Page 28 of Slay Ride

In my panic, I actually hadn’t thought of that, but I won’t say so out loud.

I stand and send my elbow through the window, though I’m shocked Jim didn’t outfit the cabin with bulletproof glass. The thin pane shatters and falls in clear shards on the floor inside.

I reach in through the hole and unlock the door, then rush to Cat and pick her up with a grunt. “You need to lay off the potatoes,” I say. “If you expect men to carry you through the forest, you might want to watch your waistline.”

“At least I eat them instead of fucking them,” she whispers, and that’s when I know she’ll be okay. When she wasn’t being mean, I was really concerned.

“So you discovered my little trick and didn’t eat them?” I ask as I hurry into the cabin and kick the door shut behind us. “You’re breaking my heart, kitten.”

“Stop . . . calling . . .”

“Stop calling you kitten?” I drop her onto the couch in front of the empty fireplace. “I’ll consider it if you promise you won’t die on me.”

I wait for the snappy retort, but it doesn’t come. She’s out again. It’s for the best. Saving her is a lot harder to do when she’s reminding me of all the reasons why I should let her freeze to death.

Now that we’re out of the elements, we still aren’t out of danger. The wooden walls block the wind, but it’s still below zero in here. A few split logs have been stacked by the fireplace. It’s a good start, but I don’t know how long we’ll be here. If we’re stuck here overnight, that stash won’t last.

Regardless, it’s what I have for now, so I set to work.

Seeing nothing with which to start the fire, I pull out my pitiful keychain flashlight and take another look around. Acouch and coffee table stand in front of the fireplace, but that’s all the furniture to be seen. On the other side of the room, a wood-burning stove crouches amid towering cabinets, counters, and more cabinets. It appears there’s no power, nor running water.

I head for the cabinets and begin rifling through everything. Non-perishables and MREs line the shelves of one cabinet, but I see nothing combustible. In the next, I find only medical supplies and cans of purified water that are surely frozen solid.

Then, in the last cabinet, I strike gold.

Inside, I find several boxes of starter logs and stacks upon stacks of newspaper. Now all I need to do is build the fire.

After setting the starter log in the fireplace, I pile some of the logs around it, then cram newspaper into the gaps. I leave a hole in the center so that I can push the fire onto the starter log. I crumple and twist some newspaper into a long wick, then stand there like a dumbass.

I’d planned to use the stove to light the wick, but it’s a wood-burning stove.

At least Cat isn’t awake to make fun of me.

Speaking of Cat, I’m not sure how she’s doing while I play Where’s Waldo with a fucking source of fire. Too scared to check on her, I head for the drawers beneath one of the wooden counters. Inside the first one, I find a lighter.

I rush back to the fireplace. After lighting the wick, I hold the growing flame to the starter log. The flame catches, and a pitiful burp of warmth puffs toward me.

“I will feed you so that you grow big and strong,” I say to the flames as I toss in a few more newspaper balls.

I still need to find more wood on the property, but now that we have heat, we need to get dry. That has to be the next priority. Our gear is great for keeping out the cold, but the sweat inside is what gets you.

By the time I’ve stripped down to my boxers, the temperature has already risen to a near-tolerable level. The stones that make up the fireplace absorb the warmth and distribute it further, helping evenly heat the small space.

I turn my attention to Cat. I don’t enjoy the idea of undressing her, but I don’t exactly have a choice, so I set to work.

Now that some feeling has returned to my fingers, I can tell just how damp her clothes are. I pull off her gloves first. Her fingers have become slender ice blocks. They’re freezing. And pale.

“Frostnip is setting in, kitten. We have to get you warmed up. I have to take off your clothes, but I’m enjoying this about as much as getting a lobotomy, so don’t worry.”

I don’t wait for her objection, which is fine because she doesn’t even budge. When I remove her goggles and the mask from her face, I see why. She’s knocked the fuck out.

Her feet didn’t fare much better than her hands, but at least she was smart enough to wear two pairs of thick wool socks. That might be the only thing that saves her red-tipped toes.

This next part is usually the moment I enjoy most. Pulling off a woman’s clothes is like unwrapping a present. You usually love the gift inside, but this time, I hope it came with a gift receipt.

But as I peel away the layers—which include not one, but two pairs of sweatpants, three sweaters, and a long-sleeved Henley—I discover that Cat isn’t a gift at all. She’s a box of Cracker Jack’s, complete with a surprise inside.

“Were these your dad’s long johns? Jesus Christ, they’re hideous.”

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