Page 5 of Night So Silent
“What in the ever-loving fuck?”
I give myself a free pass on this one. Because, seriously, what the fuck? But as I’m reading it, another text comes through, which immediately makes me see red.
UNKNOWN (3:44PM): However, if you’re still hung up on “equity”, you’re welcome to find out how a man would be treated if he showed the same level of disrespect as you are.
What does that even mean?
Thoroughly unsettled, I tuck my phone back in my coat pocket and take a deep breath. Why is Caleb still texting me after I blocked him? Total creep behavior. But I’m 1,500 miles away and I don’t need to think about this right now, at least until I can tell Brett about it on the 45-minute drive to her house.
Soon, there’s a groan from across the room and the baggage carousel creaks to life. I try to forget Caleb’s insidious communiqué for the time being and focus on trying to locate my suitcase, but my stress level only rises as everyone else’s seems to appear except mine.
Tears of frustration begin to well as I’m about to head to the customer service counter in defeat. But just then, there’s another thud and five more suitcases tumble off the chute, including my black one with the gold luggage tag. Awash with relief, I drag it off the belt when it comes around and start zipping my coat.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice rumbles over my shoulder.
“Oh, yeah,” I mumble and step out of the man’s way as I fumble with my zipper.
In the aftermath of Caleb’s veiled threats, I totally forgot to text Brett. I’ll do it as soon as I get outside. She must be wondering where I am at this point. I reach for my suitcase, but my hand only swipes the empty air. And when I look, my suitcase is gone. I whip around, my eyes darting across the room in panic. But then I see it.
A tall—very tall—man with broad shoulders, a blue puffer jacket, and two long, blonde French braids trailing down his shoulders. He’s a veritable Sasquatch heading toward the glass doors, and he has my suitcase in tow.
“Excuse me!” I break into a run after him. “Hey! That’s my suitcase!”
He doesn’t seem to hear my shouts and his stride is so long that I can barely catch up. I’m too exhausted and he might as well be a mighty Sequoia. So, in a moment of pure insanity, I do what tiny dogs do.
I grab him and hang on like a deranged koala.
He drags me for a few feet as I cling to his waist, until he stops abruptly and I tumble onto the tile. My last burst of energy dissipates and all I can do is stare up at him from the floor, studying me with curiosity. Then I hear a deep, baritone voice from up above.
“Barrett, yes?”
CHAPTER TWO
Eight Days Until Christmas
Barrett
“Who are you?” I demand, brushing my hair behind my ears.
“Sergei.” He looks me up and down. “Mikhailov.”
“That’s my suitcase!” I exclaim with irritation.
“I know,” he replies in a thick Russian accent.
I blink at him and his lack of explanation. “Then why do you have it?”
“I’m supposed to pick you up. Brett said she told you.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Right now, I still think some leviathan with eyes just as icy as his demeanor tried to steal my suitcase. This is the point where I dig my phone out of my pocket and finally look at the rest of my texts.
BRETT (3:09PM): Omggg I’m so sorry, I fell asleep because I was up all night with Ev! Col’s still at work and there’s no way I’ll get there in time, but our friend, Sergei, is closer and said he can pick you up. I sent him a pic of you so he knows what you look like. He’s a really tall Russian guy with long blonde hair and he looks like a lumberjack. You can’t miss him. Don’t worry, he’s a good guy. Honestly, you’re probably safer riding with him than my sleep-deprived ass…
When I glance back up, he’s still staring at me with the seriousness of a heart attack, waiting for me to comply. Brett’s right, Sergei does look like a lumberjack. He might even be taller than Colson, which I didn’t think was possible, and his Frenchbraids and blonde shadow of a beard make him look like he stepped out of a Viking documentary. And what am I to do? Apparently, now he’s my ride up the mountain. When he offers his hand, I barely have to hang on as he lifts me off the floor with barely any effort.
I officially introduce myself, to which he eyes me suspiciously and I follow him out the automatic doors into the sub-zero wind. I clench my teeth and pull my hood tight beneath my chin as we trek toward the short-term lot. Sergei, however, doesn’t bat an eye at the same wind that burns my cheeks and eyes. Finally, we reach a black Toyota Tundra outfitted with flood lights, a back rack, and multiple truck boxes. Sergei tosses my suitcase in the back seat and I climb inside as fast as I can.
I should text Brett that I found Sergei—or rather, he foundme, but I’m so over the entire journey, topped off with Caleb’s douchey behavior, that I can’t fathom looking at my phone again for fear of what I’ll discover next. Instead, I stare out the window and take the opportunity to space out to the dull roar of the stereo. And I do meanroar.Apparently, Sergei is a fan of metal.
