Who in his or her right mind would leave someone obviously incapable of taking care of himself out here? Alone.
The man had spotted me a few times and I wondered if he would tell anyone about me? Would they believe him if he did? It seemed to me a case could be made that he was off his rocker. I'd watched him stumble around the lodge—I could see him outside on the deck and inside through the tall, uncovered windows, too. And he did a lot of yelling and ranting at no one in particular. And then the day before yesterday he'd stumbled halfway down the outside stairs before he'd caught himself and fallen on the ground half-moaning/half-laughing. I'd waited to make sure he could actually stand up before leaving. Yes, most likely, he was insane. I supposed there was some kind of irony in me pointing out his insanity, being that I was locked away in a mental institution and all.
But anyway, he was handsome; I'd give him that. More than handsome, beautiful even. Could men be beautiful? Well, he was. Evidently he knew it, too. He’d ranted about that a whole lot out on the deck by himself. I myself might have found him appealing if he wasn't so obviously crazy and useless. I shook my head, my brush running through the partially dry locks of my long hair, the rhythm and the fire putting me into some sort of mild trance as I thought about him.
What was it about him that made me so curious despite his obvious lunacy? I laughed quietly to myself. Okay, so, maybe he wasn't a lunatic, but there was definitely something wrong. The thing was, he wasn't only crazy, he was sad, too. He seemed very . . . alone, and not because he was actually living a solitary existence, at least for the moment. For some other reason I couldn't understand. But I could relate and perhaps that was why I was drawn to him. Yes, maybe that was it.
"Why is he so sad?" I whispered to the fire. It was late August, and the night was only mildly cool, but it was so drafty in here. So big, so cold. The warmth felt nice. The fire snapped as if in answer to the question I'd asked, a log rolling over suddenly and breaking apart, a small spark jumping out and landing on the rug at my feet. I used my brush to smash it out and then went back to brushing my hair, wondering where the man was right now—inside or outside? Howling up at the moon perhaps? I smiled to myself.
How long would he stay? I assumed the lodge in the valley was more a vacation home than anything, used primarily in winter when the ski slopes were open. Although why he wanted to vacation all alone during any season, I wasn't sure. I wondered again what the man who'd called out his own name—Holden Scott—was doing right that very second.
CHAPTER FOUR
Holden
I was vomiting. Again. Kneeling on the floor and gripping the porcelain bowl, I emptied the contents of my stomach and then groaned in misery as I fell over onto the floor, resting my cheek on the cool tile. "Fuck me," I moaned hoarsely.
I closed my eyes, but the room started spinning and so I opened them immediately, staring at the baseboard in front of me. You can't keep going like this. You can't keep living this way. Brandon's words came back to me and I groaned again, pulling myself up. "Jesus, I know, okay? I know."
I made my way into the living room and flopped down on the couch, keeping my eyes fixed on the enormous, bronze chandelier hanging from the beamed ceiling above. I was just so tired, always so tired, but I could never sleep for very long. Outside the window, the first light of dawn was shading the sky a thousand hues of gray. If only I could sleep . . .
I didn't see the kid sitting on the ground on the side of the bleachers, his head in a book, until I practically tripped over him. "Darn, sorry," I said, hopping quickly to the side, righting myself and switching my football helmet to my other hand. The kid looked up at me, revealing a large black and blue mark on his right cheekbone, the eye on that side of his face red and partially swollen shut. "Whoa, what happened to you?" I asked. "Are you okay?"
He frowned and then reached his fingers up to touch the bruise lightly as if I'd just reminded him it was there. "Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, shaking his shaggy, dark blond hair so it fell over his forehead into his eyes, hoping I'd go away.
"You sure? ’Cause that looks like a real shiner. How'd you get it?" I knelt on the grass next to him. His expression was confused as if he didn't know how to react to someone talking to him.
"Uh, I walked into a door by accident," he said.
I tilted my head, considering him. He was lying. He'd probably gotten into a fight. I raised my eyebrows. "Nah, you can come up with a better story than that. That one's been used a million times." He looked surprised for a second, and then he made his expression go blank again.
"Story?" he asked.
"Yeah, like, you know, you gotta be more imaginative." I tilted my head and looked up at the sky, thinking until it came to me. I looked back at the kid. "That creepy janitor who always just happens," I set my helmet down and used my fingers to make air quotes, "to be walking through the locker room when we're changing tried to abduct you, but you fought him off with the Ninja skills you learned from the old Chinese guy who manages your apartment building when he's not growing bonsai trees."
The kid looked at me silently for a couple seconds and then said, "I don't live in an apartment building, I think you mean Japanese, and that story is not imaginative at all—it's a clear Karate Kid rip-off. And also, it could get an innocent janitor in a whole lot of trouble—maybe even fired from the job he might need to feed his three foster kids."