Last Light(4)

What do you want?

I replied immediately.

SUBJECT: Re: [no subject]

by nightowl on Saturday, February 8, 2014

You know what I want. I want to talk. You’re not in trouble, I promise. Call me.

I included my new phone number below the message.

And I waited.

Ten minutes passed without incident. Anxiety began to coil up inside me. Had I scared him away? Him … her? I checked the profile info for icarusonfire. It was a brand-new forum account, made that same day, with no post history. I smirked. Clever … and careful.

I checked my phone. It was fully charged and had decent signal. I set the volume to high.

“Call me,” I muttered. “Call me, f*cking call me.”

I browsed the forum as I waited.

That site felt haunted—as much as any digital space can feel haunted—and memories needled at me as I perused the forum.

There was my post in early June 2013: NIGHT OWL SEEKING WRITING PARTNER. I laughed as I reread it. My God, I was such a snob. Please know how to spell. I expect timely replies. I reserve the right to drop you at any time.

It was Hannah Catalano who took the bait.

I know how to spell, she replied, and I can handle being dropped. Can you?

That was the beginning. That was the start of our story, and it was a good story.

The heat whirred on and I jumped.

Fuck, what was I waiting for? A call that wouldn’t come. I slid my phone across the desk and moved to restart the fire. I needed a shower. I needed to chop more wood.

Hell, I needed to eat—and to take stock of my food situation.

I was halfway to the cellar when my phone began to ring.





Chapter 3


HANNAH


I stumbled out of the phone booth and stood staring at Nate, who stood staring at me, his expression unreadable.

“N-Nate … hi.”

Nate looked paler than I remembered him, his black hair a shock of darkness against the sky. He wore an elegant black suit and tie and a wool coat that reached his knees. Sleepless smudges stained the skin beneath his eyes.

I was running on little sleep, too. My flight from Colorado to New Jersey had landed at seven that morning. Nate wanted to pick me up at the airport, but I insisted on taking a cab.

Then he begged me to accept a ride from my motel to his house, and I gave in because part of me missed Nate. We hadn’t seen one another since October of last year, and that was during Matt’s meltdown. And even then, Nate made a good impression. Fiercely loyal to his brother. Forgiving. Gracious. Handsome.

I blinked rapidly, clearing that thought.

“Hello, Hannah,” Nate said. He opened his arms and I went to him automatically. We didn’t quite hug. He gripped my elbows and pressed a kiss to my cheek, and then he drew back and searched my face.

I began to shiver.

What could Nate see on my face? He took his time looking at me. His dark, impenetrable eyes swept my expression, the search so thorough it felt intimate, and at last he smiled and said, “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“What are you doing out here?” He nodded toward the pay phone.

“Oh, my phone…” I shifted my purse. “My phone died. I wanted to call my mom. She’s been really supportive. I needed to hear her voice.”

I hated myself for lying. The guilt was acid.

Nate glanced at the run-down Motel 6 behind me. He cocked his head. As always, he reminded me of a hawk. “I take it your accommodations are without phone service?”

“Ah, no. Er, yes, of course.” Fuck. “Phones … they have phones. I was just on my way to—” I looked across the street, where only one establishment stood. SMOKEY’S TOBACCO SHOP. Seriously? I flushed. “Um … buy a pack of cigarettes. So. The pay phone was on my way.” I looked at my boots.

“Cigarettes,” Nate said.

“Yes, cigarettes.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Well, I didn’t. But I do now.” I lifted my chin. “And I know it’s bad for me, and I’d rather not hear some doctory spiel about it. Matt used to smoke. Sometimes.”

“I’m aware. One of his many healthy habits. Shall we, then?” Nate turned on a heel and headed for the tobacco shop. I trailed after him.

Fucking Matt, look what you’ve gotten me into now.

The shop was full of pipes and incense, blown glass, rolling papers, and Rasta clothes. I tried to hold my breath. A gray-haired man with a spindly beard—Smokey, I presumed—sat at the checkout counter.

Nate hovered as I asked for a pack of Marb Reds and picked out a lighter. I didn’t protest when he intervened to pay. My face was on fire.

I waited in the shop while Nate brought the car around. The rain had turned to slush.

He dashed out and got the door.

As I buckled my seat belt, I remembered the last time—the first time—I was in Nate’s car. It wasn’t so long ago. Then, we were going to rescue Matt.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Nate.

I glanced at him. God, he was nearly Matt. Matt’s dark-haired brother, at home in his car the way Matt only ever looked in his Lexus: A prince in his purring, expensive machine.

Nate tipped his head against the headrest.