CHAPTER 9
“Dalton?” I whispered again.
He murmured and stirred, but didn’t wake up. While we’d been walking around the lake, he’d mentioned being exhausted from a long day, and he wasn’t kidding.
I lay there in the dark, replaying parts of our date. Had he invited me to spend the night? I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, and part of me wanted to dine and dash.
Then again, it was cozy there next to him, in the mildly claustrophobic maw of the Airstream.
My stomach grumbled.
Hungry already?
Of course I was hungry. I’d eaten one quarter of a steak, along with nothing more than green salad with a smattering of sliced strawberries and goat’s cheese. The meal had been delicious, but low-carb, and now I had a carbohydrate shortfall for the day that my tummy wouldn’t let me forget.
Panna cotta.
Dalton had mentioned panna cotta for dessert, so that was probably in the fridge.
I nudged him gently. “What about dessert?” I whispered.
When he didn’t respond, I answered for him, “Oh, Peaches, just help yourself. It’s in the fridge.”
I replied to my suggestion with a convivial, “Don’t mind if I do!”
Getting out of the bedroom was easier than getting in. The windows were midnight blue, and I felt exposed in the glowing light of the interior, so I tiptoed around the creaking trailer playing a game of Pick-Up Clothes.
Once fully dressed, I tidied up the plates and washed them in the tiny, round sink. Hot water came out of the tap. Where did the hot water come from? I had no idea.
I kept expecting Dalton to wake from the noises and come out, but he was completely zonked.
The panna cotta was in the under-counter refrigerator, and it was delicious—the firm custard neither too heavy nor too light.
I grabbed my phone from my purse, hoping to text Shayla, but I still had no cell service.
Fully dressed, I sat in one of the club chairs across from the kitchenette and considered my options.
After a few minutes, I decided that taking my clothes back off and climbing into that tongue of a bed was not a viable option. Sleeping here would mean using that tiny toilet, on the other side of a paper-thin wall from handsome, perfect Dalton, who probably didn’t poop, what with all his perfectness. He likely had Vern, the butler, do it for him.
While we’d been on our walk, I’d spotted some of the trails I’d ridden horses along years ago. The lake wasn’t that far from town, and if I took the shortcut through the trails, I’d be out to the highway in ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops.
From there, I’d have cellular service and be able to call Shayla, or even a taxi, for a ride.
Sure! Great idea! I’d just go crashing around through the woods in the dark at ten o’clock at night.
As I opened the trailer’s screen door with a squeak and stepped out into the bracing night air, I thought I was making a logical, intelligent choice.
HAH!
The moon was three-quarters full and at my back as I set off into the dark woods surrounding Dragonfly Lake.
The trail under my feet was mostly smooth, worn flat by many hikers, but a few exposed tree roots and fallen branches threatened to trip me up and make me feel even more foolish than I already felt.
I hadn’t worn a jacket, and now my bare arms were sniveling about the cold air and scratchy branches. Behind me, the trailer glowed like a space UFO. I stopped walking and stared at the rounded vessel that looked so much like an airplane minus the wings. How was it glowing? LED lights embedded along some of the aluminum seams? That had to be the answer, and not that it had come from another planet.
Dalton Deangelo was fully, completely human. So human!
I set off on the trail again, remembering the feel of his body in my hands. I’d cheated myself out of having him on top of me, thanks to my bunny rabbit blowjob. On the plus side, nobody gets pregnant from blowies. On the minus side… here I was getting lost in a dark forest, about to be taken by a sasquatch, or as the local folks call them, Forest Folk.
The term Forest Folk is misleading, making them sound like sprites or friendly spirits, but the Forest Folk in this part of the Pacific Northwest are not supernaturals you want to encounter. They’re part-human, part-sasquatch cannibals. They eat the toes of children who don’t clean up their bedrooms, and they have Santa Claus on speed dial. (Apparently, they have telephones.)
The best defense against Forest Folk is the same as what you learn in any self-defense course: run away. Forest Folk can regenerate missing body parts almost instantly, so even if you have an ax and chop off some limbs, they’ll grow new ones and then use their bloody old arms or legs to beat you to death.
About fifteen years back, one of the town librarians gathered up all the local legends and put them in an illustrated story book for children, which she self-published. The book was almost immediately banned, which only increased demand.
As I stumbled through the dark forest, my imagination kicked into overdrive. I regretted all those nights Shayla and I pored over the Forest Folk book at her house, reading by flashlight under the covers when we were supposed to be sleeping.
My favorite tale was the one about the Forest Folk man who kidnapped a fair maiden and was transformed by her love back into a human. There was something so romantic about that story, though it had some bestiality undertones that were likely the cause of the book ban.
I tripped over a dark branch that blended with the forest floor and fell onto my hands, hard. I stumbled up and shook my hands, thanking my many days spent lugging around heavy books for strengthening my wrists and preventing worse injury.
Something rustled in the woods. I froze, my ears prickling with attention. The night music—crickets chirping across the lake and breezes tickling the leaves—rose up around me.
“Hello?” I whispered. “Dalton?”
“Grrr.”
My mouth went dry and my heart tried to escape my body. “Dalton? Don’t joke around. I have a heart condition.” (That part was a lie; I do not have a heart condition, but the excuse does get you out of things like dodgeball and water pistol hide-n-seek.)
The growling sound came again, and this time did not sound at all like a handsome TV actor playing a prank.
Did beavers growl? I knew some were aggressive, and they could even kill a human if they got bitey and launched those massive sharp teeth at the femoral artery.
I listened for more noises as I pulled my phone out of my purse. There was still no reception, but the phone had a flashlight function. I turned it on, mindful of the battery drain, and slowly rotated, illuminating the trees around me.