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He pretends to think about it. “No horns.”
“Do they have horns?”
“No idea, Princess, haven’t met one.” Then he takes my shoulders, turns me gently, and that scent of him, the gasoline, dried tea, grass and oil, and something else that calls, the one that lies beneath the smoke, teases me. “Hey, I fuckin’ get it. You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”
That never even came to me that he might be a pervert.
I don’t think he is. I lived in New York City long enough to know a pervert at twenty paces.
“I’m scared too. What if you try to molest away my innocence when I sleep? We talked about it on the way here. You weren’t responsive on account you were out cold, but I figured we had an understanding, we respect each other. No one tries anything.”
Against my better judgment, my prickliness melts into a puddle of goo. He’s funny. Annoying with his nickname, but funny and charming and I’m passing through.
“I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
“Excellent. Now, you know how to use a can opener?”
* * *
It’s just chicken and vegetable soup, and it’s, well . . . canned soup. But it’s filling and I even share a protein bar and some candy from my bag with him. I know he eyes the artisan, handmade chocolate sourced from Bolivian cacao in a way that makes me shift, like he knows who and what I am, but I ignore it.
One night, then I’ll hire a car or wait for mine to be fixed, and I’m on my way.
The cabin is pretty big and nice for what he told me is a forest ranger lookout cabin, and it’s roomy. Or would be if he didn’t seem to take up so much space.
But right now, he’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa. A sofa where I’m betting more than one tired man’s passed out on. There’s a table, two chairs, and the bed is pushed against the wall.
He looks at me sitting at the kitchen table and pats the floor next to him with one hand.
“Join me. There’s whiskey, fine company, and a five-star chemical toilet you’re just gonna fuckin’ love.”
With a sigh, I do. It’s darkish out, but I don’t know if that’s the storm or the smoke or the time. My phone’s screen is cracked and it’s either broken or out of juice. He hands me the bottle and I take a sip and shudder at the warm, spicy bite.
“We can’t go?”
He shakes his head. “Where are you going? Look, this isn’t the Ritz or wherever you usually stay, but it’s better than my truck or the storm.”
“Where are we?”
“You don’t know?”
The tone in his voice is something I deserved because I should have paid attention, but my mind was on other things, and when the flames and smoke came at me, I panicked.
“Passing through.” I aim for a nonchalant shrug. “That’s all. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Where are you off to?”
He’s no spy for my parents and he’s not affiliated with the trouble I stumbled on. But . . . habits are hard to break, and keeping things secret has been the way to get ahead. My mother is a force of nature. Like that fire, but with more drive.
“I was going to stop at Hawthorn Way?”
Mack starts laughing and takes the bottle back. His fingertips brushing mine, and I shiver. “That’s even smaller than Norhill Tops. That’s where you are, by the way. Why are you going there?”
“What is it you do, Mack?” I change the subject not wanting to answer about why. He doesn’t need to know.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I work in town and volunteer fighting flames. What about you?”
I rub my fingers down over my jean-covered thighs. “My phone isn’t working. Do you have one I could borrow? I need to call Vic.”
