Chapter 11

Within minutes, Leighton and I were making our way through the nearly deserted parking lot, and reaching his pickup, he pulled the door open, as bowing a little, he murmured, “My, Lady,” then helped me inside the cab of his pickup.

After pushing the door shut, he sauntered around the front of the pickup to the driver’s side, and after climbing in behind the steering wheel, he turned in my direction as pinning me beneath his gaze, he muttered, “You saw him?”

His words took me aback, and I gasped, “You know he’s back?”

Silence overwhelmed the interior of the pickup for a few minutes before Leighton finally hissed, “Yeah, I know,” then, following the words with a snarling curse, he jerked around and started the pickup.

Placing it in reverse, he backed out of the parking space before cramming the gear shift in drive, he shot out on the street.

Wincing in agitation, I wondered again, why Leighton was so angry with Declan. I’d known how he’d felt since Declan had left, but he’d never told me why. In fact, both brothers had been seething after Declan left and neither would talk of him.

As he drove, Leighton remained quiet and soon we were bouncing down the quickly deteriorating drive of my small cabin, the huge potholes on its dirt surface causing the pickup to shutter and shake, as well forcing a multitude of swear words to rip from Leighton’s mouth.

After pulling up in front my porch, he shut off the engine with a harsh twist of his wrist; the very action portraying the anger still bubbling below the surface, then leaning his head back against the headrest, he closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths, before giving his head a shake, he jerked off the rest and turning to glare in my direction, he roared, gesturing toward the cabin. “Explain to me again. Why are you being so damn stubborn and insisting on living in that deteriorating piece of shit?”

Shaking my head, I climbed out of the pickup, and pushing the door shut with my hip, I hurried around to the driver’s side, then leaning against the door so Leighton couldn’t push it open, I poked my head into the space left by the rolled, down window, as eyes sweeping his face, I murmured, “Leighton, we go through this every time and you know I always say the same thing. I need this; I need to make it on my own.”

Leaning over the door a little further, I placed my lips against his cheek, giving him a light kiss of goodnight, then breaking the contact between us, I pulled my head back out as with as genuine of a smile as I could muster, I whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Afterward, turning, I made my way onto the porch and opened the door. I stood within its entrance as I waved in Leighton’s direction. The action signaling the evening was at an end, as well disrupting any further argument he could toss out about the state of my living conditions.

After he’d backed out and began barreling his way back down the drive, I turned and entered the cabin. Raising a foot, I kicked the door shut behind me, before stilling as the sensation washed through me someone was in my home.

Heart pounding within my chest, I quickly considered the merits of turning and fleeing back outside or staying where I was, but within the count of my next heartbeat, I made my decision; I wasn’t running. This was my place and nothing would push me out of it!

Even though my mind offered brave words, I drew a deep breath, as casting my eyes about, I fully expected to see someone peering at me from out of the shadows.

A few minutes later, having completed a tour of the room, as well the rest of the cabin, I inhaled another shuddering breath. Though I’d found nothing that would have caused the alarms going off in my head, I was uncomfortable within the walls of my home. However, deciding it was all my imagination after the encounter with the swamp-thing, I kicked off my shoes, letting out a small puff of relieved breath as the sensation of an unwanted visitor finally began to subside, before disappearing altogether.

After passing my way into the kitchen, I opened the door of my refrigerator and peered inside, eyes running over its contents before settling on preparing a grilled cheese sandwich and warming a bowl of soup.

Nothing else sounded good to me.

When the soup was warmed and the sandwich toasted, I carried them into the living room, where setting the two items on the coffee table, I settled onto the couch. Then tucking my feet beneath me, I picked up the bowl of soup and began dipping the grilled sandwich into the chicken broth and noodles.

With each bite, I continued to listen and watch for anything out of the ordinary.

The next morning came much too soon, and I climbed out of bed weary and exhausted: my outlook on the day already sour.

Another storm had moved through during the night, and I’d been unable to sleep, as each intense bolt of lightning lit up the room like an eerie strobe light, and loud claps of thunder drummed about the room, giving a hell of a show for its disgruntled audience of one. All that was missing from my seventies disco room was the theatrical smoke and fog.

Though I was used to having storms, impossible to live in a subtropical climate and not be, it seemed the ones of the last few months had seemed angrier, almost aggressive in their intensity.

The one which had blown through last night had taken ages for the squalls tantrum to come to an end. But when it had, I’d begun settling enough I’d thought I’d be able to close my eyes, gaining some much-desired sleep. However, the slow torturous sound of water dripping had insinuated its way into my consciousness, and sent me running toward my kitchen with an angry shout of, "Really?" before I’d begun tearing my cabinets apart in pursuit of something to catch the drips.

Now, grumbling over my restless night, I crossed the hardwood floor and entered the bathroom. Glancing in the mirror, I stared at the dark circles under my eyes, shaking my head.

Grimacing at my image, I grabbed my hairbrush and started pulling it through my hair. Afterward, pulling the strands into a ponytail, and running a toothbrush across my teeth, I exited the bathroom.

Once I'd snatched a pair of jean shorts from the top of the dresser, I made my way over to the closet, where sliding into the shorts, I roughly removed a t-shirt from a hanger.

Leaving the contorted piece of metal swinging on the rod, I slipped the top over my head and arms, before settling it around my hips, I stretched a leg into the bottom of the closet, wiggling my foot around until I found what I sought.

Raking the tennis shoes toward me from the closest depths, I stuffed my feet, sans socks, into the battered footwear. Afterward, I headed out of the room without a backward glance: irritation flowing off me in waves.