Page 1 of Snake Eyes (Out of His League #2)

Charlie

W ith a rucksack full of expanding foam and my asshole ex’s beloved Mustang in my sights, I make my way across the darkened parking lot.

With sunrise still another hour away, the only movement is the icy wind tugging at the trees overhead, plucking the last of the leaves off the branches, but I’m as jittery as a chihuahua.

This isn’t me.

But right now, all I can think of is my plant room.

It was my favorite place in the world, bursting to life with everything from aeoniums to nepenthes to sorrels, all carefully arranged on purpose-built shelving.

When the beaming golden sunlight filtered through the windows, it transformed into my own living, breathing forest. After every shift at the bar, I’d go and sit in my emerald green armchair—next to my Nonna’s century old Christmas cactus—and all would be right in my world.

The memory is a painful one, clogging my throat with grief.

Because a month ago, I’d told Joey our relationship needed to change. That I needed him to step up and start shouldering some of the chores around the house, rather than expecting me to be a 1950s housewife while also working at the hotel bar full-time.

He didn’t take it well, but I left for my shift at work, hoping he’d reconsider.

I came home to devastation. All that remained of the plants I’d so lovingly tended were booted footprints embedded in scattered soil and greenery mashed into the carpet. Not even my Nonna’s cactus had been spared, sacrificed to Joey’s rage.

He broke something in me that day.

There was no saving the relationship then.

We hadn’t even talked about it. The next morning, I’d simply collected whatever leaves I thought I could propagate, packed my clothes, and fled to a hotel.

Half of the furniture had been mine, but I needed to leave more than I needed a goddamned dining table.

Ensuring my hood is up, I crouch behind the Mustang—Joey’s baby —to hide from the unseasonably cold wind shivering through me, swinging off my rucksack and taking out the Mustang’s spare key. It has lived in my purse since he first purchased it, and god is he going to regret that choice.

Once the car is unlocked, I pop open the gas cap with a vengeance. Screwing the first can of expanding foam onto the application gun, I insert the long metal rod into the gas tank and let loose.

This is for my Nonna’s cactus, you fucking asshole.

I unload can after can into the gas tank, occasionally peeking over the car check that there’s no activity from the apartment block. I’m pleased to see that all the windows are still blanketed in darkness.

Over the frigid wind I struggle to hear the faint hissing of the cans emptying, and the longer it goes on for, the more my nerves are screaming at me to get out of here.

I’m relieved when the final can sputters out.

Closing the gas cap, I shove everything back inside the rucksack, my fingers frozen inside my gloves.

With one final glance around, I run—finally letting out some of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My movements are jumpy, but there’s no one out here to witness my absurdity. Leaving the parking lot behind, I jog down the deserted sidewalk, hoping against hope that I don’t run into anyone.

This side of Long Lake isn’t too precarious, but it’s another story on the other side of the garbage dump.

I’d specifically picked this route because there were no cameras, but right now that is as much of a worry as it is a comfort.

It’s a relief, therefore, to turn the corner and see my car sitting where I’d left it. I practically jump inside it, locking the doors behind me and letting out a sigh of relief.

Now there’s nothing left to do but drive.

I shiver as the heater starts to warm me up, setting up the directions on my phone and ensuring my box of propagated leaves are securely strapped into the passenger seat.

My childhood home in Calgary is my destination, although only my brother lives there now.

Dread and excitement muddle together as I see the route pop up.

There’s 12 hours of driving in store for me today, and another 10 tomorrow.

Not that my brother is even there right now. Ryan works as a bush pilot up north delivering supplies, and he’s just started a four-week rotation—which means I’ll have the house to myself for a while.

I blow out a heavy breath as I shift the car into drive. Long Lake has been home for two years, but it’s time to move on.

It’s time for my new life to begin.

“No, no, no, no,” I beg my phone, trying to memorize the route to the motel before the single percent of battery left vanishes. Drive straight for a half mile, then turn left, the—

The light vanishes from the screen, replaced by soul-crushing blackness.

A judder of fear seizes me. The icy forest I’m driving through seemed creepy before, but I’d been able to minimize that by connecting my phone to the car stereo and playing my favorite podcast.

In hindsight, that had been a mistake.

I have my phone charger, of course—but nothing to connect it to.

“Everything is fine,” I murmur to myself, choosing not to look too closely at the densely-packed forest on either side of the road, the trees seeming to inch closer and closer with every glance. Or was that in my mind? “Everything is fine.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. My plant room, may she rest in peace, was my safe space. My own living, breathing forest.

And yet here I am, scared shitless of that very same thing.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the sun hadn’t set. I was supposed to be at the Cedar Hill Motel by now, but no journey of mine is complete without a few wrong turns. The last cost me a half hour of driving time, pushing my estimated time of arrival back into the night.

I follow what directions I can remember, listening to the bitterly cold wind raging outside and hoping that the motel will appear on the horizon. Or, shit, any sign of civilization, that I’m not lost and alone in this godforsaken ice forest.

I slow as the road slopes downward, turning the steering wheel to follow its curvature—but the car keeps going, gliding forward like it has a mind of its own.

A panicked gasp escapes my throat as I desperately try to regain control of the car, trying and failing to remember what to do after hitting a patch of ice.

Terror claims me as the car turns of its own accord, spinning despite me slamming on the brakes. I hear the clattering of forest debris hitting the bodywork as the tires veer off the road, sending a wave of rocks and sticks into the air.

My body tenses up as I realize what’s about to happen—but even then, nothing prepares me for the brutality of the collision.

All the air in my lungs is forced out as the passenger side of the car careens into a tree with a sickening crunch, throwing everything from my useless phone charger to my pot of plant cuttings into the air.

I let out a yell as my head violently connects with the door post next to me, leaving me dazed.

Am I alive?

I don’t even have time to check myself over before a barrage of pinecones hits the roof of the car. I wrap my arms around myself, noticing nothing but darkness and terror in every direction.

“Please start,” I beg the car, turning the key. “Please.”

For a moment, there is nothing—before a sharp metallic crunching noise has me wincing .

Maybe it just needs to work out the kinks.

I give it a moment, pressing my hand against the pain in my head. But my second attempt is even worse than the first, the crunching interspersed with a jarring clang.

The reality of my situation sets in as I glance back up the road. The last time I saw another car was more than an hour ago, and even if one did come along there is every chance of it being driven by a serial killer.

Shit, I don’t even know where I am anymore, and I feel like the impact knocked out half of my brain cells.

I’m stranded at night, in 20°F weather, surrounded by a dense woodland packed with bears and wolves and cougars. My bestie Nicole is on vacation in the Caribbean. Ryan’s up in the Yukon, which means the only other person I could feasibly call for help is…

Joey.

Whose car I filled with expanding foam.

Leaning against the headrest, I close my eyes before I’m blinded by the irony of the situation.

I am completely, royally, totally fucked.