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Her
I run for months. Well, it’s actually only four weeks, but it feels like forever. Every time I crash in a new location, he finds me, and he always leaves a note.
Most of the time his messages are playful—You’re not good at this, are you? I like those pajamas. I'll see you tomorrow.
And sometimes his words cut to the heart of me—When this is over, you’re mine.
The dictatorship isn’t as offensive as it should be. Nothing about this seems as offensive as it should be. Yet again, I’ve become a willing participant in his game.
I fall asleep each night with growing anticipation. I wake every morning to heart-pounding excitement. I search for his messages like an attention-starved fool, and each and every time I find one, my stomach soars.
At least it had, until five days ago.
That was when I extended the playing field and fled to a small bed and breakfast in Eagle Creek. He didn’t follow. There hasn’t been one note. Not a single word.
He’s either lost interest, or something or someone made him stop.
“Are you thinking about him again, pet?”
I glance to my right, at Betty, the elderly lady who owns the bed and breakfast. She’s kind enough. Smart, too. But her intuition is on-point, which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. If she didn’t cook like a master chef and feed me like I’d been homeless all my life, I would’ve cut and run after my first night.
“I’m not thinking about anyone.” I rest my elbows on her porch railing and glance out at the glowing lights of Eagle Creek. It’s nice here. Quiet. Which makes it difficult to dodge thoughts of Hunter.
“Have it your way.” She moves to stand beside me, taking the same stance—elbows on the railing, her gaze straight ahead staring out into the night. “You’ve lost your hope, though. I can see it in your eyes.”
Damn woman can’t even see my eyes at the moment. It’s dark out, and I’m not looking in her direction. Still, she’s right.
What if Hunter has grown tired of playing?
The answer shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t even ponder the question. Only I do. On repeat. All day. All night.
“Who needs hope when I can smell blueberry pie?” I shoot her a glance and raise a brow. “Hmm? You’re going to feed me again, aren’t you?”
She chuckles, her face gaining a mass of enviable laugh lines. This woman has experienced a lot of joy. Every single one of those wrinkles is a testament to her happiness. “I certainly will… If you promise to try to find that hope you showed up here with.”
I sigh and turn back to the night. “It wasn’t hope. It was a game.” A silly challenge I spent too many nights playing.
“I know hope when I see it, and yours wasn’t the type to revolve around a career or family. It was the type of love-filled hope that can only be inspired by a man.”
Love?
Now that is a word capable of slamming the brakes on any conversation, as far as I’m concerned. “Did you get lost in the liquor cabinet again?”
She snickers. “Maybe. But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“My life is too complicated for love. Or hope, for that matter.” In my chest, there is a void where both emotions should be. An abyss. “It’s just not for me.”
“With that attitude, I’m sure you’re right.” She pats my shoulder with a gentle hand. “Now, how about that pie?”
“Yes, please.” I’ll agree to anything that will get her meddling insight out of my life. “Want me to make the green tea?”
“No, I’ve got it.” She starts for the front door, the aged wooden planks creaking under her steps.
This place feels like a home. The constant delicious scent of food, the warmth, the conversation, and the inbuilt security of a German shepherd guard dog in the back yard and the tiny yap-yap Maltese inside. I didn’t even bother setting up my camera here. Nothing could escape the attention of the canines.
It would be a great place for me to stay a while. To find that clarity and focus I need. But no matter how homey it is, I can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that I need to be somewhere else.
I want to be somewhere else.
I’m sure it’s as simple as missing my apartment. And not having Brent nearby in case I get smothered with loneliness. I owe him rent money, too, which I really need to resolve. I never even got back to my apartment to fetch my belongings from the trash.
Or maybe I have to stop kidding myself and admit I’m growing insane without an update on Hunter. I need answers, and I want the good night’s sleep I’ll finally get once I have them.
I don’t know if he’s lying in wait, about to strike. I don’t know if he’s hurt or if he found someone else to play with. I don’t know if Torian gave up on my so-called information.
“Betty.” I walk after her and pull open the front door. “Do you mind if I use your phone?”
Brent will know something.
Maybe Hunter is still hanging around at the bar or scoping out my apartment.
“Are you calling that man of yours?” She raises her voice from the kitchen down the long hall.
“Of course. You know I always listen to your advice and jump to respond.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
No, I’m not. At least not when I want to be.
“Go ahead and use it,” she calls “Just throw a few dollars in the jar on the table if it’s long distance.”
“Thank you.” I stride for the small wooden stand beside the staircase leading to the second floor. The corded phone sits crowded among pens, paper, the money jar, car keys, receipts, and mail. It’s the only place in this house that isn’t immaculate.
I dial Brent’s number from memory and lean against the banister while I wait. When the call co
“Atomic Buzz,” Brent mutters.
My stomach tumbles at the sound of his voice. “Hey. It’s Steph. How are you?”
The lengthening silence makes me wince. I can’t blame him for not speaking to me. I’ve been a selfish bitch who only thinks of herself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know I left without a word, and that I’m late with rent money.” He doesn’t have a generous bank account like I do. And still, he’s never been anything but generous to me. “I shouldn’t have checked out without telling you. But I’m going to try to get back there to fix you up for what I owe. I just—”
“No. Don’t.” He cuts me off. “Forget it. I don’t need it.”
My chest squeezes. We both know he’s lying.
“Please, Brent. I know I should’ve called sooner. I had to get out of town real quick. I didn’t mean to fuck you over.”
“Like I said, forget it,” he growls at me. My only friend. My only co
“I get that you’re angry. I deserve it. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I’ll travel back into Portland tonight.” I’d have to find a ride available in the early hours of the morning for safety’s sake. I can’t go back now. It’s only a little past ten, and people would be out and about. But I can return to Portland to make the delivery. No problem. “I’ll get there after you close and slip the money under the door.”
“I said don’t.” His tone is gruff. “I don’t want to see you here again. Do you understand? Don’t—”
His words are lost to rustling over the line. I hear a grunt. A muttered curse. Then more rustling.
“Brent?” I lower my gaze to the thick maroon carpet and stare blankly as I focus on sound. “Brent?”
“Forget what he said, pumpkin,” another voice croons in my ear. A voice I can’t pinpoint. It isn’t one of the bar regulars. It isn’t Hunter. It’s someone else.