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I slowed and turned left, passing the oversized metal “No Trespassing—Violators will be SHOT” sign nailed to a cedar post. The edges had rusted, and someone, likely kids with nothing better to do on summer break, had scratched out the “S” in shot, so it read “Violators will be HOT.” It didn’t matter; I had about a hundred more posted around the perimeter of the ten-acre property. You had to be blind not to see them, and really stupid to ignore them.
The tires bounced in numerous potholes overflowing with muddy rainwater and splattered the windows. The road wasn’t much of a road, more like a dirt path weaving through a forest of maple and pine trees with the odd birch thrown in.
The engine dropped into a lower gear as it climbed a steep hill. Stones spit from the tire treads, and low-hanging branches scraped the top of my roof like Freddy Krueger announcing his presence.
The road forked at the top of the hill, and to the left led down into a valley, across a wooden bridge, and over a river. I couldn’t see it from here, but nestled in the trees was a cabin. The previous owners had renovated it before I bought the property ten years ago, but I didn’t buy it for the cabin. I bought it for the privacy and seclusion.
I’d used the cabin a few times, but it had one huge fuckin’ issue—a tin roof.
Rain hitting tin sounded like a nail gun going off as the nails penetrated my skull.
How anyone thought rain sounded soothing was beyond me. I’d nearly burnt down the cabin the first time I’d heard it, and I would’ve if the rain hadn’t soaked the wood, so it refused to catch fire.
I hadn’t stayed in the cabin since, and decided to build a house on the property instead.
I turned right at the fork, veering away from the cabin, and relaxed my grip on the steering wheel as the house came into view.
The tension in my shoulders eased, and the burning in my chest subsided.
This was the one place where I didn’t have to worry about the shit that messed with my head.
One place where I couldn’t hear the rain and what it brought with it.
The demons could hold hands and jump off high-rise buildings screaming their heads off and I could deal with it here. And if I couldn’t deal with it, then at least no one was around to see how fucked up I was.
It was my sanctuary.
No Internet. No TV. No people.
Nothing except a shitload of squirrels foraging for nuts, and woodpeckers tapping into maple trees.
I pulled up to the front porch and stopped, shifting into Park.
I stared through the mud-streaked windshield at the house. It was a work in progress and had been for eight years. It would likely be another eight before it was finished, but I wasn’t in a hurry. Working on the house gave my head a chance to decompress. To rebuild the wall and shut out the rain and everything that came with it.
Cedar shingles covered the roof, but it was the layer beneath the shingles that mattered. I’d put a thick wool blanket of soundproofing underneath the sheeting that muffled the sounds. The sounds being the pissing rain.
I shut off the engine and unfolded out of the matte black Ford truck.
I opened the back door and reached in, pulling out my khaki duffel. I slung it over my shoulder, closed the door, and pressed the fob to lock the truck.
I strode up to the house, combat boots sinking into the thick gravel that was soupy from the rain. I hadn’t gotten around to building stairs up to the front porch. Instead, there were a couple of planks perched on cement blocks.
My gaze hit the yellow caution tape tied between the six wooden posts on the porch.
Goddamn Jaeg. What was he doing? Warning the squirrels not to fall off the porch?
I asked him to check on the place, not safety check it.
But then, Jaeg excelled at not listening and doing whatever the hell he wanted.
We’d met in our teens in the underground where wealthy pricks bet on derelict kids who needed two things: an outlet for their rage and money.
I’d told him he was going to end up in the hospital if he fought me. He ignored me, and the stupid asshole ended up in the hospital with a broken nose, a concussion, and two cracked ribs.
Eighteen years later, the asshole still didn’t listen. The only difference now was there was a good possibility he’d last a lot longer than five seconds if he threw a punch my way. Might even be a challenge since I’d taught him everything he knows, and he was no longer that tall, lanky kid with spaghetti arms and a penchant for pain.
I dug in my cargo pants pocket for the key. I stepped closer to the door, and my booted foot hit something. I glanced down at the sisal mat in front of the threshold. A mat I didn’t buy. A mat that read, “I’m an asshole. Go away.”
