Reprise (Ruby Riot #3) Page 5

  “No you’re not. Why not make the most of my good mood? It’s pretty shit what’s happened to you.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Let me help out.”

  Bodysnatchers maybe? Why is he being nice to me? He has a selfish streak as wide as the Nile; is there some compassion inside after all?

  And still no response from the car rental company.

  “When are you leaving?” I ask.

  “When I’ve eaten your cake?” He digs in again. “Surely we can be polite to each other for the journey?”

  I waver. “This is kind of you, Nate, but—”

  “But you’re being stubborn. Suit yourself.” He stands and picks up the remaining cake from the plate. “I’ll wait at reception in ten minutes. Drop the pride and hitch a ride with me.” He pushes the steaming coffee towards me. “I might even be nice.”

  Nate walks off, with cake, and I stare after his tall figure. Perhaps the Nate I caught glimpses of on the tour two years ago still exists. Deeply buried, but there.

  7

  RILEY

  I drag the seatbelt across my lap and buckle into Nate’s silver Range Rover. Wild ride? Who knows? Uncomfortable, that’s for sure. Nate settles into the driver’s seat and adjusts the mirror.

  “Just us?” I ask in the vain hope his invitation extended to anybody from the crew left at the hotel.

  “Yeah. We’re last to leave.”

  Not looking at me still, Nate shifts to pull his phone from his jeans pocket and slings it next to him into a space between the seats. He punches a couple of controls on the dash and the car fills with the sound of Ruby Riot. I blink at the assaulting volume as Nate starts the car.

  No chance of talk, thank god.

  I pull my phone out too and flick through my messages as the car pulls away. Five hours of this. Fun. At least Nate’s seats are comfortable and the drive smooth. The sleet outside turns to snow as the journey continues, the motorway cutting a path through the growing snow either side.

  I text Mum to let her know how long I’ll be and cross my fingers the weather doesn’t worsen.

  The hum of the car engine lulls me to sleep. Two nights on tour and I’m ready to sleep for a week. This always happens when I’m stressed. I end up exhausted and spend my free time sleeping. Those are the times the mother-guilt edges in, but I’m doing my best for us all.

  A change in car movement and tick of the indicator rouses me and I open my eyes. A sign at the junction as we take an exit from the motorway catches my eye and I straighten in my seat.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Can’t we stop at motorway services?”

  Nate makes a small noise in his throat. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Food’s shit.” He turns onto the main road, away from the direction we were heading. I twist and look behind as the motorway slides into the distance.

  “Where, then?”

  “There’s a pub I like not far from here.”

  “A pub? Nate, it’s snowing badly and you’re heading into the Yorkshire Moors.”

  “I’m driving. I call the shots,” he says gruffly.

  I bite back a retort and slump down in my seat. The snow swirls around heavier than earlier and, as we leave the main road for a narrower one, panic sets in.

  “Nate!”

  “What?”

  “Please go back.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  I rub my head, visions of the car trapped in snowdrifts not helping my anxiety. “You’re not invincible. The weather does apply to you too.”

  “This is a Range Rover and we’re hardly off-road driving. Relax.”

  I have never known anybody so bloody-minded and with such an inability to admit they’re wrong.

  Apart from me.

  The slush on the roads splashes along the edge of the car and I relax a little as the snow stops. The clouds don’t shift; this weather isn’t leaving anytime soon. I pull up the forecast on my phone and the weather warnings are for the South this evening. I check the time. Two p.m. I bloody hope Nate’s lunch is quick. What irks me is we’ve passed a number of pubs on our journey through small towns.

  The pub we arrive at sits on a hill outside of a village with sweeping views across the snow-covered moors beneath grey clouds. Nate jumps out of the car without a word and pauses, arms crossed. He watches as I climb out and waits for me to approach him.

  I glance up at the stone building, two storeys high with several windows at the front. A half-covered sign informs us the variety of beer sold, and that lunches and accommodation are available.

  The snow fills my low-heeled work shoes as I follow Nate into the pub, where the blasting heat of the log fire blows away the coldness on my face.

  I expected a cosy pub lounge area, but the room is large and brightly lit with rows of tables lined against the windows. Original features compete with the modern, dark wood beams. I drip melted snow onto the red and black carpet. Or maybe it’s red and very dirty.

  A middle-aged man with receding brown hair looks up from where he sits at a table with a girl and a guy, both around my age. He places the pint glass half-full of beer on the table, next to the two other drinks.

  “Afternoon,” he says.

  “Hey. You serving food?” asks Nate and shakes snowflakes from his hair.

  The younger girl with long, blonde hair stares, her plump cheeks turning pink. There’s no flicker of recognition on the men’s faces, but I’ve seen her stupefied look on a number of occasions. The girl knows who Nate is. She flicks a curious look at me and offers Nate a broad smile. “I’m Becca. What do you want to drink?”

  Becca walks behind the long wooden bar and stands with her hand on one of the beer taps, although her height doesn’t take her much over that of the bar.

  “Pint of Taylor’s,” replies Nate as we approach.

  “Nate!” The indignant word is out before I can stop it and he scowls.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “You’re driving, remember.”

  “For fuck’s sake, one beer, Smiley.”

  Becca’s mouth twitches into a smile as she fills a glass for Nate.

  I give Nate a sour look but he isn’t looking at me. “Orange juice,” I point at Nate. “He’s buying the drinks.” Grabbing a menu from the edge of the bar, I retreat to the far corner.

  The uncomfortable high-backed seat is beneath the window and the cold seeping through the glass doesn’t help my mood. Nor does the fact it’s snowing again. Apart from Nate’s car, there’re two others outside. A beaten up Land Rover and a small hatchback, both covered with snow.

  Nate places the orange juice in front of me. “Becca tells me their pies are famous around here.”

  “Right.” I look out the window again. “Nate, can we make this quick?”

  Nate drinks and stretches his legs out. “Relax. Aren’t you happy I brought you out somewhere? A date with Nate Campbell. I reckon Becca would like one.”

  “No. I’d rather you drove me home.”

  “Suit yourself.” He glances at Becca who smiles at him.

  “Fan of yours?” I ask.

  “She knows who I am, if that’s what you mean.”

  I sip my juice and study the menu. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “I am.”

  Nate settles back in his seat and holds the plastic-coated menu in front of his face. I’m willing to bet there’s a smug smile behind there.

  I walk back to the table from the Ladies, increasingly panicked by the growing thickness of the snow outside. Nate picks at chips on his plate, as he concentrates on his phone. He looks odd. Nate’s more at home under posters of rock bands on walls than brass etchings interspersed with photos of the surrounding area.

  “Are you done?” I ask him.

  Nate looks up from his phone. “Finishing my lunch. Fetch me another drink.”

  “Please.”

  He cocks
a brow and I raise one back. Nate’s eyes shine, the first sign of real engagement with me since we left the hotel in Newcastle. “Coke.” He pauses. “Please.”

  When I approach the bar, Becca walks over from her seat with the others at the table again.

  “I never expected a rock star in here,” she says. “We had Cas Baker in once, he was filming near here. Some historical drama.” She indicates Nate with her head. “Maybe famous people like it here.”

  “Maybe.” A picture on the wall above the display of peanuts catches my eye. “Is that a photo of this pub?”

  She turns to the large image of a snow-covered building, with cars outside buried beneath drifts. I can’t tell because all that’s visible is the top of the building.

  “It is! Crazy, hey?”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “George!” she calls to the man drinking at the table by the fire. “When did that happen?”

  George looks at where she points at the framed image. “That winter? Ten years ago. Bad one that time, we were stuck for six days.”

  “Six days?” I squeak.

  “Yeah. Happens sometimes, normally a day, maybe two.” He taps his nose. “Reckon some of them didn’t want to leave and lied it was six days.”

  The young guy with him laughs. “Yeah, ultimate lock-in.”

  “The snow looks high,” I say. In the picture, the first floor windows are barely visible.

  “Best get going soon.” A woman appears from a door to the left of the bar, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She’s a similar age to George, greying hair pulled into a loose bun. “Happen it’ll get worse today.” The woman sits next to George and curls a hand around his on the table.

  That does it.

  “Nate.” He looks over. “Apparently the weather is getting worse.”

  He cranes his neck to look out the window. “Yeah. I’m almost done.”

  “I could get locked in with a rock star. I wonder what he’ll do to me,” giggles Becca, and then her face straightens as she looks at me. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You and him. I bet you’re used to it though, girls falling at his feet.”

  “Yes.” Okay, Riley, why the hell didn’t you put her straight on this?

  “We have a rock star in the pub?” laughs the woman and nudges George. “Hear that?”

  “Thought he was just a scruffy bugger,” George replies.

  I bite back a laugh.

  “He’s hot,” whispers Becca. “Nice.”

  I shake away her comment and think back to her earlier comment. “What do you mean locked in?”

  “The snow.” Becca flourishes a hand. “Heavy, might need to dig your way out.”

  Shit. I walk back to Nate and grab his car keys from the table. “What the hell?” he asks.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “I’m not done.”

  “I am.” I grab my bag and pull open the door. Snowflakes hit my face; between the car and the doorway, the snow drifts into a half-metre mound.

  “Give me my keys.” Nate appears and holds his hand out.

  “We need to leave, Nate! You’re being stupid, trying to prove a point.”

  “I am not.”

  “You did what you wanted and dragged me here, now be bloody sensible. Look at this!” Nate chews on his lip for a moment and stares across the white carpet leading to his car.

  George appears in the doorway. “She’s right. I reckon you’d best get off, road might get blocked.”

  “Yeah, and rock stars don’t use shovels,” I say quietly.

  “Heh. Reckon we could do with him if we do. Looks like a strong lad.”

  I have experience of the power in Nate’s shoulders and arms; George isn’t wrong. I swallow and look away before my dismissed memories of the day return.

  “Yeah, you could pay me in beer,” replies Nate.

  “Make up your mind, it’s freezing with the door open.”

  I grip the keys as Nate attempts to take them and indelicately trudge the few metres to Nate’s Range Rover. “Thanks!” I call to George as I climb in and shut the door.

  “See you later, love.”

  I hope not.

  Through the snow-covered window, I watch a snow-covered Nate approach. He climbs into the car and holds his hand out. “Was gonna leave anyway, no need for the high and mighty act.”

  “Can we just go?” I point at the road, which is harder to make out than an hour ago.

  Those are the last words spoken for ten minutes. The wipers struggle to push the snow from the windscreen and I grip my seat as Nate negotiates the winding road at a speed I’m uncomfortable with.

  “What was that?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “You muttered something.”

  Did I? “Probably just about the amount of fun I’m having.”

  Nate looks at me. “You didn’t need to come with me. I’m doing you a favour.”

  “Yes, thank you, but I didn’t expect you to take me on a bloody tour of the Yorkshire Moors.”

  His eyes remain on mine. “You’re such a whinger! Can’t you just be grateful?”

  “I said thank you. But can you slow down?”

  “Fucking back seat driver!” he retorts and looks back to the road. As he does, the car swerves.

  “Jesus Christ!” I yell as the tyres skid and Nate grapples with the steering wheel. Trees line the road, branches heavy with snow, and the car veers towards them. I cover my eyes and brace myself for impact, as they loom closer. Nate slams the brakes and I’m thrown forward, the seatbelt ripping into my side. I stifle a scream as the airbag in front of me inflates, and the engine cuts out.

  “Fuck,” says Nate in a low voice.

  I take deep breaths, shaking after the impact.

  A snowdrift softened the blow to the car and we missed the the tree when we ploughed into the middle of it. The bonnet and windscreen are covered in snow and my panic rises. I fight against yelling at Nate who stares ahead, cursing under his breath. He turns the key in the ignition and nothing happens.

  I yank open the door and jump out into knee-deep snow. Nate looks after me, his face pale. “What are you doing?”

  “What if something happens to the car?” I tuck trembling hands into my pockets.

  “You mean apart from getting stuck in a snow drift.”

  “I mean what if it explodes?”

  Nate frowns. “Explodes? How exactly?”

  “I don’t know… in the movies…”

  Nate gives a derisive laugh and turns the key in the ignition. Again. Nothing. The thick blizzard swirls around my head and I struggle to see through it. He tries starting the car for a third time.

  “Fuck!” Nate slams his hand against the steering wheel when nothing happens.

  This is one situation I never would’ve wanted an I told you so against Nate Campbell. “Stuck, are we?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Right.” I walk around the back of the car then push open the boot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for my coat!”

  “Why?”

  I look up at where he’s turned in his seat and point at the sky. “Um. Snowing?”

  “Get back in the car, then.”

  “No way. We need to go.”

  “Bu—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to call and wait for the breakdown service? Not happening, Nate. Look at the bloody weather.”

  “I can see the bloody weather!”

  “Oh, so now you can?” I snap and yank my coat from my bag. “Shit. I have no decent shoes.”

  Nate jumps out and approaches. “Don’t be stupid. We can’t walk through this and where would we go anyway?”

  “Back to the pub you love so much, I guess.”

  “That’s miles!”

  “About five but I’m not staying in this car with you waiting to be buried in a snow drift. We can wait at the pub until we can get your car back. Come o
n.”

  Shaking from the cold and shock of the accident, I shrug on my coat and hesitate before picking up my bag. Nate looks in surprise as I thrust it at him.

  “Here,” I say.

  “What’s this?”

  “My bag. You can carry it since you’re the reason we’re in this mess.”

  “What about mine?”

  “Carry both if you want.” My attempt to stalk off is marred by the struggle to get through the snow.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles and catches up, my bag slung across his shoulder.

  We walk along the tracks left by Nate’s car, but the further we go the more new snow has settled and obscured the tracks. Nate walks ahead of me and his figure blends into the storm around, and every time I speak, I get a mouth full of snowflakes.

  I fight the tears and anger at Nate, and at myself. Why didn’t I catch the train? Fine, a two-hour wait for one, but at least, risking that would be better than wading through snow with the asshole with no common sense.

  We reach the final hill and I can see the pub through the snow. But my legs ache, and the prospect of climbing the hill arrests me. Nate’s taciturn attitude along the walk pisses me off. Is this man incapable of apologising?

  Nate paces up the hill, until he apparently notices I’m not with him and turns. Do I look as bedraggled as he does? Snow covers his shoulders and he fights a losing battle to keep the snow from his hair as he repeatedly pushes his hand through.

  “We’re nearly there,” he says.

  “I need to rest.”

  He crosses his arms. “Here?”

  “Evidently.” Screw it. I’m soaked anyway. I drop onto my backside in the middle of a snowdrift.

  “What the fuck?” asks Nate. “You can’t stop here. Get up.”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” He turns and continues his journey.

  Jerk. I stare at the ground and pick up snow in my cold hand, squeezing it through my numb fingers. My woollen coat is soaked, and my legs cold where my damp jeans cling to them. Sitting here with more snow settling around isn’t the smartest move.

  But I don’t care.

  Nate’s booted feet appear in front of me. He yanks me by the arm until I have to stand and I slam into his chest. “You can’t stay there. You’ll die of hypothermia or some shit.”

  I push him away and look into his pissed-off face. “I have a coat on.”