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I walked outside onto the porch, frowning when I noticed the screen door hanging on an angle. The top hinge was dangling where it had been ripped from the frame.
“I’ll fix it in the morning.”
My breath hitched and my heart skipped several beats at the sound of Vic’s deep voice in the darkness.
My gaze swung to the tall shadow standing at the far end of the porch where the light failed to illuminate. Vic was leaning against the porch railing, and next to him sat my guitar. His ankles were crossed, and he appeared to be completely relaxed. Except there was nothing relaxed in his rigid jaw and dark, penetrating eyes as he stared at me.
“You’re still here?” Did I just blurt that out loud? Shit, I did. But I was shocked to see him. Had he been standing out here the entire time I’d been reading to Jackson? Why would he wait around? To tell me he’d fix the screen door? “I mean, you didn’t have to wait.” Okay, that was stupid. There was no chance Vic had waited around because he was concerned. More like he waited around to tell me to pack my bags and get out of his cabin at the first sign of daylight.
“How often does it happen?” he asked.
There was no question he was referring to Jackson screaming in the night, but I didn’t know why he was asking.
“A couple times a week.” I was really worried that when we moved, it would worsen again.
Vic didn’t say anything, but his dark eyes remained on me as if he was reading every single one of my thoughts that were like bumper cars banging into one another in my head.
Thoughts of how he hadn’t hesitated when he heard Jackson’s screams.
The way he’d come running.
That he’d shouted at me to stay outside.
I shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. Yeah, he stood ten feet away, but Vic’s presence was like a vast ocean. What I didn’t know was whether it was an ocean of tidal waves or gentle swells.
He crossed his arms over his chest, tattoos expanding as his muscles flexed. That’s when I noticed his T-shirt was damp, and there was sweat glistening on his corded neck. My gaze trailed down his muscled length to his gray joggers and then to his running shoes. He’d been jogging. That’s why he’d been near the cabin.
Did he have trouble sleeping too? Did his dreams keep him awake? Jaeg had said he’d seen things…. Horrible things. He’d also said Vic had done them. I wasn’t sure what that entailed, and I’d rather not know.
“Do you always jog in the middle of the night?”
“It’s quiet,” he replied. Until Jackson screamed. “And I don’t jog. I run.”
Of course he did. It surprised me that he answered my question. I barely knew him, but Vic defined the term closed off, so answering my question seemed monumental.
“Yesterday morning when you….”
“Put a gun to your head,” he offered.
I half smiled. “Yeah. That was my first time back jogging. I used to jog a lot in high school.” Not that Vic cared if I jogged, ran, or hopped, skipped, and jumped all across the country, but as much as I wanted him gone, it was also comforting with him here.
God, was that crazy? He’d held a gun to my head. He was dangerous.
But there was something about him. Something… I don’t know. Familiar and comforting. Maybe even protective. God, that was crazy.
“I’ve always struggled to keep my weight down, and jogging was easiest. But it’s been kind of a yo-yo regime.”
Vic’s weight shifted and his eyes narrowed.
It had been ingrained in me since I could understand the inference to always watch my weight, listening to Dad constantly ask Mom if she should be eating that. Or he’d ask if she’d gained a few pounds. Or he’d make rude comments about other people if they were overweight. When they split up, Mom and I had a junk food picnic on the floor of the living room with pop, chips, and an array of candy.
I licked the scar above my lip. “I like the quiet too. It clears my head.”
A light sprinkling of rain stained the porch steps. I bent to pick up my notebook sitting on the top step before it got wet. I’d been working on a song about walls. Hiding behind them. Crashing through them. Stepping on the rubble left behind by broken promises.
Had he flipped through my notebook while I’d been reading to Jackson? I don’t know why, but it didn’t bother me if he had. Maybe because I didn’t think he’d care.
I glanced back at him, and he was already staring at me.
