Sandman (Ceasefire #6) - Claire Marta Page 0,2

spooked. Hypothermia is something I really don’t need.

“Who the hell are you? And what the fuck are you doing in my house?” The deep lazy baritone of the voice reverberates through my bones and holds an accent I can’t place.

Spinning on my heels, I come face to face with a handsome stranger. His eyes are deep restless pools. A thousand different hues of brown spellbinding color. Shoulder leaning against the wall, the black shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned, revealing a broad muscled torso. Ripped, worn jeans encase his long, thick legs, feet bare on the wooden floor.

“R…Robin,” I stutter, limbs shaking from shock and cold. I’m aware of the small puddle I’m leaving on the floor beneath me from my soaking wet pajamas.

The man hums in his throat. “Robin redbreast. Are you a fierce little bird?”

“I…I got trapped in the storm and needed somewhere to shelter. This house was the only one I could find. Where is this place? Are we far from a town? Maybe a campground or something? I’m lost. I guess you don’t know who I am so I can’t be a neighbour or from a house nearby. Could I stay until it passes?”

“Hell,” he replies, spearing his fingers through his wild black hair raking it away from his eyes. “That’s where we are.”

They fascinate me. The way they constantly change. As if somehow like a diamond catching the light, they’re forever catching different shades of something forever in flux.

My attention fastens on the Fuck Love tattoo inked on his forearm loud among the others he has collected on his skin. His throaty chuckle at my staring tingles down my spine in a peculiar way. Turning, the stranger’s bare soles slap the floor as he walks along the hall leaving me standing in a sodden mess.

There’s no way I want to face the storm again, and he hasn’t told me to leave. Sweeping the area, my ears strain for any more signs of life. The silence is almost eerie in its sharpness.

Is he alone in the house? Why would someone want to be out here in the middle of nowhere? Maybe he’d let me use his phone. I wrinkle my nose at that thought. Who am I going to call if I can’t remember anything more than my name? If I’m missing, someone will be looking for me, friends or family. Contacting the authorities could get me one step closer to remembering my life.

Reluctantly I go in search of the stranger. I find him in the room at the end of the hall. The smell greets me first. Stale alcohol and the scent of cigarette smoke woven into the air. I find him slumped in a recliner, a bottle of open whisky clutched in his hand. Legs stretched out, they’re crossed at the ankles resting on a shabby footstool.

A large plasma tv is fixed to the wall across from him. Games strewn around a console with a discarded controller.

The light from a crackling fire cocoons the living room in shadows. Shutters are drawn tightly against the night outside still rattling the windows and howling with some unworldly rage trying to get in.

Lured by the flames, I step toward it, hands outstretched to soak in the blissful heat. Still shivering, I need to warm up and change before I catch a chill or something worse. Would he lend me some clothes?

“How did you get here?”

Again, I’m struck by his accent. Its familiar and unknown all at the same time. As if somehow, I should recognize it, but why is just out of reach.

Tilting my head, I’m met with the gleam of the stranger’s unusual eyes. “I don’t remember. I just found myself outside.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” he rumbles, lounging in a relaxed pose. “You won’t be here for long anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Because you don’t exist.” Raising his bottle, he takes a long swig of the liquid, his throat muscles working as he swallows.

I eye the gathering of numerous empties around his chair with a hint of distaste. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re a hallucination,” he counters with a long, drawn-out, weary sigh. “The prettiest one I’ve had in a while, but you’re nothing new. It’s giving me something to jerk off to in the shower for the next few weeks.”

Staring at him in disbelief, my brows furrow. “I’m not a drunken delusion. I’m real.”

“Sure, you are.”

“I am not!”

“Uh huh.” Hugging the whisky protectively to his chest, the amber liquid catches in the firelight sending it the