17. First Night #3
I press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead and carefully, slowly pull back, sliding out of her. I take a step away from the workbench.
The cool, damp air of the shop immediately hits the sweat on my bare skin, making me shiver slightly.
Without asking her what she needs, I turn and walk across the concrete floor. I head to the small, beat-up mini-fridge sitting near the office door. I grab a bottle of cold water, grip the plastic top, and unscrew the cap with a sharp twist.
I walk back to her, and she is sitting up on the edge of the steel table now. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her bare chest, shielding herself from the draft.
I hand her the open bottle of water.
"Drink," I tell her quietly.
She takes the bottle with two hands, tips her head back, and drinks. I watch the long line of her throat as the cold water soothes her. I stand there, completely naked in the amber light, marveling at how beautiful she looks.
I reach over to the rolling desk chair sitting a few feet away. I grab my heavy, fleece-lined canvas work jacket off the back of it.
I step close again. I help her slide down from the cold steel bench. I put my hands firmly on her waist, steadying her as her bare feet hit the dusty concrete floor. I smile in satisfaction as I note that her legs are shaking slightly.
I wrap the heavy canvas jacket completely around her bare shoulders, and it completely drowns her frame. The heavy sleeves hang down past her hands. The thick collar swallows her neck. But it shields her from the draft, and it covers her entirely in my scent.
I place my hand on the small of her back. I guide her toward the back corner of the small, enclosed office space built into the side wall of the shop.
There is a small, narrow cot pushed up against the wood-paneled wall. It is covered in a clean, heavy gray wool blanket.
I pull the wool blanket back and ease her down onto the mattress. She pulls her knees up, tucking the massive canvas jacket around her legs.
I lie down on the narrow cot right next to her. I reach down and pull the heavy wool blanket up over both of us, sealing the warmth in.
I pull her flush against my side. My arm settles firmly over her shoulders, anchoring her to my body until there is no space left between us.
She turns her face naturally into the center of my chest and rests her hand flat against my ribs. Within minutes, I feel the tension completely leave her muscles. Her erratic breathing evens out into a slow, deep, rhythmic pattern.
She falls asleep against my chest, safely wrapped in my jacket, listening to the steady, slowed-down rhythm of my heartbeat echoing in the quiet room.
I’m tired, but sleep refuses to come, so I remain still. The dim amber light spills out from the desk lamp in the shop, cutting a long, angled slice of illumination through the small office window. It casts deep shadows in the corners of the room.
My eyes drift slowly across the dark, familiar room. Through the office window, I stare toward the eastern tree line where my mother's clearing disappears into the darkness.
For my entire adult life, I have operated strictly on defense.
I have fought constantly to protect what I have. I have fought to keep people out of my yard, to preserve the dirt of the eastern parcel, to survive the quiet, suffocating trauma of my family's history in this small town. I have held the line.
But as I lie in the dark, my thick arm wrapped tightly around the woman sleeping against my chest, an entirely new, massive thought forms slowly in the back of my mind.
I don't just want to defend the land anymore.
I look at the eastern wall, and for the first time in my thirty-odd years of life, I don't see a barrier. I see a foundation. I think about actively building something on it. I think about building a future I have finally, tonight, decided I actually want.
The thought should scare me.
It doesn't.
But as I tighten my grip on Nora, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer against my side, I don't push the thought away. I sit with it in the dark. I watch her sleep, and I let the idea take a deep, permanent root in my chest.
The low, sudden hum of my cell phone vibrating loudly against the wooden crate next to the cot breaks the silence.
I reach out carefully, making sure my shoulder doesn't shift enough to wake Nora. I pull the heavy black phone off the crate.
The screen glows brightly in the pitch-black room, casting a harsh, blue light over my face.
It is a text message from Rafe.
I just got information about Stanley’s father, the text reads. Victor Hargrove lands in Moonrise tomorrow morning. Something must have happened for him to move the timeline up. Be ready.
I stare at the glowing green letters. I read the message twice.
The old, familiar surge of adrenaline hits my bloodstream, but this time, there is no defensive panic behind it. There is only cold, hard anticipation.
I click the lock button on the side of the phone. The screen goes black. I set it gently back down onto the crate in the dark.
I look back through the glass window, staring directly at the eastern wall.
Let him come.