Page 15 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Deciding it’s time to end this horrendous day, I swipe my bags from where Beckett left them by the door and search out his bedroom.
It’s a little weird to be in this stranger’s space, to be sleeping in his bed, when I know so little about him. But I guess it’s no different from the cabin I’ve rented for my stay. Except I won’t have to deal with the host unless there’s an issue. I’ve stayed at Airbnbs before and I’ve never once thought about the person who owns the place. Good thing I’m good at pretending.
The wood paneling from the living room continues into Beckett’s bedroom. It’s not too big, but it’s organized. Only a few trinkets and photos on the dresser, a pile of books and a lamp on the nightstand, the bed in the center of the room neatly made. Ican’t decide if this fits with the man I’ve spent the last couple of hours with or not.
Even with writer’s block, my brain works overtime to decipher what makes people tick, what quirks I can use for future characters. I’m not sure I’ll take anything from Beckett. He seems too . . . complex, for lack of a better term. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind unraveling some of his layers, getting to the core of who he is. If he’d let me.
Most likely not. I’ll be lucky to get him to fix my SUV tomorrow and not charge me an arm and a leg.
I fall onto my back on the mattress, my arms and legs starfishing, my eyes getting a good view of the ceiling. This is the view Beckett sees every night before he goes to sleep.
It’s the last thought I have before my lids lower, the comfort of the bed lulling me to dreamland.
I’m awoken by a slamming door.
The fuzzy room comes into view as my eyes adjust to the light. My heart pounds in my chest as I decipher where I am. It takes a few minutes to remember: Beckett’s cabin. I fell asleep with my clothes on, my teeth unbrushed, my contacts still in.
Sitting up on the bed, the sound of running water kicks my heart rate faster.
Fuck. There’s someone else in the cabin!
Adrenaline courses through me, the possibilities endless of who could be on the other side of the door.
A genuine serial killer.
A rapist.
A burglar.
My overactive imagination runs haywire with options.
I scan the room for a weapon to protect myself from whoever it might be. At the very least, I should callBeckett. Or maybe 9-1-1.
Searching for my phone, it’s nowhere to be found, meaning I must have left it out in the kitchen or living room. Right, after my call to Mom to assure her I was safe and sound at my destination.
Not having my phone ratchets my anxiety. I can’t let the memories of last time get the better of me . . .
“Shit.” I keep my voice low, not wanting whoever’s out there to know I’m here. Maybe they’ll just take what they came for and be on their way and not realize I’m even here.
Wishful thinking.
Hardly unlikely, especially if it’s someone who wants something from Beckett.
I still my breathing, making myself into a ball as I ponder what to do, how to keep myself safe in this situation. I will myself to keep calm, my thoughts not to spiral out of control, my breathing to remain steady.
Who am I kidding? That’s an impossible task. Each one of them by themselves. But together? Yeah, not happening.
A loud thump echoes beyond the door. “Ow. Fuck.” A man’s deep timbre penetrates my brain. It sounds somewhat familiar, like I’ve heard it before.
I test it out. “Beckett?” I say it just loud enough to be heard in the other room, fearful I’m wrong.
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry.” A soft knock comes on the door. “Can I come in? Or you come out?”
“You can come in.” I move against the headboard, tucking my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms around them, willing my heart rate to return to normal.
It’s just Beckett.
Who’s still very much a stranger, but at least he’s not completely unfamiliar.
