Chapter 12: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

“I’m going to ask you one more time. What did you do to it?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

Jade blows air in her cupped hands, trying to warm them. “I already told you, I didn’t do anything!”

I take a deep breath, tasting the grainy soot that coats my face and hands that’s probably going to give me a good old-fashioned case of black lung. If the monsoon that’s currently raging outside doesn’t get me first.

“I won’t be mad,” I promise.

Because anger is a waste of energy, I silently remind myself. A tool of the unfocused and un-self-controlled. And I’m all about control.

“How do I know you didn’t do something and you’re blaming it on me just to mess with my head!”

“Because I’m the one trying to fix it!” Aaaand I throw the wrench against the wall. “Goddamn it!”

“So much for not being mad,” Jade murmurs petulantly.

I drag myself out from behind the boiler and stand on both feet now that my ankle is fully healed. I wipe off my hands and face with an old rag, then I deliver the hard, frosty truth.

“It’s not broken. It’s out of oil. Which means we have no heat. For the next two weeks, at least.”

She blinks long lashes at me.

“That can’t be right. There has to be a way to fix it.”

“Unless you can manifest an oil rig in the backyard, there’s not. I realize that’s hard to accept for someone who’s had their whole life handed to them on a silver platter, but it’s the way it is.”

“Silver platter?!” she sputters. “I’ve worked my ass off for every inch of success I’ve achieved, and dealt with more bullshit in the process than you can possibly imagine! And I haven’t been able to do a proper skin-care regime in weeks! I can already feel my skin wrinkling like a raisin—and now I’m going to be chapped too! I’m allowed to be a little upset.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, you only have yourself to blame.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means this is your MO.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve found me out, Burke!” Jade flails her arms. “Tinkering with ancient, dilapidated boilers is my super-secret hobby! Brilliant powers of deduction.”

“You killed the hot water to my room—we both know it. So now God has taken hot water and heat away from both of us—and your little dog too. This is your punishment.” I point at the Chihuahua huddled against her shin, despite his wool, jewel-accented doggie sweater and matching booties. “Cujo and I are just collateral damage.”

She steps closer, her small hands clenched into fists at her sides and eyes narrowed. “That makes no sense.”

I lean down until we’re nose to nose. And an image flashes through my head—how Jade’s pristine pale skin would look with dirty, sooty handprints all over it. Across her jaw, wrapped around her hips, down her back and clenched through that pretty white-blond hair.

It would look damn good.

“God’s got a twisted sense of humor. It makes perfect sense.”

“You’re a jackass.”

“You’re a . . .”

I try, but I can’t force myself to say the word. There are some things a good man should never call a woman. Ever. Thanks, Mom.

So what I end up saying is, “You’re a suck!”

Jade stares at me for a moment, incredulous. Then her entire body jerks with a laugh.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” She cups a hand around her ear tauntingly. “I’m a what?”

“You. Suck.” I accentuate the words, but the insult has lost its sting.

She folds her arms and cocks her hip. “Face it, Burke, you’re losing it. Coming apart at the seams. It’s only a matter of days before you crack.”

“There’s a fucking nor’easter outside, I’m stuck in here with you, and now I’m on the verge of freezing to death. It’s the trifecta of misery—of course I’m losing it!”

I walk past her, up the stairs to the kitchen, and wash up in the sink with frigid water.

A whirl of air rustles behind me—Jade, dashing up from the basement. And I might actually be cracking up, because it takes a minute to process why she’s scurrying around like a mouse in a maze.

She’s digging through the linen closet in the hall, confiscating armfuls of every spare blanket, towel, and bedsheet for herself.

Smart.

I sprint up the stairs two at a time to the un-rummaged-through closet, clearing each shelf of spare curtains, quilts, and sheets like a hoarder at a garage sale. I head to my room and spread the extra fabrics over my bed as the echo of Jade’s shutting bedroom door comes from the other end of the hallway. I check the fireplace to see if I can get a fire going for myself, but the chimney is boarded up solid, with pieces of yellow insulation peeking out around the sealed plank of wood.

With nothing else to do, and darkness falling, I shove myself under the covers, fully clothed, and close my eyes. But my body is too tense and aggravated, and shiveringly cold—despite the extra covers—to actually sleep.

And even if it wasn’t, about an hour later—

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Water hits my forehead, right between the eyes.

“What the hell?”

I peer through the darkness up at the ceiling. The soaked, dripping, bulging ceiling.

It hovers above me, curved outward like a dangerously overinflated water balloon. I rise to my feet, balancing on the mattress for a better view. Carefully, I stick my finger against the softened, squishy plaster, wondering if I could do a quick patch job to get through the night. But as I plug one dripping hole, another spout springs open. Then another. The drops fall faster over my hand and down my arm onto the mattress.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.

“No, no, no . . .”

But the answer is yes. Like a bad cosmic joke, a two-foot section of ceiling gives way—dousing me in freezing water—like an indoor ice-bucket challenge.

My clothes, the mattress, my stash of extra blankets, the bedding, and the floor are hopelessly soaked.

I spit out a mouthful of rainwater and run a hand through my sopping hair. Then I grab towels from the bathroom and do what I can with the floor to at least try to stop it from flowing down to the first floor. I grab a bag and start shoving my dry clothes into it.

But then, mid-motion, I hear a scream from down the hall. A genuine, bloodcurdling scream that sends a spike of adrenaline down my spine. I drop the bag and sprint out the door without even thinking—running fast and hard toward the west wing.

Too hard for the thin floorboards, apparently. Because my momentum comes to a sudden, painful halt when my right foot punches completely through the floor, and out through the ceiling below it. I’m pretty sure it’s the dining room.

How the fuck did Clara live in this place?

Another scream comes from the distance, followed by Jade screeching, “What in the name of Jumanji is happening?!”

Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day.

Using my arms to shift my weight, I drag myself forward and yank my leg out of the floor. I make it to the top of the staircase when I see Jade walking down the hall from the other direction with Cujo clutched tightly in her arms. She’s moving slow and dazed—zombie-like—and her hair is matted and sticking up at all angles, as if she went a couple rounds with a cyclone and lost.

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask.

Her voice is whispery with disbelief. “I wrestled with a raccoon. There was a whole gang of them. They just kept coming out of the fireplace like it was a clown car. Did you put them there?”

At this point, I have no reason to lie. “No. I don’t mess with raccoons. They have creepy grins and opposable thumbs.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“Is Cujo okay?”

The little rat may be a Buchanan dog, but that’s not his fault.

“He’s okay. He tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I should’ve listened.” Jade’s eyes wander over my wet hair and dripping clothes. “What happened to you?”

“There’s a leak in the roof of my room. A giant, waterfall-sized leak. Did you do it?”

She shakes her head and for once, I believe her.

“All right.” I nod, regrouping. “Well . . . now that I know what it’s like to be waterboarded, I don’t want to try out hypothermia. My bed is trashed. I’m moving down to the parlor.”

She nods. “Can I come with you? I’m not going back for my stuff . . . it belongs to the raccoons now.”

“Sure,” I agree.

Because she’s being so . . . docile. Pliable and polite. I don’t know if I should just be grateful or check her for a concussion.

“But we need to be practical,” I say. “It’s already colder than it was an hour ago—and the temperature is gonna continue to drop. That has to be the focus or we’re both screwed.”

“Okay.”

As I take a step past her, Jade asks, “Hey, Damon? Did you watch horror movies as a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“I watched a lot of horror movies. And I’m starting to think”—she drops her voice low, like she’s worried someone is listening—“this house doesn’t want us here.”

I glance over my shoulder at the hole in the floor that tried to swallow me. Then I look around the two-story entryway, half expecting blood-soaked words to emerge from a wall as the wind and rain batter the shingles outside, making the whole place shift and groan.

“I think you could be right.”

* * *

“Jesus, lift!”

“I am lifting!”

“You look like you’re more concerned about not breaking a nail.”

“I am concerned about not breaking a nail!”

Pleasant and pliable lasts five minutes, before Jade reverts to her default setting of being a pain in my ass.

“Lift at the corner first, then drag,” I direct her, because we’re moving Gunther’s mattress out of his old room into the parlor, and the sucker is too long and awkward for me to carry alone.

After we get the mattress deposited in front of the fireplace, we hang all the furniture dust covers we can find across the doorways to try and keep the heat in and insulate the windows with the last of the towels to try and keep the cold air out. By the time we’re done, the parlor looks like a makeshift campsite on Survivor.

With paring knives from the kitchen, Jade and I scrape off shavings from the legs I snapped off the dining room chairs. But when I strike the chimney match to light them, the wood just smolders and smokes. I give it another shot, but this time a sizzling sound snaps out—tsss, tsss, tsss—and I realize raindrops are coming down the chimney.

“The chimney’s leaking,” I tell Jade. “We won’t be able to start a fire until after the rain stops. Tomorrow, maybe.”

Jade rubs her arms briskly with her hands. “Okay.”

She’s on the mattress beside me with Cujo cuddled on her thighs, wearing a turtleneck and leggings that aren’t doing the job. She’s visibly shivering, teeth clicking, her lips taking on a bluish tinge.

She looks . . . wounded, and I don’t like it.

My first instinct is to wrap my arms around her, pull her onto my lap, and warm her up. And she’d probably clock me upside the head with a chair leg for my trouble.

So instead, I brace my elbows against my knees and reason with her. “Look, Jade, you should head out. Go home. You did great—you gave me a run for my money—but I think you need to call it a day before you end up seriously getting hurt.”

Her features tighten and her back goes ramrod straight. “I’m prepared to die here.”

So much for reason.

I tried. If she isn’t going to help herself, then I’m not frigging helping her either.

And I’m good with that. For about ten seconds.

Then my conscience stabs me in the gut with a guilty blade, and a chastising voice that sounds exactly like Clarabelle echoes in my brain.

“Damon Burke! You are not going to sit there in your layers of clothing while that poor tiny girl freezes. Is that how your momma raised you? What would your father say?”

Goddamn it.

I stand up, grab a sweatshirt and pants from my bag, and shove them at Jade. “Here.”

Shocked green eyes dart up to mine. “Why are you giving me these?”

“Because if you die, I have to dispose of your body, and I don’t feel like digging a ditch right now.”

Jade’s lips twitch. She slips my gray sweatshirt over her head and slides into my oversized sweats. Then, with more gratitude than I thought someone with her last name was capable of, she says in a small voice, “Thank you, Damon.”

* * *

After the fire was a bust, Jade set up a couch-cushion bed for Cujo and we called it a night. We climbed onto the full-sized mattress . . . and have been battling for control of the single threadbare quilt that covers us ever since.

“Stop moving the blanket. You’re letting the cold air in!”

“Stop screeching. You’re breaking my eardrums!”

We’re turned on our sides, backs to each other. I bend my legs and shift my hips . . . and Jade’s unmistakable ass presses against mine.

She jerks away like she’s been scorched, taking the quilt with her. “If you touch me again, I’ll rip your face off!”

I sit up, getting blasted with a fresh gust of cold. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. But for the record, we should move closer—sharing body heat is Survival 101.”

She sits up too, eyes blazing. “I don’t want your ass heat!”

“Fine! Then fucking freeze!”

“I will!”

“Good!”

And then . . . we tackle each other. Clash. Collide.

It’s not even a conscious decision—it’s like the evolved part of our brains that hate each other are overtaken by the feral, instinctive side that just wants to be warmer.

Our fingers grip, hands gliding, arms wrapping—mashed together in a heap of writhing limbs, making sounds worthy of a top-tier porn award. Even through layers of clothes, I can feel her incredible heat. I bury my face against the fragrant softness of Jade’s hair, holding her tighter. She burrows against me, pulling me closer, pressing her icy nose into my neck. And there are words—a mix of rushed, mindless words laden with pleasure and longing.

“Christ, you feel good.”

“You’re so warm.”

“That’s really nice. Don’t stop doing that.”

“I won’t. Please keep rubbing.”

“I will, I will . . .”

I give and take, relish and enjoy, and for the moment . . . surrender.

We both do.

Jade falls asleep first, wrapped snug and tight around me like a second skin. Moments after I register the thought that she’s out, I go down too—lulled to sleep by the sounds of her quiet sighs and the brush of her breath against my throat.