A Lie for a Lie Read online

  “Oh yes, I read that somewhere.”

  The pilot informs us that we’re cleared for takeoff. Lainey hugs her mittens to her chest as we head for the runway.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ve never been on a plane this small before,” she says.

  “We’ll be fine. I promise. I’ve done this at least twenty times, and I’ve survived every one.”

  Her eyes are wide as she nods, then looks out the window as we gather speed. When the wheels lift off the tarmac, she grips my forearm. “Oh! This is a lot bumpier than the big plane, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. A bit. You’ll get used to it.”

  She releases my arm and hugs her mittens again. “Today is actually the first time I’ve ever been on a plane.”

  “Really?”

  “The first flight was nice. I mean, there was a very old man beside me with a lot of nose hairs who smelled like mothballs, but he was fine otherwise. You’re much nicer smelling than he was.” She blushes again. “Anyway, I guess on a plane this small you feel everything more.”

  This woman is such a breath of fresh air. And her innocence is alluring, especially since I’m going to be on my own for the next few weeks. Kodiak Island is fairly expansive, though, so there’s a good chance this short flight is all I’ll see of her. I’m going to make the most of this hour of normalcy. “I can’t believe this is your first time flying.”

  “I usually take the train if I go anywhere. But there’s no train to the island, and I wasn’t sure I could handle the long ferry ride, so here I am.” We hit a spot of turbulence, and she makes a squeaky sound, then buries her face against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into my arm. “You don’t even know me, and I’m using you like a teddy bear.”

  I laugh. “I’d climb into your lap so you can cuddle with me, but I don’t think I’ll fit.” But she’d sure fit nicely in my lap.

  “Sadly, no—you’re kind of huge.” She gives my biceps a squeeze and releases it on a slow exhale.

  “What if I just do this?” I slip an arm around her shoulder.

  “That’s nice.” She slides a little closer and tucks herself into my side. “That makes me feel . . . safer.”

  I’m not sure if she’s flirting with me or just genuinely needs some kind of human contact to abate the anxiety, but I’m enjoying this, so I go with it. “Safer is good.”

  “It is,” she agrees.

  I spend the next few minutes explaining the geography as she looks out the window, but when we hit another patch of turbulence, her face pales.

  “Oh no!” She covers her mouth with her palm.

  “You okay?”

  She shakes her head but stops abruptly, paling further. “I don’t feel so well.”

  I reach into the seat pocket in front of us and pull out the barf bag. I blow into it to open it up and then hand it to her. “Maybe just breathe into this.”

  She takes it from me with shaking hands and leans forward, her hair slipping over her shoulders. I gather it up, twisting the soft, silky strands around my hand to keep it out of the way.

  And then she barfs. She tries to be quiet as she retches a couple more times. I stroke my thumb along the back of her neck, and her skin pebbles with goose bumps.

  With my free hand I search my pockets for a tissue, grateful when I find a handful in my hoodie. They’re crumpled but unused, so I pass them over. Lainey turns her head away and wipes her mouth, dropping the soiled tissues into the bag. She rolls the top over a few times and secures it closed.

  I let her hair unfurl from around my hand and run my palm down her back. “You okay?”

  “Other than hugely embarrassed, I think I’m fine,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what to do with this.” She holds up the bag.

  “Here, let me deal with it.”

  “Oh God, no. My throw-up is in there.”

  “It’s better if it ends up in the garbage than anywhere else, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, much better in a garbage can.” She hands it over.

  I unbuckle my seat belt, shimmy down the aisle, and drop the bag in the trash at the front of the plane, then make my way back to my seat. “Feel better?”

  “A little. I’m so sorry. I’m the worst person to sit beside on a plane.”

  “Not true at all. I actually like being someone’s personal teddy bear. I’d volunteer for a permanent position if it was available.” I slip my hand into my pocket, root around until I find my pack of gum, and offer it to her.

  She plucks the package from my hand. “I love you so much right now.”

  I laugh. “Mouth tastes that bad, huh?”

  “The worst. I had a burrito at the airport.”

  “Oooh. Bad call, that.”

  “You’re telling me.” She pops a stick of gum into her mouth and closes her eyes, chewing a few times.

  “Better?”

  “So much.” She passes the pack back, but I fold her hand around it.

  “It’s all yours.”

  “Thank you.” She puts it in her purse and retrieves a small bottle of hand sanitizer, squeezing a dab into her palm before passing it to me.

  Before I know it, we’re on our descent. Her hands are balled into fists in her lap, her eyes screwed shut.

  “Hey.” I slip my arm along the back of the seat again. “You’re safe. Human teddy bear right here for safety cuddles.”

  She smiles nervously and edges closer, pressing herself right against my side. “Thank you for being so nice, RJ.”

  I don’t know that she’d say that if she knew I was withholding who I really am. But here on this plane I’m not the NHL forward and team captain with a history of being a player on and off the ice. I’m just a guy, and she’s just a girl.

  CHAPTER 4

  CABIN IN THE WOODS

  Lainey

  If this plane crashes, at least I’m going out on a high note.

  RJ is the kind of attractive that makes a woman stop paying attention to what she’s doing and nearly end up strangling herself with her scarf. He’s tall and built, with dark hair that curls up at the nape of his neck, hazel eyes ringed with dark green, and a smile that makes my insides mushy.

  I’m tucked into his side, his arm stretched out along the back of the seat, fingers curved around my shoulder, keeping me nice and safe. RJ’s arm is very sturdy, and solid, and thick, like a tree trunk. He also smells great, like fresh laundry and cologne with a hint of peppermint, likely from the gum he gave me to take care of my breath.

  He dealt with my bag of vomit, which is both mortifying and insanely sweet. At least the near scarf strangulation happened before I hurled. I’m currently fisting his sweatshirt in one hand and hugging my mittens to my chest with the other. I also keep trying to bury my face in his armpit. Despite the long flight from Seattle and the tiny, cramped quarters on this plane, he still manages to smell like deodorant.

  He covers the hand clutching his sweatshirt.

  “I’m sorry.” I pry my fingers from the soft fabric, but before I can tuck my hand close to my own body, he threads his fingers through mine. It’s an unexpected level of intimacy.

  “A couple more minutes and we’ll be on the ground again,” he reassures me.

  I squeeze his hand as the plane descends and squeak out my anxiety when the wheels touch down, pressing my face against RJ’s chest.

  Eventually, when it’s clear we’re bumping along the tarmac, I peek up.

  RJ grins down at me; it’s disarmingly charming. “We survived.”

  I look out the window at the mountains rising to my right, the water on the left. “We did.” Now that we’re on the ground I’m embarrassed all over again. “Thank you for being my personal support person and human teddy bear.”

  RJ smiles even wider. “It was honestly my pleasure.”

  “I don’t know if witnessing me toss my cookies was a pleasure for anyone, but thank you for being so nice.” I gather my purse and mitts, making sure I have everything before we di
sembark. Our luggage is waiting for us on the tarmac. The cold air coming off the water makes me shiver, probably because I’ve been roasting in my parka for the past hour. I shove my hands in my mitts and try to bat my hair away from my face—it’s not particularly effective, given how windy it is.

  “Let me give you a hand,” RJ offers when he notices my struggle. He slings his huge duffel over his shoulder and grabs the handle of my suitcase, and we head for the warmth and safety of the arrival terminal. I rush to keep up with his long strides.

  Once we’re inside and the wind is no longer an issue, I tuck my mitts into my purse and quickly braid my hair so it’s not a problem when I have to go outside again. RJ stops when we reach the car rental desk. “Where are you heading from here?”

  “I have a cabin about ten miles past the town of Kodiak. It’s supposed to be on the water. I wanted an authentic Alaskan experience.” My printout with the directions from the airport to the cabin is in my purse.

  “So you need a rental, then?” RJ motions to the kiosk. “I’m picking up a vehicle. If you want, I can drive you to Kodiak and you can get one there—it’ll be a lot less expensive without the airport taxes.”

  I fidget with the end of my braid, embarrassed. “Oh, that’s really nice of you, but I don’t have my license.”

  RJ tips his head to the side, his expression curious. “How are you planning to get to your cabin?”

  “I was going to shuttle to town and then cab the rest of the way.”

  “Or I could just drive you.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that. We might be in opposite directions.”

  “You said you’re ten miles outside of Kodiak, right? I’m already heading in that direction. I don’t mind dropping you off—unless you’re waiting on someone?”

  “Oh no, it’s just me.” I try to keep my hands still instead of talking with them, which is something I do when I’m nervous. Incidentally, I’m nervous often.

  RJ’s brow furrows. “So you’re alone here without a car?” This seems to concern him, which of course means it also starts to concern me.

  “I can always call a cab when I need to go to town.” I used to bike everywhere back home. And during my brief stint in Seattle I took public transit. That was definitely nerve-racking. All those people so close together.

  It would be a good idea to get a bike so I can go back and forth to town for groceries and stuff. That way I won’t have to worry so much about making polite chitchat with the cab drivers. Also, there are a lot of movies about psycho killers who pick up unsuspecting victims and such. I don’t want to meet any of those while I’m here. I put purchasing a bike on my mental to-do list. Mostly I’m tired and in need of a shower and maybe a little rest after this long day.

  “Okay.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But at least let me drive you today.”

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble.” He seems safe and not like a psycho killer.

  He graces me with the same brain-fritzing smile as before. “It’s no trouble at all, Lainey.”

  I wait with our bags while he gets the keys to his vehicle. Then we head to the valet, where a huge gray truck with roll bars and waist-high tires is parked curbside.

  RJ puts our bags in the back and helps me into the passenger seat before he rounds the hood and climbs in. He adjusts the radio so it’s playing a local station and turns the volume down low as we follow the signs for Kodiak.

  “It’s just so beautiful here.” I can’t take my eyes off the mountains in the distance or the water to my right.

  “It really is—and peaceful, especially once we’re out of town and on the water,” RJ says.

  It doesn’t take long before we’re driving through the town of Kodiak, where we make a stop for groceries. It’s a little awkward shopping for food with someone I don’t know, but I’m happy to have a chance to stock up on essentials, since all I have in my purse are a few granola bars.

  He helps me load my groceries into the truck, then programs the address to my cabin into his GPS and gives me a lopsided smile. “You’re actually only about three-quarters of a mile away from where I’m staying. What’re the chances?”

  “It’s a pretty wild coincidence, isn’t it?” It also seems too good to be true.

  My stomach twists as storefronts and houses give way to tall trees lining the road. I’m alone in a vehicle with a man I hardly know, and we’re heading into the wilderness, where there aren’t a lot of people. Usually that is my preference, unless it’s my family, who I know and trust. But right now I’m nervous and uncertain. “My cabin is supposed to have satellite TV. I really like the Discovery Channel, and of course Animal Planet is always fascinating.” I realize I’m babbling, so I ask him a question. “Do you watch TV?”

  “Yeah, I watch TV.” He’s smiling, but his focus stays on the road.

  “Do you have a favorite show?” This is good. I can learn more about him. Maybe we have things in common other than liking Alaska.

  “Sure, depends on my mood and how much time I have. I binge-watch shows sometimes.”

  “Oh, me too! Once I binge-watched an entire season of Criminal Minds, which was a really bad idea. I got all paranoid and thought I was going to end up kidnapped by a serial killer.” I glance over at RJ, nerves going haywire.

  He’s huge, much bigger than me. And even though I’ve taken self-defense classes, I’m not sure they’d be useful against someone as large as him. What if he’s planning to take me to his cabin and keep me there, like a pet? Or a hostage. I should be panicking more at that thought. As it is, my heart is racing.

  He takes his eyes off the road for a second. “I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

  “Are you a mind reader?” What the heck was I thinking, getting into a truck with a guy I met on a plane? I can actually hear my mother losing her mind over this poor decision-making. If he does kidnap me, I’ll never hear another one of her lectures again. I’m uncertain how I feel about that. I love her, but one of the reasons I’m all the way out here is because the smothering is overwhelming.

  RJ laughs, reminding me that I asked a question before I got lost in the anxious spiral of my thoughts. “No, but your expression sort of says it all. I’m just a guy hanging out in the wilderness for a few weeks, planning to catch some fish. You’re safe with me.”

  “I hope so.” I wring my hands, anxiety making my mouth dry and my palms damp. Dammit. Why do I have to worry about everything?

  He takes his foot off the gas, pointing to the passenger side window. We pass a red mailbox that reads Sweet View Home. “That’s my driveway. You’re not too far down the road.”

  A minute later he makes a right on a narrow dirt road, the center of which is overgrown with a strip of foot-long weeds. Tree branches brush the mirrors as we pass them. It’s a bumpy ride that makes me wish I’d used a bathroom while we were in town.

  The lane finally opens up to a clearing and a tiny cabin.

  “Oh! It’s so cute!” I clap my hands, excited that I’m finally here and I’m still alive.

  For the first time in my entire life, I’m going to have a real adventure. On my own. This won’t be anything like my short time at the University of Seattle. It will be peaceful, and I’ll be totally safe. Nothing bad will happen to me here. It’s going to be awesome. At least this is what I tell myself as enough knots to keep a professional escape artist busy form in my stomach.

  As we get closer to the cabin, the cuteness becomes questionable. The cabin is actually pretty run down.

  RJ frowns. “Are you sure this is the place?”

  I dig around in my purse for the paper copy of the confirmation email. I smooth out the crumpled sheet. The number on the side of the cabin matches the address on the email, but the cabin looks a lot better in the picture. “Yup, this is it. Maybe the ad was old?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Can I help you get settled?”

  “You’ve already done so much. I’m sure you have some settling of your own to do
.” I grip my purse strap to keep from wringing my hands again. Of course now I’m worried that I should invite him in and that he’ll want to stay and hang out, but I’m tired, and I don’t think I smell very nice under this parka.

  “I don’t mind. At least let me help you get your stuff in the cabin.”

  I shove down the paranoia that he’s only offering so he can chain me to my bed. If he was really a serial killer, he would have just taken me to his bunker, not dropped me off at my cabin. Besides, it would be awkward for me to carry my stuff in while he sits in the cab. “Okay. Sure. Thank you.”

  I grab the groceries, and RJ brings my suitcase to the front door. I find the key under the mat like the instructions said and slip it in the lock, hoping the outside just needs some fresh paint and that it won’t be a reflection of the inside. The door creaks its protest as I shoulder it open. I flick on the light and stare at my new home for the next six weeks, coughing as I breathe in dust.

  “It’s rustic.” It smells musty—and possibly like something rotten.

  RJ sets down my bags and also coughs several times into the crook of his arm. “That’s one way to describe it.”

  He turns a slow circle, taking in my little home away from home. It’s basically a one-room cabin with a bathroom and a closet. In one corner is a double bed made up with a comforter that may have been fashionable when my great-grandmother was my age.

  A nightstand also doubles as a side table for the seventies-era recliner in a color that resembles infant poop—sort of a yellowish, browny green. A very old tube TV is set against the opposing wall, complete with rabbit ears, which I didn’t even know still existed.

  I’m not sure the information about satellite service was accurate, based on what I’m seeing. On the other side of the cabin is the kitchen, if one could even call it that. There’s a hot plate, a microwave, a sink, and a tiny bar fridge. The kind I had when I lived—very briefly—in off-campus student housing.

  The biggest piece of furniture, other than the bed, is the two-seater table pushed up against the far wall. It’s conveniently located close to the tube TV, which is situated in the center of the room. Lucky me: I can watch TV from my bed, the recliner, or the table while I’m eating my noodles, which, based on the hot plate, are going to be my primary source of nourishment. And maybe fried eggs and bacon.