CHAPTER TWELVE
MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY
The sun peeked from around its blanket of clouds, then disappeared again just as quickly. I shielded my eyes with my hand and peered up toward the sky as two crows cawed and disappeared between the branches of a nearby tree.
I had read that autumn in Massachusetts would be cold. But this wasn’t what I’d consider cold. I couldn’t even call this cool or comfortable even. I was approximately two degrees away from sweating through my long-sleeved shirt, even while on the back of Luke’s bike on my way to the gate, and if the sun decided to show itself fully, I knew I’d have to roll up my sleeves.
But as much as I preferred days that were dark and dreary, I could also appreciate that days like this were meant to be taken advantage of. So, after unlocking the gate and using the recently repaired and returned backhoe to dig a few graves for upcoming funerals, I decided to head back home to chop some wood in preparation for the impending winter.
My backyard wasn’t much of a yard at all. A small patio that contained an even smaller grill, two lawn chairs—even though I could count on one finger the number of times Ivan and I had sat outside—a place to park Luke’s bike, a pile of firewood, a handful of logs waiting to be chopped, and a wide, flat tree stump on which to do said chopping.
A little garden Ivan had started during his time at the cottage was tucked into the corner of the walled-in yard. I hadn’t understood the purpose of it when I first accepted the job, even though I made it a point to maintain its vibrant greenery.
But one day—the only time we’d taken our coffee outside instead of staying in—Ivan had commented on how nicely I’d kept his garden, and I laughed, mentioning how ridiculous it was to have kept it at all when I was surrounded by well-maintained landscaping and flower beds on all sides of the cottage.
“But that’s all theirs,” Ivan had said, unamused by my teasing. He swept his arm out, addressing the surrounding acres of greenery and headstones. “This tiny piece of land was mine , Chuck. All mine. Now, it’s yours, and it’s important to remember that. It’s yours to keep for you . Take pride in what you do for them, but always take more in what you do for yourself.”
I had taken that to heart. Nothing had ever been truly mine before. Not after spending the first thirty years of my life in a house with members of my family and three years struggling to maintain the shell of something that had once existed.
Not once had I forgotten to water that garden ever since that conversation. There’d been days I was too bogged down by thoughts and memories and sadness to mow a section of the cemetery or times I’d overlooked trimming the bushes on my to-do list simply because of how daunting of a task it seemed to be. But that garden was always tended to.
So, after giving the flowers and shrubbery a good sprinkle of water from the hose, I wiped my hands against my jeans and turned to grab a log off the pile. Then, with it positioned on the stump, I wrapped my hands around the axe handle, lifted it up and over my head, and grunted as the axe came down hard, splitting the log in two.
It was primal, a connection to my oldest ancestors. The ones I knew nothing about, apart from the fact that I wouldn't be here had they never existed. I wondered what they would’ve thought about me now. Rapidly approaching middle age and unmarried. No children to speak of, nobody to pass my legacy on to. Reclusive and tending to the graves of the remembered and long forgotten.
What would they have thought about my past? Or better yet, Luke’s?
I sniffed a laugh at that as I shook my head, repositioning one half of the log on the stump.
THWACK! Another swing of the axe.
My nose burned at the thought of Luke, and the backs of my eyes prickled with an abrupt but heavy-weighted sadness. It always came on out of nowhere—the pain of missing my brother. It crept up on me when I least expected it, hitting hard and fast with such precision that I could barely see the log in front of me as I brought the axe over and down.
The pieces split and fell off the stump to meet the others.
My back dripped with sweat beneath my shirt, and with the weight of sadness sitting heavily against my chest, I planted the axe blade into the stump. Then, I pulled the shirt off and threw it aggressively to the ground, as if it alone were the distance and time separating me from my big brother.
Another log was set in place. The axe handle was gripped tightly in my palms. I squeezed the worn wood until my knuckles turned white, gritted my teeth, and set my jaw. An angry roar scraped against my throat as I swung, and upon impact, the log splintered, breaking into four pieces and falling to the ground at the base of the stump.
Relax. Let it go .
I let my lungs heave for one, two, three breaths before clearing my throat and shaking my head, chasing the pain and rage away. Reminding myself for the millionth time that this—being here—was for the better, that it was what we had both felt was best, given the circumstances. If only he—
A nearby tree erupted with the scattering of crows, taking to the sky in a burst of black and echoing calls. My heart hammered at the disruption to the quiet, sunny day, and I stared as they flew off, focusing on their beating wings and the heaviness of my breathing.
“Jesus,” I muttered, clasping a hand to my bare chest before turning to grab another log from the pile.
And that was when I saw her.
That woman.
The one I'd saved across the street, outside of the hotel.
The one who'd broken into my house.
The one with the longest, prettiest onyx hair I'd ever seen before in my life.
The one who emanated an aura so bright and tempting, beckoning me to investigate its glory, while the nerves in my gut and the panic in my brain told me to stay as far away from her as I could possibly get.
If only I could convince her to comply …
I said nothing as she walked toward me slowly, her heavy black boots thunking against the brick. My hands remained tight around the axe handle, although I wasn't sure I intended to use it. Not on her. But it made me feel better to keep it there between my palms, held in front of me, warding her off and forcing a distance I knew was best.
“Oh, come on, Charlie,” I imagined Luke saying. “Like you don't wanna see what else she has pierced.”
Shut the fuck up .
“I knocked louder this time,” she said, approaching me like one would a wild animal. A sly smile tugged at her lips, painted black and glossy. “You didn't answer.”
“Obviously, I'm a little busy,” I replied in a low tone I thought—I hoped —sounded menacing to her ears.
But still, she came nearer.
Her long black coat hung to her knees. The buttons were undone, leaving it open to reveal a sheer black top embroidered with spiderwebs. The coincidence of our coordination—her in cloth and me in flesh—wasn't lost on me as I struggled to not stare at the black patent bra, bejeweled navel, and heavily tattooed skin beneath the patterned fabric.
She turned her head toward Luke's bike, and a light breeze lifted her ebony hair from her shoulder, revealing her left ear. Between the countless piercings and gauged lobes, there was enough metal there to set off airport security, and I fought against an amused smirk at the thought.
“Nice bike,” she commented, nudging her chin toward the Harley.
“It's not mine,” I felt the need to say.
She looked back at me with a raised brow. “No? You stole it?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” she muttered, nodding at the bike again.
“What?”
“Oh, I'm just thinking, I wouldn't be surprised if you had.” She looked back to me, her mouth twisted to one side before saying, “I mean, you're a pretty scary guy.”
I snorted a sardonic laugh and shook my head as my hands loosened just a bit from my grip on the axe. She had no idea just how scary I was capable of being, and suddenly, I didn't want her thinking that side could—or would—come out around her.
“No, seriously,” she went on with widened eyes, like I needed clarification, “that guy was ready to piss himself when you had that knife to his throat. And, man, you're fast . You just came out of nowhere, like a fucking ninja.”
I pulled in a breath while giving myself a quick reminder that I wasn't here to make friends. Hell, I wasn't even here to make casual acquaintances—Ivan not included. I was living my life as quietly as I'd always wanted it to be, away from everyone who'd ever wished ill on me or my family. Conversation with this strange, gorgeous, and disturbingly brazen woman didn't fit into that plan.
“What did you—” I began, only to be cut off again.
“So, whose bike is it then?”
She turned to run her hand over the polished handlebars, and my shoulders stiffened as a protective streak bristled the hairs at the back of my neck.
“Hands off,” I demanded.
She pulled back her fingers. Not with the hurriedness of someone frightened though. She looked back at me with an apologetic nod of her head.
The gesture was at least appreciated, and to show her as such, I responded, “It's my brother's.”
Just acknowledging him out loud to someone was enough to scrape at the wound on my heart, barely beginning to scab. Mentioning I had a brother, mentioning he existed, brought on a consecutive thought that she would look at him the way I knew I'd looked at her just moments ago.
Lustful. Longing.
Pathetic .
Women had always loved Luke. They'd always been drawn to him like the night moths to the lantern outside my door. He might've been my brother, but I understood his appeal. He wasn't the type of man women made a family and a life with—he'd made sure of that, the fucking asshole. But he was the one they wanted an experience with. The bad boy with the cigarettes and motorcycle, the one with the tattoos and a love affair with recklessness. He reeked of it, and women wanted to bottle it up, wear it for a night, and leave after it faded, long before their disapproving daddies could find out that it'd ever happened.
I was nothing more than a shadow, lurking in the distance and fading with the absence of his fiery light.
“I didn't know your brother lived here too,” the woman replied, seemingly surprised. “I thought you were all alone here.”
“I am.” I swallowed hard against the pain of missing my wonderful asshole of a brother. “I'm just looking after it for him.”
She lifted her chin as she acknowledged me, and for a second, I thought maybe she could see the ache glowing bright and hot beneath my skin.
“Where is he?”
“Prison,” I replied through a tense jaw, the word spoken as a dare for her to continue with her questions. To ask what he'd done, why he was there, how long he'd been there, and how many years he was meant to rot behind bars before he'd be sent back out into the wild, like a fucking animal.
He did it to himself , I had to remind myself. And that was the truth, but, dammit, I didn't have to like it.
Especially when he wasn't the only one who'd deserved that fate.
But she didn't ask. She just took on a certain look of empathy I hadn't expected, and then she nodded with finality. A period at the end of the sentence, the closing of the book, and just like that, my soul dared to look out from the cold, dark cell I'd shut it in, and with slender, shadowy, tangled fingers, it reached out.
Stop it.
She tucked her hand into the black leather satchel at her hip and pulled something out—a white envelope—then handed it to me.
I looked at it skeptically before slowly accepting. “What is this?”
“An invitation.”
I narrowed my eyes at the heavy paper in my hand, unable to meet her gaze with mine. “To what?”
“We're throwing my boss a birthday party the weekend before Halloween,” she explained, my flesh zinging with anxiety at the word Halloween . “A bunch of people are coming. Nothing too crazy, but I asked if I could invite someone, so …” She gestured toward the envelope with splayed fingers. “You’re my someone.”
My eyes flitted up toward hers for just a brief second as I asked, “Why?”
“Your charm and warm, welcoming personality, of course.” She tipped her head in the direction of the axe. “And your penchant for carrying sharp objects.”
My smirk was reluctant, and I tried desperately to fight it, but there it was as I thought about the box cutter and chef's knife I’d also wielded in her presence.
“Everybody likes free food and booze,” she added, her tone softer now.
“I don't drink,” I muttered as the memory of too many of Luke’s drunken nights came to mind.
I looked at her face in time to see her smile.
“Well, that would make two of us then.”
“Hmm,” I grunted, otherwise unmoved.
“But you do eat, right?”
Then, just like that, before I could say anything more, she turned and began to walk away toward the open gate.
I stared at the envelope in my hand for a second, taking note of the word Spider written in swirly cursive. Then, as I was about to crumple it in my hand and stuff it into my pocket, another murder of crows scattered through the sky. Cawing and calling, startling me from the task of discarding the invitation I never intended to use.
Three black birds took purchase on the roof, just feet from where I stood. They looked at me, cocking their heads in jerky, surreal motions. Their dark eyes watching as I swallowed and took a deep breath.
Then, for some stupid reason, I sneered at the trio as if responding to an unspoken message and begrudgingly left the axe against the stump as I stomped my way back into the house with the only party invitation I'd ever received in hand.