The Door (Part One)

Chapter Three

  “How is my garden?” Caretaker asked the moment I set foot in the warm, fragrant kitchen.

  It’s my garden, you old bat. “Fine,” I said aloud. “It’s going well.”

  “Well means there is fruit and vegetables.”

  I rolled my eyes. She was prepping a plate for me, and I assumed I’d be banished to my room while she ate with her visitors. “How … how is he?” The question came out before I could stop it.

  “He’ll live.”

  Inside, relief trickled through me. I watched her spoon a massive piece of something onto my plate. “What is that?”

  “Dumplings.”

  I had no idea what those were. She wrapped the plate in tinfoil and handed it to me.

  “Upstairs,” she commanded.

  Like hired help. I gritted my teeth to keep from saying anything and walked down the hallway. All three sitting parlors and the office were occupied, and I slowed as I passed. Three of the men from upstairs were in the office, a golden-eyed stranger in one sitting room and others I didn’t recognize in the third.

  As I climbed the stairs, I realized why the sight of them bothered me. There were no families on vacation, and these men all seemed … militant. Hunters in jumpsuits, crazy men in leathers, and cowboys with knives.

  I was beginning to think this was some sort of gang hang out, not a legitimate bed and breakfast. But wouldn’t my probation officer do his homework before sending me here?

  Reaching the top of the stairs, I glanced towards my room then down the left wing. The door to the wounded boy’s room remained open, even though his friends were downstairs. After a split second of indecision, I walked down the hallway towards his room and paused outside, listening for any sign he was awake.

  I needed to see him for myself, to know I hadn’t been party to his death, too. No sound came from his room, and I peeked around the corner, ready to run at the sight of a single drop of blood.

  He was under the covers. The room smelled of disinfectant, and there was no sign of the mess from earlier. His tattoos alone marred his features.

  I crept inside, gazing at him. Some of the emotion from earlier emerged, the despair and fear, but I pushed it aside. I was too tired to deal with anything I felt.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” I whispered, uncertain why I was really there except that my conscience was hurting me.

  He turned his head towards the door. The same fire was present in the eyes that were neither blue nor brown nor any color I’d seen before. They were dark and deep – it was the only real way to describe them.

  He said something in a guttural tongue, his voice gruff.

  I shrugged.

  He lifted his closed hand in offering. I hesitated then stepped forward. As I neared, his fist opened to display what looked like a misshapen penny in his palm.

  “Oh.” I gazed at it.

  He lifted his hand again, indicating I should take it.

  I did. “Um, thanks.” His hand dropped to his side. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  We gazed at one another again, and the world around me began to fade, become less clear as he became the center of the universe. He was somewhat good looking beneath the tattoos, leaner than the men he was with, probably because he was my age and not yet filled out.

  I motioned to his face, curious about the tattoos. He touched his cheek with a small frown, not understanding.

  Unable to talk to him, I didn’t know how to ask about the significance of his markings and shook my head, exhausted. “Thanks again.”

  I left. I studied the coin and walked towards my room. Its size was the only thing it had in common with a penny. The color was off, more rust than copper, and one side of it was blank. The other had a symbol I’d never seen before.

  In what country did someone just hand you a penny?

  I tucked it into my pocket anyway, suspecting it was a token of gratitude for not passing out on him, and ate my dinner quickly in my room.

  While tired, I ran a bath instead of heading straight to bed. I turned off the bathroom light. The glow of the light on my nightstand crept into the bathroom. I waited for my bath to finish and stood at the window overlooking the driveway. Two men were walking away from the house, towards the road.

  No vehicles yet again. Did Caretaker have some weird rule about people driving up to the house?

  I waited and watched the two of them, wanting to see where the hidden parking lot was. They approached the edge of the driveway and stopped to talk to one another briefly.

  The gargle of the bath drain indicated it had reached capacity. I went to turn off the water with haste before hurrying back to the window.

  The men had vanished. No taillights were visible in either direction of the road, and moonlight was bright enough to illuminate the desert and anything man-sized that might be moving through it.

  They were simply gone.

  That’s not possible. I blinked, staring.

  Was I so tired I was making up stories about people disappearing? I spun away from the window and went to take my bath.

  I hopped out forty minutes later, relaxed yet unable to shake the wired feeling left over from my panic attack earlier. I should’ve told the old lady I had issues when I got here, but something about her made me not want to volunteer any such information.

  Achy and sore, I put on my sleeping shorts and t-shirt and sat on my bed to pull on socks when there was a knock at the door.

  Oh, god. Now what. As far as I was concerned, I was done for the night. I opened the door, ready to tell the old bat off for the first time, and gasped.

  The guy with purple tattoos from down the hallway leaned heavily against the doorframe, holding one arm across his midsection. His torso was bare and covered with tattoos, his eyes glazed. I gazed up at him, not expecting him to be so much bigger than me. He was as tall as his friends, if not taller.

  “Look, no offense, but …” I started.

  “Sor … cha ni … li,” he said in a wheezy, singsong tone.

  “Um, no idea what that means.”

  His eyes closed, and he sagged, sliding down.

  I lurched forward, gracelessly trying to keep him from hitting the floor. I caught him, but he was heavy enough to drag us both down. In the end, I managed to slow his fall and ended up part of it rather than helping him.

  He was unconscious, and I was trapped uncomfortably between his heavy body and the door. Red bloomed in the bandages around his chest and spread. The moment I saw blood, I had the sense of being close to passing out.

  “Hey,” I said, pushing gently at the guy who collapsed in my arms. “Hey, wake up.”

  He stirred. I shifted the best I could, managing to detangle my arm and leg from his body. It was an even worse time to pass out or throw up, and I focused on him.

  “Hey,” I said again and patted his cheek. “Dude, come on.”

  His eyelids flickered open. He tensed and stared at me briefly before recognition crossed his features.

  “Can you get up?” I asked, uncertain if he understood or not.

  “Sor … cha ni … li.” He grimaced and rested a hand on his belly once more.

  “I’m guessing you’re telling me you’re bleeding. Let’s get you back to your bed and I’ll get the Caretaker.”

  “Caretaker.”

  “Yes.” With a grunt, I did my best to heft him. He climbed to his feet and wobbled. I steadied him the best I could.

  We started down the hallway at a lumbering, precarious walk, my arm around him. He smelled of antiseptic and beneath that, his own rich, dark scent, which oddly enough reminded me of what I smelled walking into a Starbucks.

  When we made it to his room, I helped him sit and nearly toppled on top him. He was warm, solid, and strong, a combination I’d never experienced from other guys my age, or never noticed if I did. He steadied me and I moved way quickly, releasing him to regain my balance.

  We gazed at one another ag
ain, and the moment grew awkward.

  “Caretaker,” I said finally, backpedaling. Without waiting for him to speak again, I left the room and hurried downstairs. I searched the rooms until I found her in the kitchen prepping tea. “Hey, um, the guy upstairs is bleeding again and asking for you.”

  She turned. “Why are you bothering him?”

  “I didn’t. He came to my room and collapsed.”

  “Go back upstairs. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’re welcome,” I snapped.

  She ignored me.

  I went upstairs and paused at the top of the stairs. There was no reason for me to see him again. I didn’t like seeing someone hurt. I had no idea who these people were or why they showed up here instead of going to a hospital. It probably meant they were criminals or something.

  Yet I found myself starting down the hallway to his room. When I peered in, I saw him where I’d left him, holding his abdomen, waiting. I felt bad for him. The swirling and loopy tattoos on his face covered his neck and torso, all of them purple. Those on his chest were more intricate. It didn’t seem possible they were writing, but they had to have held some meaning for him to be covered in them. They amplified my interest in his muscular chest and shoulders and his fantastic abs.

  Sexy, strong and wounded. It was a strange combination. I tended to shy away from men since the incident, but he was too weak to stand let alone hurt me. I didn’t view his strength as a threat but a sign of how bad off he really was if someone who should be strong couldn’t even stand without help.

  “She’s coming,” I said.

  He looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and appeared more blue than brown in the light.

  I pointed towards the stairs.

  He gave a single nod to show he understood. I’d never seen mannerisms like his, either, among the boys in high school. He seemed excessively self-assured and abrupt. We got a lot of tourists and visitors in New York, and my school was a melting pot of different ethnicities. Yet I couldn’t identify what language he spoke.

  Who was this guy?

  Rather than leaving, I visually followed the line of his shoulder to his rounded biceps and roped forearms, both of which were decorated with tattooed dots rather than sworls. His jawline was sharp and forehead broad.

  Does it matter? I still didn’t know what he’d done to get hurt or who he might’ve hurt in the process. Something about how different he was fascinated me.

  As if feeling my gaze, he looked up again.

  “Sorry,” I murmured. Embarrassed to be caught staring, I backpedaled and left, hurrying back to my room.