Page 8 of Traitor
Chapter Three
Peyton
For many months,I was a prisoner in my own home.
You’d think it couldn’t get worse than that, but it can. When I did venture out into the world again, it was with the fearful innocence of a child.
Except I didn’t have any parents’ legs to cling to, to turn to for comfort. All I had was myself and the nightmares that haunted me.
As I hike through the forest, the early morning sun blotted out by the thick canopy of trees, the cold fingertips of fear grip my heart as though no time has passed between that night and the present. All the work I’d done, all the physical space and time had gone the instant he caught me off guard. My blood still pounds like a metronome on speed in my ears.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter to myself, kicking at pine needles littering the forest floor and dusting up the air with the scent of still-cold earth.
It took me a long time after that night to even be around men I knew without having a panic attack, let alone strangers. Despite all the therapy, all my affirmations, and progress, big men like Ford still made me jittery. I had to tell myself to calm down and ball my hands into fists in order to remind myself not all men are bad guys. Not all men want to hurt me.
Once Ford stalks off back to the lodge it takes longer than I want to admit for the panic to fade. I don’t want to blame him specifically. Even if it had been the nicest guy in the world, having someone come up behind me would have freaked me out.
Ford Collier, from his shitkicker boots to his permanent resting bitch face is no nice guy, that’s certain.
He could be on covers of magazines if it weren’t for the permanent scowl.
And the terrible attitude.
What was it about being so good-looking that turned men into insufferable jerks?
It’s not really him I’m annoyed with, if I’m being honest with myself. It’s me.Cut that out, Peyton. I can’t go down that line of thinking. Only a shame spiral with a dose of depression will be the result, so I focus on the scenery around me, trying to lose myself in the scents and sounds.
I stomp through the trees with more energy than I’ve had in months, but it still takes me over an hour to get deep into the low rise of the mountains. Since it’s my first time, I didn’t pack the bulkier of my supplies. I figured I’d save that for my trip to the fabled Windy Point, where the views were lauded by the brochures to be even more spectacular. I’d be able to bring my paints along then, maybe an easel and a larger canvas.
Some artists take photos of the landscape and compose in their studios, but for now on location will do. Not only do I not have a studio to speak of at the moment, but I’ve spent so much time locked up behind walls, staying indoors is the last thing I want to do.
A bird trills and then a flash of white darts in front of my vision to take roost at the top of the trees. I refocus on my surroundings, pushing the interaction with Ford to the farthest reaches of my mind. I’ll apologize when I get back to the lodge. It’s not his fault I’m so damaged.
My cell rings in the pocket of my backpack and my lips press into a white slash as it breaks my tentative serene mood. The display readsUncle Bradley.
“I’m alive,” I say immediately.
Uncle Bradley doesn’t respond with his customary snort. Instead, he says, “Thought you were supposed to be here by now.”
“Everything is fine,” I say automatically. “I stopped at this little town in North Carolina. It’s so cute, you’d love it. I think I’m going to paint here for a while.” I tell myself not to babble, but the words keep coming. “I promise I’m okay. You don’t need to worry.”
Uncle Bradley is—was—my mother’s brother. After she passed, his incredibly overprotective instincts transferred to me like some sort of wacky familial inheritance.
“Without telling me,” he says. I wince, grateful he can’t see me.
“I knew you would have talked me out of it.”
His sigh fills my ears over the line. I can picture him at the desk in his study, his glasses hooked on the vee of his shirt, a snifter of whiskey at his elbow, and the bottle never far away. I’d conquered my demons…mostly. Uncle Bradley had a harder time with his.
“Am I really that bad?” His soft question makes me pause more than a sharply worded admonishment would.
I pause the trek up the path, wipe at the sweat dripping down my brow, and take a drink of water. The interruption helps me gather my thoughts.
“Of course not, Uncle Bradley. I just, I could feel myself dying there. I knew if I didn’t leave that house, that town, I’d never get out again. Please don’t be mad.”
“You know I’m looking out for you, Peanut.” I’m not sure, but I swear I can hear his voice thicken. In the years since I lost my parents, I rarely saw evidence of his own grief so knowing I hurt him tears me up inside.
My nose stings as I tear up in turn. I blink my eyes rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. “I know you are, but you don’t need to worry. I’m staying at a really nice hotel, I’m not sure how long, maybe a week or so. It’s so gorgeous here. I’m actually on my way up one of the mountains to paint.”