Emily
THE VAGUE MOONLIGHT disappears and a cooler patch of air drifts along my arms. The night grows darker and clouds drown the light from the moon. The fierce wind that had woken me up earlier tonight returns and batters me, slapping my cheeks.
A chill within me forms ice in my bloodstream. I was so cold in that hole as a child that I shook uncontrollably and I couldn’t stop. My teeth chattered and my fingers became numb. I thought I’d never be warm again. That I’d be frozen forever.
Heat rolls off Oz and I press into him as if there was space left between us. I’m not trapped in a hole. I’m here. It’s okay. Everything is okay.
The motorcycle slows then Oz eases it backward with his feet as he parks. He slips off the bike and offers me his hand. I accept it and this time I swing my leg out so I don’t touch any burning part of the engine.
“Good girl,” Oz says.
“For what?”
He inclines his head to the bike. “For not hitting the exhaust. It’d be a shame for you to burn your leg again. Too many burns and you’ll get a Harley scar to match mine.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“Yeah,” he says as he squeezes my fingers. “You are.”
Attempting to ignore the darkness and the claustrophobia it creates, I strangle Oz’s hand. “Are you okay? With what happened with Olivia?”
A shadow darkens Oz’s face and I immediately ache with his pain. “I brought you here so we could escape. Is that okay?”
Meaning he doesn’t want to talk about her. “That’s okay.”
Oz flips off the headlight and a small dim light emerges to the left. It barely highlights a door to a trailer. My expression falls and I try desperately to hide it, but the annoyed set of Oz’s jaw informs me he caught it. “Let’s go.”
Oz drops my hand. He walks forward and I sprint to catch up. It’s too dark out here. Too many unknowns. Too many ways to get lost and never be found. We climb up a small wooden deck of a porch and the graying wood beneath my shoes appears to be fraying on the top layer.
Oz sorts through his keys and with each second we remain in the open my senses heighten. Hair stands on my skin as if the bony fingers of the night are reaching out to snatch me, as if they’re begging to suck me in and imprison me. I twist my fingers together, silently willing Oz to move faster. He’s already unlocked the dead bolt, now he’s undoing the actual handle.
Please hurry up, please hurry up, please— The lock gives, Oz places his hand on the knob and I push open the door, practically jumping over Oz to enter.
Inside, a clock flashes on a microwave. Little red-and-green lights twinkle, indicating electronics, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. “Turn on a light.”
With a flick, he does and I find myself in the middle of a tiny living-room-slash-kitchen combo. Keeping those curious blue eyes on me, Oz shoves his keys in his front pocket. “You’re weird.”
A bitter smile creeps along my face. “Seriously? You carry a gun and a knife and I’m the weird one?”
“Yeah. That sums it up.” He shuts the door behind him. “Who said I carried a gun?”
“I saw it when I went to shut my window earlier. Tucked near the small of your back. Sound familiar?”
“It was dark and you didn’t see a thing,” he says. “You have an overactive imagination going on in that pretty little head.”
“I don’t have an overactive imagination.”
“Funeral home. You. Olivia. Zombie attack. Sound familiar?” he mocks.
“So if I looked under your shirt what would I find?”
Oz steps toward me and lifts the front of his shirt. Sweet home Alabama, those are some serious and glorious abs. “Is this what you were looking for?”
My mouth dries out so responding immediately is a problem. A quick swallow helps, but Oz drops his shirt as he strides into the kitchen.
“Lift up the back of your shirt.”
“Not a good idea.” Oz rifles through the fridge. “If I take off my shirt, you’ll want to take off your shirt, and then the two of us will be distracted and end up in a bed.”