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I count ten lots of sixty Mississippi’s, then follow in his footsteps. The pipes in the walls gurgle and clink, and when I push open the door to the cabin, I realize Rafe’s in the shower.
Indecision slows my limbs. I stare at the steam rising from beneath the door and consider what would happen if I opened it. Slid my shorts down, slipped through the shower door, and pressed myself into his wet, naked body. If, under hot rain, I sank to my knees and took him in my mouth. Took control.
Even though I’ve never done it before, the idea makes my mouth water. But I’ve taken only one step toward the en-suite when something out-of-sorts catches my eye. My suitcase. It’s where I left it, pushed up against the wall in the corner of the room, but it’s been opened. Some of my stuff is missing, and I have an awful idea of where it will be.
I slide open the closet door and weaken with dread. White shirts sandwich silk dresses. Crisp, black slacks flank mom jeans. My attention falls to the shoe rack, where his leather dress shoes sit side-by-side with my Doc Martens and heels.
Pulled taut by that damn tug-of-war, I grapple with my stuff, shove it back in my case, and take a seat in the living area. I turn on the television, flicking restlessly through the channels until a news woman talks at me with such intensity, I know if I turn up the volume loud enough, she’ll drown out the feeling of unease. At least until Rafe takes me to bed and fills me with something else.
But when I tune in to what she’s saying, my blood runs cold.
“For those of you just joining, we have breaking news this afternoon,” she says, shuffling her papers. “The body found on the bank of Clam Lake in Atlantic City this morning is confirmed to be Martin O’Hare. O’Hare has made headlines in recent weeks after his casino and bar burned down under unknown circumstances.” The reporter pauses, her expression grave. “It isn’t known at this time whether the two incidents are related.”
My head swims in the opposite direction from my stomach. Hot, sticky numbness pins my body to the sofa, and my hand wouldn’t be able to pick up the remote to turn the television off even if I’d wanted to.
Martin O’Hare. Dead.The reporter’s mouth moves, but I can no longer hear what she’s saying over the roaring of my ears. The noise fades when the shower shuts off. Now, I’m hyper-aware of what’s happening in the bathroom behind me. Thethawpof a towel. The turn of a tap. When the door opens and a wet heat brushes against the back of my head, I swallow thickly.
“Martin O’Hare was found dead in Clam Lake.” It doesn’t sound like my voice. It’s too calm, too at-odds with the violent pulse in my throat.
While my eyes are glued on the screen, my attention is tethered to Rafe as he moves from behind the sofa over to the bar cart. In silence, he pours a vodka.
“Really?” Theclinkof ice cubes rattles my bones. “That’s not where I left him.”
Heat prickles my skin in a way that makes me want to rip my clothes off. Fueled by panic, I clamber to my feet, but when I bump my shins against the coffee table, I realize I won’t get very far. I sink back to the sofa, letting the soft cushions drag me down to hell.
“You did this?”
Now, the silence aches. Rafe’s calm disposition nips at my edges. Makes me take stock of the exits. Instead of making a run for one of them, I drag my stare to him.
He’s back-lit by a window, wearing nothing but ink and a low-slung towel around his waist. His eyes meet mine over the rim of his vodka glass, glittering like the sea behind him. A water droplet trickles down his chest, and he wipes it away before it reaches his navel. I stare at the hand he used. It’s even more busted than it was yesterday.
“That reminds me, I brought you back a souvenir.”
My shoulders tense. Rafe disappears from view, and when he approaches the back of the sofa and drops a small box onto my lap, I stare down at it.
And then I scream.
I jump up, roll over the coffee table, and stagger toward the door. “You’re sick,” I choke out, stumbling backward. I’ve seen this type of shit in films. A horse’s head in a bed. A skull on a bookshelf. A fuckingfinger in a ring box.
Aside from the cocked brow, Rafe’s the dictionary definition of indifference. He stares at me, then stoops to retrieve the still-shut box from where it rolled under the sofa.
As he snaps it open, I squeeze my eyes closed.
“Penelope.”
When I’m brave enough to pop a lid open, I’m met with dark amusement and a key ring swinging from his finger. He tosses it to me, and it lands at my feet.
I glare at theI Heart Atlantic Citylogo for five staggered heartbeats.
And then my unease rises up my throat and spills out between us. “I told you not to be nice to me,” I blurt out.
“It was four dollars.”
“You know I’m not talking about the fucking key ring.”
Another heartbeat, and then Rafe’s rough laugh touches me. He runs a hand through his wet hair, bitterness clouding in his eyes.
“Christ, Penny. Athank youwould have sufficed.” He downs the rest of his vodka, then lets the glass clatter to the bar cart. “I must be fucking mad,” he mutters, wiping his mouth.
