Steadily, he made his way toward me, getting closer and closer, until he was at the water’s edge. He stopped several feet from where I stood and, without a word, held out his hand. Again, I felt the magnetism of him.
Trapped in his silvery stare, I moved forward, my feet propelling me of their own accord. I stopped, only inches from him.
“Who are you?”
“The person who’s saving you,” he growled, his voice a deep, velvety surprise. It resonated deep in my chest, tickling my senses and making them hum like a tuning fork.
“Fr-from what?”
“From you,” he responded cryptically.
So quickly it startled me, his hand struck out and he grabbed my wrist. His fingers were like steel bands clamped around my bones. Turning, he began to walk away from the water, pulling me along behind him. It never occurred to me to resist; I didn’t even want to.
We walked up around the fire pit, past the cabanas toward the back of the clearing where I’d first seen him. My heart thundered in my chest, my mind spinning wildly. Somewhere in the back of my head, I admitted that I was a little afraid. Though I didn’t really think he was there to hurt me, instinctively I knew he was dangerous—very dangerous. It rolled off him in thick black waves, waves that I perceived on some subconscious, primal level. I had no idea why he was there, what he wanted with me or why I kept dreaming about him, but I felt compelled to find out. And, too, I was still inexplicably drawn to him.
He led me past the edge of the clearing and into the woods. Surefooted, as if he could see the black path in front of him, he wove his way through trees, around stumps, and over debris, all the while maintaining his tight grip on my wrist.
My nerves jangled like an orchestra of cymbals. “I’m Carson. Carson Porter,” I said quickly, anxiously. I felt the need to fill the space between us with words. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken, but I continued anyway. “I think my parents thought I was going to be a boy. Of course, they named my sister Grey, so maybe not.” Still he made no comment, made no move to slow down or address me in any way. “My mother liked to read. Dad says she named me after Carson McCullers and my sister after Agnes Grey. Can you believe that? Why didn’t she just name me Judas or Depeche Mode, something really depressing?”
Finally we reached a dirt road and there, parked along the shoulder, was a shiny black motorcycle. Its glossy surface and heavy chrome accents gleamed in the moonlight. It looked perilous and powerful, sleek and muscular, like it was cut from the same cloth as its rider.
Letting go of me, he mounted the bike and, with a flick of his wrist, brought the engine throbbing to life. Once more, he held his hand out to me.
All the instructions about strangers my dad had given me over the years, all the horror stories and cautionary tales I’d heard, resounded in my head. I hesitated, but only for a second, before taking his hand and straddling the bike behind him. For better or worse, I was going to see where this led, consequences be damned.
“Hold on,” he commanded in his gruff voice as he kicked the bike’s stand out of the way.
He revved the engine and it roared its readiness, vibrating beneath me. A quiet thrill tickled my spine as I put my hands on his waist, my palms flat against his sides.
I could feel the muscles move and shift as he guided the bike onto the road. He felt warm and firm and somehow safe. Dangerously safe.
This entire night had been so far beyond anything I’d ever experienced the only thing I knew to do now was hold on tight and not look back. Never in my life had I made such a series of bad choices, this one quite possibly the worst, but I had to see where he was going, where he was taking me. I wanted to know.
Actually, it was more than I just wanted to know. I was desperate to know. I had to know. And not just where we were going. I was desperate to know him, too. I had to know him. I felt like I needed it, needed him, like I needed air. And even though I knew that was ridiculous, it felt true nonetheless.
As he accelerated, I leaned into his back. I wound my arms further around him, circling his waist and laying my palms against his hard stomach. I felt the muscles twitch beneath my fingertips. My own stomach muscles clinched in response. Every nerve in my body was tightly attuned to him, singularly focused on him.
After we’d left the dirt road and reached the smooth pavement, I rested my cheek against his back and closed my eyes. Beneath the various aromas carried on the wind, the subtle scent of his skin teased my nose. He smelled like midnight, dark and sexy.
I cleared my mind as we rode, concentrating on the feel of the wind in my hair, the man pressed against my chest and nothing else.
In what seemed like a few short minutes, we slowed and the engine whined as he downshifted to make a turn. Two turns later, he pulled to a stop and I opened my eyes. When I looked around, I was surprised to see that we were at Leah’s house, parked along the curb at the street.
He cut the engine and flipped the kickstand down with his heel. He turned his head to the side and waited, as if signaling me to get off, which I did. When I was standing beside the bike, he gently let it lean over onto the kickstand then dismounted as well.
He turned toward the driveway.
“What are you doing?”
“Going inside,” he said as he began his ascent of the driveway. “You coming?”
“Y-you can’t go inside!”
He stopped and turned to stare back at me. “Why not?”
“What do you mean ‘why not’? Because this isn’t my house, that’s why not. This is my friend’s house,” I explained, then, “Wait, how did you know where to bring me anyway?”
He had already turned back around and was walking to the front door. I felt panic rise inside me. What would the Kirbys do? What if they called the police? Would they arrest him? What if they found out about the fires? What if I got arrested? I’d be grounded until I turn twenty-five. Minimum.
Still too addled to think straight, I came to one comforting, solid conclusion: I had to run. I’d run home and try to sneak into the house and tell the biggest, fattest lie I could come up with in the morning.
I was turning to do just that when I saw the front door open. My heart leapt into my throat and I watched, paralyzed with fear, as the stranger came face to face with Bruce Kirby. Then, to my utter amazement, Mr. Kirby spoke something I couldn’t hear and stepped back to allow the stranger to go inside. I stood at the curb, mouth agape, wondering what in the world was going on.
When the stranger had passed, Mr. Kirby poked his head out and said, “Carson, come on inside. It’s freezing.”