Sam

I’ve been told I have the worst timing ever, on more than one occasion.

Sarah’s ex has me beat, hands down.

I hug the wall, listening for anything out of place. But the rain’s doing a fantastic job of filling my ears with white noise. If Vince is creeping across the creaky boards, he’s getting away with it.

Nothing for it. Got to—

Something goes bang in the night—not a gun, but a door, way on the other side of the clearing. He’s found the root cellar, and slammed the door. Doesn’t make sense—one minute, he’s shooting up my living room; the next, he’s cowering among the...decades-old potatoes? Wine racks? Giant monster rats? Don’t think I’ve been out there since Dad died.

Maybe he never set out to fire on us. Maybe he only planned to spy on us through his scope. Maybe he saw what we were up to, took an impulsive shot, and freaked out.

If he thinks he hit us, I might have the element of surprise. Plus, I’ve got the tactical light on my rifle. Can’t assume Vince doesn’t have a light of his own—probably does, given he made it all the way up here—but at least I won’t be at a disadvantage.

I signal for Sarah to stay put, and head out after Vince. The lamp’s just bright enough for me to make out the black patch in the distance where the cellar stairs vanish into the ground. Found a huge salamander down there one summer. Popular hiding spot for slimy creatures. Ha-ha.

I peer down the stairwell from the bushes. The door’s shut tight. There’s a shiny spot on the handle, where the dust’s been rubbed away. He’s in there, all right. I jump down, trusting the downpour to cover the sound. It’s the work of a second to ready my rifle and kick in the door, to reveal—

—nothing.

Or...not quite nothing.

There’s a torch, still lit, abandoned on the floor. No, not abandoned: strategically placed, to illuminate a single word fingered into the dust.

Psych!

Fuck.

Also, fuck.

I kill the tactical light, and sprint back the way I came. Halfway across the yard, I can already hear Vince shouting from the living room. Good. That means Sarah’s still alive. Swallowing the impulse to barge straight in, gun blazing, I circle around back. The sunroom door’s locked, but it’s also made of glass. I force myself to wait for the next thunderclap, and put the butt of my rifle through it. The sound of shattering glass seems impossibly loud, even under cover of thunder, but Vince’s shouting doesn’t stop. I can hear what he’s saying now. It’s about me. It’s...not flattering.

That’s right. Keep talking. More words mean less shooting.

Glass crashes again, from the living room this time. Vince yelps and swears. Sarah must’ve thrown something.

I kick off my shoes and head down the hall in my socks. A board creaks, near the stairs, one I don’t remember creaking before, but Vince doesn’t seem to notice. I shuffle the last few steps, till I can see the living room reflected in the kitchen window. Vince has Sarah cornered under the knickknack shelf. She’s got the fire poker in one hand, and one of Dad’s collectible ashtrays in the other. Vince raises his gun, and she chucks the ashtray, nailing him in the elbow. He swears, wavers, and—

Now.

I spin around the corner, rifle up. I stare him down, through the sight. “Drop your weapon.”

He gets a petulant look on his face, like a kid denied candy. “You can’t—“

“I said, drop it!”

He lowers the barrel, but doesn’t let go. “This is between us. You can’t—you can’t just come in and—“

“Weapon on the floor. Now.”

He finally obeys. The shotgun hits the ground muzzle-first, leaving a nice dent in the hardwood. I narrow my eyes. Something tells me that wasn’t an accident.

And Vince is still whining. “Guys like you—you think you can just fuck anyone’s girlfriend, have your little...your dirty little hillbilly sex-pad, and you always get away with it, just because—“

I’m sick of this guy. I twist his arm behind his back. “On your knees.”

“Why? What are you going to—ow!”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the legal headache of harming a hair on your head.” I wrap my arm around both of his, securing him in place. “I’m just going to restrain you, till the police can come properly dispose of you.” I force him to his knees, as he doesn’t seem interested in going on his own. He still has a lot to say, but I call over him to Sarah. “There’s, uh...in the master bedroom, just up the stairs to the left—if you look in the bedside table.... Uh. Y’know. Set of handcuffs.”

I’m pleased to see a look of amusement flit across her face at that. “Be right back,” she says. She snags a candle, and heads off.

“At least I’m stopping you from using those on each other,” says Vince.

I roll my eyes, and don’t dignify that with a response. Guys like this hate being ignored.

Sarah ignores him, too, when she comes back with the cuffs. “I like your room. Especially the skylight.” She smiles at me, doesn’t spare a glance for him. “One thing, though—I do have to inform you that Boone ripped your shirt into tiny little pieces, and is sleeping in your bed.”

I laugh. “Of course he is.”

“Who the fuck’s—“

“Do I have to gag you, as well?” I snap on the cuffs, and let go of Vince. He wriggles, like he’s about to get up, but a firm hand on his head puts an end to that.

Sarah and I exchange glances over his head.

“So...this is awkward,” she says.

“I know—we ought to be all snuggled under the blanket by now doing the whole...the whole afterglow small-talk thing.”

Vince huffs.

“You mentioned something about me in your clothes, drinking hot chocolate earlier. We could do that. Y’know, sip some cocoa, pretend we’re in Starbucks, and he’s the creepy staring guy in the corner.” She shoots him a glance. He scowls back at her, and she shivers. She’s putting a brave face on the situation, but I can tell she’s rattled. I need a moment alone with this guy. Time to establish some ground rules.

“Why don’t you go see what you can find in my closet, and I’ll start the cocoa?”

“Sure.” She sneaks one more glance at Vince before hurrying off. He’s still giving her his best death-stare.

I wait till she’s safely out of earshot, then crouch down in front of him. “This is how it’s going to—“

“I don’t take orders from—“

I hold up my hand. “I said, this is how it’s going to go. You’ll stay where you are, nice and quiet. You’ll keep your eyes and your commentary to yourself. If you don’t, I’ve got a roll of duct tape in the kitchen, with your name all over it. Ever had to rip duct tape off your mouth, after it’s been there a few hours?”

He shakes his head sullenly.

“You don’t want to find out what that’s like. Scruffy guy like you, couple of days between shaves—“ I do an exaggerated wince. “Not going to be fun.”

“Fine. Whatever. You don’t have to—“

I hold up one finger, and he shuts his mouth with a snap.

“Better.”

By the time Sarah makes her way back downstairs, looking adorable in one of my dress shirts and a pair of tatty gardening shorts, I’m boiling milk, and Vince is, well, exactly where I left him. We set up camp in the kitchen: I can still keep an eye on our prisoner, and conversation’s a lot easier with some space between us and him.

Sarah doesn’t look his way once. Doesn’t even mention him. A lot of people would seize the chance to be spiteful in this situation—I wouldn’t have been surprised by a few verbal jabs, maybe a kick or two. I like that she doesn’t stoop to that level—that her wild, bitey side seems to come out in playful moments, not angry ones. She smiles, asks questions, touches my hand, like we really are on a date. Makes me think what we did might’ve been more than lust, more than stress relief.

I think I could fall for her.

Vince is breathing loudly, in a way that feels passive-aggressive.

“This is the most uncomfortably romantic thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say, hoping she’ll focus on the romantic part, not the uncomfortable part.

She chuckles. “We’ll be dining out on this story for years.”

We’ll be. I like it.

Vince stays mostly quiet, even when our chat drifts distinctly into the realm of sweet nothings. He can’t seem to hold back the occasional scoff or Jesus H. Christ, but I don’t follow through on my duct tape threat. The idea of Sarah seeing me do something like that, even to a jerk like Vince, doesn’t appeal.

It’s about half an hour later, when I spot flashlights outside. Someone’s coming up the path. I’m not worried: there are two possibilities here. Either Vince brought the world’s least stealthy SEAL team by way of backup, or it’s the cops.

I reach out with my foot, and nudge Sarah’s ankle. “Looks like rescue has arrived.”