Inside, it smells like musty rot, but at least it looks a little better than it smells. There’s a sofa in the middle of the room that’s collapsing in on itself like a dying star, there’s a cabinet and shelf set against one wall that, beneath a monumental layer of dust, looks like it contains at least a couple bottles of some liquid that I dearly hope is bourbon, there’s a table and washbasin against another wall — both of which look like they’re home to a million spiders — and there’s a fireplace.
And nothing else. Except for the two of us and the simmering emotions — a knotted mass of attraction, distrust, respect, and anger — that we carry.
Yeah, this is hell. I died out in those woods and Satan brought me here, just to suffer for all eternity with the man who pushes my buttons like none other.
I mean, he even wears a patch that says ‘Twisted Devil’ on his cut. That has to be a sign that he’s the devil, right? I mean, it fucking says so on his label.
Crash carries me over to the sofa, dusts it with his free hand, and then sets me upon it.
I’m grateful to be off my feet after a long day of hiking, but I kind of wish he hadn’t put me on this rotting piece of furniture. It smells like moldy cheese.
“Rest here, I’m going to try to get a fire started.”
It’s when he mentions warmth that I realize how cold I am. My clothes are soaking wet from the melting snow and I’ve got nothing else to change into. I break out into spasmodic shivers as soon as that thought sinks in.
I’m going to freeze to death. In hell.
“Will you check that liquor cabinet, please?”
“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckles. “But first the fire.”
He sets his backpack down and takes out a cigarette lighter. Then, with a few heavy grunts and a couple of blows, he dismantles the old rotting table into firewood. After making a pile in the fireplace with some wood, he sets it ablaze.
Warmth. Blessed, lovely, wonderful warmth fills the interior of the cabin.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the flood of shivering recede. “Now, can you check for the booze, please?”
Laughing again, he opens the cabinet and takes out two bottles. After blowing off an impressively thick layer of dust, he squints and reads the label.
“Well, fuck me sideways, we’re in luck. We’ve got here a 15-year-old bottle of scotch and it looks like a bottle of Polish vodka. This should keep us warm for a while.”
“I’ll take the scotch, you can have the vodka.”
“You want the entire bottle?”
“Yeah, one for each of us. I’m trapped in a snowstorm in cabin with you, do you think I want to go through this experience sober?”
“Fair point,” he says.
He hands over the bottle and I eagerly unscrew the cap and take a long guzzle. It’s smooth, the smoky peaty flavor that usually comes with scotch has faded. This bottle must’ve been up here for years and years, I think.
But, even as old as it is, it still does the trick and, within seconds, I feel the ache in my body and the edge of the cold fade away.
Grunting, Crash settles on to the couch beside me. The couch groans at the additional weight, but holds together.
We sit and drink in silence, both probably wishing we were some place — anyplace — else.
Finally, with just a third of the bottle of scotch left, I hit the point of drunkenness where I feel like I can give voice to the thoughts and questions bouncing around inside my head. This is the point where, as a bartender, I’d usually cut my customers off but, fuck it, I’m trapped in the woods with a hot criminal, so I might as well drop all my inhibitions. I mean, I will probably die soon anyway, right?
“Why are you such a colossal dick?”
“Excuse me?”
“You. Are. A. Gigantic. Fucking. Dick. Why?”
“Where the fuck is this coming from?” His words are slurred a bit. Which isn’t a surprise considering he’s even closer to finishing his bottle than I am.
“I’m a bartender. I’m used to figuring people out. They come in, they get drunk, they drop their fucking facades, and they spill their guts.”
“You saying you want to spill my guts?”
“Mostly figurative, sometimes literally,” I say. My words might be a little slurred, too. I cough — the dry mountain air has taken its toll on my throat — and take another long drink of scotch. “I hear their complaints, their hopes, their dreams, their fears. It’s taught me how to see through people, you know? But I still don’t know what the hell to make of you. And I can’t even wrap my head around why you are such an asshole of monumental proportions.”
“After all the shit I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me?”
“Oh, so now you’re trying to put this on me?” I say, my voice so loud it makes him flinch. “Are you seriously fucking victim blaming right now?”
“I’ve been trying to stay out of this mess the whole fucking time.”
“Really? Because you started this whole fucking thing by putting your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You say you’re trying to stay out of this ‘mess’ that is my life, and yet you somehow can’t stop making things worse.”
“The fuck are you talking about? If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead or in jail.”
“Oh, I suppose I should be grateful? That I’m now party to multiple felonies, including a fucking arms deal. I mean, selling fucking weapons, what in the literal fuck is that?” I stand up and stick
