Raven

Raven, Chapter Five

I looked up, aghast, wearing nothing but a smile, standing in six inches of snow. "Holy shit! Bryce!" I yelped and pressed myself up against the side of the house, my mind begging him to leave. I was on the verge of transforming back to a bird when I saw the red flannel pajamas being held out around the corner of the house.

"Here. You may need these."

"Oh God," I groaned, snatching them away, but I couldn't mistake the sound of a chuckle ripped from his chest then quickly stifled. "I'm so embarrassed," I stammered, but before I could continue to verbalize my mortification, he interrupted, "You weren't kidding when you said you didn't get cold," then he erupted into laughter. The red of the pajamas were nothing compared to my chest and face which burned with humiliation. The distinct thud of another bird in a nearby tree hitting the ground, dead, hit my ears.

"What the fuck?" Bryce asked, but before he could investigate, I stepped onto the porch, newly robed in soft cotton, and his attention turned completely on me. His laughter stopped in his mouth, as he stared at me with new eyes, his mind considering, reappraising what he'd thought of me before.

"Raven?"

"I'm really sorry, Bryce." His hand gestured away, as he approached the door.

"No worries. Best laugh I've had in a while," the smile dropped from his eyes, "I didn't think I could laugh—not now," he whispered.

"I'm so sorry about your brother." He waved the comment away again. "Let's get inside. Even if you're not cold," his eyes unmistakably flicked toward my nipples, and I felt my blood rush in my ears. He blushed, and opened the door for me to pass through. I was certain the air crackled between us, as my body brushed up against his. He sucked in his breath, and I felt my body burn. What's wrong with me? I thought.

"Hang on a second. I need to get something out of my car." It only took sixty seconds for him to leave the door and to return, but the images that filled my mind of pitch forks, burning funeral pyres and the sounds of weeping widows filled my head. God, I have to get the fuck out of here! I couldn't deal with this man finding out I was responsible for his grief. He came back in, knocking at the already open door.

"Um...come in?"

"Just making sure you were clothed," he chuckled, and held up a bottle of Balvenie seventeen year old scotch for my inspection. "Do you mind?"

"Which part—the scotch or the wisecrack?"

"Either," he replied sheepishly.

"Both are fine—especially the scotch. I'll need it if I have to deal with any more of your jokes."

"Ouch," he quipped, but I could feel the air thickening between us. I had images in my head of him just tearing my pajamas off. I suspected he was having the same thoughts because he was having a hell of a time getting the bottle uncorked and pouring us glasses.

"Thought you might be a scotch woman," he offered conversationally.

"And what told you that?" His eyes turned to mine, as he handed me a glass, half-filled with amber liquid. I inhaled deeply. His eyebrows raised, as I held my glass to his. "Cheers," I whispered, my voice heavy in my throat.

"Cheers, and I don't know."

"Know what?" I took a long gulp, savoring the voluptuous burning of whiskey.

"What made me think you'd like it. I don't know."

"It's okay. I've never met an alcohol I didn't like." He chuckled, and offered his glass up, "Touché."