Page 55 of Hideaway Whirlwind
“Sorry, meet Teagan and her kids, Dustin, Sydney, and that’s Kendall over there.” Layla points to my daughter, trailing after William and Lily to the coffee table in front of the caramel leather sectional to play with large plastic builder blocks. Sydney is the only one who waves at the group while Dustin and I remain motionless.
“This is Dolly and Wyatt—William’s parents—and William’s brother, Weston,” Layla says, motioning to a blonde woman closer to my age holding a toddler on her hip who squirms to be let down so he can play. If I hadn’t met Elliott, Wyatt would have been the biggest man I’d ever seen, maybe a little older than Davis, his sons the spitting image of him save for the grizzly brown beard.
Layla continues rapid-fire introductions of each couple—Violet, with a purple streak in her brown hair, and Jared, with his short, military-style cropped dark hair, and their infant son, Jeremy; Cora, with dark hair just this side of Black that’s piled in the biggest, prettiest bun, and Trace, skinny as a toothpick with floppy golden hair, wearing a large bucket hat and even larger boots, and their son, Gauge; Russell’s son, Paul—also the spitting image of his father, though a little shorter and leaner—and his girlfriend, Mckinley, who is the tallest of all the women and the coolest with deep-magenta dyed hair; and lastly, a salt-and-pepper older man named Harold, wearing a white button-down with his name tag pinned above the breast pocket. If I get hired at Granny’s Diner, I’ll be working with him, since he’s the manager.
Other than Harold, all their names, where they work, and how they all know each other go in one ear and out the other as I grow hot in my thick knit sweater beneath their stares.
“Where is—there she is!” Layla says when another womanwith shoulder-length blonde hair shuffles her way into the circle, introduced as Harold’s wife, Faye.
“Pleased to meet ya,” Faye says in one of the sweetest voices I’ve ever heard, lifting her hand to shake mine.
I crave Elliott’s solid presence at my back when I recoil from Faye, bile rising in my throat when I see her pink dress and bright-white tennis shoes.
“Oh, did I spill something on my uniform?” Faye twists, looking for stains on her dress. “I knew I should have stopped to change after my shift.”
“No, no, I…” My voice comes out shaky, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.I’m ok. This isn’t the desert. They’re all dead. We’re safe. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying on a smile and briefly touching Faye’s hand before wiping my sweaty palm down my stretchy black maternity skirt, borrowed from Goldie’s closet. “Just, um…”
I hate that Faye looks hurt as the other women silently peer at me like they’re all trying to work out what the fuck is wrong with me.
Layla jumps in, searching my face with some confusion, and covers for me when she asks, “Would y’all like a tour of the house?”
“Yes, yes!” Sydney says, jumping up and down. She shows zero reaction to the pink uniform, but Dustin watches Faye, something working behind his dark eyes. He and Sydney were both so young when we escaped—much too young to remember anything, I remind myself…and yet…Dustin grabs my hand, squeezing it hard.
Layla goes to the grand staircase to start the tour on the second floor, and I excuse myself at the last moment, saying I need to use the restroom. She points to a side door we’d passedin the foyer, but when she turns around, I pull Goldie aside. “Will you watch Kendall for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” she says, smiling at the four youngsters playing in a group. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah, I just need to get some air.” I fan my face with exaggeration, then wave to the wall of glass doors at the back and slip out onto the covered stone patio that leads to a gorgeous pool with underwater mood lighting. I move to the edge of the patio out of view, and it’s there, staring off at the trees that I’m pretty sure separate Russell’s property from Elliott’s, that I clutch my stomach and dare to call out in a strained voice, “Elliott?”
A large mass slinks out of the shadows from around the side of the house. “What’s wrong?”
I jump and loop my arms around Elliott’s thick neck, a white bandage taped over some kind of wound. “I knew you’d be here.” Knew it with every fiber of my being, even though Goldie had told me he was strictly prohibited from coming to the party. I was trying to be a gracious guest by not texting Elliott, begging him to come like I really wanted to. The consolation was I knew he’d have sensed it the minute I drove past his driveway and would never be able to stay away, no matter what he said in his text message or may have promised anyone else.
“I’m not supposed to be,” he says, holding me with one hand under my butt and discreetly hefting one of the extra-large pool lounge chairs off the patio. He carries us both around the side of the house, far enough away that we can no longer hear the party going on inside, the house blocking most of the moonlight.
Softly dragging my fingertips through the back of his hair, Ipress my cheek to his, his beard oddly short and scruffy. “I’m so glad you are.”
“Yeah?” His voice holds a note of disbelief, and I nod to reassure him.
The lounge chair is made of some kind of sturdy metal instead of plastic, and tightly woven fabric that doesn’t groan or threaten to split when he plops down on it, stretching his long legs out, crossing his ankles.
Though my skirt has a high slit up one side, I have to awkwardly rise and lift the hem enough that I can straddle his wide lap so that I can continue hugging him. And hug him, I do, trying to get closer, a little closer, then more until we’re flush.
“What happened to your neck?” I ask. “Did you get hurt at the warehouse?”
Elliott inhales. “Kinda,” is all he says cryptically. He changes the subject when he asks, “Wanna tell me why you’re upset?”
“I freaked out again when I saw Faye’s uniform.” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture anything but that horrible pink dress.
“The cult.” Not a question. He rubs my back, one hand slipping low to the top of my ass, the other traveling the length of my thigh, his palms hot and rough, grounding me to the here and now.
“It’s one of the few ‘Zera-like’ colors,” I say with sarcastic emphasis, “that we were allowed to wear.” I press my lips to Elliott’s cheek, hoping I don’t start dry heaving, shuddering with revulsion.
“That’s why all your clothes are dark?”
“Yeah. We were never allowed to wear black. They evenmade me bleach my hair and dye it one of the approved pastel colors.” It’s taken years to grow it back out after being destroyed by bleaching my roots every few weeks.
“You’re fucking kidding me. What about the kids?”
