Page 8 of Slay Ride

And so will Maverick, once the driver picks him up.

I want to crawl into a deep hole, bury myself, and hibernate for the rest of winter. Maybe life will be less bleak when I emerge.

“Cat, there’s nothing we can do about it here. Let’s get up to the mansion and figure it out someplace warm.”

Kindra eases the snowmobile out of the shed, and we clear the parking lot of our things in record time. Despite knowing Shorty is speeding away down the road, I still feel another twinge of disappointment when we reach the bottom of the pile and find no cat.

I’m just about to give up hope when we hear the crunch of snow under tires. We both turn as the driver steps out of the limo.

He opens the back door and shoves the cat carrier into my waiting arms. “I’m charging a hefty cleaning fee, just so you know. I do this job as a favor to Jim, but I draw the line at that smell.”

Before I can apologize for the tenth time in three seconds, he’s slamming the driver’s side door and peeling away.

I breathe a sigh of shit-tainted relief and hurry back into the shed to transfer Shorty to his backpack for the ride in. Kindra follows me, though I’m not sure of her emotions right now, since a purple ski mask covers her features. I’m willing to bet she’s three-parts as relieved as I am and one-part annoyed that I’m slowing things down.

The little space-pod backpack sits at the bottom of the pile. I dig it out and remove my gloves so that I can transfer Shorty from one container to the next. Using a nightshirt from my bag, I clean off his paws so that the smell won’t transfer with him.

To say that he’s angry would be an understatement. His dark pupils demolish his gold irises, leaving a raging black hole in each eye socket. I’ve scruffed him, yet that doesn’t stop his claws from swiping ever closer to my face.

Once he’s mostly clean, I stuff him into the space pod and loosen the straps so that it will fit on my back over all these layers. This will keep the cold wind away from him.

Outside, we hop onto the snowmobile and start into the woods. The treads grind over the trail. It’s not a very smoothride, but Jim couldn’t secure a team to build a road on such short notice. By next year, we’ll have a cobblestone path that will make this ride much more enjoyable.

Though we might need to adjust the time of year. The sun is just beginning to rise, and it’s almost eleven in the morning. Just before three in the afternoon, it will set again.

At least the trees have been cleared. The path is fairly wide, though I suppose it needed to be to accommodate the horses and carriage. That was my idea, and while it took some begging and pleading, Jim agreed to it in the end.

After a few minutes, the trees break apart and the mansion looms before us. It was built to look like a quaint cabin in the woods, but I’ve never seen a three-story log cabin with a fountain out front.

Ezra stands on the wraparound porch. He gives us a wave as we bring the snowmobile to a stop. With the grace only an Englishman possesses, he descends the stairs and welcomes us to the Alaskan wilderness.

The winter retreat has officially begun.

Chapter Four

Bennett

The microwave beeps to let me know my two-dollar TV dinner has reached an edible temperature. I’d better get used to eating these. For what Doctor Beats-His-Meat wants to charge to care for my mother, I’d better get used to a lot of things.

Loud, playful music blares from the apartment above mine. Seconds later, little feet begin pounding overhead. This is a daily occurrence. When the mother with five kids needs to unwind in her bedroom, she pops a loud-ass kiddie program onto the television and retreats to safety.

A bit of plaster crumbles from the light fixture after an exceptionally excited stomp, and I’ve just about had it.

I grab my sad meal and go to the tiny bathroom. If I eat on the toilet, I’m furthest from the noise. I’m also kept in good company, what with the little family of mice that have taken up residence within the crumbling walls. I drop a noodle into the corner between the tub and the toilet as a treat for them.

Most people would set out traps, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re just trying to make their way in life, same as anyone else.

At least they aren’t cockroaches.

I’m halfway through my depressing tray of what’s supposed to be shrimp scampi when my doorbell rings. On my way to the door, I deposit the remainder of the “meal” in the trash, where it belongs.

Through the peephole, I spot two youngish men in pressed white shirts, dark ties, and dress pants. Fucking Mormons.

I open the door to two of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen, which immediately remind me of Catarina Novak. And now I want to punch them both in the face even more for making me think of that vapid bitch.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the taller one says. “Could we possibly leave some literature with you?”

“It’s gonna be pretty hard to read it in the dark, so you’d best keep moving,” I say.

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