The Reaping (12 page)

I was captivated, unable to look away.  Again, I felt as if something was pulling me toward him, like gravity.  I steadied my stance, digging in with my feet and willing my legs not to move. 

Something tapped the top of my head.  I looked up into the crystal clear sky just as a drop of wetness splattered against my forehead.  Then another.  And another.  With its midnight color and twinkling stars, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet I felt more rain drops sprinkling my face.  Then, as if an invisible storm cloud hovered overhead, the heavens opened up and it began to pour.

Like a bucket of cold water, I realized at that moment that
I
had caused the fires.  Somehow, some way, I had taken the few flames scattered around the clearing and I’d caused them to rage beyond control, to spread.  And terrify.  And destroy. 

Out of control,
a voice sounded in my head. 

I closed my eyes against the rain and my disturbing thoughts.  Purposely, like I’d done with so many other things of late, I pushed it out of my mind.  I was suddenly overwhelmed, unable to cope.

My throat burned with unimaginable thirst.  I opened my mouth to the rain, craving even the tiniest bit of moisture.  The fat drops were like drops of honey to my parched tongue. 

Finally I opened my eyes and lowered my chin to look back at the stranger.  But he was gone.  I searched the remaining crowd, now scrambling to get out of the deluge, until I found him.  He was walking, slowly, toward the dwindling fire in the pit, his eyes fixed on me, hard and unwavering.  My breath quickened.

Steadily, he made his way toward me, getting closer and closer, until he was at the water’s edge.  He stopped several feet from where I stood and, without a word, held out his hand.  Again, I felt the magnetism of him. 

Trapped in his silvery stare, I moved forward, my feet propelling me of their own accord.  I stopped, only inches from him.

“Who are you?”

“The person who’s saving you,” he growled, his voice a deep, velvety surprise.  It resonated deep in my chest, tickling my senses and making them hum like a tuning fork.

“Fr-from what?”

“From you,” he responded cryptically.

So quickly it startled me, his hand struck out and he grabbed my wrist.  His fingers were like steel bands clamped around my bones.  Turning, he began to walk away from the water, pulling me along behind him.  It never occurred to me to resist; I didn’t even want to. 

We walked up around the fire pit, past the cabanas toward the back of the clearing where I’d first seen him.  My heart thundered in my chest, my mind spinning wildly.  Somewhere in the back of my head, I admitted that I was a little afraid.  Though I didn’t really think he was there to hurt me, instinctively I knew he was dangerous—very dangerous.  It rolled off him in thick black waves, waves that I perceived on some subconscious, primal level.  I had no idea why he was there, what he wanted with me or why I kept dreaming about him, but I felt compelled to find out.  And, too, I was still
inexplicably drawn to him.

He led me past the edge of the clearing and into the woods.  Surefooted, as if he could see the black path in front of him, he wove his way through trees, around stumps, and over debris, all the while maintaining his tight grip on my wrist.

My nerves jangled like an orchestra of cymbals.  “I’m Carson.  Carson Porter,” I said quickly, anxiously.  I felt the need to fill the space between us with words.  He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken, but I continued anyway.  “I think my parents thought I was going to be a boy.  Of course, they named my sister Grey, so maybe not.”  Still he made no comment, made no move to slow down or address me in any way.  “My mother liked to read.  Dad says she named me after Carson McCullers and my sister after Agnes Grey.  Can you believe that?  Why didn’t she just name me Judas or Depeche Mode, something
really
depressing?”

Finally we reached a dirt road and there, parked along the shoulder, was a shiny black motorcycle.  Its glossy surface and heavy chrome accents gleamed in the moonlight.  It looked perilous and powerful, sleek and muscular, like it was cut from the same cloth as its rider.

Letting go of me, he mounted the bike and, with a flick of his wrist, brought the engine throbbing to life.  Once more, he held his hand out to me. 

All the instructions about strangers my dad had given me over the years, all the horror stories and cautionary tales I’d heard, resounded in my head.  I hesitated, but only for a second, before taking his hand and straddling the bike behind him.  For better or worse, I was going to see where this led, consequences be damned.

“Hold on,” he commanded in his gruff voice as he kicked the bike’s stand out of the way. 

He revved the engine and it roared its readiness, vibrating beneath me.  A quiet thrill tickled my spine as I put my hands on his waist, my palms flat against his sides. 

I could feel the muscles move and shift as he guided the bike onto the road.  He felt warm and firm and somehow safe.  Dangerously safe.

This entire night had been so far beyond anything I’d ever experienced the only thing I knew to do now was hold on tight and not look back.  Never in my life had I made such a series of bad choices, this one quite possibly the worst, but I had to see where he was going, where he was taking me.  I wanted to know.

Actually, it was more than I just
wanted
to know.  I was desperate to know.  I
had to know. 
And not just where we were going.  I was desperate to know him, too.  I had to
know him. 
I felt like I
needed
it, needed
him,
like I needed air.  And even though I knew that was ridiculous, it felt true nonetheless.

As he accelerated, I leaned into his back.  I wound my arms further around him, circling his waist and laying my palms against his hard stomach.  I felt the muscles twitch beneath my fingertips.  My own stomach muscles clinched in response.  Every nerve in my body was tightly attuned to him, singularly focused on him.

After we’d left the dirt road and reached the smooth pavement, I rested my cheek against his back and closed my eyes.  Beneath the various aromas carried on the wind, the subtle scent of his skin teased my nose.  He smelled like midnight, dark and sexy.

I cleared my mind as we rode, concentrating on the feel of the wind in my hair, the man pressed against my chest and nothing else.

In what seemed like a few short minutes, we slowed and the engine whined as he downshifted to make a turn.  Two turns later, he pulled to a stop and I opened my eyes.  When I looked around, I was surprised to see that we were at Leah’s house, parked along the curb at the street.

He cut the engine and flipped the kickstand down with his heel.  He turned his head to the side and waited, as if signaling me to get off, which I did.   When I was standing beside the bike, he gently let it lean over onto the kickstand then dismounted as well.

He turned toward the driveway.

“What are you doing?” 

“Going inside,” he said as he began his ascent of the driveway.  “You coming?”

“Y-you can’t go
inside!”

He stopped and turned to stare back at me.  “Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not’?  Because this isn’t my house, that’s why not.  This is my friend’s house,” I explained, then, “Wait, how did you know where to bring me anyway?”

He had already turned back around and was walking to the front door.  I felt panic rise inside me.  What would the Kirbys do?  What if they called the police?  Would they arrest him?  What if they found out about the fires?  What if
I
got arrested?  I’d be grounded until I turn twenty-five.  Minimum.

Still too addled to think straight, I came to one comforting, solid conclusion: I had to run.  I’d run home and try to sneak into the house and tell the biggest, fattest lie I could come up with in the morning. 

I was turning to do just that when I saw the front door open.  My heart leapt into my throat and I watched, paralyzed with fear, as the stranger came face to face with Bruce Kirby.  Then, to my utter amazement, Mr. Kirby spoke something I couldn’t hear and stepped back to allow the stranger to go inside.  I stood at the curb, mouth agape, wondering what in the world was going on.

When the stranger had passed, Mr. Kirby poked his head out and said, “Carson, come on inside.  It’s freezing.”

Just then I realized that I was, in fact, incredibly cold.  My wet clothes, partially dried by a frigid wind, weren’t helping either.  I felt chilled to the bone. 

I tried to smile, but it wobbled a bit.  I braced myself for whatever bizarre thing might happen next and walked to the door. 

Mr. Kirby let me in and I stood in the foyer, completely confused.  I watched as the stranger, without a word to anyone, mounted the stairs. 

I watched him until he was out of sight then turned my attention back to Mr. Kirby.  He was watching me, almost expectantly.  I don’t know what he anticipated, but when I said nothing, he clapped his hands together and announced, “Well, now that everyone’s home, I’m going to bed.”  And with that, he turned toward the main-level master suite. 

Flipping off lights as he went, Mr. Kirby turned back when he reached the bedroom door.  He said, almost as an afterthought, “Leah’s upstairs, but make yourself at home.  If you’re hungry, there’s leftovers in the fridge or, if you don’t want those, raid the pantry or the freezer.  You’re welcome to whatever you want.”  All things considered, he smiled in a rather benign way and closed the door behind him.

More confused than ever, I stood staring at Mr. Kirby’s closed bedroom door for several minutes before I moved to climb the stairs.  At the top, the first door I passed was the guest room.  It was closed, but a light shone from underneath.  I considered knocking on it, but decided I’d pushed my luck far enough for the night.  I’d have to get the basic information on the stranger from Leah.

At the end of the hall, there was more light, this coming from beneath Leah’s door.  I knocked gently then pushed it open. 

Leah was lying across her bed watching television.  She was already in her pajamas, hair in a ponytail, all traces of the makeup she’d labored over earlier gone. She smiled at me, albeit tentatively, as I closed the door behind me.

“How was the rest of the party?”

I had no idea how to even answer that, so I decided to answer a question with a question, something that I personally hated; it frustrated me to no end.

I felt a frown pinch the skin between my eyebrows so I purposely tried to relax those muscles.  “Where did you go?”

“I was ready to go almost as soon as we got there,” she said, her expression conveying what her words did not.  She
had not
enjoyed herself and she
did not
consider that a good time.  I felt very small in her sight, remembering very clearly how she’d found me when she arrived.  For years I’d wanted to attend a party like that, be one of those people, travel in those kinds of crowds.  I was utterly ashamed and wondered what she must think of me. 

She continued, “We waited for a while for you to come back with Stephen, but then Derek got there.  He said you knew him and that he’d make sure you and Stephen left before twelve so you could get back here on time.”

Derek!
 

A millisecond after hearing the name, pieces began to fall into place.  I remembered the dinner conversation where Mr. Kirby had mentioned that Derek, the “family felon” was coming.  I also remembered that Leah hadn’t been too pleased about it.  Again, my curiosity rushed to the surface, but now was not the time to start digging into that so I let it go.  For now.

“I didn’t realize that you two had ever met,” she said, suspicion clear in every line of her face. 

“Well, I’ve only seen him a few times,” I replied, hoping the vague answer would satisfy her.  And it was technically true.  I left out the fact that, until I’d glimpsed him at the mall, I had only seen him in my dreams.