Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“Please don’t let me down.” I pat the new bag encouragingly while I wait for Hayley to answer my FaceTime call.
“Meet any hot guys yet?” She wiggles her brows as a way of greeting.
“Well…”
“YOU TOTALLY DID! See! I told you you’re gonna meet a stud muffin out there.”
“Okay, calm down, Cupid. The hot man was rather grumpy and very suspicious of me, so I’ll be appreciating him from afar if we cross paths again.
” The words feel bitter coming out of my mouth, because I’d find it hard not to try my best to get a rise out of Jack if I saw him again.
I pick up a shirt, fold it, and begin repacking.
“But think of all the fun you could have!”
Oh, don’t I know it. That’s the problem. I don’t need the distraction.
“How’s big G?” I ask, redirecting Hayley’s inquisition. She leans out of frame to pick up Giorgio and hold him in front of the camera.
“Are you being a good boy for Aunt Hayley?” I croon in the sugary sweet voice that I only reserve for Giorgio, and he yips excitedly. “Of course you’re a good boy.”
“He’s moping around, missing you,” she says, pulling him close. “Does anyone else from your family know you’re on this hike?”
“I told my mom,” I reply with a noisy flap of my lips. “It might come back to bite me in the butt, but I didn’t want to give myself the option of backing out. I told her I’m writing a paper on the hike for one of my classes.”
“Good. I know they give you a hard time, but someone from your family should know where you are.”
“Yeah.” Hopefully Mom hasn’t told Dad about it. I feel like he’d hijack the whole thing and try to get me to finish it in one day or something crazy like that.
“Don’t forget to take lots of photos of Giorgio for me. And record anything cute he does.”
I shove my sleeping bag into the backpack, thinking a moment too late that I probably should have put it at the bottom.
“You realize that’s not going to happen, don’t you?”
“I know, because he’s always being cute and you’d have to spend the whole day pointing a camera at him,” I croon.
“Right. That’s exactly why I won’t be doing that,” she deadpans, but I make her promise to at least take a few photos every day before we say goodbye.
I’m rolling the last of my T-shirts to place in my bag when a rattle at the door handle makes me freeze.
Every cell in my body goes cold as I watch the handle turn, slowly and very creepily.
What in The Shining is happening right now? Is someone from my family actually here and playing some sick joke on me? Could it be that someone from housekeeping forgot the room was occupied? Late afternoon doesn’t seem like a very murdery time.
Cement coats my veins, and my eyes flick to the chain latch, the one I neglected to secure.
The handle rotates again, and I think my soul leaves my body.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
The floor creaks as I bolt toward the door, my feet thankfully on board with this little gust of bravado. I hold my breath, fingertips splayed against the door while I bring my eye to the peephole. The only thing I see is the retreating swoosh of someone’s dark shirt as they dart away.
The spirit of Dog The Bounty Hunter overtakes me. Two seconds of deliberation plus another three to get the door unlatched, and I’m swinging it open, taking questionably overconfident steps to confront my would-be killer.
And my family thinks I’m not adventurous.
Not a whole lot of self-preservation happening here—I can see that.
But I’m doing a good deed. I can picture the culprit, the aha!
I yell as I yank the door open, shocking them right onto their butt.
Then they’re forced to endure a grilling interrogation from yours truly, wherein I convince said guilty party to give up their life of serial murders and help them find their true purpose instead.
But by the time I get the door open, there isn’t a soul in sight.
This is not one of those moments where I wonder if what just happened was all in my imagination.
I’m an intelligent woman; I know what I saw.
And the eerie shadow that seems to be following me admittedly has me wanting to nix this whole canyon crossing.
But then my stomach growls, and I remember that I came here for a purpose.
One of those being to try the bolognese at the El Tovar Dining Room.
Mom said the entire hike was worth it just to eat there.
A small sense of relief settles the hairs on my arms when I spot a chair I can move in front of the door later. I step outside my room, locking the door and making sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign is hanging before peering in both directions of the hallway.
You’ve got this, girl.
Framed photos of the canyon taunt me from every wall as I leave the lodge, once again avoiding a peek at the real thing as I walk toward the restaurant entrance.
“Table for one, please.” I smile at the hostess who waits behind a wooden podium, the heads of a bison, elk, and a bighorn sheep mounted imposingly behind her. “If I could have one without a view, that would be great.”
She pauses, a groove forming between her brows. “You mean with a view.”
“Without. I have a fear of those lines in the rocks—the striations,” I stage whisper. “It’s like nature’s stretch marks are watching me.” I add a shudder for extra effect.
This isn’t true. But explaining the truth feels like too much work. Fibbing for the sake of simplicity is my toxic trait. And now this girl is probably wondering why the heck I’ve come to the world’s largest striated pit with such a debilitating fear.
The name for my made-up phobia is on the tip of my tongue if she asks: Lineophobia.
My brain enjoys making up stuff like this. But maybe this is the “too much” that one of my exes cited at the end of our one-month relationship. Or maybe it’s a way to compensate for not feeling good enough. A safeguard so people can’t see the real me.
“Oh-kay…” The hostess’s eyes dart around nervously. “I…uh, I’ll seat you near the fireplace. Away from the…striations.”
“You’re a saint.” I smile, and she leads me deeper into the restaurant after a look of mild panic washes over her eyes. I’ve scared her.
I’m seated in a cozy corner, hugged by dark leather couches and a stone fireplace. The smell of garlic and fresh bread welcomes me.
“Here’s your menu. Can I get you a drink in the meantime?”
“I’m ready to order now, if that’s okay. I’ll have the elk bolognese and a sparkling water. It’s why I’m here, actually—for the bolognese. Heard it’s to die for. Hence, risking my life beside the creepy mountain stripes.” I grimace. This made-up phobia is a running bit now.
“Oh, um, your server can take your order.” She bugs her eyes, looking very grateful to be rescued.
I relay my order again, and I’m left alone just long enough to get comfortable on the couch before someone takes a seat, making my side of the leather sofa poof up.
The air inside whines with a slow deflate as I sink down again.
“Mind if I join you?” a man drawls with the kind of lazy smile I’m sure California girls go wild for. He’s cute, but he’s got trouble and arrogance written all over him.
“You look like a lot of fun, but sadly, my doctor said I shouldn’t get too close to people. On account of a rash.” I scratch the inside of my arm.
“You’re too pretty to be that contagious,” he says with a laugh. This man clearly doesn’t understand science.
The server sets my drink down, and I fake a smile at her after she takes my uninvited guest’s drink order. But she misses my bat signal.
There’s a code, okay—one where women should have each other’s backs. I’m giving off “victim of unwanted attention” vibes, and she’s ignoring all of it.
I catch her gaze and flick my wide eyes to the man beside me. She pauses with a frown. “Is there something in your eye? The restrooms are just back there if you need to rinse them,” she says, as if my only problem is a speck of dust and not her ignorance and this man’s unwanted presence.
I dab a finger to my inner eye. “Nope, got it,” I grumble, and she nods before leaving.
“What brings you to The Can?” My guest leans back, getting comfortable.
I crook an eyebrow. “The what?”
“The Can. You know, the Canyon. First time?”
Pretty sure Presidents Roosevelt and Wilson would pass out if they heard that term.
“How can you tell?”
“You’ve got that What the hell have I signed up for? look.” He winks. “I’m Chad, by the way. I’m a pro. You should stay close to me and my buddy tomorrow. You heading out in the morning?”
“That’s kind. But I can’t. On account of the rash.”
“You’re sticking with that, huh?” He leans back again, stretching his arm behind me. If I saw him crossing the street, I’d probably think he was cute in a just-stepped-off-my-father’s-yacht kind of way. But he’s coming on way too strong.
“That’s how a rash works. This one requires a special cream and everything. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to just eat my dinner alone and get an early night.” I shift, creating a few extra inches between us.
“No problem.” Chad nods, and my shoulders relax as he stands. But then he plops himself down in the seat opposite me.
Seriously?
I purse my lips, catching a wink from a lady at the table nearby.
She raises her glass like she thinks I just scored a hot date.
My head shakes a fraction, trying to convey that this is a totally unwanted-advance situation, but she only smiles bigger, almost encouragingly, as she tucks her voluminous mahogany hair behind her ear.
And then my gaze lands on a man—not just a man, but a ranger—doing a very fine impersonation of Aragorn brooding in the corner.
Jack.
Because of his position from a nearby lamp, his eyes even do that same glowy thing. If the man had a hooded cape and a pipe in his mouth, there’s no doubt I’d be one of the Gaston groupies by now.
It’s a little unnerving having his dark grey eyes zeroed in on me. Like his stare is accusing me of things I’m not sure I want to be innocent of.