3
Rayne
Unwanted Guest
“O h, hi!”
Oh, no.
There was no denying it was her. Wide hazel eyes, the same color as rich summer honey.
Short chestnut brown hair, ruffled from the wind.
Pale skin, sunburned cheeks, and a freckled nose.
Lips the color of a blushing peach. She was smiling at me as if she was about to disintegrate but was sorry about it, as if the bright red embarrassment flushing her face was a personal fault.
She couldn’t have known her embarrassment was making this worse. Her wide eyes took me straight back to the last and only night I’d met her.
Looking up at her in the lights’ neon glow as she fell apart on my tongue. Listening to her whimper and moan, a song just for me.
Like a fever dream. Or a nightmare.
Dreams were supposed to stay in the night, in the dark space outside of reality. They weren’t supposed to waltz up to you in broad daylight with a blush and a smile.
“I’m here to check in?” she said, her smile shrinking with worry. Hurriedly, I tossed aside the potato and ripped my earbuds out. “My reservation is under Lockard. Salem Lockard.”
“Salem,” I repeated, her name tingling like candy on my tongue. Her face lit up—
Whoa .
There it was again: the same bizarre feeling I’d experienced when I saw her across the bar the other night. A feeling of recognition, an incomprehensible draw.
Static buzzed loudly from the CB radio, making us both jump. A youthful voice crackled over the speaker: “Seahawk to Dragon! Come in, Dragon!”
Muttering an apologetic “’scuse me” to Salem, I slid into my chair behind the counter and grabbed the mic.
“Rebecca, I’m a little busy right now. Is everything okay?”
Try as I might not to look at my unwanted guest, my eyes were inevitably drawn back.
She was wearing skintight biking shorts over thick leggings, everything in a mismatched pattern of earthy colors.
It was fascinating, distracting, irritating—shit, looking at her was a whirlwind of feelings I wasn’t prepared for.
“Noooo, not Rebecca!” the little voice responded. “I’m Seahawk, remember?”
With a sigh, I gave Salem my very best customer service smile. “I’ll be right with you in, just, uh, one second.” Speaking into the microphone again, I said, “Seahawk, this radio is only supposed to be for emergencies. Is there an emergency?”
A long, guilt-laden pause came before she answered. “No. But I’m bored!”
“The radio isn’t a toy, Seahawk. Go play with your sister, okay? I’ll check in later. Dragon is over and out.”
Cranking down the volume, I paused to take a deep breath before I turned around. Salem was beaming, rocking from her heels to her toes. Her tiny dangling mushroom earrings swung with her. Loki had already taken a liking to her; the big ham was at her side, nuzzling his wet nose into her hand.
There was a gargantuan elephant in the room, and if I didn’t acknowledge it soon, it was going to crush me.
My heart sped up as I found her name in the reservations list. Salem Lockard. My lips silently formed the name before daring to speak it out loud.
“Miss Lockard?” I confirmed.
She eagerly nodded. I cursed as I waited for my ancient booking system to load, resisting the urge to slap the side of the PC. It was always slow, but with her standing there looking at me, I swore it took a million years.
“This is such a crazy coincidence, I mean, what are the chances?”
Oh God, she kept talking. Her voice was shaky, quick and nervous as she tugged at her coat sleeves. There were frayed threads sticking out of the fabric, as if that was a frequent habit.
I wasn’t prepared for this. This was why I went to the mainland to hook up: so I would never see those hookups again. So they wouldn’t show up at my doorstep wanting to spend the night.
I smiled at her. Sort of. The expression was smile-shaped and felt mildly friendly, at least. “Welcome to Blackridge, Salem.”
Her expression changed. It softened. As if a little of her nervousness disappeared.
I suddenly felt like I was back in elementary school again and had just been handed a gold star sticker.
Frowning in an attempt to smother the weird sensation, I spread several pamphlets on the counter before her.
“This is a map of the island, and this is a map of the trails. The only one currently closed is the Lighthouse Loop. It’s too late in the season to go out on the peninsula. ”
She collected the maps, wrinkling them as she stuffed them into her jacket. “Is it true that the island closes down in winter?”
“Not exactly. The ferry closes down, so no one is coming or going. Starts in autumn, not winter. You’re staying here for two weeks so.
..” I frowned. Why the hell had I booked her for these days?
Talk about cutting it close. “You’ll be catching the last ferry off the island. Make sure you don’t miss it.”
“I guess I’ll have a pretty cool place to stay if I do miss it, right?” She laughed. It was the kind of laughter that was contagious, that almost made me giddy.
But it was too loud. It echoed off the walls and I flinched, half anticipating hearing a yell in return.
Pull it together, Rayne.
“No one stays past November first,” I said.
“No one wants to either, if they know what’s good for them.
The weather is harsh. There’s rain, sleet, and snow.
The waves get big enough to slam any boat that gets too close against the rocks.
The wind is strong enough to down a chopper, and there’s nowhere for planes to land. So don’t miss the ferry.”
Her throat bobbed as she gulped. “Got it.”
Snatching her key from one of the hooks behind me, I came around the desk. “You’ll be in room six.”
I held out my free hand expectantly. Without missing a beat, she grasped my hand, giving it a shake.
“Your bag,” I said, and her face fell with embarrassment. “Do you want me to carry it?”
“Oh, um—right, sure, thank you.” She hurriedly handed it over, ducking her head.
The warmth of her palm left an imprint on my own, and I flexed my hand on the strap of her backpack as I carried it up the stairs.
“Dining room is past reception, down the hall, on the left. Big room, you can’t miss it.
” I said, giving my usual new-guest spiel.
“Breakfast is served from six a.m. to nine a.m. Dinner from six p.m. to nine p.m. Pantry and microwave are available twenty-four-seven. If you feel like walking or riding to Marihope, there’s a restaurant there, a couple cafes, and a market. ”
I reached the top of the stairway; she didn’t. She was still on the landing, staring at a massive portrait of a dark-haired priest.
“Henry Balfour,” I said. “My grandfather. He built this place.”
“He was a preacher?” she said as she hurried to catch up with me.
“A soldier first. Then a preacher. Men of the cloth run in the family. My father was a preacher too.”
If only holiness were as hereditary as greed.
“Is there someplace I can store my bike?” she said. “I left it in the driveway at the bottom of the hill.”
“I’ll put it in the shed for you. Do you plan on riding while you’re here?”
“Yeah! Mountain biking is kind of my thing.”
She’d mentioned at the bar that she’d spent the last few days cycling up the coast from San Francisco.
Meanwhile, the farthest I’d ever been from home was the Washington coast. Like so many who’d grown up here, Blackridge was a part of me I couldn’t escape.
As if the roots of these trees had grown into me, and try as I might to break free, their hold would stretch but never snap.
They would always pull me back.
“The trails here are pretty advanced. They’re dangerous, so.
..” My warning only made her smile widen.
She was clearly capable of taking care of herself, despite her bouncy, nervous appearance.
Her backpack was heavy enough to make my shoulder ache as I led her through the upstairs hall.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the cell service out here is spotty at best. I suggest carrying a satellite GPS.
It’s easy to get lost in the forest. If you don’t have one, I have a spare you can borrow. ”
I stopped outside her door, upon which was fixed a copper plate with the room number, 6. The old key clicked loudly as I turned the lock and opened the door. It was a corner room, and I was pleased to hear her gasp of awe as she took in the view.
Across the churning waves, the Blackridge lighthouse stood tall and proud on the forested peninsula. Fog hugged its white walls, waves crashing against the black cliffs upon which it stood.
“It’s been out of commission since the eighties,” I said as she rushed to the window to look out.
“So don’t worry, there won’t be any light to keep you awake.
” Crouching in front of the fireplace, I stacked some wood and got it lit.
“There should be enough firewood for your first few days, but if you need more, just ask. The house has a furnace, but the nights especially can get cold.”
With the fire crackling and warmth slowly filling the room, I stood to find her sitting on the bed, watching me. Her legs were too short to touch the floor, and she leaned back on her palms as she said, “Thanks for doing that. It’s been a while since I lit a fire myself.”
“No problem.” My voice cracked. Brilliant. Why the hell was I just standing there like moss on a log? What was I waiting for? For her to fling her clothes off and welcome me into her bed?
God, no, bad thoughts, those were bad thoughts .
“Keep in mind, the house is old,” I said, lingering.
But she looked at me with rapt attention.
She hung on my words and I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.
“There’s weird noises. Bumps, groans, creaking.
With the forest around us, you’ll hear some bizarre things.
Just don’t be scared.” I headed for the door, but almost immediately turned back.
“If you need anything, just use the landline next to the bed to call down to reception.”
Okay, time to go.
Nope, I turned back again.
“And if I’m not at reception, you can come to my room. On the third floor. Second to last door on the left.”
I never told guests where my room was. It was none of their damn business.
Even once her door was shut behind me, I didn’t go. I stood there, listening but telling myself I wasn’t, for far too long.
The pipes rumbled as water began to flow. She was filling the bath. Part of me wanted to press my ear against the door and listen for the soft sound of her clothing dropping to the floor. For the gentle splash of her feet entering the water.
But at the risk of acting like a perverted shut-in, I hurried away, softening my steps out of fear she’d hear me go.
She was only here for two weeks. I could act normal for two weeks, couldn’t I?
The smell of her haunted me. Jasmine and lemon. Even after stripping off my clothes and stuffing them angrily into the laundry basket, her perfume remained, hovering around me.
Wearing only my underwear, I sat on the bench seat before my open window as I rolled a joint. Goose bumps prickled up my arms. The night air was bitingly cold on my bare skin, but it would make crawling into bed that much more comfortable. Pleasure was nothing without pain.
The crickets’ song joined with the distant crash of the ocean. When I was a child, I would pretend the sound of the waves was a tiger roaring in the distance. The fantasy helped distract me; a distant enemy was less frightening than the ones in my own house.
Holding the joint to my lips, I lit up. The thin trail of smoke seeped out the window, vanishing into the night sky.
Was Salem looking out her window too? Did she treasure the moon’s light, the cold gaze of the stars? Did she stare at them and feel small, inspired, intimidated? Did she wonder if it was worth trying at all, when this world was so vast and humans knew so little?
Pressing in my earbuds, I pulled up my favorite playlist on my phone and let Fleetwood Mac fill my ears. For a few moments, my world was at peace.
Then I saw movement reflected in the glass as my bedroom door swung open.
The back of my neck prickled. I didn’t turn. The hallway outside was dark; in the reflection, it was nothing more than a black void.
Slowly, I removed my earbuds. Eerie silence greeted me, far louder than the music.
A floorboard creaked. Then another. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow as I got to my feet and faced the open door.
The creaking came steadily closer, and I stared into the empty space until I swore I could see a silhouette in the dark. Harsh breathing, as if every gasp was whistling through rotten lungs, emanated from the emptiness.
Prayers rushed to the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t give them a voice.
“Come on,” I hissed. I took another drag on the joint, forcing myself to stand strong. “Move. Move .”
Every step toward the door was painful. My heart threatened to burst through my ribs. A familiar smell hit me—pungent mold and rotten blood. The knob was freezing as I grasped it, pushed it closed, and turned the lock.
For several suffocating seconds, I listened to the harsh breathing on the other side. The sound was persistent, unending, like nails on a chalkboard. I only found relief when I snatched up my earbuds again and put them in.
Only then did I release my breath. But I still stared at the door as I climbed into bed, pulling the blankets around my shivering limbs. Only when my joint had been reduced to nothing more than a roach did I start to feel a little better.
I couldn’t allow Salem to distract me, especially not now. The nights were growing longer and the cold was deepening. The sheriff thought I was crazy, but I knew it already wasn’t safe to be out after dark, no matter how early in the season it was.
If the angel wasn’t awake yet, it would be soon.
Then hunting season would begin, and whether I was predator or prey, I wouldn’t know until it was too late.