Chapter 8
ELLA
Why the hell did I say yes?
Why the hell am I alone in a truck driving to who-knows-where with a complete stranger?
I have no idea.
When he asked if he could take me someplace, my lips wouldn’t form any other word than yes. I tried to say no. Really, I did. But my brain couldn’t make me utter that one simple syllable. My heart was leading the show, and for some reason my heart said yes.
Maybe it’s because he is a link to Carrie. He knows her. His lips have been on her lips. And somehow that makes us share a common bond in some way.
Or maybe it’s because my stupid teenage hormones want his lips on my lips.
I try to watch him, without him watching me. He’s the best-looking guy I think I’ve ever met in person. I was caught completely unprepared when he surprised me on the back porch of the trailer. And I was completely and utterly floored when I found out that he’s the same guy I saw at the body shop.
His skin is perfectly flawed, with small white scars on his hands and forearms from his job. His light brown hair is styled short and his green eyes are so pale, they almost look translucent. Clean shaven with a firm, square jaw, everything about him screams masculinity. Yells it. From the bottom of its lungs. And he’s tall. Very tall. Rolling muscles stretch across his shoulders, back, and chest. And let’s not even talk about how good he fills out a pair of jeans.
He doesn’t look like any of the other people who were at the party. And that’s a good thing.
In fact, he doesn’t look like any of the other people in this world. And that’s probably why those girls at the party were hitting on him.
He casually reaches up, removes his baseball hat, and tosses it in the back seat. I twist in my seat, paying attention to the back of his pickup truck for the first time. Despite being so old, his truck is lovingly cared for. Clean. The front seat is a bench seat, so all that separates us is a small section of patterned, brown cloth. The back seat catches me by surprise. It’s clean too, don’t get me wrong, but it’s packed with stuff. Folded blankets and pillows, two large duffle bags, and a computer bag are all on the seat. Two big coolers sit on the floorboard.
“Are you in the middle of moving?”
One side of his mouth tilts up. “You’ll see.”
He suddenly turns off the road onto a gravel and dirt-packed driveway that can only be seen because of two blue reflector lights on either side.
Well, this can’t be good.
Panic flutters around my chest like a moth racing to reach the flame. Did I just willingly agree to my own kidnapping?
Did I just become another face on the nightly news? A haunting split-screen image of the two missing Hill sisters plays in my mind. Look what happens, America, when your perfect little sweethearts mix with the wrong company.
I clear my throat, making sure my vocal cords are free of phlegm for when I have to scream. No way I’m going down without a fight. I even move my fingers toward the door handle. He’s not driving too fast, I could probably jump and not completely incapacitate myself.
Discreetly glancing at him, I’m surprised when an eerie calm washes over me. Something tells me he’s not an ax-wielding murderer or a kidnapping psychopath. And I’m hoping it’s not just his extraordinary good looks giving me that vibe.
Catching my eye, a low chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. “You can take your hand off the door handle, Lulu. I’m not a murdering maniac. There really is a place I wanna show you. And I promise when it’s time to leave—later tonight—you will be in one piece with your virtue fully intact.”
I don’t acknowledge his admission, but I do breathe an internal sigh of relief. We drive for about a quarter of a mile through the wooded trees when we come up on a clearing. His headlights shine brightly on the camp in front of us.
And that’s just what it is. A camp.
Immediately in front of us, there’s a huge concrete pad decorated with mismatched pieces of outdoor furniture—some regular lawn chairs, a couple of Adirondack chairs, and a wicker love seat with a bright red cushion. There are some wooden cable spools masquerading as tables. Right in the middle is a firepit. I lean forward, clamping my fingers on the dashboard to get a better look. Something shimmers just beyond the concrete pad. “Is that a lake?”
“Pond.”
I shift to look at him, watching in awe as he runs his fingers over his mouth. Butterflies soar from my stomach to my groin. Unable to accept the heat growing in my body, I quickly turn back to stare out the windshield. To the right of the concrete pad is a really big tent. Like a tent you sleep in when camping. (Not that I’ve ever been camping.) There are several large, outdoor resin storage containers, both next to the tent and to the left of the concrete pad. Solar lamps protrude from the ground around the site, providing small slivers of light that allow me to see what the headlights don’t illuminate.
“Ry, do you live here?” It’s the first time I’ve called him by that nickname since I announced its existence on the back porch of the trailer.
The second he hears the name leave my lips he sucks a hiss of air between his teeth. That small noise throws me off balance, making me feel things I don’t want to feel. Not about him. Not about a stranger.
I quickly sit up straight and square my shoulders.
He snorts underneath his breath. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He hops out of the running truck—never answering my actual question—and I follow his movements as he walks through the streams of light. He grabs something from one of the storage containers before jogging back. Leaning through the open driver-side door, he turns off the truck engine, shrouding everything around us in darkness. He turns on the switch to the battery-operated lantern in his hand and it puts out a surprising amount of light.
“Come out this way.” He reaches across the bench seat, holding out his hand.
I shouldn’t take it.
I know I shouldn’t.
So, I do. I always do what I shouldn’t.
His calloused fingers wrap around mine, and together we guide my body across the seat and out the driver-side door. He walks me across the gravel and leads me to the concrete pad. The night air has turned cooler, but I can’t feel it. All I feel is the strength of his hand around mine. Driving me slowly crazy. Deliciously crazy.
It feels so damn nice. I’ve never held hands with a guy before. Well, unless you count school dances where I had to hold hands with Hudson because our parents had to take pictures of us dancing together.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.” Can he tell I’m lying?
He immediately drops my hand and heads over to the firepit. I watch him grab sticks and a fire starter from a metal bucket. A few seconds later, a fire crackles to life. Setting the lantern on a side table, he steps out of the way, watching me, waiting for me to react.
“Thank you.” I can feel the chill now, now that his body isn’t connected to mine anymore.
I slowly walk around the concrete patio, checking out the furniture. I steal a few glances at him, and he looks completely and totally amused. Eventually, he sits down in a chair, spreading his legs wide in front of him, giving me unrestricted time and access to snoop around his space.
His obviously private space, based on the way everything looks so well-cared for.
There’s a worn wooden dock that juts out over the pond. There’s no noise. The bugs are lying dormant for the winter. But I bet the summer months are a symphony of cicadas and crickets. I meander around to the large tent, accidentally knocking over one of the small solar lamps with my foot. I stumble over myself to right it, embarrassment leaking from me like rain through a splintered window.
Still, Ry says nothing.
I shouldn’t be snooping. I shouldn’t even be here.
But I can’t help myself. I’m drawn to this place for some odd reason.
Drawn to him.
Unzipping the tent, I peek inside. It’s tall enough to stand in. There’s a blow-up mattress on the floor and some blankets, sheets, and pillows neatly folded in the corner. Doesn’t everything get wet when it rains? The tent must be waterproof. I take a step back and notice that it’s sitting on a large pad of brick pavers, protecting it from the actual dirt of the wooded ground, as well as the potential of standing water during a rainstorm.
I open one of the storage containers. It’s filled to the brim. Flashlights, lanterns, fire starters, tarps, towels, gallons of sealed, purified water. I walk to the other side of the campsite. I don’t open the storage containers on that side, assuming they hold the same necessities as the other one. There’s a walkway into the woods, lit by some of the solar lamps.
Eventually, I make my way back to the firepit. I start to sit in one of the Adirondack chairs, but quickly rethink my decision. That reclines too far back. I need to sit upright in case I need to make a quick getaway.
I mean, maybe—just maybe—Ry is a chainsaw murderer, despite what I feel and despite what he said. Not that I saw evidence of any tools of the trade while I was snooping, but you never know.
My seating debacle amuses him, and he hides his smile with his fingertips. Which really pisses me off. One, I don’t want him to laugh at me. Two, I really like it when he smiles. Number two pisses me off more, I think.
Trying to control the situation, I break the silence. “You don’t live with your brother?”
“Hell no. I only go there when I have to. The last thing I need is to be caught in the middle of the shitstorm Trash calls life.”
“So, you live here?”
He shrugs. The movement of his strong shoulders mesmerizes me. “About half the time, yeah.”
“And the other half?”
“Harlan has a room at the garage. Small bathroom. Kitchen. I stay there. But I don’t want him to feel like I’m taking advantage of him. Plus, he has poker nights with his buddies on Tuesday and Friday nights. And he and his grandson work on cars Saturday night. I give them their space.”
“What about your parents? Why not stay with them? Or rent some place of your own?”
He clears his throat, shuffling in his chair. “Let’s just say that my parents make Trash’s shitshow look like a kids’ cartoon.”
He doesn’t answer the rent your own place question. Maybe he thinks I’m being nosy. I guess I should stop asking questions. I chew my lip in thought. Instead, I ignore my good sense. I always do. “Why were you at the party tonight, then? If you only go to his house when you have to? Was the party a ‘have to’ kind of thing?”
“Wi-Fi.”
“Huh?”
“I needed his Wi-Fi to work on a paper.”
Well, that’s not the answer I was expecting. “Why not use your phone? Turn on your hotspot?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
Well, that answer is even more shocking. “You don’t have a cell phone?”
“Lulu, I’m living in a tent. You think I have money for a cell phone and a data plan? All of my money goes toward gas, food, tuition. It’s not like Harlan is paying me a massive salary. He gives me a room, and he gives me this.” He waves his hands around him.
“What do you mean?”
“This land belonged to my grandfather.” He turns away, studying the glow of the moonlight reflecting on the pond. His profile is so handsome, it takes my breath away, drying my throat, making me feel like a dehydrated castaway searching for an oasis. “He was supposed to build his dream house here. But my grandma got sick, and he needed money. Harlan bought the land so it wouldn’t go to some stranger. When my grandpa died, Harlan tried to give the land back to me, but I wouldn’t let him. So, I defer some of my wages. We count it as a monthly payment. One day, I’ll be someone. I’ll have something to show for this crap life. Then I’ll buy it back and build my dream house.”
One part of that horribly sad story sticks out to me. Sticks out like a sore thumb. “You are someone.”
“Huh?” He turns back to face me.
“You said one day you’ll be someone. You are someone.”
Ry’s stare is so intense it grabs the soul from my body and shakes it. Violently. Fiercely. Passionately.
Breaking the tension, I point out the obvious. “That’s what coffee shops are for.”
“Excuse me?”
“Free Wi-Fi. Buy a cup of coffee and you can have hours of internet usage.”
He smirks. “I guess you’re right. I’ve just never seen myself as much of a coffeehouse kind of guy.”
Glancing around, I point behind me. “What’s up the pathway?”
“Restroom.”
I swallow. Loudly.
That really makes him laugh. He leans forward, stoking the fire with a long metal rod. “Trust me, you don’t wanna piss where you sleep and eat.”
No. No, I would not want to do that.
Suddenly, my phone chimes with an incoming text message. Apologizing, I quickly grab it from my wallet and scan the message from Kristie, wanting to know where I am. Apparently, she’s sleeping on my couch tonight. Again.
Turning his wrist to look at his watch, he sighs. “It’s late. You should be getting home.” He grabs a large metal lid and snuffs the fire. We stand, together, watching the red edges of the embers slowly fade to black.
He holds the lantern to the side, casting some light in my direction as we walk. “Watch your step on the—”
His warning falls on deaf ears because my foot is already slipping off the small lift of the concrete patio, causing me to trip forward. Ry’s arm snatches out to grab me. Quickly rounding my side, he pulls my body against his. His large frame stops my momentum.
And then it fucking stops my heart.
I’m pressed against him. His arm snakes around my waist. I slowly lift my head. I’m just going to say thank you. That’s all I’m gonna do.
So, why is my heart racing? Why are my hands grabbing the sides of his muscular hips? Why are my lips parting?
He looks at me. I mean, he looks at me.
Kiss me, I silently plead with him. I say the prayer a thousand times in my head in the span of one second.
His head bends. His lips are so close to mine. My eyes close. His perfectly sculpted mouth nearly joins with mine.
Achingly so close.
And then… he steps away.
My eyes flash open and I watch him drag his hand across his face. He groans, clearing his throat. “You should leave.”
I do my best to pretend those words don’t hurt me as I turn to walk back to his truck.
We don’t talk on the drive back to the gas station to get my car. Not one single word.
When we pull up, he places the truck into park, idling the engine. Staring out the window, I reach for the door handle, but his words freeze me in position. “I meant what I said about not pursuing questions and answers with this part of Carrie’s life. It will lead to nothing but trouble, pain, and heartache.”
I scoff. “And that’s your professional opinion? Please give me more. I aim to please.”
“I’m serious, Lulu.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never see each other again.”
How am I supposed to take that except for exactly how he meant it?
I open the door and climb out, not looking back at him. I can’t stand the thought of looking at him. Why? Because I’m angry, sad, disappointed, and frustrated. All at the same time.
“What did you mean? Earlier at the party, you said you weren’t a fan of escaping reality. Why?”
The melancholy in his sigh is tangible. “Because reality reminds you where you belong. Enjoy your life, Lulu.”
I slam the door.
And I hope I break the damn thing.