too frightened, to even wonder what they were. Her skin was absolutely crawling as she moved farther into the room and she made out a little cot against the far wall, lumpy with blankets. She almost cried out because the shape looked to her like a person, and now she was getting image after image—Vaughn asleep, about to wake to her prowling around his little hideaway-within-a-hideaway; Vaughn, dead, murdered by Conrad; Conrad, hiding, waiting for her. She was about ready to pass out from terror, but had to 89
prove to herself that the form on the little cot was just what it had to be—a pile of blankets. Nothing more.
Suddenly a voice sounded behind her.
“Devan.”
Vaughn had been dying to get the fuck out of the cabin, and away from her. But each time he thought of going out, taking a walk, going to the workshop out back, he couldn’t put the thought of her there, alone, free to riffle through his things, out of his mind. Finally that afternoon when she fell asleep on the sofa, he decided to take the chance that she’d be out for half an hour or an hour, and slipped out. He’d meant to go for a walk, but in his haste and stealth he hadn’t dressed for it, so he’d ended up in the shop. Not much later, he’d needed to pee, and had gone a little distance into the woods.
It was when he was coming back that he'd noticed her walking, slowly, holding herself as if she were cold, up the steps to the door of the shop. He’d lingered behind a tree, watching her, wondering what the fuck she could possibly be up to, coming out there to bug him when she’d had the pleasure of his company non-stop inside the damned cabin. When she opened the door and went inside he was amazed that he was amused, and not filled with the expected violent loathing. Not sure what he was going to do, he crossed the clearing and stood at the bottom of the steps to watch her tiptoe toward the far end of the room, toward the cot he kept there to lay and think and doze when he was bored of the cabin and tired of working. What did she think she was doing, sneaking up on him? Was she going to try to seduce that pile of blankets? And why was he so fucking entertained, when he should be ready to kill the bitch for stalking him like 90
that, hunting him down, not just to his cabin in the woods, but beyond that, out to his work shop? No doubt it was the few whiskeys he’d kept warm with out there. Sort of softened the unforgivable crime of trespassing.
“Devan.” He deliberately half-shouted, meaning to scare the piss out of her, just for fun. “Looking for me?”
He laughed to himself at the way she jumped at the sound of his voice, but then, when she turned around, she looked so shaken up he felt guilty for being such a prick.
He gave her a smile to take the edge off her obvious fear of making him mad, but it didn’t seem to do much good. He beckoned her over with a few curls of his index finger, and slowly, still shaking a bit, she came to the threshold and then, at another gesture from him, out onto the landing to take her share of the rain’s soaking.
Locking eyes with her, holding her there in his sight, pale and still, slowly he came up, one step, two steps, three. A step below her he was still taller than she. He gave her a playfully disapproving look, then leaned in. With his calm whiskey buzz he took in her incredible, intense focus on him, then reached past her, and pulled the door shut. He grinned, almost ready to laugh. She deserved the soaking she was getting.
“What were you up to in there?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“I…just…I woke up, and I didn’t know where you were…I just…I was worried about you.”
“Worried?” Truly entertaining.
91
“I know, it’s stupid.” She smiled momentarily, nervously. “I had a bad dream, and when I woke up, I guess it kind of stuck to me.”
Even after the way he’d startled her she was looking at him with…gratitude?
Adoration? Normally it
prove to herself that the form on the little cot was just what it had to be—a pile of blankets. Nothing more.
Suddenly a voice sounded behind her.
“Devan.”
Vaughn had been dying to get the fuck out of the cabin, and away from her. But each time he thought of going out, taking a walk, going to the workshop out back, he couldn’t put the thought of her there, alone, free to riffle through his things, out of his mind. Finally that afternoon when she fell asleep on the sofa, he decided to take the chance that she’d be out for half an hour or an hour, and slipped out. He’d meant to go for a walk, but in his haste and stealth he hadn’t dressed for it, so he’d ended up in the shop. Not much later, he’d needed to pee, and had gone a little distance into the woods.
It was when he was coming back that he'd noticed her walking, slowly, holding herself as if she were cold, up the steps to the door of the shop. He’d lingered behind a tree, watching her, wondering what the fuck she could possibly be up to, coming out there to bug him when she’d had the pleasure of his company non-stop inside the damned cabin. When she opened the door and went inside he was amazed that he was amused, and not filled with the expected violent loathing. Not sure what he was going to do, he crossed the clearing and stood at the bottom of the steps to watch her tiptoe toward the far end of the room, toward the cot he kept there to lay and think and doze when he was bored of the cabin and tired of working. What did she think she was doing, sneaking up on him? Was she going to try to seduce that pile of blankets? And why was he so fucking entertained, when he should be ready to kill the bitch for stalking him like 90
that, hunting him down, not just to his cabin in the woods, but beyond that, out to his work shop? No doubt it was the few whiskeys he’d kept warm with out there. Sort of softened the unforgivable crime of trespassing.
“Devan.” He deliberately half-shouted, meaning to scare the piss out of her, just for fun. “Looking for me?”
He laughed to himself at the way she jumped at the sound of his voice, but then, when she turned around, she looked so shaken up he felt guilty for being such a prick.
He gave her a smile to take the edge off her obvious fear of making him mad, but it didn’t seem to do much good. He beckoned her over with a few curls of his index finger, and slowly, still shaking a bit, she came to the threshold and then, at another gesture from him, out onto the landing to take her share of the rain’s soaking.
Locking eyes with her, holding her there in his sight, pale and still, slowly he came up, one step, two steps, three. A step below her he was still taller than she. He gave her a playfully disapproving look, then leaned in. With his calm whiskey buzz he took in her incredible, intense focus on him, then reached past her, and pulled the door shut. He grinned, almost ready to laugh. She deserved the soaking she was getting.
“What were you up to in there?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“I…just…I woke up, and I didn’t know where you were…I just…I was worried about you.”
“Worried?” Truly entertaining.
91
“I know, it’s stupid.” She smiled momentarily, nervously. “I had a bad dream, and when I woke up, I guess it kind of stuck to me.”
Even after the way he’d startled her she was looking at him with…gratitude?
Adoration? Normally it
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