Astrid Amara (7 page)

impeccable. So, for that matter, were his pecs.

“It’s negative twenty in the garage, and yet you are shirtless,” I said. I couldn’t take my

eyes off Ethan’s chest. How did he get that buff? His lean torso had definition, his arms

muscular, with biceps that bulged and twisted as he swung the ax. He had a dark pattern of

chest hair that trailed down his flat stomach and dipped invitingly downward. I could see the

contours of his hips just above the waistline of his jeans.

“Sweating in cold weather leads to dehydration and increases susceptibility to cold

injury,” Ethan informed me. The wood split evenly before him. Every stroke fell perfectly

centered. “Besides, I don’t want to wear wet clothing and I don’t have anything that properly

allows for ventilation and sweat evaporation.”

“Fascinating.” I yawned.

Ethan stopped and frowned. “Am I really that boring?”

I shrugged. “No. But sometimes you’re a know-it-all.”

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“Sorry.” He slammed the ax down into a large log and pulled on his shirt. “I don’t mean

to be.”

“It’s just another one of your flaws,” I told him. “I’m getting used to the idea of you

flawed.”

Ethan eyed me. “Did you find anything out?”

“You mean besides how toned your upper body is?”

Ethan smirked. “Yeah. But I appreciate the fact that you noticed.”

“My mother thinks my uncle stole it back,” I told him. “But for all her hysterics, she

seemed relatively assured it would be found.”

“Your cousin Matthew thinks she hid it,” Ethan said. “Your mother glared at everyone

who touched it last night, and became extremely possessive of it.”

“But if that were the case, she would just tell everyone to keep their hands off and put

it away.”

“It seems like a weak motive, I agree.” He grabbed a bundle of chopped wood. “But she

does have that extensive box collection. She’s got a real thing for tchotchkes, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah.” I grabbed some wood as well and opened the door one-handed. “I once told her

she needed counseling. It seems too Freudian to ignore.”

As soon as we walked in, my father threw his hands in the air and smiled graciously.

“Ethan! You’ve saved our lives!” he cried, taking the wood from Ethan’s arms. I

dropped my own pile by the fireplace. Ethan and my father immediately discussed ways to

cook dinner over the fire. My father suggested screwing a hook into the fireplace and

dangling chicken from a string. Ethan nodded appreciatively but instead went outside and

returned with the cooking grate from the Weber, which he threw over the wood.

The two of them immediately worked on producing hot drinks. As I fetched

ingredients for them, I noticed Daniel sitting by himself at the kitchen table, armed with

various screwdrivers as he attacked my parent’s ancient butane backpacking stove.

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I couldn’t believe they still had that thing lying about. We went camping once when I

was young, and that had been a scarring enough experience for everyone involved that

camping was never considered by a Levinson family member again.

“Is it broken?” I asked, sitting across from Daniel at the table.

Daniel looked up at me anxiously. He was a nervous kind of fellow, eyes always darting

about his face as if he expected a bludgeoning. He was thin, like his father, and had the same

bushy eyebrows. But he still had his hair, which was more than could be said for my uncle.

“It’s not lighting,” he said quietly. “There’s propane in the canister. I thought I’d look at

the inside mechanism.”

“Ah.” I watched him unscrew the stove with mounting apprehension. There were

wires there -- wires full of fuel -- dangling about, waiting for their chance to kill.

“So what are you doing these days?” I asked, eyeing him carefully as the screwdriver

slid around the square prongs on the stove washer.

Daniel shrugged. “Same old stuff. Working as a systems admin during the day. I have a

night job as well now, at a print shop. And I’m doing some work for a friend of mine’s

cleaning business on weekends.”

“Three jobs?” I was shocked. Daniel never seemed to be a highly motivated kind of guy.

Daniel seemed unwilling to accept that the Phillips screwdriver would not fit a square

hole. “I’m in a bit of a financial mess, honestly.” He gave me a short, mirthless smile. “I have

a few debts. I need to work to pay them down.”

I reached out and grabbed the stove from him, unable to help myself. “Let me give it a

try.” I studied the apparatus, and noticed a small tool attached with a clip to the side of the

stove, which had two prongs shaped identically to those on the washer. As I unscrewed it, I

eyed Daniel sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

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He shrugged again. “It’s my own fault. I made a few bad plays at the track three months

ago and I’m paying for it now. But Thurston Downs opens again in spring and I’ll be able to

make my money back then, for sure.”

“Thurston Downs?” I lifted off the washer and pulled apart the stove innards. The felt

filter inside the stove had folded over. I took off the clip and straightened it.

“It’s a track in California,” Daniel informed me. “Once those races begin I should be

able to make my money back fast.”

I frowned as I reassembled the stove. “Maybe more betting isn’t the solution.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” he said quickly, assuring me that it was a problem. “I’ve been

working on my handicapping system. I can classify differences between stalkers and front-

runners now, and better predict the pace of the race.”

“Uh-huh.” I had no idea what he was talking about. But as Daniel spoke, a light

gleamed in his eye, and he became instantly more animated.

“Last year I tripled my money just on maiden stakes races alone,” he informed me. “I

used my new system, incorporating training records and prior jockey performance. And the

footing at Thurston makes for more consistent performances.”

“In-ter-est-ing.” I finished reassembling the stove and made sure all the parts that

looked like they needed to be attached to something were attached. “That should do it,” I

said, pushing the stove back toward him.

Daniel reached for the box of matches.

“Ventilation,” I reminded him. I cracked open the window next to us. A gush of icy air

shot into the kitchen.

Daniel lit the stove. After an initial burst of gas that smelled like butane, the stove lit,

producing a lovely, even flame.

My father walked in. “Daniel! You’ve saved our lives!” he cried, patting Daniel on the

back.

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“Thanks, Uncle Len,” Daniel mumbled.

I reached for my coat. “You’re welcome,” I snapped as I left the room.

* * * * *

worth it to have my desperately needed secret cigarette.

So Daniel was broke. More than broke, it sounded like -- deeply in debt. And my uncle

had said the pushke was full of money. Perhaps it was as simple as that? Daniel saw the cash

he needed, and took it. Or maybe he planned on selling the box itself. While it probably had

no great value, it was old and pretty, and could easily attract some homebound box-obsessed

eBay shopper.

I stayed outside until my temper froze like the ice. When I returned to the house my

mother made a quick lunch of sandwiches.

Afterward I looked for an opportunity to tell Ethan my new theory, but he was either

being dragged off to help my father with some pressing emergency task, or dragged off by my

mother to help her lament, or dragged off by my uncle who was looking for free medical

advice about the new growth on his calf.

My father found a battery-powered radio in the garage, and we listened in as reporters

recounted what they were calling “the storm of the century.” The eastern seaboard, from

New Jersey to Maine, had been pounded by a massive blizzard. Hundreds of thousands across

the region were without power. Emergency vehicles struggled through the epic snowfall.

Forecasters predicted another storm front that evening, and dangerously freezing

temperatures for the rest of the week. The focus of rescue efforts was on the populations

most at risk: the elderly and the very young. All of us sat around the living room, feeling

suddenly grateful despite the fact that our situation wouldn’t improve any time soon.

“At least we have a fireplace,” my father mentioned.

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“I brought three sweaters,” Aunt Goldie cleverly announced.

“And there’s a doctor in the house, in case of emergencies,” my mother beamed. Ethan

looked preoccupied. At me.

In the fading daylight, I headed upstairs to the bathroom with a bowl of lukewarm

water and one of my father’s razors to shave. Despite the light from the window and the

flickering candle, shadows loomed, hiding whiskers and pronouncing bones.

I managed to do a halfway decent job, but toward the end I hurried and ended up

cutting my chin. Ethan walked by just then and heard me hiss. He stepped into the dark

bathroom immediately.

“Let me see what you’ve done.” Ethan reached out and turned my chin toward him. In

the candlelight I could only see the shine of his eyes, no expression.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing,” I assured him, trying to pull free of his grasp.

He let me go, but then curled his fingers around the collar of my shirt, restraining me

without force.

“Let me clean it for you.”

I could feel my face redden. “I’m not a child, Ethan. I can do that myself.”

“I don’t think of you as a child. I just want to help you.”

“Yeah? Well…no thanks.” His proximity distracted me. A flustered euphoria filled me

with desire and anxiety.

“Let me have a look, that’s all.” Ethan moved closer. I felt the heat of his body as he

brushed against me in the darkness.

I stepped back into the chilling darkness. Ethan followed me, and I bumped against the

bathroom wall.

“What are you doing?” I asked, trying not to sound panicked.

“Trying to kiss you,” Ethan responded, his voice low and breathless.

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“How do you even know I’m single?” I asked.

Ethan pulled back as if shocked. “You’re not?” His expression sank. “Damn it. I’m sorry,

I --”

“Just assumed,” I filled in for him.

He frowned. “No. I just wished.”

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure the feeling of heartbreak at his mockery. I focused

on what an asshole he used to be, but the memory was more distant than the feeling of his

hands on my sides right now. Memory faded in the presence of hot flesh.

I shook my head. “I just don’t buy it, Ethan. I’ve seen you at Doug’s parties before and

you never showed any sort of interest in me.”

“That’s not true.” He frowned. “I spent half the night trying to talk to you.”

I recalled him at one of those parties, sitting on the arm of a sofa, chatting with our

friend Doug. The two of them looked my way, and then Ethan said something and they both

laughed.

I remember how angry I was then. I tried to push at him now but found I had no

energy to do so.

He swallowed. “I’ve always wanted to approach you more overtly. I tried last year. You

didn’t seem to notice me.”

“Oh, I noticed you,” I said. “I thought you were laughing at me.”

Ethan frowned. “Laugh at you? I was laughing at myself for being such a fool. I

couldn’t even drum up the courage to ask you to dance.” He leaned closer. I could feel his

breath on my cheek.

“Why not? You never had any problem approaching dates in high school.”

“That was different,” he said. “I didn’t want them like I want you. And you fluster me.”

I stared at him. “Me? Fluster you? Why?”

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“Why do you think?” He rubbed his hand over his face. “You’re funny, and smart, and

you look amazing. You have one hell of an imagination, and have always been true to who

you are.”

I nearly contradicted him, citing my own parents as irrefutable evidence of my double

life, but he continued.

“I’ve always liked you. And ever since I read your novels, I can’t stop thinking about

you. But obviously, I’m a little out of practice at the pickup lines.”

I laughed, but the comment worried me. “You do realize I’m not any of my characters,

right? I’m no jock like Lance, and I can’t save the world like Stone. I have no mystical

powers, or uncompromising sense of duty, or for that matter, a rock-hard dick that can come

ten times a night.”

To my astonishment, Ethan blushed, and I wondered if he really did think of me as my

character, Brock Mortimer, the insatiable lover.

I sighed. “Honestly? Two hours into screwing and I’m ready for a beer and a nap.”

Ethan laughed. “Good. Because tests have shown that excessive intercourse can lead to

--”

I covered his mouth with my hand. “Don’t go there. Let me have my delusions.”

Ethan pulled my hand from his mouth and kissed me.