“Because we were going to cook you fresh tenderloin for our date and fill your freezer for the rest of your stay,” the guy, who must be Hale, says like it’s obvious, as he soothingly rubs circles on Reese’s back. “That’s why we’re late. It took longer than usual to bag a good one. We didn’t have time to field-dress it, so we just bled it out on the way here by—”
“Please stop talking,” Reese says on a wet gag.
Hale swallows the rest of his words.
“You kill Bambi on the regular?” I ask on a rasp, trembling whisper.
I almost died to save a baby deer, and these guys just slaughtered a big one for our date-night? How is this happening? Did I miss the abrupt turn we took somehow?
“Is she puking or not? I’m not coming in to see that,” the other guy says from somewhere outside as my sister continues to dry heave over the sink.
I guess that’s Hale’s brother—Killian Vincent.
I’m positive it’s historically accurate to state that this is the worst way any date has ever started. I never thought I’d be in a situation where I’m clutching a wooden spoon like a weapon and preparing to throw down with Bambi murderers.
“She’s not puking, so go ahead and start skinning the deer—”
The deer starts moving, and I shriek a little. Just a little. The high-pitched sound may split a glass or two, but it’s still little.
“They’re going to scream, so shut the door so I can move the damn thing,” Killian says from outside.
“What kind of date consists of killing and skinning a deer?” I ask while cringing, and gagging, as Hale rushes over and shuts the door.
I barely take in the fact he’s tall, fit, and has a trimmed beard, because he moves away from the door I’m still staring at.
“We wanted to do the date right,” Hale says a little defensively, and I glance over to see him back at my sister’s side, rubbing a hand over her back as she splashes cool water on her face.
Most of her hard work is washed away from her face with the action. She quickly pours a glass of water, takes a sip, and spits the second sip out. I worry there’s something wrong with the water she’s drinking, based on my limited interactions with the crazy people in this town over the past two days.
Weirdly, the Hale guy seems genuinely worried, and I think his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.
“Just curious, how often do you date?” I ask, not hearing how terrible it sounds until it’s out of my mouth.
See? I’m a recovering douche. It’s not a simple process.
He bristles, and his cheeks get a bit redder as he ignores the question. Instead, he loudly yells, “How’s the deer coming?”
“Can’t skin the motherfucker in five minutes after dragging it in all that snow, you dick. Give me a second,” Killian calls back.
Now that the initial shock has worn off, I almost feel bad for them, even though they’ve effectively traumatized us both tonight. They were weirdly trying to be sweet, I think.
I’m not entirely sure I know what’s going on at this point. It’s like trying to connect the dots on a body full of chicken pox.
“I’ve never seen a dead animal before,” Reese groans as she shuts off the water and just leans over the sink, her breaths calming.
“It’ll taste better than it looks,” Hale tells her very seriously, like he’s trying to recover from this disaster and put a good spin on it.
I sit down, deciding that as long as I don’t see anything going on, I might as well be entertained. And drunk. I’m going to need to be really damn drunk for this night.
“So I take it we’re staying in tonight?” I ask as I pull out the bottle of vodka from under the couch, which was apparently my Gran’s hiding spot for it.
I’m more of a wine girl. I don’t know how I feel about drinking vodka. Gran was apparently a hard liquor woman.
“Well, it’s winter in Tomahawk. Everything closes when the sun goes down, so we don’t really have much else to do. Especially if just seeing a dead animal freaks you two out that much.” Hale stares at me expectantly, as though I’m the idiot in the room for not knowing that.
“There are worse sights outside?” I ask, my hands shaking a little as I unscrew the lid from the bottle.
“Not really. But you’re supposed to eat on dates. Lilah said so,” he states flatly, only confusing me more.
“Who’s Lilah?” I ask as Reese finally dries off her face and blows a heavy breath into the towel, keeping it over her face for longer than necessary.
“My sister,” Hale answers while rifling through the cabinets, truly intent on cooking the deer, which is apparent when he pulls out a few pans that may or may not be two or three decades old. “I’m one-third of a triplet set, and I’m the oldest,” he adds like it’s important information.