Chapter 46 Larkin
Larkin
Beyond the filthy panes of glass, snowflakes delicately drift down from the grey sky.
It’s a stark contrast to the storm swirling inside my chest, a blizzard of emotions hailing down on me since we arrived at Rutherford Manor.
I drag a finger over the window, leaving a trail through what must be years of dust and grime.
I’m not entirely sure why I agreed to this trip, other than my promise to her.
Salome sits cross-legged in an armchair in the corner of the small library, flipping through a random book from the shelf.
The threadbare fabric is long past its prime; whether from love or neglect is irrelevant, since the outcome is the same.
My eyes catch on every snag and stain littering the floral fabric, imagining how many people have sat in the same place.
My jaw clenches and my teeth grind as I try to hold back all the misgivings I have about being here.
I look out the window again at the skeletons of bare trees dancing in the yard.
Behind them looms the endless acres of evergreen pines separating us from the rest of civilization.
Snow piles on top of our modest car, mocking my failure to upgrade to a vehicle with four-wheel drive.
It’s parked next to a row of Salome’s friend’s higher end SUVs, still shiny and clean underneath the fallen snow.
“I can hear you thinking from across the room.” Salome sighs, closing the book more forcefully than necessary. Her stern expression relaxes into a gentle smile, her cranberry-colored lips curving at the corners just enough to shift her expression from grim to hopeful.
I run a hand through the shaggy strands of hair hanging in front of my face, half pushing them away and half using it as an excuse to look away from her smoky slate eyes.
A horde of moths flutter in my stomach when the waves of her dark hair fall over her shoulders as she stands.
As she crosses the room, the sway of her hips has any more thoughts of misery escaping me.
“I’m not thinking anything,” I mumble as my body leans towards her like it’s being sucked in by her orbit.
Salome’s breasts press against mine, and my breathing quickens.
Her scent of amber and warm honey surrounds me, laced with the faint must of old books, like she’s just stepped out of the pages.
Her hands intertwine with mine as she tilts her head up to lock eyes with me.
“We promised not to lie to one another,” she whispers, as much a plea as a warning.
She squeezes my hands and moves in closer, placing a kiss along my exposed collarbone.
Her fingers move my flannel back, exposing more skin and the strap of my tank top.
My skin ignites under her soft lips, melting my insides into a puddle of warmth low in my belly.
“Salome,” I whimper, resting my forehead against hers.
Our moment is broken by a crash behind us, and we jump apart, our heads snapping towards the source of the sound. “What the fuck was that?” she screeches, her body visibly rigid.
A chill ripples through me, like an unseen hand tracing a finger down my spine.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as the room becomes several degrees colder.
Salome shivers, rubbing her hands along her arms even though she’s wearing an oversized sweater from the community college we both briefly attended.
I step towards her, gripping her waist to draw her back to my chest. “Old houses have drafts,” I explain uneasily, trying to keep my voice from wavering.
“See? The door’s shut now. Someone probably just opened another down the hall. ”
Salome looks up at me with an exaggerated frown on her cherubic face. She blinks several times, silently acknowledging we both know my explanation is bullshit. I only shrug, removing my hand from the curve of her stomach to point at the model steam train on the floor.
“Right,” she retorts, rolling her eyes and waving her hands. “A draft? Really, Larkin?”
“Well, what else could it be?” I question then pause for dramatic effect as I look around the room for an alternative theory.
We both move slowly to inspect the offending train, as though it were a snake waiting to bite us. Salome nudges the small locomotive with the tip of her toe, and I erupt in nervous laughter.
“I think it’s dead,” I joke before picking it up off the unpolished hardwood floor.
“Don’t touch it!” she shrieks, attempting to swat it from my hands, but I raise it overhead before she can reach.
“It’s just a toy train, Salome. It fell off the mantle when the door slammed shut, and I’m going to put it back. The last thing we need is for your friends to lose their security deposit because we broke some irreplaceable vintage toy.”
It’s not difficult to figure out where to return it to, since there’s an open spot in the layer of dust on the mantle shaped precisely like the base of the train. Once it’s safely back in its home, I turn to look at Salome to find her eyes piercing me like daggers.
“Satisfied?” she grumbles, placing her hands on her hips and letting out a huff. I swear, I see steam rolling from her nostrils, and I’m suddenly unsure which of my actions has left her so agitated. “You just had to get in a snarky comment about my friends, didn’t you?”
Oh, that.
“That’s not what I meant, I swear,” I groan, rubbing my palms over my face. “I just know how these rich old people are with their collections, and I don’t want Wiffle Ball...”
“Rutherford,” Salome interrupts, her lip curling back to expose her teeth as she annunciates the name. “His name is Rutherford.”
“Of course it is,” I grumble, moving past her to collapse in the chair she vacated. “You know what I meant. I don’t want Rutherford accusing us of damaging his property.”
We fall silent, our past arguments hanging heavy between us like a curtain.
Looking anywhere but at her, I stare at the large oil painting hanging above an ornate, antique desk, one probably worth more than everything I own put together.
The man in the portrait fills most of the canvas, painted to look seven feet tall.
One hand rests on a cane with a silver handle shaped like a wolf’s head, the other behind his back.
A permanent sneer is painted across his face, and the black orbs of his eyes seemingly follow me as I shift from side to side.
“These painting are fucking creepy,” I mutter, mostly to myself, but Salome’s head snaps in my direction. “What? They are!”
“Larkin, can you please at least try to have a good time?” she asks, exacerbated. Her face looks more tired suddenly. “For once? For me?”
She’s right. I know she is. I didn’t want to go on this trip, and I’ve taken every opportunity to remind her of it.
A crystal distiller full of amber liquid, likely scotch, glimmers in the corner of my eye.
Thoughts of pouring the alcohol into a glass and swirling it under my nose, taking in the sweet bitterness of its scent, crosses my mind.
I can almost feel the way it would burn as I take the first sip.
I exhale, sinking into the lumpy cushions and closing my eyes.
I should answer her, but anything I say right now will only lead to another argument.
When I open my eyes again, Salome is staring out the window with a grim expression as she wrings her hands in front of her. “What’s wrong?” I ask softly, like I’m approaching a timid animal ready to bolt at any sudden movement. I rise from the chair and take slow steps until I’m behind her.
“The weather,” she states sadly, her attention never straying from the flurries of snow outside. “It’s getting worse.”