April 10
Tayja
I open my eyes the next morning to find my pillow wet with tears. I dreamed of Johnston's final moments as he died protecting me. For some reason, we were back in my living room, where this whole nightmare started in the first place. He was trying to defend me from my family's murderers. I was back in my hiding place where I'd been when my whole family died. Just like with my family, all I could do was watch as yet another important person in my life died in front of me. I didn't know Johnston for very long, but he'd been like a surrogate father to me after I'd lost my own.
I remember the Glock Ryan gave me yesterday. It reminded me of the weapon I'd seen Johnston carry and use. The sight of the pistol reminded me of him and of feeling safe, that there was someone always looking out for me. My hand itches to hold it again.
I hear the water in the bathroom turn on. Ryan must be taking a shower. Ryan Burke. The son of the famous Burke family. I'm rooming with a celebrity. Not that I care that much. I've never been a fan of reality TV and the complete idolization of a flawed person has always baffled me slightly, but I can't deny that it's an odd feeling to realize you're close to someone extremely famous.
I try in vain again to remember his picture. All I can conjure up in my head is the image of an obscured face with crystal blue eyes, but even that detail is probably just because I've seen his eye. I have absolutely no recollection of what he looks like.
His brother, on the other hand, I can remember with stunning clarity. The man makes an impression. He's a total player. Some women find that attractive, I guess, but his overall demeanor oozes "jerk." However, even I can't deny that he is one very attractive man. His sister - a redhead, who I finally remember now - is fairly gorgeous as well. I'm still not certain who the blonde is, but by Ryan's knee jerk reaction, I'm inclined to think she's an ex or something.
I don't remember anything about the youngest Burke son having a girlfriend, but the picturesquely tragic blonde is permanently associated in my mind with Ryan's funeral. I think perhaps I saw her image along with the announcements of Ryan's death. I remember her because something about her demeanor struck me as odd. She looked gorgeous, in a skinny black dress that showed off her figure to great advantage. Her expression looked sad, distraught, and desolate, but her face still looked perfect - not a hint of redness or the puffy eyes that result from crying. Either the woman was a magical goddess incapable of ugly-crying or she'd practiced her sad expression for hours until she could appear appropriately grieved without sacrificing her appearance.
I shake my head. I could just be crazy. But if my suspicions about her are right, I think Ryan dodged a huge bullet where she's concerned. The three phone calls made to another phone number in Ryan's call history jump out in my mind. Were those phone calls made to her? It kinda makes sense, when I think about it. Who else would he call, if his family are the only people who know he's alive, and he dislikes them so much? His ex must know he's alive as well. If she knows he's alive, she also must know what happened to him. I remember how upset Ryan became when I mentioned her yesterday. Did she dump him because of his injuries?
I'm speculating wildly and I know it. It's not my place to make conjectures about his personal life. I never should have gone through his phone either. I shake my head. No, Tayja.
The water in the bathroom stops running. I jump up out of bed and run lightly over to the closet. I retrieve my new robe, pull it on, and tie it around me before waiting by the bedroom door for a few minutes. As soon as I hear the bathroom door open, I fling open the bedroom door and stick my head out.
"When can we go shooting?"
Ryan's crystal blue eye narrows at me from the doorway of the bathroom. He sighs, seeming impatient with my enthusiasm.
"As soon as you're ready," he says.
I spin and close the door behind me, shrugging the robe off my shoulders as I head for the closet. In a few moments, I'm dressed and ready. I find Ryan milling around with his handguns, the names of which I've already forgotten.
"Ready?" I ask.
He seems surprised to see me again so quickly. He points with his left hand at my Glock, which is sitting in the gun cabinet in pieces. Of course, he's not going to assemble it for me. I bring the pieces with me to the table and struggle to produce a functional gun out of them. Now that I know about his family, some aspects of his demeanor make more sense. As the son of an affluent family, I'd expect him to be spoiled and entitled. The way he demands answers from me without always offering the same candor in return reflects that. His brief moments of kindness, however, lead me to believe that he's more than the spoiled rich kid you'd suppose him to be.
I hear Ryan's uneven gait as he walks across the cabin. A soft clattering sound on the table prompts me to look up and see a pair of clear glasses and what look like headphones.
"What's this?" I ask.
"To protect your eyes and ears."
"What about you?"
Ryan doesn't say anything. I find it a little hypocritical that he insists I follow rules that he blatantly ignores. I cross my arms and say in an annoying little voice, "Gun safety, remember?"
He doesn't look amused or impressed, but he picks up a single earplug and turns away from me to put it in.
"Just one?" I ask when he turns back to me.
"Only need one," he says.
"Oh," I say, realizing what he means. He only has one functional ear. What happened to the other one? What kind of injury would cause him to lose hearing in just one ear? He turns and heads outside. I don't know quite what happened to Ryan's face, but it's clear that it was something major. Between the right eye hole in the mask sewn up, Ryan's blatant refusal to be seen without the mask, his reaction yesterday when I mentioned his face being on TV, and now the loss of one ear, I expect that even if I could remember what his face looked like back then, it might not look recognizable anymore.
Ryan's mask serves its purpose well, but the one feature it can't hide is his eye. His startlingly clear blue eye is the only indication that the rest of his face may have been remarkably handsome once. The dark black ski mask makes his eye nearly luminescent in contrast. His brother has similarly mesmerizing blue eyes. I wonder if Ryan looks or used to look like his brother. Somehow, if he did, I don't think he'd project the same icky, smarmy image that his brother possesses. Finally finished assembling both guns, I shove the unloaded Glock in my pocket and hold the rifle in both hands as I head outside to join Ryan.
I find him standing near a few of the closest trees, propping a piece of the delivery crate against a trunk. I sit on the rickety little chair in the corner of the porch, resting the rifle across my knees. The Glock begins to slide out of my small, women's jeans-sized pockets. I quickly snatch it up and set it gently on the porch next to me. I look up into the grey, opaque sky. With clouds this thick, it's impossible to see the sun. Ryan trudges up the stairs of the porch.
"Is it going to rain?" I ask.
He looks up at the sky as well. "I don't think so," he says. "Just overcast." He looks down at me. "Ready?"
I nod. I stand and join him at the edge of the porch. He shows me how to load the rifle and lets me shoot until the gun is empty. He continues to give some pointers on how to hold the rifle, tricks to make loading it easier, and so on. I continue shooting and reloading until I can't hold my arm steady anymore. Though lighter than his, my rifle is still rather heavy and hard for me to hold up for so long. Ryan suggests shooting along a surface I can rest the rifle on. We quickly determine that the porch railing isn't going to work. Ryan crosses his arms and I can tell by his stance and the look in his eye that he's considering something.
Wordlessly, he heads down the steps of the porch and enters the little shed I saw before. A motor starts up and the ATV rolls out of the shed with Ryan straddling it. He drives it out to the middle of the yard and shuts off the engine. He dismounts and returns to the base of the porch stairs.
"Hand me the Mosin?" he asks, indicating the Russian-made rifle he left on the porch with me. I give it to him without touching the stairs. He carries it back to the ATV and rests the barrel across it, aiming at the piece of the crate and obliterating it with the hefty Russian weapon. Satisfied, he slings the rifle over his shoulder and replaces the destroyed target with a new piece of crate-remnant. Then he returns to the base of the porch steps.
"Would you like to try shooting across the hood of the ATV?" he asks. I hear the question for what it really is: will I come down from the porch? I hesitate and look at the forest looming nearby. I feel the weight of the rifle in my hands and the pressure of the Glock jammed back in my pocket. If anything tries to hurt me, I can shoot the living daylights out of it. I won't be short on firepower. The logical parts of my brain realize this, but my fear ignores rationality. I look down at Ryan and bite my lip with equal parts indecision and dread.
He holds out a hand to me, his left hand. "Trust me," he says, more of a statement than a question, but yet not a command. I swallow, give myself one more moment to think it over, then accept his hand in mine. I don't let go when I reach the ground, but end up clinging to his left arm. He doesn't say anything but leads me to the ATV.
I let go when we reach the small vehicle but stick close to his side. He speaks to me calmly, explaining how to rest the rifle across the hood and shoot it from this position. I listen to his voice, which is surprisingly soothing despite his rough vocalization. I feel my panic subside as I look into his blue eye, intent on mine. I remember what he said earlier in the week when I'd woken both of us with my nightmare.
You're OK. You're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you.
I start to believe those words.