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A hunting magazine…
It’s the only magazine Reese could find in the entire town. Oddly enough, I really like one of these cute pink hunting knives. If I could get wifi or use my phone’s data, I would have already one-clicked it. Until now, I thought dead zones were a thing of the past and horror movies just used that ‘no service’ bit as a cliché plot device.
“We’ve never taken a trip together that wasn’t business related or a family obligation,” she argues.
“Vegas.”
“That was a family obligation trip that turned into a business trip,” she quickly counters. “I spent the entire trip on the phone or at conventions. You spent the entire time in the spa—”
“With Mr. Finebaud’s overly anti-feminist wife, who thinks women have to act and be a certain way or they’re a disgrace. Now I remember how disgraceful she said I was,” I say on a sigh, finally remembering the details of Vegas.
“I still haven’t gambled a day in my life,” Reese adds.
I pause, looking up as my brow furrows.
“We almost went to the beach for an actual vacation that one time,” I lamely tell her in a sad attempt to make us sound less pathetic.
“We’ve almost taken a lot of fun trips, but haven’t. So stop trying to make this an ‘almost’ moment and have fun with me tonight. Our website isn’t far from launching, and after that, all our trips will be just as business related as they’ve always been.”
“At least they’ll be our business trips instead of sucking-up business trips Dad sends us on,” I counter, pointing out the silver lining.
Unable to come up with a single time my sister and I have taken a trip that was specifically for fun, I put the magazine down and put aside my no-late-dates rule, since they’re ten minutes late now.
Maybe I won’t almost die a fifth time. If I’m lucky.
“If we don’t get stood up,” she adds with a small frown, which means she’s actually disappointed, because she won’t smile or frown unless it’s a big emotion, due to the fact she wants to put off wrinkles for as long as possible to avoid needles.
Rancorous laughter draws both our attention to the door, and her smile forms. Two expressions back to back. She’s really excited.
“Be prepared for the best date of your life, pretty girl,” some guy calls through the door before knocking.
Reese actually giggles. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her giggle before. She clears her throat immediately, and I battle my smile when I see her roll her eyes at herself in the mirror while checking her makeup one last time.
Plastering on my own smile, I watch as she jogs to the door, swings it open, and then…releases a bloodcurdling, hair-raising scream…and I freeze. Again. It’s my go-to reaction when absolutely nothing at all makes sense and terror is sweeping in.
A dead deer is on the front porch, eyes wide and vacant while its little tongue barely hangs out its mouth. And there’s blood. I can’t stand blood.
I stare in horror at the poor, stiff deer that simply makes no sense at all. Reese continues to scream and scream…and scream.
I gape.
Poor Bambi. What monsters would do this? Whose boots are sticking up over the jeans behind that poor deer? I can’t look away from the deer long enough to find out.
“Why the hell are you screaming?” some guy asks incredulously as he steps over the deer and right into our house.
My frozen state thaws immediately, and I fly off the couch and rush to the kitchen to grab a knife, only to run back out with a large wooden spoon. How the actual hell did that happen?
I freeze again when I briefly see the deer, and then jerk my gaze around, searching for the murderous lunatic who has been released into our cabin after killing Bambi.
I finally spot the mystery freak in the living room as he lightly shakes my sister’s shoulders. She continues to scream, her attention remaining fixed to the pitiful deer with so many pretty horns.
“Told you that was a shit idea,” a confusingly familiar voice calls from outside. “Girls like that are always screamers. I’m staying out here until they cut that shit out.”
“Only mine is screaming,” the other guy says, causing me to reassess this situation.
The deer murderers are our dates? Oh my damn. We’re actually going to die. I knew this was a terrible idea.
Reese’s screams finally taper off, and she whirls away from the deer, gagging.
“Got a chucker!” the guy with her says as he rushes her toward the sink.
“Why the hell is there a dead deer on our porch?” I shout at the sociopath, who is weirdly pulling my sister’s hair back as she leans over the sink and fights the urge to vomit.
I’m torn about whether or not it’s sweet, since he’s the reason she’s turning the green color and struggling not to lose the war with her stomach.
