Kristen Simmons - Article 5

We were interrupted by a long, whining cry in the distance. I jumped to my feet, but Chase only cocked an ear toward the sound. After a while, he continued working on the tent, unconcerned.

“Coyote,” he informed me.

I rubbed my arms, distracted. “Hungry coyote?”

He stared at me for a moment, ascertaining if I was really afraid.

“Probably. But don’t worry. He’s more scared of us than we are of him.”

I glanced around the campsite, visualizing a pack of rabid coyotes stalking their next meal.

Chase laughed suddenly.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. You just… Just, after everything that’s happened in the last couple days, you’re freaking out over a coyote.”

I pouted. He laughed again. Soon I was giggling, too. The sound was infectious.

The intensity of all my emotions seemed to make my hilarity that much more acute. Soon, the tears were streaming out of my eyes and I was gripping my stomach. I was happy to see Chase in the same boat. As the silliness died away, he smiled at me.

“That’s nice,” I said.

“What?”

“Your laugh. I haven’t heard it in, well, a year.”

His smile melted, and I felt a striking loss at his withdrawal. An uncomfortable silence settled between us. Talking about the past had been a mistake.

He turned around to finish the tent, and it was then that I saw the gun peeking out from beneath his shirt. He must have put it there sometime when I’d been distracted. Apparently he was more concerned about a hungry coyote than he was letting on.

Brushing my teeth made me feel a little better. After I’d splashed some water on my face, I removed the boots from my aching feet and crawled into the tent. Erected, it was no more than three feet high, a tight squeeze for one person and extremely cozy for two—especially when one of them was the size of a small mountain.

Still, when Chase zipped up the entrance behind me and turned, it was a surprise to find ourselves face to face, only inches apart.

A black-and-white photograph seared into my mind. His tousled hair and scruff and thick lashes. The high cheekbones that made the shadows of his face bold and secretive. The soft curve of his bottom lip.

A flash of heat sparked in the pit of my stomach. For a moment, I heard only the sound of my thundering heart. And then he slid away.

I willed my pulse to slow, but it would not listen. He had weakened me, stolen some of my control in one drawn-out look. And that, I knew from previous experience, left me treading on very dangerous ground.

I could not fall back in love with Chase Jennings. Doing so was like falling in love with a thunderstorm. Exciting and powerful, yes. Even beautiful. But violently tempered, unpredictable, and ultimately, short-lived.

You’re tired. Just go to sleep, I told myself.

And then I realized that there was only one sleeping bag.

“I guess I leave my clothes on, right?” My head reeled. I pinched my eyes closed.

“If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice low.

“I only meant in case we have to get out quickly. Like yesterday.”

“Makes sense.”

Shut up and lay down, I ordered myself. But it wasn’t that easy. Nerves danced in my belly. I had no idea how to approach him. I began analyzing every possible movement, where I should put my arm, my leg.

“You’re thinking so loudly it’s giving me a headache.”

I tried to reciprocate his annoyance, and that helped some. It was easier to be around him when he was cruel. It was harder when we weren’t fighting. It reminded me too much of how things used to be.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asked.

“It would help,” I admitted grouchily.

“Get over here.”

I had to smile then. He had such a polite way about him. After a deep breath, I crawled up beside him, and rested my head on my sweater.

Chase exhaled dramatically. His arm slid beneath my head and wrapped gently around my back, then pulled me flush against him. I felt the warmth of his skin through our clothing, his breath in my hair. My pulse scrambled. He zipped the remainder of the sleeping bag up, and on a whim, I slid my knee over his thigh and rested my head on his shoulder. I heard his heart there. Faster than I thought it would be, but strong.

He cleared his throat. Twice.

“Sorry. I’m sort of cramped here. Hope that’s okay.” I wiggled my leg a little to indicate what I was talking about.

He cleared his throat again. “It’s fine.”

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said shortly.

His chest felt firm yet inviting against my cheek, and his scent—like soap and wood—relaxed me, made me dizzy. Every muscle ached, my blistered feet cried, but even that faded into white noise. Exhaustion lowered my defenses; I knew I should be cautious being so close to him, but I couldn’t help it. I felt safe, finally. Calm. As the minutes passed I even stopped caring if the MM found us, just as long as I could sleep awhile.

Chase breathed in slowly, and the rise and fall of his chest made him feel so much more human than soldier. It stripped away some of the loneliness that had been saddled on my shoulders all day. I found myself longing for him to touch my face, my hair, my hand curled on his chest. Some small, reassuring message that everything was going to be all right. But he did not.

The coyote bellowed one long, lonely cry. I shivered involuntarily.

“What if he…”

“He won’t. I’ll make sure.” Chase paused, sighed softly, and then whispered, “Sleep easy, Ember.” And though the ground was cold and uneven and my jeans were twisted around my legs, I slipped away.

ITbegan with a slight jerk in his shoulders. Nothing unusual really, but as my head still rested on his chest, the movement jolted me awake.

A soft groan. Then a stifled gasp. I heard something hit the ground—his fist maybe, or his heel. Half of his body had escaped the sleeping bag; I could tell by the freedom in his movements. The slippery fabric rustled loudly as he twitched again.

I pushed the rest of the bag off us and sat up, breathless when the cold air snaked between our bodies. Chase had gone very still. I thought that my movement had woken him, but then he twisted sharply, his torso turning toward me, his knees drawing up beneath mine.

Moonlight filtered in through the nylon tent, revealing the side of his face, contorted by agony. The vision of such a large person reduced to curling into himself, quaking with fear, was like a fist closing around my heart.

Then he cried out. The sound cut straight to my bones.

Whatever uncertainty I’d harbored about Chase Jennings dissipated immediately. One hand slid to his shoulder, the other to his cheek.

“Chase,” I whispered.

His eyes burst open, wild and disoriented. In a flash, his left fist locked around my throat. The other wound back, ready to strike.

I couldn’t breathe to scream. My throat burned. The tears erupted, stinging my skin.

“Ember. Jesus.” He swore.

Immediately his grip released. He shot back, slamming into the giving wall of the tent, jostling the entire room. Startled, he tried to stand, but this didn’t work, either; he hit his head on the upper rod and was forced back into a crouch. His whole body quivered, like a wild animal locked in a cage. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard his breathing, hard and ragged.

My arms were shaking, raised up before me in surrender. I could still feel the band of friction encircling my throat, pulsing there. A reminder of Randolph’s baton. Of my self-inflicted vulnerability. I scooted back, bumping into one of the flimsy metal poles. The whole tent shook again.