I don’t remember coming to the bed, he must have carried me. When he picked me up yesterday and walked to the pool, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
He’s so hot.
He’s fully dressed in black fatigue pants and a short-sleeve shirt that is stretched across his chest. His combat-boot covered feet are propped on the corner of the bed, and his laptop is on his legs. There’s no screen light shining on him, so he’s been asleep long enough that it’s gone to sleep as well.
Slowly, I move the blankets off me and look around for the crutches the hospital gave me yesterday. They must still be in the living room. The boot on my foot is awkward to pull out of the sheets, and I quietly limp to the bathroom, trying not to wake Rhys up.
My foot aches like hell, but I’m not taking any more of those pain pills. I don’t remember half of what I said after he brought me to the cabin. They must be super strong, I’ve never had that reaction to others I’ve taken before. I’ll take my chances with ibuprofen.
In the kitchen, the numbers on the microwave say it’s two-thirty. Still a long time until morning, and I’m not sleepy anymore. The last time I looked at the time last night, I think it was eight o’clock, and I usually function on five or six hours.
Even if I can’t go back to sleep, I’m not taking any more of those damn pills.
My mouth feels like a sandbox, so I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and drink half of it, the cold water like a rainstorm on the desert that is my tongue. Normally I would only take two ibuprofen for a headache, but I pop four into my mouth and wash them down with the rest of the bottle of water.
Thunder rumbles outside and, less than a minute later, lightning lights up the sky. Storms coming. Leaving the dim LED light strip on under the counter, I limp into my studio to look out the windows to see if it looks like it’s going to be bad.
It’s pitch black outside. The stars and the moon are hidden by the clouds, and I stand on one foot by the floor to ceiling windows to watch the lightning show that is happeningacross the sky.
It’s beautiful.
Maybe in the next few days, I can try to replicate the beauty of the rods of light traveling through the clouds on a canvas. I think the biggest challenge will be capturing the glow of the lightning inside of the clouds.
More thunder rumbles and ends with a sharp clap across the sky that makes me jump. The smell of chlorine floats up to my nose, and I realize I never took that shower before the pain pills knocked me out last night.
Another bolt of lightning lights up the sky, and the hairs on my neck stand up, making my heart flip in my chest. I feel like I’m being watched, and my eyes jump around the backyard of the cabin to see if I can see anyone.
I slowly back away from the window to go get Rhys when a hand covers my mouth and cold, hard metal presses into my ribs. My stomach drops as a body steps to my back and the hand tightens over my mouth, pushing my head into a hard chest.
His head dips next to mine, and warm breath moves across my cheek as a deep voice next to my ear says, “Hey there, blondie. That was some quick moving yesterday. How’s the foot?”
That voice. It’s Sanders, the asshole that came to my house.
Fixing my sights on the canvas next to me, I focus on taking even breaths through my nose and not letting the panic muddle my thoughts. I have to stay calm. It doesn’t help that his hand smells like cheap cologne and metal.
Another bolt of lightning flashes, and the light glints on the metal tip of one of my palette knives I use for texture painting. It’s within reach, I have to do it right, or he may just shoot me.
With a quiet inhale, I jerk my hand to the side. His handover my mouth tightens and presses my lip into my teeth, but I grab the biggest one from the cup and jab it into his leg.
He lets go of me with a growl. “Fucking bitch!”
I twist away from him, but I lose my balance on my one foot and fall to the ground. The gun swings in my direction as he grabs the handle of the knife to pull it out. When he looks down at his thigh, I scramble to the side on my hands and knees to hide.
“Drop it, Sanders.” Rhys’ deep voice sounds lethal on the other side of Sanders.
I peek around the other easel to see Rhys standing in the doorway from the kitchen with his gun pointed at Sanders’ head. The metallic taste of blood is on my tongue, and I can feel my bottom lip starting to swell.
Sanders lifts his hands and lets his gun fall slack around his finger just before Rhys steps up behind him, pressing his gun to Sanders’ head and grabbing it to tuck it in the back of his pants.
“Kinley!” Rhys barks.
“Here.” I say and stand up on one foot.
“Come here, baby.” His voice is firm and commanding, and I hobble to him. “Are you hurt?”
“Uh-uh.” My cut lip isn’t worth the attention.
His arm goes around my waist to hold me next to him. “He didn’t hurt you?” His eyes are moving between me and Sanders as he tries to look up and down my body.
