CHAPTER 10
Frankie
I wake up and turn on the lantern that MacLaine left for me. I can see my breath as I exhale. Keeping the new-to-me soft blanket wrapped tight around me, I roll off the battered couch and throw kindling and a log into the fireplace and it ignites quickly.
“The rancher’s magic wood,” I say out loud and then laugh at the double entendre. Oh, I bet he’s got magic wood. A guy like that probably has magic everything, from the thick blond hair on top of his head to the massive muscles I could see bulging beneath the flannel shirt and denim jacket.
I rub my hands in front of the fire and lean into the heat. The sleeves of the sweater MacLaine gave me keep falling down, so I roll them almost to my elbows. The sweater is a buttery cream color, so big on me that it fits more like a dress than a top.
But holy shit. I saw the tag. It’s Vicuna wool from Peru, the most expensive luxury wool in the world. I only know this because Niko’s talked about it. But I’ve never actually felt it on my skin.
Until now. And it feels intensely sensual. Softer than silk.
I pull the sweater’s neckline up to my nose and inhale. Somehow, I’m sure this belongs to the hot rancher himself, but in another odd twist, the knit carries a subtle hint of very expensive men’s cologne. Bulgari, if I’m not mistaken.
How does a rancher afford Vicuna wool and Bulgari cologne? Who is this guy?
Worry washes over me. Maybe he really does own the land and wasn’t bullshitting me in the least. And maybe my customer handed me a worthless piece of paper wrapped in some kind of misunderstanding. I don’t think Karl would lie to me. Not knowingly, anyway.
Am I being na?ve? Ha. I haven’t been na?ve for years. Many, many years.
I trust Karl. I’ve known him for as long as I’ve been dancing. And we’ve had many deep conversations about his wife’s death and his loneliness. I think he trusted me, too.
It’s well known that lap dances are fifty percent sexy and fifty percent therapy, but with Karl, I think it was closer to a twenty-eighty split, heavy emphasis on the therapy.
I was always happy to listen to him. He was my best tipper, by far, and was an absolute stickler for my rules, unlike some clients. He knew how it worked.
No sex, ever.
No sexual touching, ever.
And a whole litany of other dos and don’ts, with no exceptions. Ever.
But dirty talk was welcome, as long as it wasn’t violent or threatening to me. Karl was pretty skilled at it for an old man, and he sure wasn’t modest. And though I’ve had a lot of customers tell me that I take dirty whispers to a new level, Karl’s observation made me laugh.
“You’re a black belt when it comes to sexy talk,” he once told me.
Karl was happy to pay for my services, too. He knew that half of the $400 fee for a private half-hour dance went to Lynx management, but that I kept every dime of any tip I might receive. Often, he’d hand over several crisp hundred-dollar bills for my time.
He was the best.
I stare into the flames.
So, did he lie to me about the cabin and land? I’d be surprised if he did, though I learned a long time ago that anyone can lie if the situation’s right. Even the ones who say they love you can lie if motivated. So of course, a customer could.
It sure would be sad, though.
My thoughts are disturbed by the sound of a snapping twig. I’m not sure I can handle another dark night wondering what huge wild animals are circling just beyond the four walls and door. My gun is within reach, in case it’s a giant bear.
How did I get here? How did everything get so fucked up?
Yet again, I feel the fingers of a deep, black regret twist around my heart.
I wish I could go back in time to the day I first met Niko.
I would say “no thank you” to his offer to buy me a drink.
I’d walk out the front door of that nice restaurant with my two girlfriends.
And I’d innocently wonder if I’d made a mistake turning down such a handsome, elegant man with a sexy accent.
A little mistake like that would be infinitely better than this. But I said yes to that drink. And then I lost everything.
I hear a loud snap! just outside the door.
“Mrrrp.” Pussy looks up at me and blinks. Her eyes look as neon green as the fireflies I used to chase as a kid on the Oregon coast.
“It’s just critters,” I tell her. She squints at me, a sure sign she doesn’t believe me. “Raccoons, girlfriend. Just raccoons and gerbils. Are there gerbils in the wild? Or are they called chipmunks?”
A loud bump against the door makes me startle.
“Mrrrp?”
“We’re fine,” I tell her, cradling Pussy close, my eyes glued to the door. “No Russian crime lords or goons. Russian criminals don’t do mountains, right? Wait—there are lots of mountains in Russia. Oh, shit.”
But there’s no way Niko can find me here.
He didn’t follow me into the wilderness, and he would have no reason to think I would be in bumfuck nowhere.
He’s probably looking for me in the Vegas hotels.
At Lynx. I just hope he doesn’t act like a douchebag with my friends from work.
If I somehow got them twisted up in all of Niko’s evil shit, I’ll never forgive myself.
I take a deep breath and stand. I check that the door is locked then toss more logs on the hot fire.
I take Pussy back to the couch and crawl inside the sleeping bag, the expensive scent of the hot rancher’s luxury wool and cologne wrapped around me.
Pussy joins me, rubbing her kitty lips along my chin, her way of giving me a comforting kiss.
Then she curls herself into a donut on my chest and purrs loudly.
She never fails to amaze me. She doesn’t complain. I’ve turned her world upside down and yet she’s here at my side, down for whatever. As long as we’re together.
Even with the crackling warmth of MacLaine’s firewood and the comfort of my purring cat, I can’t fall back to sleep.
So, I just lay here, watching the shadows dance on the rough log ceiling and listening to the crazy noises of the wilderness.
Most of the sounds are soft and muted, but then I hear something huge lumbering around outside, and I glance nervously over at the door to make sure it’s latched in place.
Can bears figure out how to use door latches? Haven’t I seen a meme about that at some point?
I pull the sleeping bag over both of us and focus on my breath. Deep and slow. I feel my eyelids grow heavy.
But almost instantly, my eyes fly open. Against the darkness, the memory plays back like a breaking news video. Vegas. Niko. Blood all over the restaurant floor. Bodies twisted and motionless. Niko’s terrifying glare as he’s rushed out the back.
His dark stare burns through me. It delivers a warning.
“You’ll never get away from me.”
“Think of something happy,” I say aloud.
I order my mind to envision beach vacations and spa weekends with my dancer friends—or even the joys of a hot shower. That creek down the hill might allow me to brush my teeth and wash up, but it leaves me trembling with cold.
My mind ignores the command. Instead, it fills itself with thoughts of MacLaine, the hot cowboy rancher.
I’ve never seen eyes like his before. His intense violet gaze is lethal.
Dangerous. I can’t look away. I think I forgot to breathe when he was standing in front of me today, those eyes shadowed by the wide brim of his caramel-brown felt cowboy hat.
And the impossible-to-hide expanse of his muscular shoulders, arms, and back.
I’m intrigued by much more than his shocking good looks, though.
Most of the strong and silent types I’ve known aren’t that way because they’re deep thinkers.
Most of the time they don’t talk much because they’ve got nothing to say.
They’re just dumb and boring and laser-focused on getting into my panties.
Some of these men are so dumb that they couldn’t pour water from a boot if the directions were written on the bottom of the heel.
That doesn’t apply to MacLaine. He isn’t quiet because he’s dull. Or dumb. And not because he doesn’t have anything to say. There’s so much more going on under that surface of his, and I can’t stop thinking about what’s at his core.
“What ’cha got in the head of yours, MacLaine?” I ask the empty room. “You got any thoughts of me, by any chance?”
Who cares what’s in MacLaine’s head? It wouldn’t matter if he’s Plato in a plaid flannel shirt. I’m not interested in him or any other man. I’m only interested in surviving.
And anyway, he’s absolutely right about one thing… I won’t be staying.
It’s just that I have no idea where to go.