2. A Burly Past

2

A Burly Past

T he chime rings overhead as I swing open the door leading into "Jack's Tack and Co," a rustic log cabin with a wide wrap-around porch. It took forever to find this place, deep in the woods and down twisting dirt roads.

"Hello?" I call as I walk into the desolate store. The tiny shack didn't indicate they were open, but the door's unlocked, so I guess that's a good enough sign that I can enter.

I walk past a rack of fishing poles and examine a dusty box of bullets from the shelf to my left. Does anyone even shop here? It sure as hell doesn't look like it.

"Hello?" I call again. Silence .

Well, shit. How am I supposed to get answers if my best lead is MIA?

A bang comes from the back of the shop, snapping my attention away from the dusty merchandise. I shouldn't follow it. This is the exact scenario that every dumb bitch in a horror movie puts themself into before they get their head chopped off, but I'm a reporter. I have to go after the source. I follow the sound into a dimly lit back room. The bangs grow louder and more frequent with each step I take. Is it someone trapped in a cellar trying to get out? This is a cabin in the middle of nowhere—a perfect place to store captured victims.

My heart beats wildly as I lighten my footsteps and try to soften my breath. When I get to the end of the back room, I can see sunlight trickling in from an ajar door. The sound comes from outside. I follow it, pushing the door slightly.

An axe swings down, snapping a log in half. The shirtless man with tight brown pants, chopping the wood, swiftly picks up another log and puts it on the chopping block. The man is chiseled, muscles lining every inch of his sweaty frame. His jaw is lined with a full but tightly shaved crimson beard. His hazel-green eyes are intensely focused on chopping the wood before him.

I'm frozen in shock. I know this man. It's Jack, but it's also not Jack at all. Sure, he's always been tall, a staggering six foot three that seemed a little excessive since I'm barely pushing five foot three. But these muscles… He'd always been scrawny. I used to hate it because he could eat whatever he wanted while I ate a single fry and seemed to gain five pounds. He's definitely not scrawny anymore. Granny was right. I'm feeling a bit faint.

My palms must be sweating because my hand slips from the door frame, and I collapse to the floor, making the door swing wide open and hit a pile of wood neatly stacked next to it.

Jack snaps his attention to me. "Shit, are you okay?" He crouches over me, reaching for my hand to help me up.

Fuck, why does his sweat smell so good? It's like his pores ooze sandalwood and paprika. God, am I in a men's deodorant ad or something?

Our eyes catch, and his face looks as shocked as I feel. "Red?"

I reach for his arm, pulling myself up. "Yep," I grunt and stand, wiping my clamming hands on my jeans. "Sorry for the intrusion and," I turn to the pile of fallen logs, "the mess."

"Oh, it's fine." He waves his hand in dismissal. "Shit. Look at you. You look great! What has it been?"

"Five years," I say before he finishes. His eyes don't leave me—an intense look on his face. My mind races back to that night after graduation, before the earthquake.

He nods. " Yeah, I guess so."

My eyes trail from his face to his sweaty and muscular chest. I can't help it.

He notices this shift. "Oh, shit. Sorry." He turns and reaches for a red flannel on a log, pulling it over his shoulders. "So, what brings you into town and to my little shop of all places?"

I shake my head, returning my thoughts to my mission. "Yes, right. Well, I don't know if you know this, but I'm a reporter now at the Times."

"Yeah, I heard." He shakes his head. "I'm so proud of you." A longing look lingers in his eyes. "Let's go inside. It's a million degrees out here. I'll get you something to drink."

I part my lips to refuse. I just wanted to ask him my questions and get out of his way so it didn't turn into a bigger deal than it needed to be, but Jack doesn't give me a chance. He walks past me, back into his shop, leaving me with no option but to follow after him.

He ventures down a small hallway to his right, away from the shop entrance. It leads to a living room with a fireplace and two comfortable-looking armchairs. "Have a seat. Can I get you water, tea, coffee?" He motions to the chairs but walks to the small kitchen at the other end of the room.

"Do you live here?" I question as I look around the space .

Jack calls from the kitchen, already pulling out two mugs and making coffee on the stove. "Yeah. Remember my Uncle Jerry? Well, he died four years back and left me this cabin. I decided to turn it into a store and live here."

"Oh, I'm sorry about his passing." I take a seat on the flannel armchair closest to me. I've interviewed hundreds of witnesses before, meeting them at their houses or various locations. I usually am calm and in control of the situation, but right now, it feels like my heart might beat out of my chest. This isn't just any eye-witness. This is Jack, and here I am in his little cottage in the middle of the woods as he makes me a cup of coffee, using his ungodly muscles to do so. God, those muscles . How can I think of anything else?

"It's okay. We were never that close. I was just his only nephew, and he had no kids."

"How's your dad?" I call.

"Dead."

"Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry." I want to punch myself.

"It's alright. You know how my old man and I never really got along. He was never the same after my mom died."

Jack and I bonded over both having dead parents growing up. He still had his dad, but now I guess we're even. His father was a cold man—spitting image of Jack, but never cracked a smile. The two were always arguing, which made me thankful to grow up with such a loving Granny.

I search my memories for the details of his mother's death. She was murdered, much like my parents. Back then, I didn't reflect on the similarities much, but now…

Jack interrupts my thoughts, emerging from his kitchen, holding two cups of coffee in white diner mugs. I reach out and take the one he offers me. "How did you know I wanted coffee? You didn't even give me a chance to answer your question?"

His hazel eyes hold mine as if he's sucking in the deepest parts of me. "I know you, Red. You're never one to turn down coffee." He sits in the seat across from me and brings the cup up to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine.

I look down at my mug, trying to find a distraction from the buzzing taking over my body. "That's pretty assumptious of you. A lot about me has changed since I left."

"I see that, but I can tell what matters has stayed the same."

I shake my head. I'm not letting him distract me like he did for most of my life. No matter what he says, I'm a different woman now. My life doesn't revolve around him and his opinions of me.

I take out my recorder, flip it on, and hold it up. "So, Jack, I'm here because of the attacks. I'm reporting on the case and in a bit of a time crunch. I heard you were one of the first people on the scene."

Jack looks down at his mug and takes in a big breath. A moment of silence passes as I wait for him to respond. He finally returns my gaze. "Have you been to the old diner since you've been back? It looks exactly the same as when we used to go."

I squint my eyes. "What?"

"Joanne's Diner. You know, the one we used to go to every Friday after the games. Come on now, don't tell me the five years away has made you forget everything!"

Is he seriously trying to avoid my question? This is so like him. He's always had a habit of letting me down when I need him most. "Jack, the attack. Can you tell me about it?"

He sighs. "Everything was already in the news. There isn't anything else for me to tell."

I know he's lying. Not even because I've known him my whole life and can tell from the way his eyebrows pinch together, he's avoiding the question. There's something he doesn't want to tell me. But why? This just confirms my suspicion that this isn't just some freak animal attack.

I breathe out and soften my expression. "Jack, please. I don't have many options. I really care about my job." My puppy dog eyes have always worked in the past to get men to answer questions or to cut corners to find out more about a story. The art of seduction is one I've mastered well in the past five years, but I've never used it on Jack before, and this just feels all kinds of wrong.

Jack's reaction is palpable. He stares at me with parted lips. His shoulders tighten, and his breath heavies.

I can't deny that having this effect on him has been the source of every wet dream of my teenage years. Except it's a little too late and stings too much. He sure does know how to make all my wildest dreams come true at the worst time. I clear my throat and stiffen, looking away from Jack's intense stare.

He's knocked out of his trance and sits up straight, tugging at the collar of his flannel. "How about this? Why don't I take you to dinner tomorrow night, and we can discuss more?"

"Tomorrow? I'm kind of on a time crunch. Can't we just talk now?"

"I know it's hard for you to believe, but I also have a job. I have work to do, and the next time I'm available is tomorrow night."

I'm about to protest. I saw his shop. It doesn't look like he's had a customer in years. What could he possibly need to do from now until tomorrow night? But then I realize Jack is one of my only sources. Granny was right. It will be like pulling teeth to get anyone else to talk to me, and who would be a better witness than the person who showed up to the scene first?

"Fine." I barely catch myself saying it. "We'll have dinner, as friends, and then you'll tell me everything you know." I stand up.

Jack chuckles. "Sure, as friends, and then we'll see what happens."

I give him an incredulous look. What the fuck does that mean? I don't want to spend all day bickering with him, though. It's already bringing up too many memories from my past as it is. I walk toward the hallway from where we came, but Jack grabs my hand before I get very far. Electricity shoots down my body, and I have to stop myself from shuttering. I turn to face him. His eyes capture mine, and we stand in silence for a moment.

"What?" I finally manage to stutter.

He releases his grasp and runs his large hand through his crimson hair. "I'll pick you up at seven. At Granny's."

"Oh, yeah. Right." I charge toward the exit, fighting the urge to glance back at him as I leave. I'm a changed woman now. He can't have this effect on me. Except I know that's a lie. He obviously still can.

Jesus Christ, this story is going to be harder than I thought.