His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas by Theodora Taylor

Author:Theodora Taylor [Taylor, Theodora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rom Tell That
Published: 2016-12-03T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 23

He’s gone when I wake up. Not just from the bed, but the entire house. I open my eyes and can sense his lack of presence as soon as I sit up. The cabin somehow feels even more empty than before. Devoid of the sexual energy I’d felt thrumming through the entire place when I’d first set foot inside it.

Apparently Colin, not the cabin itself, was the source of that energy.

Realizing I’m all alone makes me want to cover myself. But… I soon remember my clothes are now ash at the bottom of the fireplace. I go over to the small closet on the other side of the bathroom and find a few of Colin’s vintage concert t-shirts hanging there.

I pull out one with “Nitty Gritty Dirt Band” emblazoned underneath a mountain sunrise graphic. Remembering the great cover of “Fishin’ in the Dark” that Valerie used to do, I put it on.

It fits me like a very short dress and paired with one of the flannel shirts I also find in the closet, it could almost pass as a whole outfit. If I was skinny with long legs and fake glasses, people would probably mistake me for a hipster. In any case, it’s enough clothing to get me through the one gas station I’d have to hit for a fill up before reaching Alabama. And thank goodness, I think, spotting my shoes under the bed, at least he didn’t burn those, too.

I search the main room’s floor and find my purse on the ground right beside the door. Where Colin must have dropped it when he carried me back into the house over his shoulder.

Surprised he’d risk me running off while he was gone, I pick it up… and find everything’s in there—except the keys.

A sinking feeling replaces all my plans. But I yank open the door anyway. I’ll walk back to town, I think. Find a phone. Call Triple A. Prove to Colin that I’m still my own person no matter what I said last night.

And maybe I would have done it, too… if the faint sound of guitar strings hadn’t hit my ears when I step outside.

I follow the sound of the guitar playing like a sailor to a siren.

Colin, I find out after a few minutes of walking, has a creek, too. More like a brook or stream, though. Whatever you want to call it, it’s a lot bigger than the dinky one at my grandma’s house. But it’s just as respectful to the songwriting process. It quietly babbles in the background while Colin sits on the couch afghan, working out the melody to a song that sounds both dark and sexy. Like the hook to Chris Isaak’s “Baby Did a Bad, Bad, Thing” decided to marry a Top 40 country standard.

I can tell the moment he knows I’m there, because he stops playing, the melody breaking off in an awkward twang of guitar strings.

He looks over his shoulder at me, his blue eyes glittering and hard.

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