Page 15 of Night So Silent
“Those are the terms.”
Dubiously, Clay agrees that only the three of them will enter my house and I agree to let them stay there and be on the lookout for suspicious characters. He also promises to call our parents to let them know I’m still in Colorado.
I take another look out the window. The storm’s getting worse and the counters are jammed with frazzled travelers freaking out about making it to their destinations in time for Christmas. But Christmas is five days away, surely flights will have resumed before then…right?
I turn around and nearly jump out of my skin when I almost bump into a tall figure dressed in black. I jerk my head up and immediately recognize Sergei’s frosty blue eyes and blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the crown of his head. He looks like he’s on the freaking SWAT team.
“Your flight’s been cancelled?” he asks in his signature monotone.
“Delayed,” I stammer, trying to get my bearings. “Where did you come from?”
“It’ll be cancelled within the hour.”
“What?How do you know?”
“This storm will shut down the airport for days.” Every response is immediate, like he already knows the answer before I open my mouth. “You’ll need somewhere to stay.”
I let out an exasperated huff and pull out my phone again. “I guess I’ll let Brett know.” Then I shake my head. “Never mind, I guess she’s the one who sent you here, right?”
“The road up the mountain is probably blocked by now,” he replies.
Gazing at all the stranded people around me, I feel even more defeated than before.
“Great,” I groan. “And I’m sure the two hotels nearby are already booked by now.”
“Come on,” Sergei clips and starts toward the glass doors leading out of the terminal.
“Where?”
“My house.”
What?
I just stare at his back as he walks away. When he realizes I’m not following, he looks over his shoulder expectantly.
“I, um…” I clear my throat and take a few steps forward. “What do you mean?”
“As I said, you’ll need somewhere to stay.”
“Oh, no,” I chuckle. “You don’t have to do that. It would be too much. I can’t impose on you like that.”
“Where will you go?” he asks.
I open my mouth, but then stop, realizing that my options are few and sucky. Sergei strolls back toward me, his heavy black boots coming to a halt only a foot from me.
“You can stay here,” he glances around the terminal, “or you can come to my house where there’s real food and a real bed. WiFi, too.”
He has a point. The idea of staying—and possibly sleeping—at the airport with no bed, no private bathroom, and a vending machine as my only source of sustenance is enough to convince me. I don’t say another word. I just follow him.
After locating my suitcase, which thankfully hadn’t made it onto the plane yet, I’m back in Sergei’s Tundra. He wasn’t lying when he said the road up to Brett and Colson’s house was probably blocked by now. I have white knuckles and I’m not even the one driving. Snow is swirling all over the road and I’m not sure how Sergei is maintaining a steady speed, but he doesn’t seem fazed by the literal blizzard raging around us.
I would say he’s driving me through an unfamiliar part of Gunnison, but let’s be honest—there are so many pine trees and boulders around here that everything looks the same, especially covered in snow. The only difference now is that instead of pulling up to Brett and Colson’s chalet-like house after snaking up another windy road, the thick curtain of snow finally reveals a smaller house with a slanted metal roof and stone chimney. Sergei parks the truck in the garage behind the house and I follow him—and my suitcase—up to the porch, noticing that the entire house is sitting on a platform built on top of a cluster of massive granite boulders.
The blast of warm air is like heaven against my cheeks as I follow Sergei through the front door. He flips the switch on the wall and the living room lamps turn on, casting a golden glow through the room. Before I can take another step, there’s a tiny jingle and I nearly gasp when I look down and see a shiny black cat prance across the floor. It sniffs my boot and looks up at me with a long, whiny meow.
Immediately, I crouch down and offer my hand. The cat sniffs me and then rubs the side of its face along my fingertips. My heart aches at the feeling of its silky fur and the deep purrsthat rumble from its throat. Whether from grief or by chance, I don’t think I’ve touched another cat since Roux died.
“She’s hungry,” Sergei mentions as he sets my suitcase down next to a cream-colored sectional.
