Page 13 of Can't Stop
“Morning, you two,” Samuel says from the stove. His hulking form hovers over a pan of scrambled eggs, his forearms flexing as he stirs the mixture. “Breakfast is almost ready, and then you two can head into town to grab a room for the night. I’ve already spoken with the innkeeper, so she’s expecting you.”
Dalton takes a seat at the small table near a window. “We appreciate it, Sam, but we talked about it, and I think it’s best we head on from here.”
“Samuel,” he says without dropping his smile, and I don’t miss the hidden right hook.
Neither does Dalton. His head rears back slightly, and he clears his throat. “My apologies, Samuel. But as I said, we have to keep moving.”
“Hate to hear it, but I understand. I sewed up the squirrel’s side already, but he’s unable to be moved for a few days. I can always ship him to?—”
“No!” I scream. My legs nearly give out, so I sit in a chair beside Dalton before I collapse. “I mean, I can’t be away from him. And thinking about him in a tiny box, getting squished or forgotten . . .”
Dalton reaches over and places his hand on mine, then looks at Samuel. “Couldn’t you tell us how to properly handle him? I mean, he isn’t exactly in great shape, so I don’t see how we could fuck him up much more than he already is.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Samuel shovels the eggs onto the plates lining the counter, followed by a few strips of bacon, fluffy biscuits, and a pat of butter. He slides the plates onto the table, then takes a seat beside Dalton. “If he isn’t kept in the proper conditions as the skin sets, he could end up too brittle. That crack in his side will be a splinter compared to the devastation of his entire hide crumbling to dust.”
“D-dust? I need water.” I lick my lips, but my mouth is a desert.
Dalton gives me a glare, probably internally panicking at the possibility that I’ll change my mind and say we’ll stay. He’s right to panic.
“Well . . . maybe we can stick around for forty-eight hours, but then we really?—”
My loving boyfriend kicks me beneath the table. I get it. I do. But we’re talking about Van Gogh.
“Forty-eight hours should be just enough time for the hide to set.” Samuel’s smile returns as he slathers butter onto his biscuit. “Besides, we’ll be starting the Funeral Celebration tomorrow, and you wouldn’t want to miss that.”
Meanwhile, Dalton looks like he’s about to burst into flames.
I lean over my plate and try to eat. The food is delicious, but I can’t enjoy any of it. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being held hostage, that Samuel is dangling my squirrel above my head. And I still can’t figure out why . . .
When I finally push my plate away, Dalton stands from the table. He hasn’t even touched his food. “I guess we’ll head down to the inn now,” he says with a forced smile. At least he’s trying, I guess. “Thanks for the hospitality.”
“Of course.” Samuel dabs his full lips with a napkin and then rises to shake Dalton’s hand. “I’ll see you again, of course. I have your squirrel, don’t forget.”
“No, we haven’t forgotten.” Dalton shakes his hand—maybe a bit too aggressively.
We walk to the door with Samuel on our heels, but he doesn’t pass the threshold. As we nervously exit at a brisk walk, he just leans against the door and watches us.
He no longer smiles, however.
“Okay, I’m officially creeped the fuck out,” I say as soon as I close the car door.
Dalton shoves the keys into the ignition, cranks the car, and begins backing out. “Then please explain why you agreed to remain in this shithole for two more days.”
“Van Gogh?—”
The car jerks to a stop at the end of the long driveway, and Dalton throws the shifter into park. “Rayna, I love you. I love every part of you, even the weird parts that are fucking scary. But that squirrel is going to get us killed!”
I have no argument, so I just sink into my seat and pout. Because he’s right. If it weren’t for my ridiculous attachment to an inanimate object, we could just leave.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Dalton sighs and puts the car in drive again. Once we’re on the road, he places his hand on my thigh and gives it a squeeze. “I know he’s important to you. I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s just . . . this place is wrong.”
“It’s not as if we can’t protect ourselves. I mean, remember who we are. We’re the Halloween Harvesters! We can’t let the assholes out-creep us.”
A house drifts by on our right. I stare at it as we pass, noting how abandoned it feels. The lawn is maintained, and a car sits in the driveway, but the property exudes a feeling of forgottenness.
“It feels almost like a ghost town, doesn’t it?” I say.
