Jesus fucking Christ.
So what now?
The helicopter drops us back at the lodge. Alex walks us back to our room, heads straight for his suitcase, and starts packing. It takes him all of a minute because his clothes weren’t spread out like mine are.
I suppose we’re leaving. It’s the middle of the afternoon. No one checks out in the middle of the afternoon, so it’s clear we had tonight booked as well. Change of plans, I guess.
He brushes past me to untie the ropes from the bed and bundles them up, not even looking at me.
My legs are unsteady. I focus on folding clothes I don't care about, because it's something to distract myself. It doesn’t really work.
He waits, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, while I give up making things tidy, throw my clothes back in my case, andzip it closed.
He still hasn’t said a word.
“Are you going to keep ignoring me?”
“Not here.”
Right.
I can’t really blame him for that.
As soon as I’m done packing, he takes our cases straight outside, not even waiting for a bellhop. He carries them across the parking lot, striding fast enough that I’m jogging along in his wake, and the goddamn helicopter’s still there. I figured they’d left.
I’m as done with Fournier and his trappings as I am with this place. I don’t ever want to see Montana again. I think I’ve developed a phobia for peaceful mountain and forest views.
At least the trip to Bozeman is faster than by car, and we’re walking into the terminal a half hour later.
I don’t try to talk to him here, not with everyone around. There’s a direct flight to JFK, and Alex has my passport. He books it all at the desk, the first-class fares eye-watering, and the next plane leaves in forty minutes. We just make it. I don’t try to talk to him on the plane either, where we’ll be overheard.
He reclines his chair. Closes his eyes.
Then his hand reaches over and finds my leg. I let out a breath and squeeze my eyes shut, his touch a comfort I didn’t know I needed. The thin material of my stupid summer dress begins to rise. He scrunches it higher and higher, until my cheeks begin to heat and I’m grateful there’s no one who can see.
“Alex…”
He ignores me, only stopping when his hand is resting on bare skin. His hand stills, palm on my thigh, fingers dipping between my legs, almost brushing my pussy. I flick the dress over his hand, restoring some small amount of my modesty, and anticipate the moment he begins to touch me.
But he doesn’t.
His hand stays there, unmoving, like he just wants contact, and not through my clothes.
Eventually, my heart rate calms, and I lay my hand over his. His skin is warm, even through the thin material of my dress. It’s his right hand, and it’s whole and intact. I can feel every one of his fingers beneath mine, and I shudder with relief.
His hand squeezes my thigh.
It’s a simple touch, but it restores everything that’s been missing since we left. Acknowledgment. Communication, of a kind. We still need to talk, but… I choose to read it as acceptance. Forgiveness.
A tear escapes, and I brush it from my cheek, wiping my hand on my dress. Alex doesn’t notice; his eyes are closed.
When my thoughts don’t dwell on Alex, they turn instead to Van Wyk and Amelia. I try to think of other things, but it’s impossible. Whenever I’m not picturing Amelia’s haunted gaze, I keep seeing that wickedly curved blade pressed against Alex’s finger. The utterly calm acceptance with which he met that threat.
His willingness to sacrifice hisfingerto stop Fournier spending a night with me. Withme.
A finger for a night? How is that even a thing?
And I’m wrong. Alex wasn’t calm, his acceptance was a front, his rage…
