Page 18 of Escaping Our Reality

I clear my throat, making sure my vocal cords are free of phlegm for when I have to scream. No way I’m going down without a fight. I even move my fingers toward the door handle. He’s not driving too fast, I could probably jump and not completely incapacitate myself.

Discreetly glancing at him, I’m surprised when an eerie calm washes over me. Something tells me he’s not an ax-wielding murderer or a kidnapping psychopath. And I’m hoping it’s not just his extraordinary good looks giving me that vibe.

Catching my eye, a low chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. “You can take your hand off the door handle, Lulu. I’m not a murdering maniac. There really is a place I wanna show you. And I promise when it’s time to leave—later tonight—you will be in one piece with your virtue fully intact.”

I don’t acknowledge his admission, but I do breathe an internal sigh of relief. We drive for about a quarter of a mile through the wooded trees when we come up on a clearing. His headlights shine brightly on the camp in front of us.

And that’s just what it is. A camp.

Immediately in front of us, there’s a huge concrete pad decorated with mismatched pieces of outdoor furniture—some regular lawn chairs, a couple of Adirondack chairs, and a wicker love seat with a bright red cushion. There are some wooden cable spools masquerading as tables. Right in the middle is a firepit. I lean forward, clamping my fingers on the dashboard to get a better look. Something shimmers just beyond the concrete pad. “Is that a lake?”

“Pond.”

I shift to look at him, watching in awe as he runs his fingers over his mouth. Butterflies soar from my stomach to my groin. Unable to accept the heat growing in my body, I quickly turn back to stare out the windshield. To the right of the concrete pad is a really big tent. Like a tent you sleep in when camping. (Not that I’ve ever been camping.) There are several large, outdoor resin storage containers, both next to the tent and to the left of the concrete pad. Solar lamps protrude from the ground around the site, providing small slivers of light that allow me to see what the headlights don’t illuminate.

“Ry, do you live here?” It’s the first time I’ve called him by that nickname since I announced its existence on the back porch of the trailer.

The second he hears the name leave my lips he sucks a hiss of air between his teeth. That small noise throws me off balance, making me feel things I don’t want to feel. Not about him. Not about a stranger.

I quickly sit up straight and square my shoulders.

He snorts underneath his breath. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He hops out of the running truck—never answering my actual question—and I follow his movements as he walks through the streams of light. He grabs something from one of the storage containers before jogging back. Leaning through the open driver-side door, he turns off the truck engine, shrouding everything around us in darkness. He turns on the switch to the battery-operated lantern in his hand and it puts out a surprising amount of light.

“Come out this way.” He reaches across the bench seat, holding out his hand.

I shouldn’t take it.

I know I shouldn’t.

So, I do. I always do what I shouldn’t.

His calloused fingers wrap around mine, and together we guide my body across the seat and out the driver-side door. He walks me across the gravel and leads me to the concrete pad. The night air has turned cooler, but I can’t feel it. All I feel is the strength of his hand around mine. Driving me slowly crazy. Deliciously crazy.

It feels so damn nice. I’ve never held hands with a guy before. Well, unless you count school dances where I had to hold hands with Hudson because our parents had to take pictures of us dancing together.

“Are you cold?”

“A little.” Can he tell I’m lying?

He immediately drops my hand and heads over to the firepit. I watch him grab sticks and a fire starter from a metal bucket. A few seconds later, a fire crackles to life. Setting the lantern on a side table, he steps out of the way, watching me, waiting for me to react.

“Thank you.” I can feel the chill now, now that his body isn’t connected to mine anymore.

I slowly walk around the concrete patio, checking out the furniture. I steal a few glances at him, and he looks completely and totally amused. Eventually, he sits down in a chair, spreading his legs wide in front of him, giving me unrestricted time and access to snoop around his space.

His obviously private space, based on the way everything looks so well-cared for.

There’s a worn wooden dock that juts out over the pond. There’s no noise. The bugs are lying dormant for the winter. But I bet the summer months are a symphony of cicadas and crickets. I meander around to the large tent, accidentally knocking over one of the small solar lamps with my foot. I stumble over myself to right it, embarrassment leaking from me like rain through a splintered window.

Still, Ry says nothing.

I shouldn’t be snooping. I shouldn’t even be here.

But I can’t help myself. I’m drawn to this place for some odd reason.

Drawn to him.

Unzipping the tent, I peek inside. It’s tall enough to stand in. There’s a blow-up mattress on the floor and some blankets, sheets, and pillows neatly folded in the corner. Doesn’t everything get wet when it rains? The tent must be waterproof. I take a step back and notice that it’s sitting on a large pad of brickpavers, protecting it from the actual dirt of the wooded ground, as well as the potential of standing water during a rainstorm.

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