u/TheOldStag

The weather outside makes the place feel cozy. 

Howling wind and torrential rain lashes against the windows. A single lamp illuminates the open floor plan with a warm, almost camp-fire glow. On one side, the living room is filled with Emma’s little touches: a sweater draped over an overstuffed recliner, a bloom of daisies in a vase on an end table, a hutch near the fireplace filled with books and knickknacks. It’s all very her.

On the other side, the kitchen is clean but lived in. A half-eaten loaf of fresh baked bread sits under a cloth hand towel. An orange tea kettle sits on the range. The refrigerator is covered with a collage of snapshots: Emma and her new boyfriend at a fancy dinner, Emma and her sister hugging at a birthday party, a save-the-date for a wedding, a niece or nephew in swaddling clothes.

Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. The house goes dark.

Emma lets out a cute little yip of surprise from the basement.

“Shit,” her boyfriend says. “Hang on.”

Footsteps clomp up the stairs and he steps into the room. Tall and gangly, with a patchy beard. He tries a lightswitch—nothing—then walks to the front window and cups his hands around his eyes to look into the yard.

“Holy shit,” he mutters. Then louder, “Emma, get up here, this is nuts.”

Mincing, uncertain steps patter up the stairs, and she joins him. She’s wearing thick, comfy socks, little athletic shorts, and an oversized hoodie. She looks good.

“Come look at this,” he says.

She steps up beside him and presses her forehead to the glass, mirroring his pose. “Wow.” 

He points. “Look at that tree.” 

“Oh my God. Think it’s going to come down?”

“Don’t know. Hope not.”

“This is, like, actually crazy. Is it a tornado?” 

“No idea.” He pulls out his phone and slashes a finger on the screen, frowns, holds it up toward the ceiling. “I don’t have any service, do you?” 

“I left mine downstairs.”

He considers, then takes her by the hips and pulls her close. “Tell you what, go down there and get comfy, I’ll get some candles and some drinks.”

She purrs as he kisses her neck. “And then what?”

“Only one thing to do when the power goes out.”

“Play Yahtzee?”

He laughs. “Fine, two things.”

“Okay, but hurry up.” She trots off, feeling her way down the hall.

He stands there watching the storm for a moment longer, then moves to the kitchen and rummages around in a drawer. A small flame snicks from a bic lighter and he uses it to illuminate his way to the living room, where he opens a cabinet and pulls out a pair of mismatched candles. He lights one and looks over the bar cart set against the wall. 

“White or red?” he calls. 

She doesn’t answer. 

“Em?” 

Nothing. 

He shrugs and takes one of each, awkwardly cradling the bottles, two glasses, and the candles in his arms as he makes his way to the basement. 

Lightning flashes. Thunder rumbles.

The basement is pitch black. His candle is the only illumination. Emma has unfurled a down blanket on the sectional, but she’s nowhere in sight. He’s lighting the second candle with the first. The warm orb of light expands around him, but leaves the edges of the room in shadow.

“Emma?” he calls, squinting into the darkness. “Are you down here?” No answer. “Hey don’t be a bitch, I know you can hear me.”

A flashlight clicks on in the far corner, illuminating a leering, jack-o-lantern grin from below.

“Boo.” 

He jumps. "Jesus!"

Emma cackles, playfully shining the light into his face, casting twin shadows against the wall.

“Good one,” he drawls, shielding his eyes with his hand.

She clicks off the light and sets it on the coffee table alongside a battered Yahtzee box, then curls up on the blanket, tucking her knees inside the hoodie. He hands her a glass of wine and sits next to her. 

“This is nice.” He takes a sip from his own glass. “Like we’re in a cave.”

“I’m just glad you’re here,” she says. “I’d be freaking out if I was alone.”

He chuckles dismissively. “What, afraid of storms?”

“I love storms. I used to be terrified of them, but now I think they’re relaxing.”

“As long as that tree doesn’t come down and take out my car.”

“Then you’d be stuck here.” 

“I think I’m stuck here either way. It’s really coming down out there.”

“Good.” She snuggles up next to him. “But no, I’m talking about being alone with the power out.”

“Yeah.”  He wraps his arm around her and grins. “That’s when the monsters come out.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Like, what would you do if that pale, Mitch McConnell-looking thing from Pan’s Labyrinth walked out of the shadows right now?”

“I would 100% push you into it and run away.”

“Nice knowing you have my back.”

“Not against that thing, I don’t.”

“Good news for me, I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He looks into the shadows. His eyes gleam with mischief. “It’d definitely be an axe-murderer or something.”

“Don’t.”

He plows ahead. “He’d run at us out of the shadows screaming at the top of his lungs, and—”

“Brian.” She pulls back and glares at him. “Don’t. I’m not kidding.”

“Okay,” he says petulantly. “Geez, you can hang with that crazy-ass fucking thing from Labyrinth, but not some random guy?”

“First, that thing from the movie is fictional. Second, you know my mind isn’t going to some random guy.”

He pauses. Winces. Pulls her a little closer. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Em.”

She sighs. “No, I’m sorry, too. It was forever ago, and it shouldn’t still bother me so much—”

“Hey, you don’t ever have to apologize about that. I was being a dick, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s just—” She hesitates, then rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

They sit like that for a while, watching the lightning flicker outside the glass blocks of the narrow basement windows.

He blows out a sigh. “I’m not getting laid tonight, am I?”

She swats his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”

“No, I went ahead and fucked the whole night up, didn’t I?”

“Yup. Ya blew it. The vibes are in shambles.” She’s smiling.

“Damn,” he says, but gives her a smile of his own. “So now what do we do with our evening?”

“Yahtzee.” She extends her leg and taps the box on the table. It’s always Yahtzee with her.

He laughs, then untangles himself from her and leans over to take a sip of wine. “How about a compromise?”

She looks at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Strip Yahtzee?” he offers hopefully.

She rolls her eyes.

An hour and a bottle of wine later, Emma has frustratingly won almost every game. The only thing she’s taken off is the hoodie, revealing a tight crop top underneath. The warm candlelight makes her tan glow, highlighting the shadows of her collarbones and the subtle ridges of her abs. She looks spectacular. He’s down to his underwear and looks ridiculous in comparison, with his pale, scrawny chest and soft beer belly. She’s way out of his league.

“This is bullshit,” he whines.

Emma smugly sips her wine.

“Is any of this doing anything for you?” he asks, gesturing to his near-nakedness. 

“I think we have one more game before I can answer that question,” she says, nodding at his boxers.

He grins like an idiot and tears off a sheet for a new round.

Downstairs, they continue their game. Upstairs, the storm still rages. It’s not loud enough to mute the clatter of dice and shit-talking. It’s also not loud enough to mask the sound of shattering glass. 

Emma squeals from the basement. “What was that?”

“Shit, that might have been a window. I’ll go check it out.” 

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, there might be broken glass.”

A pause.

“You gotta stop wearing those gross boots inside.”

“Good thing I did this time, right?”

“I guess. But seriously, be quick.”

A minute later, he thumps up the stairs wearing only his underwear and a pair of unlaced boots. The beam of his flashlight cuts around the kitchen as he searches for the source of the noise. Finding nothing, he crosses into the living room, scanning the windows. 

Broken glass crunches under his foot. He points the light at the overturned end table, the shattered vase, and the daisies on the floor.

“The fuck?” he murmurs.

I step out of the bathroom and hit him on the top of the head with a hammer. 

He makes a pathetic little nnggh sound and falls, his naked flank slapping against the floor. I look down at him and feel the anger I’ve been stewing on for the last year bubble to the surface. Emma is screaming Brian? Brian? downstairs, but blood is pounding in my ears even as Brian’s blood pools around my feet. All I keep thinking is this is the fucking guy? This asshole? as I bring the hammer down again and again. 

The red haze goes away, and soon I’m calm again; calm enough that I’m able to feel bad about the mess I made, calm enough that I start to feel bad about scaring Emma so much. Just like always. I can hear her crying downstairs. It’s okay. There will be plenty of time to calm her down and make it up to her. I consider turning the power back on, but with the storm and the candlelight, I decide against it. 

It is very cozy.

The weather outside makes the place feel cozy. 

Howling wind and torrential rain lashes against the windows. A single lamp illuminates the open floor plan with a warm, almost camp-fire glow. On one side, the living room is filled with Emma’s little touches: a sweater draped over an overstuffed recliner, a bloom of daisies in a vase on an end table, a hutch near the fireplace filled with books and knickknacks. 

On the other side, the kitchen is clean but lived in. A half-eaten loaf of fresh baked bread sits under a cloth hand towel. An orange tea kettle sits on the range. The refrigerator is covered with a collage of snapshots: Emma and her new boyfriend at a fancy dinner, Emma and her sister hugging at a birthday party, a save-the-date for a wedding, a niece or nephew in swaddling clothes.

Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. The house goes dark.

Emma lets out a cute little yip of surprise.

“Shit,” her boyfriend says. “Hang on.”

Footsteps clomp up the stairs. He walks to the front window and cups his hands around his eyes to look into the yard.

“Holy shit,” he mutters. Then louder, “Emma, get up here, this is nuts.”

Mincing, uncertain steps patter up the stairs, and she joins him. She’s wearing thick, comfy socks, little athletic shorts, and an oversized hoodie.

“Come look at this.”

She steps up beside him and presses her forehead to the glass, mirroring his pose. “Wow.” 

He points. “Look at that tree.” 

“Oh my God. Think it’s going to come down?”

“Don’t know. Hope not.”

“This is, like, actually crazy. Is it a tornado?” 

“No idea.” He pulls out his phone and slashes a finger on the screen, frowns, holds it up toward the ceiling. “I don’t have any service, do you?” 

“I left mine downstairs.”

He considers, then takes her by the hips and pulls her close. “Tell you what, go down there and get comfy, I’ll get some candles and some drinks.”

She purrs as he kisses her neck. “And then what?”

“Only one thing to do when the power goes out.”

“Play Yahtzee?”

He laughs. “Fine, two things.”

“Okay, but hurry up.” She trots off, feeling her way down the hall.

He stands there watching the storm for a moment longer, then moves to the kitchen and rummages around in a drawer. A small flame snicks from a bic lighter and he uses it to illuminate his way to the living room, where he opens a cabinet and pulls out a pair of mismatched candles. He lights one and looks over the bar cart set against the wall. 

“White or red?” he calls. 

She doesn’t answer. 

“Em?” 

Nothing. 

He shrugs and takes one of each, awkwardly cradling the bottles, two glasses, and the candles in his arms as he makes his way to the basement. 

Lightning flashes. Thunder rumbles.

The basement is pitch black, illuminated only by the candle. Emma has unfurled a down blanket on the sectional, but she’s nowhere in sight. He’s lighting the second candle with the first. The warm orb of light expands around him, but leaves the edges of the room in shadow.

“Emma?” he calls, squinting into the darkness. “Are you down here?” No answer. “Hey don’t be a bitch, I know you can hear me.”

A flashlight clicks on in the far corner, illuminating a leering, jack-o-lantern grin from below.

“Boo.” 

He jumps. "Jesus!"

Emma laughs, playfully shining the light into his face, casting twin shadows against the wall.

“Good one,” he drawls, shielding his eyes with his hand.

She clicks off the light and sets it on the coffee table alongside a battered Yahtzee box, then curls up on the blanket, tucking her knees inside the hoodie. He hands her a glass of wine and sits next to her. 

“This is nice.” He takes a sip from his own glass. “Like we’re in a cave.”

“I’m just glad you’re here,” she says. “I’d be freaking out if I was alone.”

He chuckles dismissively. “What, afraid of storms?”

“I love storms. I used to be terrified of them, but now I think they’re relaxing.”

“As long as that tree doesn’t come down and take out my car.”

“Then you’d be stuck here.” 

“I think I’m stuck here either way. It’s really coming down out there.”

“Good.” She snuggles up next to him. “But no, I’m talking about being alone with the power out.”

“Yeah.”  He wraps his arm around her and grins. “That’s when the monsters come out.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Like, what would you do if that pale, Mitch McConnell-looking thing from Pan’s Labyrinth walked out of the shadows right now?”

“I would 100% push you into it and run away.”

“Nice knowing you have my back.”

“Not against that thing, I don’t.”

“Good news for me, I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He looks into the shadows. His eyes gleam with mischief. “It’d definitely be an axe-murderer or something.”

“Don’t.”

He plows ahead. “He’d run at us out of the shadows screaming at the top of his lungs, and—”

“Brian.” She pulls back and glares at him. “Don’t. I’m not kidding.”

“Okay,” he says petulantly. “Geez, you can hang with that crazy-ass fucking thing from Labyrinth, but not some random guy?”

“First, that thing from the movie is fictional. Second, you know my mind isn’t going to some random guy.”

He pauses. Winces. Pulls her a little closer. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Em.”

She sighs. “No, I’m sorry, too. It was forever ago, and it shouldn’t still bother me so much—”

“Hey, you don’t ever have to apologize about that. I was being a dick, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s just—” She hesitates, then rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

They sit like that for a while, watching the lightning flicker outside the glass blocks of the narrow basement windows.

He blows out a sigh. “I’m not getting laid tonight, am I?”

She swats his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”

“No, I went ahead and fucked the whole night up, didn’t I?”

“Yup. Ya blew it. The vibes are in shambles.” She’s smiling.

“Damn,” he says, but gives her a smile of his own. “So now what do we do with our cozy evening?”

“Yahtzee.” She extends her leg and taps the box on the table.

He laughs. “It's always Yahtzee with you.” He untangles himself from her and leans over to take a sip of wine, then pauses. “How about a compromise?”

She looks at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Strip Yahtzee?” he offers hopefully.

She rolls her eyes.

An hour and a bottle of wine later, Emma has frustratingly won almost every game. The only thing she’s taken off is the hoodie, revealing a tight crop top underneath. The warm candlelight makes her tan glow, highlighting the shadows of her collarbones and the subtle ridges of her abs. She looks spectacular. He’s down to his underwear and looks ridiculous in comparison, with his pale, scrawny chest and soft beer belly. 

“This is bullshit,” he whines.

Emma smugly sips her wine.

“Is any of this doing anything for you?” he asks, gesturing to his near-nakedness. 

“I think we have one more game before I can answer that question,” she says, nodding at his boxers.

He grins like an idiot and tears off a sheet for a new round.

Upstairs, the storm still rages. It’s not loud enough to mute the clatter of dice and shit-talking. It’s also not loud enough to mask the sound of shattering glass. 

Emma squeals. “What was that?”

“Shit, that might have been a window. I’ll go check it out.” 

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, there might be broken glass.”

A pause.

“You gotta stop wearing those gross boots inside.”

“Good thing I did this time, right?”

“I guess. But seriously, be quick.”

A minute later, he thumps up the stairs wearing only his underwear and a pair of unlaced boots. The beam of his flashlight cuts around the kitchen as he searches for the source of the noise. Finding nothing, he crosses into the living room, scanning the windows. 

Broken glass crunches under his foot. He points the light at the overturned end table, the shattered vase, and the daisies on the floor.

“The fuck?” he murmurs.

I step out of the bathroom and hit him on the top of the head with a hammer. 

He makes a startled nnggh sound and falls, his naked flank slapping against the floor. I look down at him and feel the anger I’ve been stewing on for the last year bubble to the surface. Emma is calling Brian? Brian? downstairs, but blood is pounding in my ears even as Brian’s blood pools around my feet. All I keep thinking is this is the fucking guy? This asshole? as I bring the hammer down again and again. 

The red haze goes away, and soon I’m calm again; calm enough that I’m able to feel bad about the mess I made, calm enough that I start to feel bad about scaring Emma so much. Just like always. I can hear her crying downstairs. It’s okay. There will be plenty of time to calm her down and make it up to her. I consider turning the power back on, but with the storm and the candlelight, I decide against it. 

It is very cozy.

Unfortunately, I've once again been bitten by the ASOIAF bug and am back to being angry about tWoW never coming out.

I'm listening to the Not A Podcast chapter-by-chapter reread (which is a great listen btw) and something jumped out at me during the AGOT reread.

Everybody knows that Jon's parentage is a huge mystery in the books, but I think we can all agree L+R=J is the reality. Ned took credit for Jon to keep this a secret from everybody to protect Jon. As a result, Jon grows up feeling like an outsider in his own home and Cat hates him because she can't stomach the idea of Ned being unfaithful to her. This causes much grief for everybody involved. One thing that's very clear is how Ned and Cat's marriage is particularly strong--so strong, one might wonder why Ned keeps this secret from her, especially because the lie causes her and Jon so much pain, as well as probably eating him alive inside.

During their talk on Catelyn 2 in AGOT, the hosts point out that while Cat is generally good and well-intentioned, she is more ambitious than the other Starks. Where Ned looks at his appointment as Hand of the King as taking him from The North where he belongs, the political gears start whirring in Cat's mind as she immediately starts looking at all the angles. Keep in mind, unlike in the show, Book Cat is the one that ultimately convinces Ned to go south. Her reasons range from altruistic (Ned will be in a position to help determine the truth of Jon Arryn's death/protect Lysa and her son), pragmatic (Robert won't take no for an answer), to even kind of manipulative (if Ned truly loves Robert like a brother, he will not leave him to face the Lannisters on his own).

But there's also an element of ambition there. I can't remember where exactly this happens, but at one point Cat either reflects or says out loud that she's very happy that Sansa will be queen. Again, this is both pragmatic (more power = more safety, or so she thinks) and self-serving (remember, Hoster Tully was also quite ambitious.)

What if one of the reasons Ned didn't tell Cat because he knew she had this dawg in her and was afraid she might be tempted to use Jon to climb the political ladder? As much as he loves, respects, and trusts her, he doesn't trust her to suppress her ambition?

I think this would add an interesting layer of complexity to their relationship.

I get to the Hirsch Lodge around seven.

Log cabin-chic, with elk heads and antique bear traps mounted on the walls. It looks like the kind of place a prospector might go if he hit a vein and wanted to celebrate with a hundred-and-fifty dollar steak. Only here, the gold diggers are wearing dresses. Light jazz piano tinkles over murmured conversations. Little tea candles on the tables make everything dark and warm. I watch an aging wife with Botox-taut cheeks glare over her chardonnay at the next table, where a too-tan near-retiree dines with a much younger woman. She’s probably doing the math, wondering if her own husband has ever been here with a date. She’ll have to catch him red-handed if she ever wants to find out.

The Lodge is discreet. That’s why we like it.

“Good evening, sir,” the maître d’ says with a bland, professional smile. “Do you have a reservation tonight?”

“Yeah,” I say, “should be under Gordon. Jack Gordon.”

He runs a finger down his ledger. “I’m sorry Mr. Gordon, but the reservation isn’t for another hour. Would you like me to see if we can’t move it up?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab a drink.”

“Very good, sir.”

I look past him to the bar. Late middle-aged guys wear blazers or over-starched fishing shirts with the flap across the shoulders like they’re uniforms. Then again, I’m one to talk—I’m fifty-four, going silver at the temples, and rocking a goddamn bolo tie, for Christ’s sake. I make it work for me.

Inky black hair piled over well-made shoulders breaks the pattern. I can’t see her face, but I’m guessing it's a good one if the line of her back and the tight little muscles on her bare arms are anything to go by. The stools to her left and right are empty.

I lean toward the maître d’. “Say, friend, if you want to make it up to me, what do you got on the woman at the bar in the black dress?” I wink.

The guy steals a glance over his shoulder. “I make it a point to get to know our regular guests, sir, but I’m afraid I haven’t seen her before.” He considers. “I’ll tell you what: if you give me a few minutes I’ll talk to the barman and find out what she’s been drinking.”

“Appreciate it…” I glance down at his name tag, “Roger.” 

I palm a hundred and extend my hand.

She doesn’t look up from playing with the garnish in her cocktail when I slide in next to her. All it takes is a glance as I flag down the bartender to decide yes, indeed, this was the right night to go stag. A minute later, the bartender arrives with my drink and subtly taps the napkin when he sets it down. I roll the snifter and steal a glance at what’s written on it, then crush it in my palm and turn to face her. 

She’s in her late twenties, pale blue, heavy-lidded eyes, with an arched, aquiline nose that would look right at home on a Greek fresco. And she is wearing the hell out of that dress—a nice little low-cut black number that shows off long, toned legs. Judging from her build, she’s probably some fitness influencer up from LA to glamp in Olympia.

“I’ve got a wager for you,” I say.

She looks up. “Excuse me?”

I put on my big, unassuming smile. “I said I’ve got a wager for you.” 

She looks me over, wary at first, but I pass the smell test. I usually do. “Okay, shoot.”

“If I can guess what you’re drinking, you gotta let me buy you another one.”

“Oh?” One thick, well-shaped brow goes up. “And what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“Let’s see…” She quirks her dark, red lips in concentration as she takes me in; assessing risk but enjoying the game for now. “That’s a pretty nice watch. What is that, a Rolex?”

“Going right for the watch, huh?” I say with my bluff laugh, but let her take a better look at it.

She shrugs. “You’re the one that wanted to play.”

“True.” I pretend to mull it over. “Okay, deal.”

Now both brows are up. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah.” I take the watch off and lay it on the bar. “It’s a Patek Phillipe, by the way.”

Her pretty eyes flit over my face, looking for a trap. Finding none, she laughs and shakes her head. “Okay, but I’m gonna hold you to it.”

I point to her glass. “May I?”

She hesitates a beat before giving the OK, but watches my hands carefully. I make a show of inspecting the glass, but playful. No sleight-of-hand. No funny business. Just funny. I hold it level with my eyes, waft the scent with my hand, I roll it around and pretend to look at the legs (I’m really looking at hers). 

Then I nod. “Got it.”

“You got it?”

“Yep.”

“No taste test?”

“No need. Got a nose like a hunting dog. Besides, I don’t want to give you cooties.”

She’s smiling. “Is this bet legit? Were your fingers crossed? Do we—” Her eyes go wide and she gasps. “We didn’t shake on it!”

I wave her down. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your drink.”

“Alright, lay it on me.”

I hold the glass to the light. “This here is a George T. Stagg old fashioned, with angostura orange bitters and simple infused with...butter scotch? No…” I take a long sniff. “Maple. Garnished with a candied blood orange.”

She stares at me. I sit and wait for her reply. Slowly, her hand moves up to her face, until it covers her mouth, hiding the smile tugging at her lips. Her nails are natural and unpainted, which surprises me.

“I take that as a yes?” I ask.

She twirls a finger at the bartender. “Garçon, another round on the gentleman.”

I hand back her drink. “What do I gotta put on the line to get your name?”

“That one’s on the house.” She holds out her hand. “Angela.”

Later, we’re leaning close enough that one of her thighs presses against mine. On top of expensive cocktails, we now have expensive tequila shooters.

She bites into a lime and winces. “You’re not wearing a cowboy hat.”

I sip my shot. “Should I be?”

She snorts. “You’re wearing a fucking bolo tie.”

I look down with hurt dignity. “What’s wrong with the bolo tie?”

“You look like an oil tycoon.”

I cough and look at the ground.

“Oh?” she says.

I smile.

“Oh, my. Well, never mind then, you’re dressed perfectly.”

“Thank-y, little lady,” I say, tipping an imaginary hat. “And what about you?”

“I lose bets to handsome, gullible strangers and let them pay my way.”

“At least you said “handsome” first. But no, really.”

“I’m passing through on my way back down to Sacramento.” She stirs her drink. “I just finished the Pacific Crest Trail.”

I look at her, genuinely surprised. “No shit?”

“No shit.” Her mouth cuts into a red slash of pride. “Mexico to Canada. Twenty-five-hundred miles over about five months.”

“Damn.” I nod down. “In those heels?”

“God, no. My feet are hamburger right now. It’s a wonder I managed to cram them into these things.”

“And what made you want to put your poor little tootsies through all that?”

“I’m crashing out.” She laughs. “Decided I wanted to do something big and impressive before I age out of ‘free spirit’ and into ‘irresponsible’.” She sighs, and rests her chin on her knuckle. “That, and my dad died last year.”

I nod. “Sorry to hear it.”

“I was too. Growing up, it was just me and him. I don’t think he’d have liked this place, or me talking to you, for that matter—” 

“Ouch.”

She smirks. “But he’d have loved the trail. Anyway, I told myself if I did the whole thing I’d get all gussied up and drink the most expensive whiskey I could find in his honor.”

“And here you are.”

She raises her drink. “And here I am.”

I look at my watch. “Looks like I blew my reservation. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“What say we head up the road a ways to my place. I’m no Morimoto, but I can whip up a few steaks with the best of them.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

God bless daddy issues.

By the time we get in the Range Rover she’s looking at me like a tigress, all but tearing my clothes off. Tough as it is, I have to beg her off. The road is dark, wet, and winding. That doesn’t stop her from just about kneading a hole in my crotch on the hour-long drive into the sticks. She’s got hands like an Asian masseuse. Or a stone mason.

We get back to my place. If the high walls surrounding the property, or the wrought iron gate we pass through, or the long gravel drive give her pause, it’s short-lived. 

“Damn,” she murmurs when she sees the house. 

The place looks like it was built by a Viking jarl-turned-tech-billionaire—a sprawling fortress of blackened cedar and raw stone that crouches amidst the pines like it formed there naturally. Towering walls of glass glow amber against the wet dark of the forest, giving glimpses of cathedral ceilings and hanging iron chandeliers inside. The house itself doesn’t provide much privacy. That’s what the trees are for.

She’s all over me when we stagger inside. I blindly press a button on the control panel mounted in the wall. She lets out a delighted laugh when a fire springs to life in the hearth.

“Go get comfy,” I tell her. “We’ll have another drink, then I’ll see about those steaks.”

She runs the back of her hand down my chest, then slinks off to curl up on the rug before the fire. I pour a finger of whiskey in two snifters and bring the bottle. 

“You said you wanted to drink the most expensive whiskey you could find,” I say. Her fingers deliberately brush mine as I hand her the glass. “That’s Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve 23. You’re holding about three-hundred bucks worth of hooch, right there.”

“Jesus.” She sticks her long nose in the snifter and breathes deep, then takes a sip, rolling it in her mouth. “That’s good stuff,” she says. “I’m not sure anything is three-hundred-dollars-a-sip good, but it’s damn good stuff.”

 “Good enough for your old man?”

She snorts. “He drank Old Crow Reserve, so I’d say so.”

“That’s good,” I say, and drink mine down. “That’s good.”

I swing the bottle and crack her hard across the face with it. The snifter slips from her fingers and she goes down like a pile of wet laundry. Her thick, black hair falls over her face. Out like a light. 

I check the bottle and am relieved to see it didn’t break. 

It is damn good stuff.

I pour myself another snort, and crouch down next to her. Her breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths. I smooth away the curtain of her hair and watch her eyes move sluggishly under their lids. If not for the gash over her eyebrow and the snail trail of blood creeping across her forehead, she might be sleeping. 

“Sweet dreams,” I murmur. “Tomorrow, you’re going to have one hell of a hangover.”

For all her muscles, she doesn’t look like much crumpled on the ground like that. I think even with my shoddy back I can lift her. I pick up one limp arm and drape it over my shoulder, then bend my knees to scoop her up.

Imagine my surprise when those blue eyes snap open. She grabs a fistful of my hair, while the other flies out of nowhere and clocks me right in the face, mashing my lip into my teeth. I stumble back and she’s on her feet. Tries to knee me in the balls, but she’s on Bambi legs and this ain't my first rodeo. I get a leg up in time, and now it’s my turn to grab a handful of hair. I yank down and she hits the ground hard on her hip.

Then I just beat the holy shit out of her for a little bit. You better believe I make sure this time—I kick her in the ribs, I break her nose—and soon she’s snoring. 

I let her head bonk off the floor and blow away the clump of black hairs stuck to my palm. Since she clearly doesn’t want the Prince Charming treatment, this time I drag her by the feet. One heel falls off and, Jesus, she wasn’t kidding, her feet are fucked up—callouses, blisters, blackened nails.

Her head bounces off the two steps leading out of the sitting room as I drag her off.

It goes more or less okay after that.

Two days later, I’m in the ATV well before sunrise.

As soon as the headlights cut over the concrete outbuilding, the dogs start barking and jumping against their chain-link cells. I kill the engine and spin the keys on my finger as I crunch across wet gravel. My breath smokes while I whistle a Steely Dan song.

The snarling and rattling gets louder when I flip on the harsh fluorescent lights to show a long, utilitarian room, with concrete floors and cinderblock walls on three sides. On the left is a heavy-duty rack filled with all manner of guns, rifles, crossbows, big-ass knives, you name it. The shelf below is heavy with red and black boxes of ammunition. On the right is the row of eight floor-to-ceiling chain-link cages open to the elements. All but one contains a slavering dog—all different breeds, from German Shepherds to Rottweilers—and they all want what’s in cage #5.

The girl is still in that little party dress crouched against the far wall of her cell, shivering, hugging her knees, breathing through her teeth. Behind her, I can just make out the woods in the predawn gloom. Her once glossy black hair is a greasy bird's nest. Tear tracks smear her makeup. Her throat and the lower half of her face is tacky with dried blood from her broken nose.

“Shut up,” I holler at the dogs. 

Some calm down, but a few keep snapping and snarling. I pick up a cattle prod hanging from the wall and it ratta-tat-tats. That does for the rest. 

I take a sip of coffee with a long ahh. 

“Morning,” I say, leaning against the shelves. “Sorry about the racket. I got a guy—Cvetko—he runs a little doggy bootcamp. Costs a fortune, and he does a pretty good job, but uh…” I indicate her mouth with a wave of my hand. “They get a whiff of blood, and…heh, well they get a little aggressive.” 

A kiwi-sized purple lump closes one of her eyes, but the other glares back at me, paler and bluer against all the bruising. I’m sure all the girls before her hated my guts by this point, but it’s usually further down the list behind thirst, hunger, shredded nerves, and good old fashioned, pants-shitting terror. This chick doesn’t look scared—she looks pissed. Between her expression and all the blood, she looks like a little Apache in warpaint. Then I notice her nose is a little straighter than it was two nights ago.

Did she set it? 

Son of a bitch, I think she did! 

I chuckle and shake my head. Take another sip of coffee. “Okay, Angela. I think it’s time I let you in on why you're here.”

“Fuck. You.” Her voice is gravel.

I sigh. “Look, I know that you’re pretty scared and tired and hungry, but I need you to listen. I want to give you a chance. I really, really do. But I can’t do that if you won’t listen.”

“You son of a bitch!” She’s on her feet in a flash, smashing her fists against the cage. She tries to spit on me, but it catches in the chain-links and hangs in a pink, phlegmy rope.

The prod cackles as I drag it across the cage in an electric blue arc. The dogs whine. The girl falls and scuttles back.

“If you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to use this.” I hold up the prod. "Is that what you want?”

Her eye flicks to it. 

I wiggle it. “Hm?”

She reluctantly shakes her head "no". 

"I didn't think so.” I straighten up and hit her with that unassuming smile. “I didn’t wanna do that, either. Like I say, I want to give you a chance.” As I talk, I fit in a set of ear plugs. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a bit of a hobbyist. I like to keep busy, but a man can only do so much deep sea fishing and hang-gliding. So one day, me and my man, Cvetko, rigged this up special.”

I jerk a thumb at a digital clock marked 1:00:00 on the wall behind me. It’s hooked up to a breaker box with switches labeled #1–#8. A ninth toggle has the words DINNER BELL written on a piece of duct tape across the bottom.

I flip the switch. The Dinner Bell sounds off like an airstrike klaxon. The dogs go fucking berserk. The girl claps her hands to her ears and cowers. I let it ride for ten seconds, then switch it off. My ears whine even through the plugs. The dogs are still going crazy, so I pull out one of Cvetko’s small, thin whistles on a chain around my neck. It makes a high, keening sound when I blow into it. The dogs lower to their bellies.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” I say. “I’m gonna open up that cage and let you go. It was dark, you were drunk, and ehh…preoccupied enough on the drive over to not have much in the way of bearings. But you make it past the walls, you’re free to go. No strings attached, take off in any direction you want. I don’t care.”

She stares back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it does.

“Now, I know you like walking, but how do you feel about running?” I grin. “We’ll see, because about ten minutes after I let you out, I’m comin’ for ya. And let me tell you something, sister: I’m pretty good at this. Been at it…well, let’s just say awhile. Sad to say, I’m not as spry as I used to be and it’s a big property. You manage to outfox me long enough, congratulations: you get to play on hard mode. I got this baby rigged, and after an hour the dogs are coming for ya.” 

She’s breathing hard little snorts out of her busted nose.

My grin gets a tooth wider. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. So what do you say, girl-o? Time we got a-goin'?”

I don’t give her a chance to answer. I lean back and flip the #5 switch. A red light over her cage clicks green. The outer door buzzes as it springs open. The countdown starts.

To give her credit, she’s moving before the sound of the door mechanism cuts out. But once she’s vertical, it’s a different story. She almost pitches on her face with the first two wobbly steps. Her joints are stiff, she hasn’t eaten in two days, and I can tell her feet are bothering her. Turns out a million mile walk isn’t great training for a barefoot sprint through the woods. She staggers about thirty paces. 

Then, to my surprise, she turns back—black hair, black dress, pale, bloody face giving me a good hard stare.

Yeah, fuck you too, bitch.

I salute with my thermos.

She turns and limps into the trees. 

When she’s out of sight, I turn back to the rack to look at my toys. Plenty to choose from. I consider the Marlin 336—its lever-action appeals to my romantic sensibilities—but all month I’ve been thinking about the mean-looking little Ravin crossbow. Packs a whallop, but compact, so I won’t snag the arms on every goddamn tree branch in the forest. I pick it up and pull back the mechanism with that chunky, satisfying click, feeling the stored tension thrumming through the frame.

The broadheads sit in a foam-lined case—thin, wicked mechanical bolt heads with razor-sharp blades that unfold inside the target. You get stuck with one of these beauties, you ain’t getting unstuck. I clip six of them to a brace on the underside of the bow. Then I wait, sipping my coffee until the watch chirps on my wrist. 

Head start’s over. 

Supper time in fifty.

“See you boys in a bit,” I say to the dogs and head out.

It rained in the night, and her wonky footprints are as clear in the mud as they would be in fresh snow. I follow at a leisurely stroll. Even if she wasn’t starved, hurt, and barefoot, I know exactly where she’s going.

I pass a familiar dead tree that always makes me laugh. A few years back, one of the more defiant girls thought she was clever and tried to climb a tree about a hundred yards from the kennel. Probably thought I wouldn't look up and she could get behind me. Unfortunately, she was no climber, and I found her clinging to the trunk about twenty feet up. I stood back with my rifle slung over my shoulder and just listened to her beg. Oh, the things that girl said she'd do! In the end I shot her off the trunk with a .50 cal muzzleloader. Blew an arm off—damn near blew the tree in half—and let the dogs do the rest. 

It was funny, but didn’t exactly take Nimrod to bag that one. Hardly worth all the ass-ache. 

I have high hopes for this one.

I get to the gravel path. From here, it’s more or less a straight shot to the gate, and I expect to see her tracks veer off to follow it. That’s what they all do, and from a certain angle, it makes sense—-can’t lose your bearings, path of least resistance, and so on—but it’s basically a shooting range. Some realize this before long and cut into the woods, some never wise up, but they all at least try it. So it comes as a surprise when I see her muddy, bloody footprints cut straight across the path into the trees on the other side. She didn’t even slow down.

I laugh. 

“Atta girl!” I shout.

There's no answer, except for the dull echo of my words coming back at me and the burr of cicadas. 

I keep going. The ground on the other side of the path gets rougher and I have to work a little harder. I’m not able to track her so easily—here a bent fern frond, there a snapped twig—but I’m having a great time. More than usual. Maybe it’s all that shit about her dead dad, but I think about hunting with my father as a kid back in Colorado. This game is just about as thrilling as it gets, but I sometimes forget how cathartic getting out into nature can be. I take a moment to listen to the birds singing, notice the subtle beams of light shining through the canopy despite the clouds. I smell pine needles. 

This hippy shit saves me from one hell of an embarrassment, because as I’m hugging trees and smelling flowers, I hear a twig snap behind me and a hissed “fuck!” 

The machinery kicks in. In one motion, I turn, drop to a knee, and raise the crossbow just in time to see the girl about thirty yards away, sprinting back the way I’d just come. She worked out some of those cramps and is quicker than she was.

But not quicker than a 400 grain bolt.

Ker-chunk!

The bolt flies.

She twists her body at the last second, but it’s a damn good shot. Center mass. I hear the mallet-on-meat slap, the choked gasp as the air is punched out of her lungs. She goes down so hard and fast she spins. Her head is the first thing to hit the ground.

I stay crouched, load another bolt, and wait.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Long enough my low back starts to ache.

She doesn’t get up.

Probably heart shot.

I finally stand, wincing at a little twinge in my knee. Getting old is a bastard. I release the mechanism and sling the crossbow over my shoulder, but pull out my knife just to be safe. Like the Boy Scouts say: always be prepared.

She’s face down in the dirt, her features lost in her snarl of hair. One arm is pinned under her at an uncomfortable angle. The other is flat at her side. A spatter of blood dots the ferns. 

That’s that.

I look at my watch. Twenty-three minutes left. Not a bad day, but I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. There was more to her than met the eye, but in the end, it all shook out the same. I’ll remember her.

Still, safety first.

I step on her bare foot with my boot. Grind her toes into the dirt.

Nothing.

I nudge her in the ribs.

She explodes up, screaming like a wild fucking animal. 

Even half-expecting it after the other night, it happens so fast and so savage, I’m caught off guard. I mean, Jesus, how does she have this much left in the tank? 

The hand she’d been laying on swings out to slap me away. A white-hot, bone-deep point of agony explodes in my leg. I shout from surprise as much as pain. The crossbow slips off my shoulder and lands in the leaves. I look down, but there’s so much blood—and not just hers—I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. She stabbed me with my own goddamn bolt, that much is clear, but it looks like she’s cupping my knee with her open palm.

It’s only when she starts slowly pulling her hand back I realize what happened. 

The stiletto-thin bolt went clean through her palm. She must have moved just right during that little twist and fucking caught the thing—a total fluke, but it slowed the bolt enough that it didn’t hit her full-force in the chest. Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of the weeping hole above her left tit where the point penetrated a thumb’s width, but not deep enough for the wings to deploy. Now we’re pinned together, the broadhead’s buried in me, and those wings are deployed, alright.

It takes about a second for me to get all this, but by then she’s already slid her pierced hand three-quarters of the way up the shaft. Blood oozes from her palm. She’s hissing flecks of spit through her muddy teeth, her battered, one-eyed face twisted in rage. 

Groaning through the pain, I lift the knife, meaning to stab it down into the top of her head. Before I can, she brings up her other hand and slaps it down on the back tip of the bolt. It drives the head deeper into my thigh and forces the sturdy fletchings through her hand with a slick pop. With a shriek of pain and rage she shoves me hard in the chest.

My knee gives. I might have blacked out for a second—I’m pretty sure the tip chipped my femur—because the next thing I know, I’m staring at white sky. Somehow I managed to keep hold of the knife. I hear her huffing and snorting as she scrambles through the leaves. Instinct kicks in and I know she’s going for the crossbow. I roll, swinging the knife in a blind arc through the air, driving it down with my full weight to where I know she’ll be.

Only she’s not. I was wrong. She isn’t going for the crossbow. Instead, she’s flat-out sprinting into the trees toward the drive, her injured hand cradled against her chest.

I let my head fall back and groan. My leg is a hot brand of misery. After a few minutes, I manage to stand up using a branch as a crutch. I make my way back to the path. Each step is an ordeal, but now that I’m on my feet the gears start whirring. The leg of my pants is soaked, but as long as I don’t try to pull out the bolt, I think I’ll be okay. 

That stupid bitch maybe could have gotten to the crossbow before I did and finished the job. Instead, she ran away. On my property. In my woods.

Such a mistake.

Now she’s got about a two mile run on sharp gravel to the front gate. The ATV is back at the kennel. If I can get to it—and I’m pretty sure I can—I’ll catch her on the drive or while she’s trying to figure out the gate. Worst case scenario, I’ll get her on the main road. Then I’m going to peel her fucking face off and make her watch me feed it to the dogs. That happy thought keeps me going. Gets me to the drive. I feel relief like you wouldn't believe as my boot crunches on gravel.

Then my watch chirps.

I look at it flashing all zeroes. I fumble with slippery, red fingers for the whistle around my neck. Cold dread squirts into my blood when I see her red handprint on my chest—when I realize the whistle isn’t there. I feel my heart throb around the bolt in my bleeding leg. A moment later, a sound splits the air that makes my stomach drop into my balls. 

The Dinner Bell is ringing.

I get to the Hirsch Lodge around seven.

Log cabin-chic, with elk heads and antique bear traps mounted on the walls. It looks like the kind of place a prospector might go if he hit a vein and wanted to celebrate with a hundred-and-fifty dollar steak. Only here, the gold diggers are wearing dresses. Light jazz piano tinkles over murmured conversations. Little tea candles on the tables make everything dark and warm. I watch an aging wife with Botox-taut cheeks glare over her chardonnay at the next table, where a too-tan near-retiree dines with a much younger woman. She’s probably doing the math, wondering if her own husband has ever been here with a date. She’ll have to catch him red-handed if she ever wants to find out.

The Lodge is discreet. That’s why we like it.

“Good evening, sir,” the maître d’ says with a bland, professional smile. “Do you have a reservation tonight?”

“Yeah,” I say, “should be under Gordon. Jack Gordon.”

He runs a finger down his ledger. “I’m sorry Mr. Gordon, but the reservation isn’t for another hour. Would you like me to see if we can’t move it up?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab a drink.”

“Very good, sir.”

I look past him to the bar. Late middle-aged guys wear blazers or over-starched fishing shirts with the flap across the shoulders like they’re uniforms. Then again, I’m one to talk—I’m fifty-four, going silver at the temples, and rocking a goddamn bolo tie, for Christ’s sake. I make it work for me.

Inky black hair piled over well-made shoulders breaks the pattern. I can’t see her face, but I’m guessing it's a good one if the line of her back and the tight little muscles on her bare arms are anything to go by. The stools to her left and right are empty.

I lean toward the maître d’. “Say, friend, if you want to make it up to me, what do you got on the woman at the bar in the black dress?” I wink.

The guy steals a glance over his shoulder. “I make it a point to get to know our regular guests, sir, but I’m afraid I haven’t seen her before.” He considers. “I’ll tell you what: if you give me a few minutes I’ll talk to the barman and find out what she’s been drinking.”

“Appreciate it…” I glance down at his name tag, “Roger.” 

I palm a hundred and extend my hand.

She doesn’t look up from playing with the garnish in her cocktail when I slide in next to her. All it takes is a glance as I flag down the bartender to decide yes, indeed, this was the right night to go stag. A minute later, the bartender arrives with my drink and subtly taps the napkin when he sets it down. I roll the snifter and steal a glance at what’s written on it, then crush it in my palm and turn to face her. 

She’s in her late twenties, pale blue, heavy-lidded eyes, with an arched, aquiline nose that would look right at home on a Greek fresco. And she is wearing the hell out of that dress—a nice little low-cut black number that shows off long, toned legs. Judging from her build, she’s probably some fitness influencer up from LA to glamp in Olympia.

“I’ve got a wager for you,” I say.

She looks up. “Excuse me?”

I put on my big, unassuming smile. “I said I’ve got a wager for you.” 

She looks me over, wary at first, but I pass the smell test. I usually do. “Okay, shoot.”

“If I can guess what you’re drinking, you gotta let me buy you another one.”

“Oh?” One thick, well-shaped brow goes up. “And what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“Let’s see…” She quirks her dark, red lips in concentration as she takes me in; assessing risk but enjoying the game for now. “That’s a pretty nice watch. What is that, a Rolex?”

“Going right for the watch, huh?” I say with my bluff laugh, but let her take a better look at it.

She shrugs. “You’re the one that wanted to play.”

“True.” I pretend to mull it over. “Okay, deal.”

Now both brows are up. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah.” I take the watch off and lay it on the bar. “It’s a Patek Phillipe, by the way.”

Her pretty eyes flit over my face, looking for a trap. Finding none, she laughs and shakes her head. “Okay, but I’m gonna hold you to it.”

I point to her glass. “May I?”

She hesitates a beat before giving the OK, but watches my hands carefully. I make a show of inspecting the glass, but playful. No sleight-of-hand. No funny business. Just funny. I hold it level with my eyes, waft the scent with my hand, I roll it around and pretend to look at the legs (I’m really looking at hers). 

Then I nod. “Got it.”

“You got it?”

“Yep.”

“No taste test?”

“No need. Got a nose like a hunting dog. Besides, I don’t want to give you cooties.”

She’s smiling. “Is this bet legit? Were your fingers crossed? Do we—” Her eyes go wide and she gasps. “We didn’t shake on it!”

I wave her down. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your drink.”

“Alright, lay it on me.”

I hold the glass to the light. “This here is a George T. Stagg old fashioned, with angostura orange bitters and simple infused with...butter scotch? No…” I take a long sniff. “Maple. Garnished with a candied blood orange.”

She stares at me. I sit and wait for her reply. Slowly, her hand moves up to her face, until it covers her mouth, hiding the smile tugging at her lips. Her nails are natural and unpainted, which surprises me.

“I take that as a yes?” I ask.

She twirls a finger at the bartender. “Garçon, another round on the gentleman.”

I hand back her drink. “What do I gotta put on the line to get your name?”

“That one’s on the house.” She holds out her hand. “Angela.”

Later, we’re leaning close enough that one of her thighs presses against mine. On top of expensive cocktails, we now have expensive tequila shooters.

She bites into a lime and winces. “You’re not wearing a cowboy hat.”

I sip my shot. “Should I be?”

She snorts. “You’re wearing a fucking bolo tie.”

I look down with hurt dignity. “What’s wrong with the bolo tie?”

“You look like an oil tycoon.”

I cough and look at the ground.

“Oh?” she says.

I smile.

“Oh, my. Well, never mind then, you’re dressed perfectly.”

“Thank-y, little lady,” I say, tipping an imaginary hat. “And what about you?”

“I lose bets to handsome, gullible strangers and let them pay my way.”

“At least you said “handsome” first. But no, really.”

“I’m passing through on my way back down to Sacramento.” She stirs her drink. “I just finished the Pacific Crest Trail.”

I look at her, genuinely surprised. “No shit?”

“No shit.” Her mouth cuts into a red slash of pride. “Mexico to Canada. Twenty-five-hundred miles over about five months.”

“Damn.” I nod down. “In those heels?”

“God, no. My feet are hamburger right now. It’s a wonder I managed to cram them into these things.”

“And what made you want to put your poor little tootsies through all that?”

“I’m crashing out.” She laughs. “Decided I wanted to do something big and impressive before I age out of ‘free spirit’ and into ‘irresponsible’.” She sighs, and rests her chin on her knuckle. “That, and my dad died last year.”

I nod. “Sorry to hear it.”

“I was too. Growing up, it was just me and him. I don’t think he’d have liked this place, or me talking to you, for that matter—” 

“Ouch.”

She smirks. “But he’d have loved the trail. Anyway, I told myself if I did the whole thing I’d get all gussied up and drink the most expensive whiskey I could find in his honor.”

“And here you are.”

She raises her drink. “And here I am.”

I look at my watch. “Looks like I blew my reservation. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“What say we head up the road a ways to my place. I’m no Morimoto, but I can whip up a few steaks with the best of them.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

God bless daddy issues.

By the time we get in the Range Rover she’s looking at me like a tigress, all but tearing my clothes off. Tough as it is, I have to beg her off. The road is dark, wet, and winding. That doesn’t stop her from just about kneading a hole in my crotch on the hour-long drive into the sticks. She’s got hands like an Asian masseuse. Or a stone mason.

We get back to my place. If the high walls surrounding the property, or the wrought iron gate we pass through, or the long gravel drive give her pause, it’s short-lived. 

“Damn,” she murmurs when she sees the house. 

The place looks like it was built by a Viking jarl-turned-tech-billionaire—a sprawling fortress of blackened cedar and raw stone that crouches amidst the pines like it formed there naturally. Towering walls of glass glow amber against the wet dark of the forest, giving glimpses of cathedral ceilings and hanging iron chandeliers inside. The house itself doesn’t provide much privacy. That’s what the trees are for.

She’s all over me when we stagger inside. I blindly press a button on the control panel mounted in the wall. She lets out a delighted laugh when a fire springs to life in the hearth.

“Go get comfy,” I tell her. “We’ll have another drink, then I’ll see about those steaks.”

She runs the back of her hand down my chest, then slinks off to curl up on the rug before the fire. I pour a finger of whiskey in two snifters and bring the bottle. 

“You said you wanted to drink the most expensive whiskey you could find,” I say. Her fingers deliberately brush mine as I hand her the glass. “That’s Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve 23. You’re holding about three-hundred bucks worth of hooch, right there.”

“Jesus.” She sticks her long nose in the snifter and breathes deep, then takes a sip, rolling it in her mouth. “That’s good stuff,” she says. “I’m not sure anything is three-hundred-dollars-a-sip good, but it’s damn good stuff.”

 “Good enough for your old man?”

She snorts. “He drank Old Crow Reserve, so I’d say so.”

“That’s good,” I say, and drink mine down. “That’s good.”

I swing the bottle and crack her hard across the face with it. The snifter slips from her fingers and she goes down like a pile of wet laundry. Her thick, black hair falls over her face. Out like a light. 

I check the bottle and am relieved to see it didn’t break. 

It is damn good stuff.

I pour myself another snort, and crouch down next to her. Her breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths. I smooth away the curtain of her hair and watch her eyes move sluggishly under their lids. If not for the gash over her eyebrow and the snail trail of blood creeping across her forehead, she might be sleeping. 

“Sweet dreams,” I murmur. “Tomorrow, you’re going to have one hell of a hangover.”

For all her muscles, she doesn’t look like much crumpled on the ground like that. I think even with my shoddy back I can lift her. I pick up one limp arm and drape it over my shoulder, then bend my knees to scoop her up.

Imagine my surprise when those blue eyes snap open. She grabs a fistful of my hair, while the other flies out of nowhere and clocks me right in the face, mashing my lip into my teeth. I stumble back and she’s on her feet. Tries to knee me in the balls, but she’s on Bambi legs and this ain't my first rodeo. I get a leg up in time, and now it’s my turn to grab a handful of hair. I yank down and she hits the ground hard on her hip.

Then I just beat the holy shit out of her for a little bit. You better believe I make sure this time—I kick her in the ribs, I break her nose—and soon she’s snoring. 

I let her head bonk off the floor and blow away the clump of black hairs stuck to my palm. Since she clearly doesn’t want the Prince Charming treatment, this time I drag her by the feet. One heel falls off and, Jesus, she wasn’t kidding, her feet are fucked up—callouses, blisters, blackened nails.

Her head bounces off the two steps leading out of the sitting room as I drag her off.

It goes more or less okay after that.

Two days later, I’m in the ATV well before sunrise.

As soon as the headlights cut over the concrete outbuilding, the dogs start barking and jumping against their chain-link cells. I kill the engine and spin the keys on my finger as I crunch across wet gravel. My breath smokes while I whistle a Steely Dan song.

The snarling and rattling gets louder when I flip on the harsh fluorescent lights to show a long, utilitarian room, with concrete floors and cinderblock walls on three sides. On the left is a heavy-duty rack filled with all manner of guns, rifles, crossbows, big-ass knives, you name it. The shelf below is heavy with red and black boxes of ammunition. On the right is the row of eight floor-to-ceiling chain-link cages open to the elements. All but one contains a slavering dog—all different breeds, from German Shepherds to Rottweilers—and they all want what’s in cage #5.

The girl is still in that little party dress crouched against the far wall of her cell, shivering, hugging her knees, breathing through her teeth. Behind her, I can just make out the woods in the predawn gloom. Her once glossy black hair is a greasy bird's nest. Tear tracks smear her makeup. Her throat and the lower half of her face is tacky with dried blood from her broken nose.

“Shut up,” I holler at the dogs. 

Some calm down, but a few keep snapping and snarling. I pick up a cattle prod hanging from the wall and it ratta-tat-tats. That does for the rest. 

I take a sip of coffee with a long ahh. 

“Morning,” I say, leaning against the shelves. “Sorry about the racket. I got a guy—Cvetko—he runs a little doggy bootcamp. Costs a fortune, and he does a pretty good job, but uh…” I indicate her mouth with a wave of my hand. “They get a whiff of blood, and…heh, well they get a little aggressive.” 

A kiwi-sized purple lump closes one of her eyes, but the other glares back at me, paler and bluer against all the bruising. I’m sure all the girls before her hated my guts by this point, but it’s usually further down the list behind thirst, hunger, shredded nerves, and good old fashioned, pants-shitting terror. This chick doesn’t look scared—she looks pissed. Between her expression and all the blood, she looks like a little Apache in warpaint. Then I notice her nose is a little straighter than it was two nights ago.

Did she set it? 

Son of a bitch, I think she did! 

I chuckle and shake my head. Take another sip of coffee. “Okay, Angela. I think it’s time I let you in on why you're here.”

“Fuck. You.” Her voice is gravel.

I sigh. “Look, I know that you’re pretty scared and tired and hungry, but I need you to listen. I want to give you a chance. I really, really do. But I can’t do that if you won’t listen.”

“You son of a bitch!” She’s on her feet in a flash, smashing her fists against the cage. She tries to spit on me, but it catches in the chain-links and hangs in a pink, phlegmy rope.

The prod cackles as I drag it across the cage in an electric blue arc. The dogs whine. The girl falls and scuttles back.

“If you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to use this.” I hold up the prod. "Is that what you want?”

Her eye flicks to it. 

I wiggle it. “Hm?”

She reluctantly shakes her head "no". 

"I didn't think so.” I straighten up and hit her with that unassuming smile. “I didn’t wanna do that, either. Like I say, I want to give you a chance.” As I talk, I fit in a set of ear plugs. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a bit of a hobbyist. I like to keep busy, but a man can only do so much deep sea fishing and hang-gliding. So one day, me and my man, Cvetko, rigged this up special.”

I jerk a thumb at a digital clock marked 1:00:00 on the wall behind me. It’s hooked up to a breaker box with switches labeled #1–#8. A ninth toggle has the words DINNER BELL written on a piece of duct tape across the bottom.

I flip the switch. The Dinner Bell sounds off like an airstrike klaxon. The dogs go fucking berserk. The girl claps her hands to her ears and cowers. I let it ride for ten seconds, then switch it off. My ears whine even through the plugs. The dogs are still going crazy, so I pull out one of Cvetko’s small, thin whistles on a chain around my neck. It makes a high, keening sound when I blow into it. The dogs lower to their bellies.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” I say. “I’m gonna open up that cage and let you go. It was dark, you were drunk, and ehh…preoccupied enough on the drive over to not have much in the way of bearings. But you make it past the walls, you’re free to go. No strings attached, take off in any direction you want. I don’t care.”

She stares back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it does.

“Now, I know you like walking, but how do you feel about running?” I grin. “We’ll see, because about ten minutes after I let you out, I’m comin’ for ya. And let me tell you something, sister: I’m pretty good at this. Been at it…well, let’s just say awhile. Sad to say, I’m not as spry as I used to be and it’s a big property. You manage to outfox me long enough, congratulations: you get to play on hard mode. I got this baby rigged, and after an hour the dogs are coming for ya.” 

She’s breathing hard little snorts out of her busted nose.

My grin gets a tooth wider. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. So what do you say, girl-o? Time we got a-goin'?”

I don’t give her a chance to answer. I lean back and flip the #5 switch. A red light over her cage clicks green. The outer door buzzes as it springs open. The countdown starts.

To give her credit, she’s moving before the sound of the door mechanism cuts out. But once she’s vertical, it’s a different story. She almost pitches on her face with the first two wobbly steps. Her joints are stiff, she hasn’t eaten in two days, and I can tell her feet are bothering her. Turns out a million mile walk isn’t great training for a barefoot sprint through the woods. She staggers about thirty paces. 

Then, to my surprise, she turns back—black hair, black dress, pale, bloody face giving me a good hard stare.

Yeah, fuck you too, bitch.

I salute with my thermos.

She turns and limps into the trees. 

When she’s out of sight, I turn back to the rack to look at my toys. Plenty to choose from. I consider the Marlin 336—its lever-action appeals to my romantic sensibilities—but all month I’ve been thinking about the mean-looking little Ravin crossbow. Packs a whallop, but compact, so I won’t snag the arms on every goddamn tree branch in the forest. I pick it up and pull back the mechanism with that chunky, satisfying click, feeling the stored tension thrumming through the frame.

The broadheads sit in a foam-lined case—thin, wicked mechanical bolt heads with razor-sharp blades that unfold inside the target. You get stuck with one of these beauties, you ain’t getting unstuck. I clip six of them to a brace on the underside of the bow. Then I wait, sipping my coffee until the watch chirps on my wrist. 

Head start’s over. 

Supper time in fifty.

“See you boys in a bit,” I say to the dogs and head out.

It rained in the night, and her wonky footprints are as clear in the mud as they would be in fresh snow. I follow at a leisurely stroll. Even if she wasn’t starved, hurt, and barefoot, I know exactly where she’s going.

I pass a familiar dead tree that always makes me laugh. A few years back, one of the more defiant girls thought she was clever and tried to climb a tree about a hundred yards from the kennel. Probably thought I wouldn't look up and she could get behind me. Unfortunately, she was no climber, and I found her clinging to the trunk about twenty feet up. I stood back with my rifle slung over my shoulder and just listened to her beg. Oh, the things that girl said she'd do! In the end I shot her off the trunk with a .50 cal muzzleloader. Blew an arm off—damn near blew the tree in half—and let the dogs do the rest. 

It was funny, but didn’t exactly take Nimrod to bag that one. Hardly worth all the ass-ache. 

I have high hopes for this one.

I get to the gravel path. From here, it’s more or less a straight shot to the gate, and I expect to see her tracks veer off to follow it. That’s what they all do, and from a certain angle, it makes sense—-can’t lose your bearings, path of least resistance, and so on—but it’s basically a shooting range. Some realize this before long and cut into the woods, some never wise up, but they all at least try it. So it comes as a surprise when I see her muddy, bloody footprints cut straight across the path into the trees on the other side. She didn’t even slow down.

I laugh. 

“Atta girl!” I shout.

There's no answer, except for the dull echo of my words coming back at me and the burr of cicadas. 

I keep going. The ground on the other side of the path gets rougher and I have to work a little harder. I’m not able to track her so easily—here a bent fern frond, there a snapped twig—but I’m having a great time. More than usual. Maybe it’s all that shit about her dead dad, but I think about hunting with my father as a kid back in Colorado. This game is just about as thrilling as it gets, but I sometimes forget how cathartic getting out into nature can be. I take a moment to listen to the birds singing, notice the subtle beams of light shining through the canopy despite the clouds. I smell pine needles. 

This hippy shit saves me from one hell of an embarrassment, because as I’m hugging trees and smelling flowers, I hear a twig snap behind me and a hissed “fuck!” 

The machinery kicks in. In one motion, I turn, drop to a knee, and raise the crossbow just in time to see the girl about thirty yards away, sprinting back the way I’d just come. She worked out some of those cramps and is quicker than she was.

But not quicker than a 400 grain bolt.

Ker-chunk!

The bolt flies.

She twists her body at the last second, but it’s a damn good shot. Center mass. I hear the mallet-on-meat slap, the choked gasp as the air is punched out of her lungs. She goes down so hard and fast she spins. Her head is the first thing to hit the ground.

I stay crouched, load another bolt, and wait.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Long enough my low back starts to ache.

She doesn’t get up.

Probably heart shot.

I finally stand, wincing at a little twinge in my knee. Getting old is a bastard. I release the mechanism and sling the crossbow over my shoulder, but pull out my knife just to be safe. Like the Boy Scouts say: always be prepared.

She’s face down in the dirt, her features lost in her snarl of hair. One arm is pinned under her at an uncomfortable angle. The other is flat at her side. A spatter of blood dots the ferns. 

That’s that.

I look at my watch. Twenty-three minutes left. Not a bad day, but I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. There was more to her than met the eye, but in the end, it all shook out the same. I’ll remember her.

Still, safety first.

I step on her bare foot with my boot. Grind her toes into the dirt.

Nothing.

I nudge her in the ribs.

She explodes up, screaming like a wild fucking animal. 

Even half-expecting it after the other night, it happens so fast and so savage, I’m caught off guard. I mean, Jesus, how does she have this much left in the tank? 

The hand she’d been laying on swings out to slap me away. A white-hot, bone-deep point of agony explodes in my leg. I shout from surprise as much as pain. The crossbow slips off my shoulder and lands in the leaves. I look down, but there’s so much blood—and not just hers—I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. She stabbed me with my own goddamn bolt, that much is clear, but it looks like she’s cupping my knee with her open palm.

It’s only when she starts slowly pulling her hand back I realize what happened. 

The stiletto-thin bolt went clean through her palm. She must have moved just right during that little twist and fucking caught the thing—a total fluke, but it slowed the bolt enough that it didn’t hit her full-force in the chest. Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of the weeping hole above her left tit where the point penetrated a thumb’s width, but not deep enough for the wings to deploy. Now we’re pinned together, the broadhead’s buried in me, and those wings are deployed, alright.

It takes about a second for me to get all this, but by then she’s already slid her pierced hand three-quarters of the way up the shaft. Blood oozes from her palm. She’s hissing flecks of spit through her muddy teeth, her battered, one-eyed face twisted in rage. 

Groaning through the pain, I lift the knife, meaning to stab it down into the top of her head. Before I can, she brings up her other hand and slaps it down on the back tip of the bolt. It drives the head deeper into my thigh and forces the sturdy fletchings through her hand with a slick pop. With a shriek of pain and rage she shoves me hard in the chest.

My knee gives. I might have blacked out for a second—I’m pretty sure the tip chipped my femur—because the next thing I know, I’m staring at white sky. Somehow I managed to keep hold of the knife. I hear her huffing and snorting as she scrambles through the leaves. Instinct kicks in and I know she’s going for the crossbow. I roll, swinging the knife in a blind arc through the air, driving it down with my full weight to where I know she’ll be.

Only she’s not. I was wrong. She isn’t going for the crossbow. Instead, she’s flat-out sprinting into the trees toward the drive, her injured hand cradled against her chest.

I let my head fall back and groan. My leg is a hot brand of misery. After a few minutes, I manage to stand up using a branch as a crutch. I make my way back to the path. Each step is an ordeal, but now that I’m on my feet the gears start whirring. The leg of my pants is soaked, but as long as I don’t try to pull out the bolt, I think I’ll be okay. 

That stupid bitch maybe could have gotten to the crossbow before I did and finished the job. Instead, she ran away. On my property. In my woods.

Such a mistake.

Now she’s got about a two mile run on sharp gravel to the front gate. The ATV is back at the kennel. If I can get to it—and I’m pretty sure I can—I’ll catch her on the drive or while she’s trying to figure out the gate. Worst case scenario, I’ll get her on the main road. Then I’m going to peel her fucking face off and make her watch me feed it to the dogs. That happy thought keeps me going. Gets me to the drive. I feel relief like you wouldn't believe as my boot crunches on gravel.

Then my watch chirps.

I look at it flashing all zeroes. I fumble with slippery, red fingers for the whistle around my neck. Cold dread squirts into my blood when I see her red handprint on my chest—when I realize the whistle isn’t there. I feel my heart throb around the bolt in my bleeding leg. A moment later, a sound splits the air that makes my stomach drop into my balls. 

The Dinner Bell is ringing.

It’s Sunday.

It’s summer.

I’m driving down Wilcox.

Trying to beat the church rush to Yankee Diner.

I’m thinking of country fried steak and black coffee.

Families enjoy the perfect day.

A father with a football waves at his son to go long.

The kid takes off.

​The pass spirals up then down in a smooth arc.

Across the street, a man pushes a lawn mower.

A woman in a floppy hat trims the shrubs.

The sun casts a healthy luster down the back of her tanned arm.

The ball bounces into the road.

The kid is right behind it.

The father darts for him.

I see the whites of his eyes.

His mouth curls around a name.

My heart drops.

My fingers tingle.

I stomp down.

I speed up.

Must have hit the gas.

I cut the wheel.

My shoulder hits the door.

A sickening jolt as the car jumps the curb.

I see the tr–-

Blackness.

Yawning, empty blackness.

Surreal but familiar.

Insubstantial and vast.

Weightless, painless nothing.

Peace like I’ve never known.

I don’t know how long I spend like that.

Then sensation.

Tugging around my stomach.

The Tilt-o-Whirl at the fair.

A drop of oil circling the toilet.

Then

a speck of light.

A grain of salt in the ink-black.

I move toward that vanishing point.

They always said you'd go toward the light.

The speck is a dilating orange pupil.

Wider and wider.

I am swallowed.

My senses return all at once.

Shock and pain.

I’m falling.

Hot, sandy wind whips through my hair.

The sound is deafening.

The light, blinding.

Colorful smears strobe my vision.

I blink away tears.

And then I see.

I fall toward a red-brown landscape.

It looks like a desert.

No landmarks.

No horizon.

An unbroken panorama.

The mottled planes and sandy dunes creep and pulse.

Like one of those magic eye pictures.

Then I see past the illusion. 

It’s not red sand.

It’s people.

Millions of people, seen from above at an impossible height.

A writhing, angry ant hill.

The sound I hear is not the wind whipping past my ears.

It's screaming.

Howling.

Lamenting, suffering voices combined in a mind-shattering drone.

Others fall with me.

Cinders strafing the horizon with meteoric tails. 

To be added to the pile.

If so many are on top

how many are below?

We are gaining.

Louder and louder.

Closer and closer.

A million bodies

a thousand 

a hundred 

a dozen

A mindless, anguished face races toward me.

It’s hairless.

Desiccated.

Raw holes for eyes.

Dry, yellow teeth grin from a twisted mouth.

I screa—

I'm yanked back.

Faster somehow than I fell.

Blinding light, to darkness, to light again.

And pain.

Terrible, nauseating pain.

The blue sky stares down at me.

And a man.

His face is distorted in

(agony)

concern.

Relief.

"Can you hear me, buddy?"

He speaks from the bottom of a well.

"Give him some space!"

I blink hard.

I grimace.

My molars crunch on

(red sand)

grit.

Only broken teeth.

"Don't worry, buddy.” 

I recognize the man.

A face from a half-remembered dream.

The lawn mower.

Grass stains smear his hat.

His wife has pretty arms.

“Help is coming.”

I can hear the distant wailing of the

(damned)

ambulance. 

“You’re a hero, man.” 

“You missed the kid.” 

“He's safe."

“You did it.”

I close my eyes.

Blackness.

And somewhere beyond 

the ant hill.

It's far away.

Unfathomably far.

And right around the corner.

I know that now.

More than anything in the world

I wish I had just hit the kid.