Chapter 5 #3
The thing flew–flew!–off the top bunk, onto the little dining table, and stared at her.
“Don’t you dare touch my chocolates!” she yelled at it.
The thing put one tiny little paw on the edge of the bowl, as if taunting her.
Per your last email, that little face said, beady eyes going narrow.
Slamming the door shut again, she looked around. Aha! A toilet brush! Grasping it like a sword, she lifted it high above her head.
And charged.
“I. Cast. Thee. Out. Satan!” she screamed as she ran to the main door, flung it open, and waved the toilet brush at the creature, who grabbed a red foil heart and did exactly as told.
The thing disappeared into the snow, and Rachel shut the door.
“I give up!” she shouted, tossing the toilet brush into the kitchen sink, then throwing her body face first on the double bed.
Grabbing the edges of the comforter, she rolled herself up like a burrito and stared at the underside of the top bunk–too stunned to cry, laugh, be angry, or feel anything–until all she knew was darkness.
And skitt skitt skitt.
Steam rose above the heavenly water as she closed her eyes and tipped up, letting snowflakes dot her cheeks and eyelashes, the startling incongruity between the brisk cold and the water’s hot pleasure making her smile even more.
Floating, floating, at rest and embraced by the buoyant calm, she settled into it, grateful for the balm.
As the water rocked her gently, she turned toward the sound of someone moving through it, her eyes fluttering open to find him smiling at her, bare chested, hair cut short again, beard neat and perfect.
“Kell,” she moaned, the water rocking her more, his arms reaching out for her, broad shoulders dripping with steaming heat, gray eyes going dark with smoky promises of seduction and ecstasy.
The rocking intensified and she moaned, her teeth biting the soft cotton of her pillow, the painful push of her injured hand into a hard surface making her sit up.
It was a dream.
All a dream.
Except for the rocking.
And why was she having sex dreams about Kell? Goodness, no. He absolutely wasn’t her type. The Kell she knew back in D.C.? Definitely.
This version of him?
Never.
Grumpy lumberjacks with never-wrong complexes were the type of guy she ran screaming from.
And lately, there hadn’t been any guys. Not since Nico ran off with her wildfire and earthquake cash. If she was a success in business, she was a miserable failure at dating, and–
Her train of thought was destroyed by a particularly hard jolt of the trailer. Then it began to rock fast, like it was vibrating.
“EARTHQUAKE!” she screamed, shocked that this was happening here in Maine. Snow? Sure. New England was known for it. Tectonic plates rubbing against each other, though, was supposed to be a once-every-thousand-years thing here.
Or something like that.
Given the last twenty-four hours, maybe her luck really was that bad.
Rolled up like a mummy, she carefully turned over, working to free herself as the trailer continued to rock, the latest jolt sending her onto the floor, her unharmed left hand barely able to stop her from crashing her head on the trailer’s floor.
She realized it was dawn, faint light filtering in through the weird plastic on the windows and the red and white cotton curtains.
That pine scent she’d smelled last night hit her hard.
As Rachel struggled to her feet, she grabbed the top bunk edge for support. This really felt like an earthquake back home. Eyes jumping to the closet and cabinet doors, she wondered how tightly latched they were.
“HELLO?” she called out.
The rocking stopped.
Then resumed at a faster pace.
Two steps and she was at the door, not falling for the trick of opening it again. That damn squirrel could be crouched outside, waiting for another chance to steal a chocolate.
Or her soul.
She looked for the bowl, which was slowly edging its way toward the end of the table. Rachel grabbed it just before it tumbled off.
These chocolate hearts were quickly becoming her emotional support objects.
Peering out the tiny glass window in the door, she saw nothing but white. No sirens were blaring, and no one was coming to check on her. People who rented their places out were normally good hosts.
Who doesn’t check on guests in an earthquake?
She was definitely cutting off some stars in her review for this obvious failure.
“WHUUUUUUUUH!”
The low, moaning sound came from the direction of the bathroom, but it was clearly outside. A distinctly loud animal grunt followed, with deep scraping noises on the side of the trailer.
This wasn’t an earthquake. The trailer was being attacked by Godzilla.
“HELP!” she screamed.
The rocking began again.
Sliding the little window open, she pressed her face up to the screen and shouted, “SOMEONE? HELP!”
More rocking and grunting.
Her phone was about to fall off the table, so she grabbed it, balancing the bowl of chocolates on her hip. A quick look told her it was five fifty-two a.m.
So much for a good night’s sleep.
“WHHHHUUUUUUUUUH!”
Bears didn’t sound like that, she knew, because she’d watched so many nature shows on the Discovery Channel with her brother when they were kids. Whatever was rocking the trailer was something else.
“Godzilla,” she whispered, wishing for cellphone bars or internet, crying out in frustration when she saw none.
With her bladder screaming, she made her way to the toilet, trying to sit on it without sliding off. The rocking did nothing for her shy bladder, but while trying–and failing–to pee, she looked up at the small window facing the source of the rocking.
She stood and pulled up her pants, then reached up and slid the little window open. She was face to face with an enormous eyeball.
“AAAIIIEEEEE!”
“WHHUUUUUUUUH!”
Ever faster, the rocking intensified, until Rachel came up with a plan. Working her way back to the kitchen, she found the toilet brush in the kitchen sink, and returned to the bathroom. The eyeball was still in the window.
Brandishing the brush, she thrust.
A choking sound came out of the creature, but the rocking mercifully stopped, followed by loud whuffing noises.
Breathing heavily, Rachel shut the little window, yanked down her jeans, and promptly peed.
A lot.
Because Godzilla may have attacked her little shack, but she’d triumphed, and to the victor belong the spoils.
She’d take her winnings however she could get them.
The trailer rocked once, then again, very lightly. The whuffing sounds faded slowly, and Rachel assumed the creature had backed off in defeat.
Rachel, 1. Godzilla, 0.
In her mind, Rachel composed an email:
Hey, Dad. Congrats for whatever new achievement Tim made, but let me tell you how I defeated Godzilla with a toilet brush.
Those were the last words her brain could form before she crawled back into bed, covered her head with the comforter, and prayed for another Kell sex dream.
Because it was far less surreal than real life.
And way more appealing.