10. Orion
Orion
Igo to bed without dinner, and by midnight I’m tired of tossing and turning, my stomach rumbling in protest and my brain refusing to simmer down. I know myself well enough to know that if I’m not asleep yet, I’m not going to get there, and throw the covers off.
I could stay here and read a book. Design my next project. Do some of the business chores Mars is generally too busy for.
But where’s the fun in that?
I scoot out of bed, pull on jeans and a t-shirt, and then find my boots, which I pick up and tuck under my arm.
I don’t particularly want anyone knowing I’m going out, and I learned a long time ago that this floor has more creaks than a ninety-year-old man.
If I’m barefoot, I have a better chance of avoiding them.
I creep through the dark house with my lip in my teeth, trying to remember all the places with loose boards and creaks, and manage to get to the front door without hitting anything. There I pull on my jacket and reach out of the knob, turning it slowly, silently, to release me from the house.
Once I’m on the porch I grin to myself and put on my boots.
A quick run and I’m next to my bike, and I flip the kickstand up, put the thing in neutral, and push it toward the street.
Mars is a heavy sleeper and won’t wake up for engine noise–I know this from experience–but I don’t know Arden’s sleeping habits, and the last thing I need right now is for that girl to wake up and come ask me what I’m doing, with her big eyes and upturned nose.
That habit of looking right through me when I’m just trying to get some dinner.
That ability to freeze me in place at the drop of a hat.
I get to the road, get on my bike, and fire it up. Yes, I’m still very close to the house, but I suddenly don’t care. I need to be out there on the road, the wind on my face and darkness closing in around me.
Because I don’t like the things I’m thinking, and I need the bright, clear chill of the April night to wipe my mind clean and let me breathe for as long as I can stay out here.
This time when I return to the house it’s dark and quiet, the lights long since extinguished and, I hope, both residents soundly asleep.
I don’t need the hassle of Mars being awake and asking me where I’ve been, and I don’t want the complication of Arden thinking this is the ideal time for us to get to know each other.
Behind me, the sun is reaching its fingers toward the skyline, though dawn is still a whisper of promise rather than a real event.
I turn my eyes in that direction and see shades of gray and pink rather than any real light.
We still have half an hour, at least, before the sun comes up.
Plenty of time for me to get into my room and lock the door against any of Mars’ early-morning ideas.
As I creep up the steps to the porch, though, I hear a squeak from my right and turn in that direction.
Arden is sitting on the porch swing, bundled in a blanket and holding two cups of something. Her eyes are still covered in shadow but I can see a glimmer there, and her mouth twitches in humor.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning?” I mutter. “It’s not, yet, in case you hadn’t noticed. Still dark outside. That means it’s still night.”
She tips her head. “And yet the clock has turned to the AM portion of the day, which means it’s morning.”
Great.
She uses logic as a weapon.
Just like Mars.
“Still dark,” I argue. “Still last night. And you should still be in bed. Why are you even up?”
She shrugs. “Heard you leave. Wondered where you were going. And whether you’d be back.”
That one stops me in my tracks, a truth that no one in this town has ever said out loud before. Hell, I don’t think anyone else has even guessed at it.
How the fuck did this girl come up with it so fast?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Another shrug, touched by a quick smile. “Nothing. Want some hot chocolate?”
My eyes drop to the mugs in her hands and I remember that she has two, not one. She didn’t come out here to drink hot chocolate on her own. She came expecting company.
And that chocolate is steaming in the chilly nighttime air.
I take the three steps it takes to get to her and take the mug she’s holding out, hissing softly at the heat seeping through the cup. “Is it any good?”
This time she actually snorts. “It’s hot chocolate, Orion. Is it possible for it to be bad?”
I find myself wanting to smile at this, but push it down. “I’m sure it’s possible to make it wrong. Burn the water or something.”
She moves into the light enough for me to see the look she gives me, and this time it’s almost impossible to keep the smile off my face.
This girl, this tiny, fragile thing, has more attitude than I’d realized.
And I hate that it makes me want to know more about her.
“Try it if you don’t believe me,” she mutters. “And sit down. You’re making me nervous towering over me like that.”
“What, you think I can’t be just as dangerous sitting down?”
I drop into the single chair next to the swing, though. Only because it has a cup holder and the heat of the mug is going to burn my fingers.
I am, after all, a practical man.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re very dangerous no matter where you are,” she says seriously.
I glance at her, frowning. I can’t tell if she’s being serious or if she’s teasing me, and the moment I realize that, I realize that I also can’t tell which one I want her to be doing.
Do I want this girl to be afraid of me? To think I’m a dangerous man who might hurt her?
Who might bring the wrong sort of people around her and make her less safe?
Yes, because that would be the truth.
And no, because I don’t have to know her to know that I would never do anything to put her in danger.
“Not always,” I finally say.
Her laugh is so quiet that I almost miss it, and we sit and watch the sky brightening for several long moments, neither of us speaking. Until I take a sip of the promised hot chocolate and nearly choke.
“Is there whiskey in this?” I ask, my voice raspy from the unexpected dose of alcohol scorching down my throat.
She pauses long enough for me to be sure she’s laughing. “Of course. Don’t all dangerous men drink whiskey in their hot chocolate? I thought it was a prerequisite to being...” She waves vaguely in my direction. “Dangerous.”
I take another sip to hide my smile, and this time I’m expecting the sharp tang of the whiskey, so I can appreciate it more. And it’s... good. The flavors blend together in a way I wouldn’t expect, the buttery softness of the whiskey melting into the deeper bite of the chocolate.
It’s also not something I ever would have expected from this tiny, twitchy pixie of a girl.
“Of course it’s a prerequisite,” I say. “I just didn’t think you’d know about things like that.”
“I know more than you think, obviously.”
I don’t doubt this. Don’t doubt it a bit.
She was born and raised in New York, which means she knows the city and how dark it can be, and though I don’t know what role she played there–how well-off her family was–she carries herself like a girl who never had to wonder whether she was safe.
Until someone took her and ran away with her.
I have no idea how long her kidnappers had her, but I know it had to be a harrowing experience.
She had no control of what was happening to her for days, maybe weeks, and I can’t think of anything more frightening than that.
So she’s right; I can’t even begin to guess at what she’s gone through. I’m just glad we got her out when we did.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I wanted to say it earlier, but I haven’t been able to find you.”
This surprises me. “Thank me for what?”
“For saving me. I know you were there. I know you helped. And I know you didn’t have to. You don’t know me, and you don’t owe me anything. But you still came for me.”
It’s the longest speech I’ve heard her make, and it obviously comes right from the heart. Her voice is deep and hollow, like she’s having trouble keeping it together, and I can hear the emotion beating through it.
But she has no reason to be thanking me like that.
I just did what any decent man would do.
“You don’t need to thank me. You would have done the same.”
She chuckles. “No, I don’t think I would have. I’m not brave like you.”
I turn to look at her and actually take her in, now. The fine, fair skin with the smattering of freckles. Hair that isn’t quite brown but also isn’t blond. Hazel eyes that glow golden in the rising sun. A beauty that I wonder if she can even see.
A beauty that isn’t just skin-deep.
“Yes you would. You’d never leave someone out there without a friend.
You wouldn’t be able to stand it. Even if you didn’t know them, even if you knew you’d be better off leaving them there, you’d never do it, because you wouldn’t want them to suffer.
Wouldn’t want them to be scared or uncertain, or to think they didn’t matter.
You’d be desperate to save them. Take them home and feed them chicken noodle soup and give them every blanket you could find. ”
Her eyes get larger with every word until I start to worry about her physical health.
“How do you know that?” she whispers.
Because I’ve been watching her, and I’ve seen how she takes care of people.
I saw her making sure Penny had someone to talk to in the garage earlier, and that little Susie got her bike back.
I’ve seen her considering Mars and his feelings as she starts to navigate the house.
I’ve watched her watching the world around us, and I know the sort of heart that lies under that skin.
I’m only telling her the truth.
Or maybe I’m just talking about myself.
Right now, it’s hard to tell–and it doesn’t actually matter. Because this isn’t a conversation I want to have, and definitely not with a girl I’m going to send home as soon as Mars gives me the go ahead.
She’s nothing to me.
She has to stay that way.
And having conversations like this won’t make that any easier.
I stand up, turn, and walk into the house without answering, leaving my hot chocolate in the cup holder of that chair, sitting next to a girl who’s already seen far too much for my mental well-being.