Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
SEBASTIAN
We’ve been waiting over an hour, and the snow is coming down in thick sheets.
It’s much colder than it was in Vancouver, and my face and the tips of my toes are achingly numb.
Fiona and I have been pacing to keep warm, our conversation minimal.
The forest around us is quiet, and our only light is from the car’s headlights, which are pointed toward the snowy embankment.
Finally, I clear off a log opposite the car and sit. I catch Fi’s gaze and pat the spot next to me. Her bare hands are in fists, and they don’t unclench when she sits, scooting close to my body.
I’m a ball of nervous energy, everything wound tight like I might snap at any second.
I hate that we’re waiting on Michaels right now.
He’s probably the last person we should be calling for actual help, the fuckup that he is.
And I won’t lie, watching Dennis corner Fi in the alley at the pub is still replaying in my mind like a fucked-up horror flick.
“Stop it,” Fiona looks over at me, annoyed.
“What?”
“You’re shaking your leg. It’s making me anxious.”
I smirk. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever admitted that you’re anxious.”
She gives me a shove with her shoulder, and I still my knee and lean forward, placing my forearms on my thighs.
I swallow, fighting my nerves. I don’t really understand what’s happening.
I’ve never actually experienced fear like this for anyone other than Charlie, and it’s throwing me for a loop.
I don’t like feeling out of control—it makes me irrationally angry.
“Talk to me, Seb.”
I glance over at Fi. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are a rosy-pink color. “I’m not really much of a talker.”
Her eyes crinkle at the edges as she smiles patiently. “I know, but it’ll make you feel better. Trust me.”
Shockingly, I do trust her, which is why I say, “tell me more about Dennis.”
Fi stiffens, and the silence stretches until I assume she’s not going to answer, which is fair, I suppose; we don’t know each other that well yet. But then she takes a breath and blows it out in a cloud of white air.
“There isn’t much to tell.” I see her hands flexing in my peripheral vision. “He’s my stepdad. I’ve known him since I was ten, and we’re not very close.” She pauses. “Dennis isn’t a very nice person.”
I glance at her, and she looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “Has he always been violent?”
“That’s the first time he’s actually attacked me, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replies cagily.
“I’m scared for you,” I admit quietly. “Seeing him assault you—it made me so angry, and that’s not me. Marcus was always the hothead in our family.”
“You punched Brantley in the face,” she points out.
“Yeah, and that was weird too. I’ve been feeling out of my depth lately, and it’s…unsettling.”
Fi’s small hand reaches over and covers mine, her thumb tracing circles on my chilled skin. “While it’s sweet that you care, I’m okay, Seb. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“And what if I don’t have a choice in the matter? How do we deal with that?”
She looks up at me through her lashes, and despite the shadows angling across her face, her jewel-toned eyes pin me in place. My gaze drops to her mouth, and my breaths quicken as I stare, something stirring below my waist. I shift my weight.
Just then, we’re bathed in headlights, and Fi and I turn to shield our eyes from the brightness. I squint at the dark gray truck crawling up the road toward us, the wipers whipping back and forth against the steadily falling snow.
I stand and pull Fi up beside me. “Is that him?” Fi nods. “Why am I not surprised that he owns a big truck?”
She snickers. “Don’t stereotype him, Seb. He might surprise you.”
“Unlikely,” I grumble as the truck comes to a stop.
The engine cuts off and Michaels steps from the cab.
He’s wearing that stupid brown leather jacket with a sweatshirt hood draped over the collar.
His hair is covered by a gray toque except for a few blond strands visible on his forehead, and he’s wearing a smug little smirk that I’d like to slap off his face.
“Car trouble?” he asks cheekily as he approaches us, his boots crunching over the snowpack.
Fi rolls her eyes and walks up to him. “Thank you for coming, B. I know it was kind of a long way.”
His eyes soften. “Of course.” Then he turns to Fi’s BMW. “Probably not the smartest idea driving that little sedan in this weather.”
“We didn’t really plan on a snowstorm,” Fi says with a frown.
“Should I ask what you two are doing all the way down here?” Michaels looks over at me and then back down at Fi.
Fi purses her lips. “It’s a long story. Can you just take us the rest of the way to my family’s cabin?”
“Fi,” I start, “maybe he should take us back to Flurry to get a hotel room. We should probably talk to a mechanic there about a tow and getting your car fixed.”
Michaels shakes his head. “There’s only one motel in town, and I don’t think you want to stay there.”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “My dad lives about thirty minutes from here, and we came to Flurry a lot when I was a kid.” He grimaces. “It always kind of gave me the creeps. Lots of riffraff, drugs, sex workers, you name it. The Travel Lodge has serious Bates Motel vibes.”
Fi gives me a look, and I sigh. “Okay, fine. Cabin it is,” I mutter. “I’ll call a mechanic in the morning.”
Michaels throws a casual arm around Fi’s shoulder and guides her to the passenger side of his truck, helping her into the cab, while I walk over to the car, open the trunk, and pull out our bags, trying not to slip into the ditch.
I approach the truck, and Michaels follows me around and opens the back.
“You must hate this,” he says with a smile as I toss in the bags.
“Hate what?”
“Me helping you.”
“I don’t love it.” He’s standing really close, and the scent of leather, mint, and something earthy invades my space as his breath tickles my neck. I shiver. “Hey, Michaels. Lay off the cologne,” I grumble.
He looks hurt. “It’s called Swagger, and it makes me feel manly like a pirate captain.”
I step back and raise an eyebrow. “You have a thing for Jack Sparrow, do you?”
“Absolutely. His eyeliner is choice.” Michaels smirks. “Tell me you wouldn’t let him wash your barnacles.”
“For fuck’s sake. Of course that’s what you wear. It’s probably Old Spice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just…something a jock would wear.”
“Not really a jock anymore.”
I shrug. “If the jock strap fits…”
He glares at me. Then he slams the tailgate and leans back against it. “You have a really low opinion of me, don’t you?”
“Do I need to remind you about what you did to my pub?” His hazel eyes bore into me, and I suddenly feel a little guilty for being such an asshole, but I keep my face neutral and give him a hard look. “You haven’t really given me very many good impressions.”
“Yeah, fair enough, I guess.”
He still looks sad, and I hate it, which confuses the hell out of me. Why do I even care? I mean, I don’t care. Jesus, the guy drives me crazy.
“You’re very hurtful sometimes, Bastian.”
I grit my teeth because that stupid nickname is not growing on me. “My name is Sebastian, Stitch.”
“Look, if we don’t trade passive-aggressive nicknames, are we even friends?”
“We aren’t friends!” I say it louder than I mean to and Michaels’s smile falters. He takes off his toque, balling it in his fist, and runs a hand through his unruly hair. “I know I fucked up, okay? I’m sorry.” He turns and stalks to the driver-side door and I watch him walk away.
The road winds farther up the mountain, and we pass the odd residence, but none of the houses seem like they’re occupied—probably summer homes. It only takes us a few more minutes before Fi points out a secluded driveway.
The little cabin that greets us is an A-frame nestled in a grove of evergreen trees.
The front yard is a blanket of thick, pristine snow, and stacks of firewood line the property, serving as a fence of sorts.
There’s a shed in one corner, and a path runs to the left through the trees, but in the darkness, I can’t see where it leads.
Michaels pulls up and turns off the truck, glancing over at us. Fi is rubbing her collarbone with a grimace.
I frown at her. “I thought you said you weren’t hurt.”
“It’s just a few bruises,” she mutters, lowering her hand.
I sigh. “Let’s go inside.”
We all get out of the truck, and I grab our bags from the back, then walk up the steps.
Fi pulls a key out of her pocket and fiddles with the old lock.
It’s tarnished brass and looks like it’s from the eighties.
In fact, now that we’re standing on the porch, the place is pretty rustic, to put it nicely.
The wood siding is weathered, and the slanted roof is covered in a thick layer of moss.
She pushes open the door and turns on the lights.
The space is large and open, encompassing the living room, which has two matching blue floral love seats, and the kitchen, complete with geometric-patterned Formica countertops and mustard-yellow appliances straight out of an episode of Three’s Company.
The walls are all logs and wooden planks, and the floor is covered with gaudy brown and green shag rugs tossed crookedly over the well-worn hardwood.
It smells like dust and cedar and old books—exactly what I imagine the eighties would smell like.
In front of us is a wooden ladder leading up to a loft where I can barely see a bed, a dresser, and a closed door that I assume is a closet.
“Did we just enter a time warp?” Michaels asks, spinning around to take in the place. “This looks like my grandma’s house.”
Fiona smiles wistfully as she glances around. “It was my dad’s place. He brought me here sometimes.”
“I didn’t realize you knew your dad,” Michaels says.
“He left when I was five, but I have a few memories.”