“I just live down the next lane. Yep, this one,” she said beside him. He was pretty sure she was a little buzzed from whatever they gave her in the hospital for pain. She talked a lot, which was really annoying. She talked a lot before the drugs. She was kind of a chatterbox high on drugs. “Right here. See? That’s my mailbox. The green one. Blends in with everything. Doesn’t really work well for an address marker.”
“I know where you live, Avery,” he said, the sound of her name on his tongue doing something to his insides.
“You do? Y-you remember?”
“Yes, I remember seeing you,” he admitted and turned down her lane. It was long and winding, and the property sat back really far from the road. It was a hideaway, the perfect place, in his opinion. Someday when he retired, he wanted something similar.
“Oh,” she whispered.
The sun was just starting to rise as he pulled in, and the sky was gray and dreary.
“Where’s my car?”
“They said they’d drop it,” he reminded her and smirked.
“That’s good,” she said. “If my mother looked out, she would’ve seen it in the lane. Here. Stop here.”
“I can drive you up to the house.”
“I don’t live in the house. And I don’t want my mother to see me being dropped off by…someone.”
“One of her patients?” he asked grumpily.
She shook her head and rubbed at her pert little nose. “No, a guy. She’d flip out.”
“Right, ‘cuz you’re the responsible good girl,” he assumed. “Always protecting your friends when you go out, looking out for them, taking care of them, cock-blocking, and making sure they don’t make bad decisions like taking drinks from a dude, right?”
“Yep, that’s me,” she stated and laughed. She sighed long and loudly, “Ahhh. Wait, what’s cock-blocking?”
She was totally high as fuck. He ignored that question.
“So, if you don’t live in the house, where do you live?”
“In the garage, silly,” she said and patted his arm. Then she drew little circles around the skull wearing a beret with the dagger stabbing through it. “Death…” she squinted. “Death… b-be… death…”
“Death before dishonor,” he aided her in deciphering. He’d had many women check out his tattoos before, marvel at them, at the muscles underneath them.
“Tattoos are ugly,” she said, shocking him.
Nobody ever said that! Tristan said too loudly for the cab of the truck, “Ha!” and she startled. “Wow, you don’t hold back, do you?”
“Why? Should I? Did I hurt your feelings? You hurt mine,” she informed him and kept running her fingers over the different ink on his right arm. She shouldn’t do shit like that, but there wasn’t an easy way to tell her that her touch was doing things to him, to certain regions in particular.
“How’d I hurt your feelings?” he asked and immediately wondered why he cared. He didn’t.
“You said I was a homeschool nerd,” she informed him.
“Well, you are,” he clarified, getting an angry little sneer from her.
“No, I’m not. I’m just educated. Probably the kinds of dumb bimbos you go out with don’t even have an education past the sixth grade.”
“That’s probably true,” he considered, thinking back over it. He didn’t actually ‘go out’ with women, either. It was more of a meet up and spend an evening together kind of thing.
“I got a thirty-four on my ACT,” she bragged.
“So? And you’re just proving my point anyway. You’re really not helping your own argument of not being a nerd,” he challenged and raised an eyebrow. “And I got a thirty-three. Big deal.”
“You did not,” she argued.
He chuffed. She was a spunky little woman. She said whatever she wanted, didn’t have a filter. She had pluck. Her hair had come undone, or a nurse took it down at the hospital to examine her. It hung in pale waves over her shoulders and down her back and was tangled and sexy, not the smooth and neat way he’d seen it earlier and the other day when he’d seen her getting out of her car in front of her mother’s home. Tristan also noticed the spots of blood on her white dress, which had been so cute on her before everything happened.
At the hospital, he’d gone back with her but waited outside the room while she was examined. The doctor had declared she had bruised not cracked ribs, which was good. But her arm was going to be sore for about three or four weeks. She didn’t need stitches on her chin, but they’d cleaned and bandaged it. When they’d taken her for x-rays, Tristan went for a coffee. That’s when he’d noticed how busy the hospital was. There were even boxes of face masks available for people to put on. When he’d asked a nurse at the desk about that, she’d told him there was a bad flu bug going around. He hoped he didn’t get it. He hadn’t been sick since he was a punk kid. He’d gone back and waited for Avery in her room instead of staying in the lobby because after he’d gotten a better look around, he did notice that a lot of people looked really sick. The doctor diagnosed her injured arm as tennis elbow and put it in an elbow strap, which she had complained about the whole ride home. She was spunky, annoying, talked too much, and was entirely too damn gorgeous for her own good. If she was an angel, she was certainly a sassy one.
“I did. I’m a super nerd like you,” he informed her and tried to ignore her long, graceful fingers twirling around and tracing his different tattoos. “How come you don’t get a tattoo?”
He knew the answer to that but wanted to tease her.
“What?” she screeched, then started laughing and fell back against her seat. “No way! So…ugh, gross!”
“Gross? You know, most chicks I take out like them,” he told her. Tristan had no idea why he was idling his truck in her drive and talking to her. “I’ve never heard anyone say they’re gross.” He’d never had anyone blatantly insult them, either.
“You must date girls with very low standards,” she informed him in a haughty tone of superiority.
“Maybe that’s how I like it,” he said. That part was true. He didn’t want a committed relationship. No girlfriends. Sure as hell no wife. Maybe he’d get a dog someday. A dog and some hideaway property for retirement. That sounded pretty damned perfect.
She just laughed hysterically again. Tristan got the feeling this was not a side she would be showing him right now without the aid of narcotics running through her frail system.
“The Bible says you shouldn’t mark your skin, ya’ know,” she informed him.
“You learn that in homeschool?”
“Sunday school.”
He snorted. “Figures. Let me walk you to the door. It’s still kind of dark out here. You got your key?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have a key. I don’t lock my place. Gosh, who’d rob me? Look around. This isn’t exactly a populated area, Mr. Paranoid.”
Was that another insult? Felt like it.
“I’m still walking you to your door. Wait there.”
He got out and rounded the back of the truck, looking around as he went out of habit. He was always situationally aware. When he opened her door, Tristan found her dead asleep, resting her head back against the seat.
“Hey, you,” he said softly and touched her arm. Her head lolled toward him, and her pale eyes popped open.
“What took ya’ so long, slowpoke?”
He groaned. This chick was so annoying. And pushy. He helped her down anyway. His mind tracked back to that moment in the bar when she’d been snatched by that asshole. He hadn’t even paused, hadn’t thought it through. Training for the last eight years had led to his fast reaction time. It still wasn’t fast enough, though. He had his arm around her waist before Tristan could stop it from happening. He’d seen the drunk asshole creeping up behind her. It was the only way he could describe it. Creeping. He was a relatively big guy, but Tristan was bigger.
“I know the way to my place,” she said once her feet were on the ground. She swayed, so he snatched her uninjured arm to stabilize her. “Hey, Mr. Handsy.”
He gritted his teeth and removed his hand from her arm. “Lead the way, homeschool.”
She wrinkled her nose at him and started walking down the lane. About fifty more yards and she veered off to the left down a well-worn dirt path through the woods that surrounded both sides of the gravel drive. The first time he’d come for a session with Dr. Andersson, he’d thought he had the wrong address.
“Come on,” she demanded quietly and pushed a branch out of her path. “This way.”
“You’re leading,” he told her and followed closely in case she got dizzy again.
They came to the long garage he’d noticed at the crest of a small hill off to the left in front of the house. She came in behind it, and he followed, stepping onto a stone walkway. The landscaping was insane. Vinery grew up the side of the barn. Hosta plants as wide as four feet across lined the path and grew around the many species of colorful flowers and flowering bushes that marked their way.
“We’re here,” she said and stopped at a door under a deck system above it.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“My place,” she answered. Then added as if she found him dense, “The garage.”
Tristan figured she probably was high for sure. This really was the garage. Surely, she didn’t sleep in the garage.
“What?” he questioned.
“My apartment,” she answered more clearly and pointed up. “I live up there.”
“Oh, above the garage?”
“Yes. Duh. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said with sass. “Thirty-two my butt.”
“Thirty-three, smarty pants,” he corrected. She rolled her eyes, which made him want to discipline her for her impertinence. “Okay, then.”
“Wait,” she blurted and grabbed his arm.
“What? Want me to come up and check the place out? Make sure it’s empty?”
She scuffed the toe of her cowgirl boot on the stone patio and nodded.
“No problem,” he said and stepped past her.
Tristan didn’t like that he just turned the knob and entered without the hindrance of any locks. He went first up the steps which were a really cool wood, something exotic, and curved around like the staircase belonged on a ship or in an old library. When he got to the top, Avery ran into his back. So much for waiting for him to check it out first.
She followed right on his heels as he went down the hall to another door, which was glass. He opened and went through. As he walked down the hall, the lights came on. It caused him to startle. She laughed like a drunk person.
“They come on automatically,” she whispered.
He scowled over his shoulder. Who the hell would want a feature like that? Talk about creepy.
Tristan checked the first room, which was obviously her office. Then he looked in a bathroom. The next room was her bedroom, which he thoroughly checked. He told himself he was being thorough to make her feel better, but he was actually just curious. Her room had a wall of windows and a set of sliding glass doors that led out to the deck connecting to the one he’d just stood under. Her bathroom and bedroom were both painted white and pale gray and had plush gray carpeting in the bedroom. The bathroom had a black tile floor but was white tile and marble everywhere else with the exception of some sort of wooden bench in the shower that also had a wooden floor. There were way too many windows in there, too, even in the shower. Creepers could see her showering if they stood in the woods with a good set of binoculars. The idea of that pissed him off for some reason. They went to another much smaller room, which was just storage boxes and no windows at all. Then it was on to the living and kitchen spaces which were open to each other without dividing walls and had a tall, peaked ceiling. The place was really cool, definitely a lot higher end than most first apartments.
As if picking up on his questioning look, she explained, “My dad loves architecture.”
“I guess so,” he said. “Nice place.”
Tristan wandered over toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall and looked out at the property and the actual house where her mother’s office was located. Her apartment was nicer than any place he’d ever lived. Digs like this in a big city like New York would easily reach a few million dollars.
“There’s a teepee,” she said out of the blue. He’d thought she was just high when she said she lived in the garage, but she’d been truthful. A teepee, though? “Wanna’ see?”
“How could I not after hearing that?”
She grinned and went to a smaller, shorter set of stairs leading up to a loft that overlooked the living room. He followed dutifully, forgetting all about the actual reason he was supposed to be in her apartment. Her feet were bare now, as she must’ve ditched her boots and probably her socks along the way.
Sure enough, it was a small space, but there was, indeed, a teepee in the corner. She got down on her hands and knees and crawled in.
“C’mon,” she beckoned and waved.
There was no way Tristan was getting in there.
“Tristan, come in,” she pleaded.
Like an idiot, he got down and crawled in, too. He had to admit, it was pretty cool. There were little twinkly lights that she switched on and lots of pillows and small, soft blankets piled in there. She laid on a pink pillow and blinked up at him lazily. Tristan tilted his head to the side and regarded her cautiously.
“Like it?” she asked, her pupils dilated.
She was either high, or he was because Tristan was pretty sure she was flirting. And she definitely looked like she wanted him to kiss her. He knew a lot about women- well, mostly just that look they got when they wanted to be kissed.
Not happening.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” he said and announced. “I better get going.”
“Really? So soon?”
He chuckled. She was so weird. He just nodded.
“You can come back another time, though, right?” she asked with a crooked grin and offered a series of long blinks through black, thick eyelashes.
“Um, maybe,” he said. Never.
“We could play in the woods,” she suggested sleepily and yawned. “That would be fun. We’ll play hide and seek with the kids. They love that. I’ll even let you find me.”
“And if I find you? What then?” Fire. That was playing with fire and totally stupid on his part. Why was he goading her like that?
“You’ll just have to find out, Mr. Impatient,” she said, assigning another annoying name to him.
She closed her eyes and didn’t open them again. Tristan backed out of the teepee but covered her first with a pale pink blanket that matched her pillow. Her cheeks were flushed the same color.
He hurried out of her apartment, jumped again when the damn lights in the hallway turned on, and pulled her door shut at the bottom of the steps. He wished there was a lock on it. That was no good. Oh, well. She wasn’t his problem after today. He’d never see her again.
He backed out her drive until he came to a place where it was wide enough to turn around. Then he sped back to the base where he was met by his L.T., who’d gotten the whole story from Freddie and Royce. He let him off the hook for getting into another fight, and Tristan turned in. His roommate was already in bed. Some of the men on the base were up and about. A group was running laps around the perimeter, something they did a lot to stay in shape. He just wanted some sleep before he did anything. It was the weekend, and he didn’t work most weekends. The younger guys got stuck on weekend duties.
Tristan took a fast shower in case that flu at the hospital was clinging to him. He didn’t have time to be sick right now. He only had three to four more months on this base, and if he passed the psych eval by Dr. Andersson at the end of it and was deemed fit for active combat duty again, he’d be gone in a flash. No more country western bars. No more living in the boonies. No more driving hot blondes to the hospital and then watching her fall asleep in her damn teepee. Tristan just wanted back in the fight, wherever that was and whatever that entailed.
He crashed in his bed in just boxer briefs since Freddie kept the house too hot. Sleep wouldn’t come, though. He had prescriptions for sleeping pills, but they just made him have messed up dreams. No thanks.
Tristan tossed and turned and ended up flat on his back with one arm flung over his head, staring at the ceiling as the sun rose higher and higher in the morning sky.
His mind was wandering to Avery with too much frequency. He knew the moment he’d seen her who she was. He didn’t exactly know, but he knew he’d seen her in Dr. Andersson’s parking lot. He hadn’t put it together that she was her daughter. So much for his detective skills. It was pretty freaking obvious. She looked a lot like her mother, had an elegance about her like Doc. Until she was high on pain meds. Then she had a very youthful, spunky way about her. That was probably the side she only showed to her family. He’d noticed over the years that when people were drunk or high on pain meds that they’re guards were let down. She was no different.
He rolled to his right side and tried to force her out of his mind. He’d never have to see her again, so what did it matter. She was annoying anyway. If he were being honest, he was more attracted to women like that bartender. She was sexier than Avery Andersson, judgy little homeschool snob. She’d insulted his tats. That was a no. She was too uptight. Wound too tight. Too prim and proper. Annoying.
So why had so many men been staring at her? Why had he? Why had that freak attacked her? The men staring was easily explained away. She was hot, had a smoking bod, and was basically gorgeous like a Swedish bikini calendar girl. But that asshole attacking her, dragging her away like that was going to be acceptable? Sure, he had some not so chivalrous thoughts about her, too, but men were taught to keep it in check. That dude was a psychopath. It wasn’t just that he looked like he wanted to rape her right there in the bar. It almost seemed like he wanted to murder her, too.
That train of thought led him to thinking about the bouncer’s comments. The third psycho in a week had a freak out at their bar, and the cops didn’t even question the witnesses? That didn’t make sense. Something felt really off about the whole thing. When he got up later, he was going to go into town again and follow up on it. Not for Avery Andersson, prissy pants extraordinaire. He wanted to know for himself. He needed some answers.
Tristan finally drifted off but was plagued with nightmares. This time they weren’t the usual ones where his buddies were burning alive in the middle of a battle. This time he dreamed about Avery. This time he wasn’t able to save her when a psychopathic maniac with bloodshot eyes and saliva drooling out of his mouth and mumbling weird non-words grabbed her. This time the man got away with her, and Tristan was left standing there with empty hands. When he startled awake, he was covered in sweat.