Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

JACOB

I sit on the porch, looking out at the darkness, thinking of the party and that Emma is sleeping just feet behind me, along with her dad. Dammit. Emma hit a sore point earlier when she talked about me trying to get myself killed. I've been on a warpath ever since all the goodness in me collapsed to pure self-loathing, and hatred took its place.

Hatred for the friend I was supposed to be loyal to, but I clearly didn't give a damn, and I still don't. It's not even just her perfect body. Her lust. Her sensuality. I'd just like to lie with her, hold her close as the blizzard warred outside, and kiss her as softly as a man like me is capable of. It would probably get steamy, but it wouldn't have to. I just want to touch her.

I shift at a sound in the darkness. A lot comes into a man when he takes up my line of work. I'm alert to everything, all the time, hyperaware in a way most people would find insufferable. Yet, for me, it's comforting, even if some folks might call it paranoia.

Raising my flashlight, a dog suddenly freezes, turning to me. It has its snout around the bottom of the trashcan, sniffing. It's on the skinnier side, clearly a stray, a hopeless look in its eyes. It's difficult to tell the breed, a mongrel of some sort, with long, wiry hair all over its body. The snow has melted into it, giving it a black-silver color.

It turns and ducks its head. I see he's a boy.

"Good boy," I call out, my tone calm. "Good, good boy."

He turns back to me, ears and tail pricked. It's like he can't believe somebody is calling him a good boy and has been waiting a long time to hear it. I slowly stand, walk into the snow, lower myself, and kneel there. He's paranoid, just like me, wondering about everything that could go wrong. Slowly, he creeps toward me, sniffing the ground, always ready to run back.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I tell him. As he gets closer, I can see more of his torso, emphasizing his ribcage. He whines and then pads almost right up to me, his nostrils flaring. "It's okay. I'm a friend."

Another whine, almost like a question. Really? He doesn't believe anybody could be kind to him. He doesn't think he could ever get a happily ever after. He's been hurt too many times. I can feel the hunger—not just physical—radiating from the mongrel's body.

"Easy, boy," I say, softly smoothing my hand over his body. He moans and turns in a quick circle as though he's been waiting a long time to experience this sort of closeness.

Finally, he walks right up to me until his body pushes against mine. He's a brave dog, risking himself like this. Maybe he senses something in me. I slowly wrap my arms around him. He flinches as if getting ready to run but then settles down. I sit like this for a long time, alert to the surroundings, and then I stand, my hand on his head.

"Hungry, boy?"

He whines again, looking up at me with wide, disbelieving eyes as if he still thinks there's a chance I'll turn on him. Then he walks by my side. I only notice Emma is watching when I'm on the porch. Her eyes glisten from the front window, staring at me from the darkness.

Opening the front door, I let the pooch inside and walk into the kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out some survival-style tinned chicken. The dog sits, staring, drool coming from his mouth. Emma isn't in here anymore. She must've ditched when she saw us coming.

The dog devours each small chicken piece I give him. He stares at the hunk in my hand as if wanting to obliterate the entire thing, but I'll have to feed him slowly.

Emma walks in, holding a big bundle of blankets and a towel draped over her shoulder. "I thought we could warm him up."

She looks somehow maternal in the semidarkness, wearing her hoodie and sweatpants. I'm unsure where that comes from, but it's exactly how she seems as she cautiously carries the blankets to the dog.

He turns to her, showing none of the nervousness he did with me. He lets her kneel at his side and gently towel him down, and then Emma drapes a blanket over him. He whines and rests his beardy chin on his forepaws.

"I think he wants more chicken," Emma says, smiling and looking at me.

Her words snap me from my trance. I feel like I've been lost in a dream, watching her under a spell. That's a love song cliché, but somehow, with Emma, it feels like the truth.

"How could you tell?" I say with a smirk, tearing off another small hunk.

Kneeling, I give him another piece. Emma watches me with warmth in her eyes, with affection emanating from her. It's a feeling that makes my reckless ride into the world of self-destruction seem even more selfish. We deserve this feeling, my woman and me. Shut up, shut up, shut up . The staccato words burst in my mind like machine gun fire.

"You were really good with him out there," she says, gently stroking her hands over his head.

"I like dogs," I tell her, "but I'm always on the move. It wouldn't be convenient."

"Have you ever thought about settling down?" she asks.

I laugh gruffly. "Is that a hint?"

She pouts at me, that sassy glint in her eyes. I'm breaking my own rules every time I see her, but when I'm here with her, it's not like I even want to stop. "Ha, ha," she says sarcastically. "I was just making conversation. It's nothing…" She glances at the hallway, the lights off, Mike sleeping with no idea how badly I want to… "You know."

"No," I say, feeling like an ass, forcing myself to say it anyway. "I don't know."

She flinches as if I've just given her heart a microfracture, but if I'm going to end this, I must be decisive. I can't keep making her believe there's a chance or making myself believe. After this is over, I'll go out on another operation and maybe never return. What would our military brothers say if they knew what I've done and what I want to do again? And again. And again .

"Yeah," she says. "Me neither."

I'm the one who started this game, and yet this hurts me somehow. It's like I somehow don't think she has the right to talk to me like that. Like I need to spank her, make her moan, and own her to teach her who's in charge.

I go to the sink, fill a bowl with water, and set it near the dog.

"Does he have any tags?" Emma says.

"No. Not even a collar."

"He looks like a stray."

"Hell of a distance for a dog to wander in the snow. Little Hope is ten miles away. Pilgrim's Peak is farther."

"Maybe somebody abandoned him out here."

I nod. "It's likely. It'd take a real lowlife to do something like that, but people do much worse."

She looks at me bleakly as if she knows what I'm hinting at—all the things I've seen in my line of work and all the hell I've witnessed.

"Yeah," she says, sighing, looking at me closely. "Should I make up a bed for him? Should we give him a name?"

"Don't know about a name," I say uneasily. "He'll only be staying here until I get word from my contacts about Rafael. I'm not adopting him."

"I didn't say that." She seems angry for some reason. "But we have to call him something, don't we?"

"He seems happy enough with his chicken and blankets," I say.

"Well, I'm going to call him… Rusty because his fur has a faint orange tinge to it, see? It bleeds through his fur. I bet it would show up even more under some proper lighting."

"You sound like you're getting an idea," I say.

"Maybe I could paint him," she shrugs. "He seems pretty chill. He'd probably sit still for me, and it would give me something to do."

"Aren't you worried?" I ask.

"Do you want me to be?" she says, seeming angry again, making me burn all the way through. There's something so intoxicating about her sassiness. It makes me want to own her, right now, grab her and—"Because I could be, you know. I could think about this psycho and everything he's done and everything he'd do to us ."

"I won't let that happen," I snap.

"Then don't ask if I'm worried," she snaps back. "I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about anything except Rusty and painting and…" You , she was going to say, but she cuts herself off. It doesn't matter. I can read the message in her eyes.

"Fair enough," I say as emotionlessly as I can. "Did you bring your painting supplies?"

"Yeah."

"Well done for sticking to it," I murmur. "I remember how much you loved painting as a kid."

"I used to paint you," she says, looking at me daringly. "Then I felt silly, and I burned them all. It was supposed to stop my crush."

"Your crush ," I say, shaking my head. "See, Emma, there's another reason."

"Another reason for what? " She tilts her head at me, and then Rusty whines as if backing her up. I get what she's doing. She's daring me to address the smoldering between us, daring me to kiss her again and taste her.

I don't answer. She already knows what—another reason this has to end. Standing, I pick up a few blankets. "I'll make a bed for Rusty."

When I walk away, Rusty stands, and the blanket falls from him. He follows close at my heels.

"I think it's obvious where he wants to sleep," Emma says. I don't turn to look at her, but somehow, I can tell she's smiling.

I sit at my window, the tablet open in my lap. It shows all my cameras stationed around the property in night-vision. Soon, I'll have to talk to Mike about watching the place in shifts. The snow comes down in thick folds, the ground seeming to swell. It might turn into a blizzard soon.

Rusty sleeps in the corner, swaddled in blankets. Occasionally, he wakes, whines, and looks over at me. It's like he's trying to make sure I'm still here. There was something in Emma's eyes when she saw me with the dog, something so warm, so inviting, somehow like she was imagining a future together. Ha, ha, ha.

"What future would that be, eh?" I ask quietly, a whisper, so only Rusty, with his powerful dog ears, could hear me. "What sort of life could we have together?"

I shake my head. Rusty is watching me like I'm insane. He pads over to me and rubs his beard against my leg. I stroke him on the scruff of the neck, watching the cameras, the snow settling, moving even higher. It's burying us just like my desire, just like the heat I can't stop feeling.

"War is easier," I tell Rusty. "It's simpler."

In a fucked-up way, I almost hope Rafael shows up. Then I'll be able to let out some of this pain streaking through me. I wince when my back wound rubs against my shirt. Every so often, it'll spike with pain, as if reminding me of what happened.

"Are you excited for Emma to paint you, boy?" I ask Rusty.

He looks up at me, head tilted, like he's saying, You're cracking up, Jacob. Get it together.