Page 8 of Chasing Lustre

Lovely.

The chirping birds become impossibly loud, and I rub vigorously at my eyes to clear them. The world is a little blurry, but there’s no mistaking the flapping sounds. Shadows of dozens of birds surround my tent, flying, diving, and walking about, pecking at the ground.

What in the world?

Cautiously extricating myself from the warmth of my sleeping bag, I crawl forward until I can touch the cold zipper that opens the front flap. I slowly pull up, unzipping it and peeking out to see an array of damn birds. Freaking flying rodents.

A shiver runs down my back. Although I can appreciate birds at a distance, being surrounded by so many makes me uneasy. Between their beady little eyes and sharp beaks, I’ve had many a waking nightmare about the strange dive-bombing creatures.

My eyes narrow on the ground, noticing the seeds everywhere, and understanding slowly dawns on me. Murphy can’t possibly know about my bird aversion, but his desire to run me off the mountain has been made abundantly clear. This is just the next escalation.

Locking my jaw, I decide to show him that this is absolutelyno big deal–even if the idea of stepping out into the mayhem has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Locating my shoes, I put them on and unzip the tent the rest of the way before stepping out into the sunshine.

With a deep breath, I close it back up even though every instinct makes me want to run through these disgusting animals screaming like a psycho. The need to make a scene is so strong, but I push it down and walk evenly through the cawing monsters. My heart pounds in my chest, and I keep my eyes trained forward, trying to get through the cluster without having a total meltdown. And I almost make it…

A whoosh of air flies by my ear. I swear a damn wing grazes my cheek—and it’s the last straw.

“Away, you devil birds,” I shriek, flinging my hands up around my head to bat at the phantom menaces. My leg muscles bunch as I run through them, panicked and unseeing, just trying to get away from them. A pounding in my temples accompanies the wailing in my head, and I’m heading into a full-blown panic attack until a deep chuckle breaks through the dark haze.

My eyes snap to the porch, landing right on Murphy, who’s relaxing against the railing, drinking coffee. The steam rises in the cold air, swirling until it disappears in little smoky tendrils. He’s fully dressed for a hike, wearing jeans and thick-soled bootswith his hair pulled back. Even when he’s an asshole, he’s still hot.

“Thanks for the wake-up alarm, Man-Bun,” I call chipperly, trying my best to calm my racing heart. I could scream and yell about his behavior, but even knowing him for barely a day, I can tell he won’t give a shit. “Do you have a cup for me?”

“Nope. Only made the one. If you want coffee, there’s a great place down in town. Go check it out. Take the tent with you.”

With those words, he turns his back on me to fiddle with the door. I wonder what he’s doing for a moment, but when a lock snaps into place, I get the message.

“Really, Murphy? You won’t even let me use the bathroom?” My bladder decides at just that moment to alert me to our urgent need.

“Plenty of bathrooms in town.” He slings a moss-green backpack over his shoulders and heads off into the woods without a backward glance.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

Indecision rolls in my belly. I’m not dressed for hiking, but Murphy is disappearing fast, and with only five more days to get him to the wedding, I can’t lose even a single second.

Glancing back at my bird-covered tent, I shudder and make the decision.

“You have something red on your cheek,” I chirp, causing Murphy to glance back at me—finally. So far, this hike has been the absolute worst. Living in Lustre Lake, I’m no stranger to the joys of wandering the trails and the beauty of the great outdoors, but this man hikes like the hounds of hell are nipping at hisheels. The pace is almost impossible to keep up with and he hasn’t answered even half of my questions—not that talking is all that easy at his breakneck pace.

It’s beautiful—the stunning foliage lighting up the woods. And I don’t even have my damn camera.

Freaking man-bun.

My thighs burn, and sweat drips down my back as I pant. Thirst has become my constant companion, and if my dad were here, he would be so damn pissed I went out in unfamiliar terrain without a water bottle, bug spray, or proper footwear. Then again, if my dad were here, he wouldn’t be surprised at my impulsive decisions and would likely have everything I need carefully tucked away in his bag.

Murphy reaches up and rubs his face, the red streak breaking and making me realize it’s paint.

“Is that paint? Did you make the mosaic on your house? Ohhhh, did you paint all the pretty blues in your bedroom?” I ask, dying to know more about the mystery man Drew considers family—even if he seems like a pretty shitty brother to me.

“Yes, the artwork is mine.” I’m shocked that he answers, and a million more questions leap to my dry lips. They are becoming sore and chapped, but I say nothing because I don’t want him to think I’m foolish.

“Is that something you do for fun? Or…” I trail off, hoping he will fill the void.

With a deep sigh, he answers, “I sell some of my artwork. It’s not a job. Just the spare pieces I don’t want when my studio becomes too full.”

“Tortured artist is kind of a hot look on you,” I chime in, and he lets out a snort that is close enough to a laugh that I chalk it up as a win. The silence takes over again, and my throat gets drier and drier until even breathing becomes difficult.

Damnit. I’m going to need to ask.

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