Page 21 of Hunting Snow

Just as the rain starts again, we pull into what looks like a converted industrial loft on the far side of the city. The sedan dips into a sub-level garage. There’s no sign out front or street number visible. It is just tons of raw concrete and a single security camera mounted above a steel door that looks thick enough to stop a battering ram. The tires hum against the polished concrete floor and the sound echoes through the empty structure. Two other vehicles sit in the far corner, both dark, both nondescript.

He steps out, rounds the car and opens my door. I push out and my sneakers squeak against the polished floor, the sound too loud in the stillness. He punches a code into the steel door and the lock disengages with a heavy mechanical thud that reverberates up through my feet.

The corridor beyond is narrow. Concrete walls, industrial piping running along the ceiling, recessed lighting that casts just enough glow to walk by. Our footsteps layer over each other, his boots landing soft and certain while mine stumble to keep pace. The air is different in here. Filtered. Climate-controlled. Whatever this building used to be, someone spent serious money converting it into something else entirely.

The freight elevator waits at the end of the hall. He presses his thumb to a biometric panel and the doors grind open. The cab is oversized, industrial steel with a scarred wooden floor that has seen decades of heavy use. We step in and he pulls the grate shut behind us without saying a single word. I don’t know what drives me to do it, but I slip my hand into his and lace our fingers together. The warmth of his touch makes all this craziness less… I don’t know. I don’t know how I am feeling right now. Scared, not wanting to die. And apparently trusting of this man.

He looks down at me, again, not saying anything. I guess I don’t need him to right now. Not when his fingers tighten around mine and he pulls me closer.

The elevator climbs with a low mechanical groan, vibrating through the soles of my shoes and up into my teeth.

I grip the strap of my bag against my shoulder, knuckles white, and stare at the numbers climbing above the door. I draw on his warmth and steady energy. It is easier to focus on that than all the red flags going off in my head.

The elevator shudders to a stop and he releases my hand in order to slide the grate open.

I step into the physical opposite of everything I just left behind.

Where my life is full of warmth and charm, this man’s safe house is nothing more than cold, concrete walls and exposed steel beams. He has minimal furniture which is all functional, and not at all decorative.

The layout is open. One massive room carved from the bones of whatever this building used to be, with exposed ductwork overhead and concrete pillars breaking up the space instead of walls. Just like the last place he took me to. Different address, same emptiness. The kitchen flows into the living area which flows into the sleeping area with nothing between them but a change in flooring from polished concrete to a wide platform of dark hardwood beneath the bed.

The kitchen is stainless steel and granite with professional-grade appliances that look freshly installed. A bank of monitors glows on a desk near the far wall. The security panel beside the elevator pulses green with a soft, steady rhythm.

It’s a copy and paste replica.

I set my bag on the counter and turn a slow circle. The fridge is stocked with fresh food, the kind you find at high-end grocery stores, not corner bodegas. I can tell because he has a fancy one with a glass door that puts everything on display. A small part of me is green with envy.

The bedding on the single large bed is expensive. Thread count I can clock from across the room. The bathroom through the open door gleams with new fixtures.

Everything functional is the best money can buy. Everything personal is absent with yet again no trace of a human being who lives here beyond the equipment necessary to survive. I bet he has places like this all over the city. Maybe beyond.

"This is yours?"

"One of several."

Ha. Sometimes I hate it when I’m right.

He locks the elevator panel and engages a second security system on a separate keypad. The bolts thud into place with a finality that vibrates through the floor. "You're safe here. No one knows about this location."

"And apparently not even Casper himself could squeeze through those locks.”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure? No one knows about this place? No past lover. Current lover or anyone in between?" I might be fishing for information but my questions are legit.

"No one alive."

Ugh. That’s only half an answer.

I can’t fault him for the answer though. My father would have said something similar and meant it the same way.

He moves into the kitchen and pours water from a filtered pitcher. Sets the glass in front of me on the counter. Our fingers don't touch, but the proximity sends heat crawling up my arm and settling at the base of my throat.

We stare at each other across the narrow kitchen island and the memory of our night floods every inch of the silence. His hands gripping my hips. His mouth on my throat. The way he dropped to his knees and made me come so hard I forgot the world existed beyond his tongue and fingers. The raw, broken sound he made when I called him Daddy. I never planned on saying it, but that single word broke through every guard we had and left us both raw, desperate, and aching for more.

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. Muscles shift beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, and then drags back to my eyes with an effort I can see in the tension pulling at his jaw.

"There are rules while you're here."