Chapter 12 Darby
DARBY
Ican’t think when he’s squeezing my neck. I don’t need to think. Everything stills. My heart rate steadies. My face isn’t hot with shame because his friend realized I just met the guy and hopped straight into bed with him.
Nothing matters but the weight and strength of Henrik’s hand, the gentle way his thumb rubs back and forth across my pulse.
He doesn’t hurt me. At all. He’s not pinning me in place—but steadying me. Reassuring me. His giant palm squeezes with the exact right amount of pressure that sends my brain into relaxation rather than flight mode.
“What would you like to drink?” His voice rumbles through me, strumming my nerves. “I have sweet tea, beer, wine, whisky, you name it.”
“Except soda,” Leland says with a laugh. “Or energy drinks. Cretin.”
“Lee’s got carbonated drinks covered. Ren can make any cocktail you’ve ever heard of. Doyle can do the luxury coffees with his fancy espresso machine. Everything else, you can get here.”
“With me,” his fingers promise.
Drinking anything that will mess with my inhibitions—given what I’ve already done—or reduces my cognitive ability seems dumb. “Tea will be great.”
He releases me and turns toward the kitchen. “Coming right up.”
I make the mistake of glancing up at Leland’s face.
His eyes are locked on me, probing for secrets, not missing a thing.
Former cop, right? Great. Not that I have any secrets to hide, but it makes me uncomfortable in my own skin.
Dragging my gaze away, I look around the room, making mindless chit chat about the color of the logs, the tiles on the floor (my guess at slate is right).
While allowing my mind to mull over this friend and the strange compound-like structure of their little town.
Are they a cult? Who’s the leader? I don’t get weird vibes from either of them. No red flags that I’ve picked up on, though granted my personal safety radar is messed up.
Leland’s an attractive guy, a little more polished than Henrik.
Not as big, obviously, but still taller than me by at least six inches.
Not as edgy as Ren. No tattoos, sadly. At least that I can see.
Ginger-brown hair and changeable hazel eyes.
A controlled, guarded smile, as if he doesn’t let his emotions show very often.
Henrik makes a couple of trips back and forth, bringing drinks, setting down a thick oval mat, then the giant cast iron skillet, while interjecting tidbits about the cabin.
Yes, he built most of it himself, though he hired out the electric and plumbing to be sure it was done right. He also worked on Lee and Ren’s cabins. Doyle built his own house on some adjacent land he bought.
“I only moved up here a couple of years ago,” Leland says.
I’m trying not to drool as Henrik carves up pieces of the rabbit and fills our plates with a layer of mashed potatoes underneath. Then he spoons more of the gravy and juices from the skillet over the top. “You were a detective in Chicago, right?”
Leland nods. “For nearly fifteen years, yeah. My partner suddenly quit, and I didn’t feel like training a rookie. Harris got into some weird shit at the end that he wouldn’t tell me about. It seemed like the universe was telling me it was time to move on for me too.”
“What do you do now? Other than homestead, I mean.”
He hesitates long enough I notice it. Something passes between him and Henrik as he sits down beside me. “I’m a PI now, searching for people who don’t want to be found. Mostly dead-beat parents and white-collar criminals.”
“It’s amazing how many people come to ski for a weekend and are never heard of again,” Henrik adds.
It sounds vaguely sinister, as if maybe they’re being disappeared in the name of justice—vigilante style.
“Not just around here, either,” Leland says.
“All of the national parks and wilderness trails have a disappearance problem. Harris would say something hunted and killed them on purpose, but he kept raving about a Wild Man. There’s always some Big Foot legend or cannibals living in the caves or some other crazy story, but in reality, people just walk out with a new identity and start living somewhere else under an entirely new name.
That’s where I come in and track them down. ”
Relieved, I laugh and pick up my fork. “That’s something I can get behind.”
The first bite makes me close my eyes in bliss.
Henrik gave me the choicest piece of the loin, fall-apart tender and seasoned to perfection.
With gravy and mashed potatoes, it’s easily one of the best yet simplest meals I’ve ever enjoyed.
“How did you do all this? I mean, I was here, but I didn’t see… ”
Henrik smirks. “You were too busy thinking about climbing me like a tree to notice much else.”
Now I’m blushing again. I definitely ogled the big guy rather than paying attention to how he seasoned the rabbit or what else he put into the pan.
Leland chokes back a laugh and my cheeks burn hotter. He must think I’m a terrible woman with loose morals who goes sleeping around with random strangers. One night stands on my way to Vegas.
Isn’t that what this is?
Or is it something else?
I pick up my glass and swallow down some tea. Perfectly strong and sweet. Exactly the way I like it. Henrik winks at me, as if he can hear my thoughts and knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Then his big palm closes over my knee. Sliding a bit higher up my thigh. Under the table, yes—but also under his shirt I’m wearing.
With nothing else.
HENRIK
That’s what I fucking thought.
I barely suppress the words as I touch the hot, very wet and enticing pussy of my sweet and sassy Darby Barclay.
I have your name now, babe. I’ll find you in Denver. Vegas. Wherever you go.
Her cheeks are on fire but that doesn’t prevent her from opening her thighs wider. She shifts in her seat, studiously staring down at her plate without taking another bite. Then she flicks a quick glance in Lee’s direction.
Checking to see if he’s watching.
Of fucking course he is.
Checking to see if he knows what I’m doing.
You’re damned straight he does.
Wondering if he really is interested in her too.
My eyes narrow, waiting for him to check in with me. When he does, I hold his gaze. I got to her first. You go through me.
I don’t say the words out loud. I don’t have to.
He gives a subtle nod and that easily, we have an understanding.
“Does Doyle know you made rabbit tonight?” His voice is rougher than usual, not that Darby probably notices.
I give her sweet pussy another gentle squeeze and release her so she can eat in peace. “Not yet.”
We’re talking in code. Doyle doesn’t give a shit about rabbit—but he sure might care about Darby.
Lee already knows Ren is in. That tomcat is always ready to join in on a hot date prospect.
But is he in for the long haul? I don’t know.
It doesn’t matter. I am. As long as he doesn’t break her heart and damage my relationship with her, he can come and go as she pleases.
Lee’s a different story. He got pretty singed in his first marriage. It was ugly for both of them. I honestly worried he might not pull through but he did. When he got his head straight again, he seemed to swear off women entirely.
“Maybe you should invite him,” Lee says. Pausing. Then he adds, “For dinner.”
Darby looks up at me, her eyes wide, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. Wearing my shirt and nothing else.
“Maybe tomorrow.” I want to enjoy this first night. Just me and you, babe.
“And Ren?” Lee asks.
“I’m here,” Ren calls, voice muffled, from the general locality of my back door. “Just waiting for the invitation.”
“Motherfucker,” I growl. Though when her eyes round with alarm, I make sure she knows I’m not really angry by giving her a wink. “Well, you might as well come in and take the other thigh before I give it to Skadi.”
Ren steps inside, stomping the snow off his boots. “I thought you’d never ask. It’s fucking cold out there.”
Lee laughs, shaking his head. “How long have you been out there?”
“Not long.” Ren sheds his outer layers, tossing them in a heap by the door, and then heads for the table.
His step falters and catches for a split second when he sees what she’s wearing.
“Smelling that rabbit so long made me drool like a dog. Speaking of—” Popping her head up from between Darby and me beneath the table, Skadi yips at him.
“Oh, there you are, Skadi. Is rabbit your favorite too?”
I slip her another bite from my plate. “Sure looks like it.”
Ren plops down across from Darby and grabs a rabbit leg out of the pan, eating it like a chicken drumstick. “I knew you were smart, Skadi. Rabbit’s one of my favorites, and no one cooks it like the Mighty Zon.”
“What does that mean?” Darby asks, glancing back and forth between us.
“Henrik Zondag, the Mighty Zon, best goalie ever to play the game,” Ren replies. “We played for the Colorado Blizzard and won the Stanley Cup five years in a row, tying the record. We could have beat it with the Mighty Zon guarding the net too.”
A sore spot I didn’t care to poke. But Ren being Ren, he can’t help but dig the stick in harder.
“Zon decided to walk away at the height of his career and build a life in the wilderness. I stayed another couple of years, but it wasn’t the same after he left. I thought he was crazy at first, but now I know he was the only sane one out of all of us.”
“I never really followed hockey,” she says, her brow wrinkled up. “I don’t know positions or teams. But the Stanley’s a big deal, right? That’s amazing you won it so many times.”
“Like I said, he was the best goalie playing the game, and I don’t say that lightly. Me, I fucked up a lot, was hurt off and on throughout my career, but he rarely missed a game. His save percentage was nearly ninety-three, damned near the best to ever play.”
“We’ve got tapes of the games if you’re interested in watching them,” Lee says. “My favorite game’s the final in 2020.”
Still chewing on the rabbit leg, Ren shakes his head. “No way, the best game was in 2016, our first Stanley. We were underdogs all season. No one thought we’d make it so far, but then nobody could score on the Zon.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Lee adds. “Lots of people thought you could have challenged some of Gretzky’s numbers if you hadn’t been injured.”
“Even I know who Wayne Gretzky is,” Darby says. “What happened?”
Ren launches into a laundry list of all his fantastic scores and flashy stats.
How many times he won the MVP or some other award.
All well deserved. He had incredible plays, replays, and the lifetime scores to show for it.
His wide, cocky smile and good looks combined with his reckless, fearless—aka stupidly risky—style of play made him a fan favorite.
He gave great interviews. Made people laugh or gasp or cringe every time someone shoved him into the boards or sent him flying for one of his smartass comments.
I can’t begin to count how many fights we got into on the ice because of some shit he said.
That’s what the fans loved about the game. About him.
Me too.
Until it came between us.
I watch Darby’s face while I methodically eat the rest of my rabbit. Bracing for the light in her eyes to catch fire for him instead of me. I feel the ice spreading through me, freezing me into the silent, stoic statue watching from the net. Guarding. Waiting for the next shot.
Never seeing the other side of the rink. Never taking a shot of my own. Even with the game on the line. All I could do was defend my own net.
At least I saw that fire in her eyes first. I took the first shot. I’ll always have that.
But once will never be enough.