In the Middle of Somewhere (2 page)

“I know, dog, I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you. Hang on.”

I rush back to the car for my phone and try to call information so I can find an emergency vet, but I can’t get a signal out here at all. I put the car in neutral and try to rock it away from the tree enough so that I can look under the hood—growing up with a family auto shop means you can’t help but know how to fix cars, even if you don’t want to go into the family business. But there’s no way. The undercarriage must’ve caught on the tree’s roots or something.

I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, and go back to where the dog is lying, still whimpering. I can’t leave it here. It’ll get run over by a car in the dark. Or, worse, it’ll just lie here all alone, terrified and in pain. The sound it’s making is ripping my fucking heart out. I can’t believe I did this. Christ, how did I even get here? I ease to the other side of the dog and gently run my fingertips over the soft fur on its head. It whines, but doesn’t growl.

I keep petting it, talking low as I ease my arm underneath.

“Okay, dog, you’re okay. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be fine.” I’m saying things I haven’t heard since my mother said them when I was little. Words that are meant to comfort but mean nothing.

I roll the dog into my arms and it whimpers and growls as I jostle its hurt leg. I cuddle it close to my chest to keep it immobile and try to stand without falling over and hurting it worse. I’ll just walk a little ways. There has to be a gas station, or a house, or something, right? I’ll just ask someone to call a vet. Hell, maybe this is what police do in a nothing town like this. Rescue dogs that get stuck in trees, or something? No, wait, that’s cats. Cats get stuck in trees. Right?

I walk for what feels like forever. The dog has gone quiet, but I can feel it breathing, so at least I know it isn’t dead. What it is, though, is getting heavy. I stop for a second to check if I have phone service for what feels like the millionth time. I haven’t come across a single gas station and I’m not sure how much longer I can walk.

“Okay, dog; it’s okay,” I say again, but my voice is as shaky as my legs, and, really, it isn’t the dog I’m talking to anymore. Still no service. Fuck.

Then, off to my right, I see a light. A shaky beam of light that’s getting closer. Just as I pull level with the light, a man steps out of the woods. I rear away from the large form, and the dog whimpers softly. The man looks huge and the way he’s shining the flashlight is blinding. My heart beats heavily in my throat. This guy could take me apart. Squaring my shoulders and setting my feet so I look as big as possible, I plan how I can set the dog down without hurting it further if I have to fight. Or run. Then a warm voice breaks the silence that stopped feeling peaceful the second I swerved.

“You okay?”

His voice is deep and a little growly. For half a second, all the puns about bears that I was making earlier dance through my head and I laugh. What comes out sounds more like a hysterical squeak, though.

“Do you mind?” I say, squinting and hoping my voice sounds more
threatening than the noise I just made. He lowers the flashlight
immediately and walks toward me. I take a half step back automatically. All I can really see in the dark, with the ghost of the flashlight leaving spots in my vision, are massive shoulders clad in plaid.

“Are you okay?” the man asks again, and he puts out a hand as he takes the last few slow steps to my side. I nod quickly. His hand is huge.

“I, um.”

He bends down and looks in my face. I don’t know what he sees there, but his posture shifts, the bulk of him softening ever so slightly.

“I didn’t mean to,” I try to explain when it’s clear he isn’t a threat. “Only, it came out of nowhere and I couldn’t—” I break off as he shines the flashlight on the dog. It whines and I gather it closer to me, suddenly unsure. “I tried to find a vet, but I can’t get a signal here and my car hit the tree so I couldn’t drive and I—”

“You were in an accident? Are you hurt?”

“No—I mean, I’m not. I’m… but my car’s fucked. Do you have a phone? Can you call a vet?”

“No vet,” he says. “Nothing’s open this late.” It’s maybe 7:00 p.m.

“Please,” I say. “I can’t let it die. Fuck! What the fuck am I doing here? I can’t believe I—” I break off when I can tell my next words won’t be anything I want a total stranger to hear.

“Come with me,” the man says, and turns and walks back into the woods. What the hell?

“Um,” I say. Am I actually supposed to follow a total stranger into the woods? In the dark? In the middle of nowhere? In
Michigan
? I know stereotypes about cannibals who live in the woods and eat unsuspecting tourists are just that: stereotypes. Maybe I’ve watched
The Hills Have Eyes
one too many times, but still. Isn’t it, like, a statistical fact that most serial killers come from the Midwest?

While I was distracted by regionally profiling the man, he’d come back out of the woods and is now standing directly in front of me, close enough that I can kind of see his face. He has dark hair and eyes, and a sharp nose. That’s all I can see in the dark. But he is definitely much younger than I assumed. His low voice sounded older, but he looks like he’s in his midthirties. And up close, he is massive, with hugely broad shoulders, powerful arms, and broad hips—how much of that is flesh and how much is flannel remains to be seen. He’s nearly a head taller than me, and I’m not short.

“You need to come with me,” he says, and his voice suggests that he’s considering the fact that I might be an idiot.

“Er, sure,” I say, figuring that if worse comes to worst, at least I can run; I have to be faster than this guy, right? I take an experimental step toward him and, in the way it sometimes happens when you rest after an exertion, nearly fall on my face as my body takes longer to wake up than my brain. The man catches me with one easy hand under my elbow and steadies me. Shit, that was embarrassing.

“Here,” he says. “Let me take the dog. You take this.” He shrugs something off his shoulder and hands it to me. It takes a few seconds to process the unfamiliar shape in the dark.

“Is that a
gun
?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Why do you have a gun?” I ask warily. Though, I guess I should be reassured that he’s handing it to me and not pointing it at me.

“To hunt with,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Right,” I say. Hunting. Michigan.
Michigan
.

He gently sets what I can only assume is a rifle on the ground next to me.

“Let me.” He slides his hands under the dog. His hands are huge, covering practically my whole stomach as he worms them under my arms. “I’ve got him,” he says.

“I don’t know if it’s a boy,” I say. “I don’t know anything about dogs. I mean, I guess I would’ve been able to tell by looking, but I didn’t think of it. But it’s really common, defaulting to male pronouns to refer to things of indeterminate gender.” Christ, I’m babbling.

He cocks his head at me and walks away. I pick up the strap of the gun gingerly and take off after him, holding it as far away from the trigger as I can. With the luck I’m having today, I’d trip and end up shooting the man. Or myself. Or, shit, probably the dog.

“H
AND
ME
the scissors,” the man says. I’m petting the dog’s head and surreptitiously trying not to look at the poor thing’s leg, which the man has determined is, indeed, broken. His house was only about a ten-minute walk from the road.

I hand him the scissors and examine his face in the light of the lamp. I tell myself it’s just because I’d rather look anywhere but at the dog’s leg. He has a really good face, though. Strong, high cheekbones and a straight nose; straight, dark eyebrows, one with a white scar bisecting it, and dark brown hair that waves slightly. His eyes are lighter than I thought in the woods: a kind of whiskey brown that looks almost gold in the light. Maybe one is a little narrower than the other, but he hasn’t made eye contact with me long enough for me to be sure. His mouth is set in a grim line of concentration while he works, but it’s soft and generous. He hasn’t smiled yet, but he probably has a nice one.

He stripped off his outer layer of flannel as he laid the dog down on the kitchen table. It was a bulky, quilted jacket, but even without it, he’s huge, his shoulders and the muscles of his arms tightening his blue and gray flannel shirt. He rolled up the sleeves to reveal a white waffle-knit shirt that’s too short in the sleeves, exposing thick wrists and powerful forearms. His huge hands are gentle on the dog’s fur and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on my skin. What it would be like to be held in those hands, to be enveloped. My hand tightens in the dog’s fur and I force myself to relax as it makes a sound.

“She’s a girl, by the way.” His voice startles me and I meet his eyes, praying that he can’t read what I’ve been thinking about on my face. The last thing I need is for tomorrow’s local paper—if they even
have
a paper in this town—to carry a story that reads, “Out of town gay man found beaten to death in cabin of unfairly handsome local straight bruiser. Police assume queer panic ensued after out of town gay made a pass at straight bruiser.”

“Huh?” I say. He swallows, like he isn’t used to talking.

“The dog. You were right, she isn’t a boy.” He pats the dog gently and scoops her up, depositing her in a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace.

“Oh,” I say. “Great.” I stand and follow him. I realize I’m nodding compulsively and force myself to stop. He touches a long match to the newspaper and kindling below the logs in the grate.

“Is she going to be okay, do you think?” The fire consumes the paper and there’s a delicious, earthy smell as the bark on the logs starts to crackle. With the fire lit, he turns toward me.

“I think so. If she can stay off this leg tonight, I’ll take her into town tomorrow. Have the vet check her out for any internal injuries.”

I’m suddenly so relieved that I go a little woozy. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t hurt the poor dog beyond repair. I’m not a total fuckup.

“Whoa,” he says. In one step, he’s there, grabbing me by both shoulders to keep me upright. My vision is a little blurry and I blink up at him. God, he’s handsome. His brows are furrowed with worry, his eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” he says, looking down. “I should’ve made sure you weren’t hurt.”

“No, I’m okay,” I say, stepping out from under his hands.

“You were in a car accident. Come here.” He steps behind me and puts his hands back on my shoulders, guiding me to the bathroom. When he flips the switch, I wince at the harsh light after being so long in the dark. In the mirror, I can see why he’s concerned. My black hair is messy and there’s a smear of blood on my cheek from the dog. A bruise is already coming out on my forehead, though I don’t even remember hitting my head. I blink at my reflection. My pupils are huge, even in the bright light, leaving only a thin ring of green around them.

He’s looking at me in the mirror, his light eyes fixed on mine. I can smell him behind me: wood smoke and damp wool and something lightly piney, like deodorant. Or, hey, I guess in the woods it could actually be pine. I can feel the warmth he’s giving off and it reminds me of how cold I am. He turns me around by the shoulders again, like he’s my rudder.

I shiver. I dropped my coat by the door, but even though it was cold out, I sweat through my shirt and suit coat while I was carrying the dog, and now they’ve turned cold and clammy. The tie I borrowed from my brother, Sam, and the new white shirt I bought for my interview are both streaked with blood.

“Shit.” I halfheartedly swipe at the blood. As I rub a little harder, I wince, realizing that my chest is sore.

“Were you wearing your seat belt?”

“Huh?” I feel like I’m processing everything five seconds after he says it. “Oh, yeah.”

He slides my suit jacket off my shoulders and starts to unbutton my shirt.

“Um,” I mumble. He bats my hand away and pulls my shirt apart. When I look down, I can see a purple bruise forming in the shape of my seat belt. Well, good to know it worked, I guess. The bruise is long, disappearing into the tattoos that cover most of my torso.

“Tell me if it’s particularly tender anywhere.” He probes the length of the bruise gently.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, half because it’s true and half because I can’t think with his fingers on my skin. His hands are warm the way big guys’ are sometimes—great circulation, I guess.

“Wasn’t expecting those,” he says, gesturing to my tattoos. It’s funny. Anyone who meets me when I’m dressed professionally is surprised to find out I have tattoos, but anyone who knows me from my real life—at concerts, coffee shops, or just around—thinks my professional drag looks out of place.

I shrug and he gives me a cursory once-over, looking for other bruises.

“Take your pants off.”

“Oh, um, I—” I scooch backward, away from him. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it together standing in front of this gorgeous man almost naked. “Maybe, could I just take a shower?”

He doesn’t say anything, but turns the water on and grabs a towel from a shelf on the wall. It’s forest green. It seems like everything about him and this house is green and brown. Earthy.

“Here, give me your clothes,” he says. “I’ll get you something of mine to wear.”

When he leaves, I toe my dress shoes off, trying not to notice that anyone who looked could see the soles are worn almost through, but they’re polished to a mirror shine—or, at least, they were before my trek in through the woods. Five-dollar-new-shoes: that’s what my dad always called a shoeshine.

He knocks a minute later and hands me a pile of neatly folded sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he hands me a drink.

“I thought you could use something to warm you up.”

I sniff it. Whiskey. I down it like a shot.

“Thanks.”

He backs out of the bathroom and I undress and step under the hot water with a sigh.