Page 26 of Marked By Tank
I take my helmet off and jerk my chin toward the cabin. “Inside.”
She looks past me at the house. “Whose is it?”
“Ours.”
That gives her pause.
Fair enough.
I take her helmet when she fumbles with the strap and undo it myself. Her breath catches when my knuckles brush under her chin.
Mine damn near does too.
I get the helmet off and her hair falls down in a chestnut mess, flattened from the ride, tangled at the ends. She pushes it back from her face and looks away like she’s embarrassed by the state of it.
Jesus.
I turn toward the porch before I keep looking.
The lock sticks like it always does. I shoulder the door once and it gives.
Cold wood. Dust. Old smoke. That’s what the place smells like when nobody’s been in it for a while. Morning light cuts across the floor in pale stripes. Bed against the far wall. Coffee table. Small kitchen tucked into the back. Short hall to the bathroom.
She steps inside slowly, like she expects the room to spring a trap.
I shut the door behind us and set my keys on the counter.
“You can breathe.”
She looks at me. “I am breathing.”
Barely.
I let it pass.
“Tonight, the bed’s yours. I’ll take the floor.”
Her eyes flick toward the room, then back to me. “You don’t like beds?”
“I don’t like lamps.”
That almost gets a smile out of her.
Almost.
I cross to the wood stove by the chimney, crouch, and lay a fire. The cabin’s too cold and the old vents in this place barely push heat worth a damn. By the time I get a flame going, I can feel her watching me.
I don’t look up.
She moves to the window and lifts the curtain just enough to look out at the trees. Morning light catches the side of her face. Freckles over her nose. Skin still too pale. Mouth set tight like she’s holding herself together by force.
Too soft for auction rooms and private cabins and men with money in their hands.
My jaw tightens.
I look away and head for the kitchen. Coffee. Powdered creamer. Sugar. Good enough.
“You want some?”
