” I offered my hand.
With a tilt of his head, he presented his hand but didn’t reach toward mine. “I am Drayven Narax.”
We stood that way for a few seconds, our fingertips only inches apart.
“You’re supposed to shake my hand.” I smiled. Maybe the endorphin release at being saved caused giddiness to settle in my belly. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Not exactly.” He clasped my hand in his, his fingers against my palm and shook it, as if giving me an up and down high five.
What the hell… I shifted my hand and angled it so the tender skin between our thumbs met. “ This is a handshake. You know, the thing we do in greeting. I dunno what the hell that was.”
Even in the semi-dark, his neck flushed a violent red.
“That is not a greeting.” He pulled his arm away and stuck his hands into the back pockets of his cargo pants. “Where I come from, we touch the tips of our fingers together, signifying we are one in that moment.”
“That sounds weird and sweet.” I tried not to stare, but I was enthralled. He spoke strangely and seemed clueless when it came to handshakes. “Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”
“My accent?” He touched a thick bracelet on his wrist. “I was not aware I had an accent.”
“It’s faint, but it’s there.” I opened the tailgate to my truck, then dug around in the cooler next to my mattress. “Wanna beer?”
“A beer?”
“Yeah, a beer. Yes or no?”
“Y-yes.”
Pulling out two cans of Bud from their icy, watery bath, I shut the lid and turned.
He seemed so lost, so out of place. Like me. No home, no family, just odd jobs to get me from one day to the next.
But I didn’t know his situation, not truly. Momma had always said my imagination had no limits. As usual, when I thought of her, a heavy sadness fell around my shoulders. Why did she leave me with Roger? Had I not shown her enough love? Did I make her leave? I knew these questions should’ve been stupid, especially at my age, yet the always lingered.
With a deep, focused breath, I shrugged the depression away. Now’s not the time to rehash the past. I tossed a can to Drayven. “Catch.”
His hand shot up so fast I blinked twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Nope. He’s quick as a cat. I’m lucky for that, I suppose, otherwise I’d be on my way to the hospital.
“So, where ya staying?” I rolled an old tree stump closer to him and pointed, then sat in my chair and popped the top of my can. The yeasty taste slid down my throat. “Ah, that’s good.”
His eyes watched my mouth as I took another swig, then his attention followed my throat. When he caught me watching him, he jerked his gaze to my face. “I am not staying here, just visiting.” With a quick glance at the old stump, he sat, his spine erect. Tilting the can to the side, he read the label. “I have never tried al-co-hol .”
The puzzlement on his face made me chuckle. “I don’t drink it often, but every now and again, I enjoy one after a long day of work.”
He pulled at the tab, and my attention flickered to his long, slender fingers. “So, Gerri Johnson, what is your occupation?” The can fizzed briefly, then he held it to his lips and chugged the entire thing in one gulp.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I mostly paint.” He’s going to get one hell of a rush when the alcohol hits his bloodstream.
He licked his lips and grimaced. “Beer is not good.”
“There are people who would argue that.” I grinned. “And I have to admit it was an acquired taste for me.”
“So, your occupation is painting.” He pointed to my unfinished canvas. “Like that?”
“I wish.” I see-sawed the can back and forth in my grasp, enjoying the cold, wet condensation collecting on the outside of the aluminum. “I don’t really like to be in one place for too long, so I stay at parks and look for small painting jobs in the area. It’s easy to find work most of the time.”
“What happened to your home?”
I shrugged. “My stepdad was a prick and kicked me out at seventeen, even though the house was in my mom’s name.” I craned my head toward my camper. “But you know what? It wasn’t really a home even then. My truck is all the home I want. Everything worked out for the best.” At least, that’s what I always tell myself.
A line formed between his brows. “I think I can understand how you feel. I have never even seen my home.”
“What? That makes no sense. How can you have a home you’ve never seen?” Drayven was definitely an oddball, but I felt comfortable around him. Normally, I couldn’t stand to be near people. In a matter of minutes, he’d piqued my interest with his strange accent and even stranger comments.
“Perhaps I misspoke.” He set the empty can on the dirt and propped an elbow on his thigh, setting his chin into his hand to stare at the fire. “I do have a place to live, but it is not my home. We have finally accomplished our goal after many, many years. Now, we are turning our attention to the journey back to whence we came.” His face tipped up to the stars. “And I must ensure we get there in one piece with sound minds. We are pragmatic and serious, which is great for the short term, but the voyage promises to be long and dull. I came here to find inspiration for my design, to breathe life into a sterile environment, to bring beauty to bleakness.”
He talks like a scientist or a doctor.
“You said your people? Are you a refugee?” Sometimes a city would be designated as a haven for refugees from other countries. Though he doesn’t really come across like he’s from a different country. I didn’t add this thought, though, because I didn’t wish to dive any deeper into what he’d said. A tiny niggling festered at the back of my mind, that he was something other than human, and I shut down the thought.
Overactive imagination, just as Momma had always proclaimed.
My words must’ve broken him from his reverie, because he swiveled his attention to me and grinned. Though his face was handsome, something in his smile seemed tight, strained. “I doubt you would have heard of my people. We keep to ourselves.”
“Fair enough. Well,” I stood. “Thank you for not letting me fall into the fire. I’ve got an early day tomorrow, so…”
“Oh, yes.” He rose to his six foot and a half height. “Thank you for the beer. It was…interesting.”
I gave a genuine laugh. “You’re welcome. If you’re still here tomorrow, swing by for dinner. I make some mean grilled hotdogs.” Wait. What did I just do? Why did I invite him to join me for dinner? That’s the beer talking, you idiot. I immediately poured the rest out of the can onto the thirsty ground.
“That would be wonderful. Can you teach me how to paint?”
My mouth opened and closed in the manner of a fish gulping for air.
“I am sorry. Brax always says I am his most impulsive engineer.”
Engineer? I put a hand on my hip and gave my new acquaintance a closer look. His jeans, though faded, didn’t have a smudge of dirt and his button-down shirt hung straight, no creases or signs of distress from spending a day in the woods.
So, not a doctor, but an engineer. It explained why he spoke with such intelligence. Good for him. I hadn’t even finished high school.
He pursed his lips. “Perhaps another day, then. Goodbye, Gerri Johnson. It truly has been a pleasure to meet such an interesting, beautiful woman.”
An urge to apologize for my silence, to tell him of course I’d love to teach him art, rose within, but then I squashed it down. Maybe it’s better this way. I’d been on my own for years. No sense in screwing it up now. And if I was lucky, he’d forget about the dinner invitation I’d so blatantly given out.
“Goodnight, Drayven.” Without another glance his way, I pivoted and kicked dirt over the flames, helping the fire to die down before I went to sleep.
I felt his eyes on my back for another thirty seconds or so, then the sound of crunching rocks under his feet until they faded into the distance.
A little part inside of me regretted my sudden coldness. It’s what I’m good at—driving people away. The fewer people in my life means the fewer chances of being hurt.
With a heavy heart, I pulled out my traveling backpack, retrieved my toothbrush, and started my wind-down process before sleeping.
It’s better this way. Really.