Page 30 of Nightmare

“You can bring this one back anytime, son.”

“Hazel won’t be a fan,” Fury points out.

Colt keeps the smile, but it turns a smidge colder. “You leave Hazel to me. It was a pleasure to meet you, Bonnie. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t be,” I say, crossing my legs and giving them a dazzling grin. “I’m hard to get rid of.”

Chuckling, Colt turns and walks away.

Western looks to me, and then nods his head toward the outside.

“I’m going to guess that means you want me to walk with you?” I say.

Fury chuckles. “She can read you already, definitely a keeper.”

Western gives him a look, and then I stand and follow him outside, more than a little curious as to what it is he’s going to show me.

One thing is for sure, I like it here.

A lot more than I thought I would.

7

Walking through thedark night, I notice right away that we’re heading toward a shed sitting in the back corner. It is almost hidden from the rest of the compound, surrounded by trees and secluded. Is this where Western spends his days? When he needs to get away from it all? Nervous twists in my stomach, I follow him wearily. I’m not sure exactly what he’s bringing me down here for, but we’re alone, and I’m not quite sure what to make of that.

Reaching the front door, Western pulls out a key from his pocket and unlocks it. Pushing it open, he steps aside, letting me in first. Glancing around the huge space, I’m shocked at how incredible it is. What I thought was just a shed, isn’t. Half of it has been built in as living quarters, with a bed, a sofa, a small kitchenette, and a toilet and bathroom. It has a large black and red rug on the concrete floor, and it’s really neat.

The other side of the shed is open, with a large work bench, some big tools and machinery that I don’t know the names of, and in the middle, on a large black plastic liner, is a motorcycle. It’s partially painted, and there are bits and pieces surrounding it, like it hasn’t been fully put together. Tools line the ground and the bench beside it, and I can see right away that Western has clearly been restoring it.

“You live here?” I ask, turning toward him.

He shakes his head, just a touch. “Mostly. It’s space. Spend most nights here.”

I love it when he speaks, his voice is so husky and deep, almost untouched. Like it is fresh and unused, a voice the world has rarely heard.

Glancing at the bike, I walk over to it slowly. As I near, I notice that he has very artistically painted the tank. The closer I get, the more I see just how incredibly talented he actually is. Shades of green, brown, and blue make up a picture so delicately painted. It’s a swamp, I can tell right away, yet how he has done it is utterly breathtaking. He has painted every tiny detail, every leaf on a tree, the ripples in the water, it’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

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