Chapter 10: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

Baby, you have no idea . . .

Is it messed up that that turned me on? Like, seriously, my nipples got hard. I think it’s really messed up. And he called me baby! I hate it when guys call me that. It’s so . . . Pauly from Jersey Shore.

But it was different when Damon said it. Because his voice . . . dear God, it’s been echoing in my eardrums all night long. All rough and decadent, and so commanding, I wanted to drop to my knees and beg him to say it again—to say anything—as long as he said it in that voice.

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?!

Maybe the isolation is getting to me. Or the stash of Clara’s old-school romance novels I found in the library is putting bizarrely arousing ideas in my head. Maybe it’s the house. Maybe it was built on top of a pet cemetery or there’s a portal to hell in the basement, like in The Omen or Amityville.

Maybe it’s the tides and whatever retrograde the moon cycle is in right now. Piper is into that stuff—she would know. I stop pacing the floor of my latest bedroom, where I’ve been holed up since my confrontation with Burke in the hall, and scribble a note for Piper to bring me a book about it ASAP.

Whatever is causing this ridiculous attraction to Damon Burke, I need to cast it out. Shake it off. I can’t afford to weaken or get soft.

Burke isn’t soft. My hand tingles with the remembered feel of him beneath my palm—all smooth, heated skin and rock-hard muscle. I’d bet my bottom dollar he’s hard in lots of places . . .

Stop it!

I could avoid him. I could stay in this room for the next fifteen weeks—it wouldn’t be easy, but I’d survive. I could MacGyver a litter box for Precious out of paper clips and old bed linens, and sneak out in the dead of night every two weeks to gather food.

But that won’t solve my problem. It’ll just let Burke dig himself deeper into the house unchecked—like an alien tick engorged with sex appeal.

I need to be smarter. More . . . inventive. It’s time to go full Home Alone on his ass.

I exhale a breath, blowing my bangs off my forehead. Then I look down into Precious’s round, dark, watchful eyes and ask the most critical question of my life.

“What would Kevin McCallister do?”

* * *

Early the next morning, I have an answer. I take a covert position crouched behind the thick wood banister at the top of the stairs, waiting to see if my most recent best-laid plan will come to fruition. The adrenaline that’s kept me going for the last twenty-four hours spikes when Burke’s bedroom door creaks open—and King Jackass himself comes walking out. His chin is raised, jaw taut, broad shoulders back, and his steps are purposeful and confident, without a speck of caution or care.

Until it’s too late.

And the loud crack of a snapping mousetrap echoes down the hall, its jagged, rusty claw clasping the toe of Burke’s running shoe.

It’s not strong enough to hurt, but it catches him by surprise—startling him. Burke hops on one foot for a moment, staring at the contraption dangling from his shoe.

“What the shit?!”

Then his gaze pans out, sweeping the floor, spotting the hundreds of strategically set mousetraps that surround him like land mines in every possible direction.

Almost losing his balance, he sets his raised foot down—instantly triggering another trap, and then another. They pop up spinning into the air, grazing Burke’s elbow and hip on the way back down. When he tries to turn and retreat back to the safety of his room, the circumference of safe space is too small, and I watch with devious glee as my agile nemesis teeters . . . wobbles . . . then falls back on his overly self-assured ass!

An orchestra of clacking mousetraps rings out like the philharmonic, drowning out Burke’s shouts as the traps fulfill their destiny—latching onto the flesh of his back, his arms, and legs. There’s even one dangling from his hair.

It’s glorious.

So glorious, I can’t hold back a victorious fist pump and a hushed-but-not-nearly-hushed-enough, “Yes!”

Burke’s head whips around—sending the mousetrap flying. His fiery blue gaze zeroes in on mine with the intensity of a Top Gun fighter pilot locking onto a target.

Tone! He’s got tone!

A silent Eeep! squeaks through my brain and I retreat—scurrying back to the safety of my room and slamming the door behind me. It’s not actually safer, but having a solid door between myself and Damon feels better than nothing.

* * *

We completely stop talking, or even looking at each other. If we happen to pass each other in the hall, our only acknowledgment that the other person exists is an obscene hand gesture.

But that doesn’t mean it’s peaceful.

On day four, the drains in my shower, toilet, and sink clog and overflow simultaneously, creating a shallow lake on the bathroom floor. Precious had a traumatic puddle incident in his puppyhood—so I’m forced to change rooms. Again.

I meet Burke’s tit with a tat of my own, by hiding the rotten salmon filets—that were going to be my food before he spoiled them—under the floorboards of his room. He eventually finds them—but not before the stench of bad fish and distrust hangs heavy over his wing of the house.

The next day, he discovers my backup supply of luxury-brand toilet paper and burns it in a bonfire in the backyard.

For the next two nights, I march around the upstairs hallway, banging pots and pans and singing every Britney Spears song I can remember.

Burke sets off fireworks outside my bedroom door for the next three. And I add “flame-thrower” to my list of supplies for Piper.

On I-don’t-know-what-day, the paranoia really starts taking hold, and I spend hours obsessively sniffing my shampoo and conditioner bottles, trying to make sure Burke hasn’t filled them with Nair.

Some morning after that, I’m in the kitchen, looking out the window, watching Burke sprint back and forth across the rear yard. His sculpted arms glisten in the sunlight as he pumps them quick, muscles contracting—completely focused on driving himself to move faster, putting his whole body into it.

And then he goes down. Hard. Twisting at the left ankle and colliding with the ground with so much force that when he stands, his knees and shin come up bloody.

It’s almost difficult to watch.

Because his ankle twisted in the shallow chasm I dug with my own two hands, last night—before covering it with grass and twigs. The conscience I apparently still have pokes and nudges at me as I watch Damon limp toward the house, in obvious discomfort.

For a quick second I feel a tiny flash of guilt . . . and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

Until his dark head turns and he lifts both hands—sending a double-barreled middle finger straight through the window.

And I banish that conscience-bitch to the pit of despair.

* * *

The morning after that, I go downstairs for my sunrise yoga—the one and only oasis of calm I have left.

Or . . . had. Had left.

Because Burke has painted over all the windows in the solarium with thick, sun-blocking, tar-black paint. Hands on my hips, I stand in the center of the room, turning slowly and inspecting his handiwork. He didn’t miss a single inch.

“Well played, asshole. Well played,” I say out loud.

Because the silence is getting to me. And talking to Precious and Clara isn’t cutting it anymore. Living in this house is like living inside a deprivation tank. Besides the constant crash of the ocean, there’s no sound here—no cars or passers-by, no phones or text message pings.

God, I miss the pings!

I’ve also developed a raging case of poison ivy. I’ve been coating myself with mud, like an overheated hippopotamus, to try and soothe the itch that’s rapidly driving me insane.

I begin to worry that maybe Piper and Ian aren’t even going to show up. Maybe there was a sinkhole in the middle of town or a nuclear blast. I underestimated the toll that being cut off from communication with the outside world would take. The compounding weight of the loneliness. The almost maddening quiet, with nothing to listen to but my own thoughts.

And I’m starting to think maybe I’m not such good company.

So that afternoon I find myself on the porch—where Damon is stretched out on the swing, his legs long and his injured ankle elevated—without any clear memory of the thought process that got me out here.

He slips a butterscotch candy between his lips, rolling it around on his tongue slowly, savoring it. Before crunching down loudly, pulverizing the hard morsel into powdered sugary goodness. My stomach rumbles and my mouth waters. Only eating crackers, peanut butter, and licorice for the last several days is also getting to me. Adrenaline has helped keep my energy up, but Precious’s kibble and the brown grass on the lawn are both starting to look really tasty.

There’s a cool bite to the ocean breeze, but the sun is hot. Damon’s skin is tanned from the last few cloudless days, turning his eyes a deep Tiffany blue.

“Where’d you get the paint?” I ask.

“Stacked in a corner of the basement,” he replies casually.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Where’d you get the mousetraps?” he asks. And for the first time, I wonder if it’s as good for Damon as it for me to hear the sound of a voice that’s not his own.

“Second-floor utility closet.”

He nods.

I move my shirt to scratch my itchy stomach and arms, and reach around to rub my right shoulder blade. Scratching one spot seems to hyperactivate all the rest.

Burke notices the movement, lifting his chin. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing. I have poison ivy.”

“You’re not really an outdoorsy kind of girl. I wonder how that happened?” he asks in a tone that says he suspects exactly how it happened. It could’ve been when I fell into the bushes after cutting off his hot water, or when I was digging booby-traps in the backyard.

I shrug. “The mysteries of Mother Nature are endless.”

“Did you bring calamine lotion?”

Crunch, crunch, crunch goes another candy. And I swallow hard.

“No.”

“I did. I’ll trade you three saltines for some lotion. Whole crackers—no crumbs.”

“Absolutely not. I don’t make deals with the devil.”

He smirks. “Sure you do. All the time. And there is such a thing as being too stubborn, you know. That rash looks pretty bad—possibly infected.”

“Are you a doctor?”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying if you get carried out of the house on a stretcher with sepsis, you’re still out. I win.”

I fold my arms and counter. “The crackers for the lotion and two butterscotch candies.”

“One butterscotch candy.”

“Done.” I smile triumphantly.

I remove the crackers from my pocket, delicately wrapped in tissue. I shield them with my hand, like an old lady punching in her code at the ATM, count out three, and stretch out my hand. “Give me the calamine.”

And I should’ve known this little deal was too easy.

The corner of Damon’s mouth inches up slowly.

“I didn’t say anything about giving you the calamine. There’s a catch.”