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“What the hell is she talking about? I ask.
“No clue,” Logan says, finding a light switch. The room illuminates with a soft glow from a single lamp in the far corner. “But listen. Yvette,” he says, redirecting his words to her. “You relax here on the couch while Aje and I have a little private chat.”
She mumbles something I don’t catch and turns her back to us.
What a wreck this chick is. Tits hanging out of her bra, no pants on, and her underwear is riding up her ass crack.
Which I sorta like, so I’m not complaining.
“Come here,” Logan says, directing me to the hallway that leads to the bedroom.
I follow him to the end of the hall and say, “What’s up?”
“Well… this isn’t exactly going as planned.”
“No shit.”
“So we’re in agreement?”
“About what?”
“Fucking her until the snow stops.”
I smile. Because he left something out. “You mean fucking each other until the snow stops? Because she’s wasted.”
Logan stares at me for a long second. “Do you think—”
But before he can finish the lights flicker three times… and go out.
Chapter Six – LOGAN
“Shit,” AJ and I both say at the same time.
It is dark as fuck up here without lights. Especially in the hallway. But there’s just enough light from the glow of snow through a window for us to make our way back to the living room without much issue.
“Yvette,” I say, walking over to the couch. “Do you have flashlights?”
“Of course she has flashlights,” AJ says. “Mountain people with generators have all kinds of cool end-of-the-world shit like that.”
He turns towards the kitchen, feeling around the countertops until he finds drawers to search.
Yvette is asleep. She doesn’t even move.
If the roads were clear and we weren’t stuck here, now would be the perfect time to just stuff a pillow over her face and get the job done.
But it would be very stupid for us to kill her and then be stuck here with her decaying body. Risky as well.
People must care about her up here. From what I can gather she’s been running this bar for a couple years. Long enough for people to know her. Long enough for her to make friends. So there’s also a chance that some nosey, well-intentioned, trigger-happy local will drive a tractor, or a snowcat—or a fucking sleigh pulled by moose, for all I know—over here to make sure she’s OK.
Yvette Nightingale isn’t her real name.
Her real name is Glori Dell’Ariccia.
Yes. Related. She’s Damon’s runaway wife.
Which he wouldn’t care so much about except she took something very valuable with her when she left and he wants it back.
The problem is… she no longer has that something. Since we started watching her two weeks ago there has been no evidence that she even knows where that something is.
This is why Damon’s done with her and wants her dead.
“Found some,” AJ calls from the kitchen. He comes back into the living room shining a powerful beam of light and says, “Catch.”
Fucking flashlight almost hits me in the head, but I snatch it out of the air just in time.
He shines his light in my face and says, “Just keepin’ you on your toes.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, turning the flashlight on, then say, “Go find that generator. I’m not in the mood to be stuck here all night in the freezing-ass cold with no heat.”
AJ pans the beam of light around the room and stops on the fireplace, which is really a massive stone hearth with a wood stove sitting inside a wide stone alcove with a pipe reaching up through the chimney. “There’s that,” he says, panning the light over to a stack of wood and thin branches. “Have at it. I’m guessing this generator is gonna take a while to get started. That’s if she even has fuel to run it.”
This was not how I was planning on spending my Sunday evening. I was hoping to be back in Durango before midnight and on the jet back to the city by daybreak tomorrow. And it’s already too cold up here. There’s no way I’m gonna huddle to stay warm and wait for a goddamned rescue.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll start a fire. But you need to get that generator started.”
“I’ll do my best,” AJ says, walking over to the still-open door and disappearing through it. His boots clomp on the stairs and then a few seconds later I hear a door slam.
I go over to the wood, and start stacking kindling inside the stove. There’s a little wire basket off to the side filled with long kitchen matches and bits of wood shavings. Not the kind of shavings you buy for rodent pets, but the kind you whittle off a stick with a knife.
Fucking rustic. I hate everything about it.
But it’s a good thing it’s here because making a fire is extremely simple. And a few minutes later I’m stacking logs and heat is pouring out in waves.
