Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RATTLER
I’ve finally set up all the cameras and sensors and returned to the cabin.
Getting them connected to Wi-Fi takes me a moment, but soon I’ve got the laptop set up and can see the whole of the property.
Feeling quite proud of myself, I flick between the screens.
Then, realise, on my own, I’ve no way of knowing whether the sensors are working.
I lower my head into my hands for a moment, putting off the inevitable, but eventually realise that hoping for the best won’t cut it, and I’ve got to have help to check them out.
Reluctantly, I call out, “Ames?”
There’s an unnecessary clanging of pans, and then she appears. “What?”
Gritting my teeth, I tell her, “I’m going to go down to the gate. You watch this screen and tell me if you can see me. I also need to know if the alarm sounds, and whether that dot flashes as I get close to it.”
“Are you sure that’s woman’s work?” she asks in a sickly-sweet tone.
“It’s the work of someone who doesn’t want her brother to kill her,” I snarl, then leave before I’m tempted to end her myself.
After walking the couple of hundred yards down to the gate, I realise I’ve another problem. She’s got no phone, and I can’t call her to check. So, I traipse back up the road again to ask her.
“Did it work?”
“What?” she asks innocently. “I had to check on dinner.”
I narrow my eyes. “I told you to check the laptop.”
“You also told me to cook dinner.”
Clenching my fists, knowing she’s done this on purpose to rile me up, I go to my rucksack and take out another burner phone I’ve come equipped with. I thrust it at her. “If you don’t want me to do Stone’s work for him, you’ll fuckin’ answer that when I call.”
Her mouth fucking quirks as she takes it.
Then, not trusting myself to keep my hands off her, I walk down the driveway again. Once there, I call her.
“I can see you on the camera. The alarm rang, and the light’s flashing ‘gate’.”
And I’m fucking sure she knew that earlier.
On my return, I’m seething. But, proving she can multitask, she’s plating up a meal. And not just something simple as I’d expected. The cabin’s full of a garlicky aroma, and after she gestures toward me to take a seat at the small dining table, she places two plates down.
Staring down at the offering, then glancing back up at her, she shrugs and says, “Chicken Parmigiana.”
It looks and smells fucking amazing. Hungry, after traipsing around the perimeter for the last few hours, as well as up and down that driveway a few times, I dig in. It tastes as good as it looks.
“Your grandmother taught you well,” I comment through a delicious mouthful.
Her face twists, reminding me how recently she lost her grandparents.
I try to feel sympathetic, but honestly, I’ve no empathy.
I’ve never lost anyone I care about. I was the baby left at the fire station as nobody wanted me.
A sickly child, I’d later found out, already addicted to heroin, thanks, presumably, to my unknown ma.
Probably why Child Services couldn't find anyone to adopt me. My earliest memories are of a children’s home full of fucked-up kids.
And the foster homes I was placed in from time to time had been worse.
I’d learned early on I should never have been born.
I’d known nothing about family until I’d joined the Kings.
They’d given me a reason to live. A brotherhood I’d only previously been able to dream about.
Carefree, living outside the law, wanting nothing to tie them down except for their bikes and their loyalty to the club.
Their code? Rules I could live by and understand.
Only recently, something’s changed. Saint, the man I’d looked up to from the beginning, recognising a kindred spirit as he was as cold and unfeeling as I am myself, well, he’d met Pippa.
He should have killed her to protect the club, but what did he do?
He fucking married her, and they’d spat out a kid.
A baby who does nothing but cry and shit.
And Short? Well, he’d been caught by the same disease, not only making Bronwyn his old lady but also accepting her fucked-up child as his.
And fuck me, but Freak, the man who’d kill you as soon as he looked at you, had married Trixie, a woman even I had sunk my cock into more times than I could count.
I couldn’t understand what had driven any of them to tie themselves down.
I’ve never loved anyone, nor have I been loved. All my life, I’d only looked out for number one. So no, I can’t understand mourning the loss of a relative. In my case, if I knew who my sperm and egg donors were, I’d probably be glad to hear they were gone.
But something drives me to give her something. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Isn’t that the right thing to say?
My empty words seem to satisfy her. After a shuddering sigh, she gives me a small nod.
By the time we’ve finished our meal, it’s starting to get dark outside. As she collects the plates and the empty beer bottles I’ve drunk, I go to my pack and extract a flashlight, then trek to the bathroom to take a piss.
When I return, she asks for the flashlight, then leaves, probably to do the same thing.
Eyeing the sink, with nothing better to do, I start washing the plates and pans that she’s used. When she returns, she stands awkwardly for a moment before going to a drawer she’s clearly explored earlier and getting out a towel, then starts drying up.
We work in silence.
Once the detritus of our meal is cleared away, we return to the main room. I turn on the television, which, thank fuck, is already set up to the Wi-Fi. Entering my password, I pull up a subscription channel and flick through to a movie I’ve been wanting to watch.
I get another beer, and she pours herself a glass of wine.
She sits in one armchair, and I sit in the other.
We don’t talk. We just stare at the screen.
When the credits roll, she asks for my flashlight again.
When she returns and disappears upstairs, presumably to go to bed, I, too, visit the bathroom once more.
Even though it’s before midnight and long before I normally turn in, with fuck else to do, I brush my teeth and make myself ready for a night on that uncomfortable couch.
But when I return to the cabin, I come to a halt.
The cushions from the couch had been laid on the floor, the ones from the chairs placed head-to-tail, a sheet laid over the top. One of the pillows I suspect has come from her bed, placed at the head of the makeshift bed, and a blanket lying alongside for my use.
Stripping down to my underpants, I switch off the light, then fumble my way back to the centre of the room and lie down, placing my gun within easy reach. It might resemble a slim single bed, but it’s surprisingly comfortable, and at least I can stretch out.
My final thought before I close my eyes is, why would a woman who hates me as much as I detest her do something so thoughtful?
I hate to admit it, but I would never have considered taking the seat cushions off the couch.
I start to close my eyes, then remember the shit Tempest had pulled together to stock us, well, me in this instance, up.
Weapons and flashlights. Plural. In that there’s more than the one I’ve been using for myself.
Rolling out of my improvised bed, I switch on my flashlight and go to my duffle and pull out one of the spares.
With that in hand, I ascend the stairs. It looks like she’s already in bed as there’s no ribbon of light showing under the door.
Nevertheless, I give a perfunctory knock, then turn the handle and push the door open.
If she’s asleep, I’ll just leave the flashlight by the side of the bed.
Harsh light almost blinds me as she immediately turns on the bedside light. But I’ve enough vision to see her scoot up the bed, wrapping the sheet tightly around her. Her face has gone white.
Oh shit. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to visit her just wearing boxers. When I take a step toward her, it looks like she’s about to scream.
I hold both hands in the air, then wiggle the one holding the gift that I’ve brought.
I wait until her panicked eyes are drawn to it, then gingerly step forward, holding it out.
When she doesn’t release her death grip on the sheet, I place it carefully down on the table beside her, then retreat fast, while saying unnecessarily, “I brought you the spare flashlight.”
Her eyes remain wide, so I continue backing out. When I reach the door, I blurt out, “Goodnight.” Then close it before she can respond.
If she had, she would probably have told me to go to hell.
My bad, I hadn’t considered that my half-naked appearance would frighten her.
Back home, in the bunkhouse, what I’m currently wearing would sometimes be over the top.
The inconvenience of the bathrooms being communal means it’s not unusual to bump into naked brothers making their way to the heads.
And the only women on my floor are the whores, who wouldn’t turn an eye, as they’ve already seen everything we’ve got to offer.
Ames?
I honestly didn’t like scaring her tonight. I might not like her, but we’re being forced to live together for an indeterminate amount of time, and each of us walking on eggshells around each other is going to make it ten times more difficult.
She’s not a whore, not a girl I’ve flirted with and brought home to fuck.
She’s under my protection. And, eyeing the bed she’d gone out of her way to make up for me, perhaps she deserves to be treated with some respect.
Maybe we can settle into our own roles and come to some kind of truce.
Or maybe not. It depends on whether she can keep to her lane.
I sleep well, for about three hours, then my bladder wakes me up.
Lesson learned—no walking around half naked here.
I pull on my jeans and slide on my boots.
It’s not just out of consideration for the woman lying upstairs in the only bed.
Those fucking spiders are no joke, and I don’t want them to crawl into places where I definitely don’t need them.
It’s only when I’m outside, looking up at a bright starlit sky, that I remember the other necessity Tempest had packed. Bear spray.
As I piss, I rack my brains for other wildlife we’ve got to be wary of. Javelinas, if my memory serves me right, oh, and snakes, and Gila monsters. All are known to inhabit the canyon I’m in.
Fuck my life.
Having made it back to the cabin unscathed, like a kid, I can’t wait to slide back under the sheet as if I were a child scared of the dark.