The Cabin

By Sky Corgan

It's every girl's dream, getting rescued by a handsome stranger. When I woke up and saw Kit Green standing over me, I thought he was an angel. I didn't see the dark wings.

What is he doing out here all alone? I don't question it at first. I'm too busy being blinded by intrigue and desire. If it weren't for him, I'd be dead. I want to repay him with my body.

But things quickly begin to not add up. This cabin is full of secrets. It's cold outside, but I'm starting to think he came out here to burn for his sins.

Disclaimer: The Cabin is a stand-alone dark romance. This story deals with the struggles of post-traumatic stress disorder and finding a reason to live when everything around you seems bleak.

Heat Level: Smokin' Hot

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sky Corgan
• Release date: Sep 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386615255

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

KIT

––––––––

The dreams are always the same. One minute there's a gun in my hand. I'm side by side with my fellow soldiers shooting at the enemy. My brother is a few yards ahead of me. I can see him, but he's not my focus. My focus is staying alive. Doing my job. Protecting my countrymen.

I know what's coming. There's a pit of festering sickness in my stomach as I wait for it. Far deeper than the one that was there on that life-changing day. Back then, I had no gift of foresight. Our lives were always in danger. Every breath we took could be our last because of a well-aimed bullet or strategically placed landmine or a bomb. Adrenaline and fear and determination were what kept us going. The direction of our superiors and the hope that our plan could be carried out with the least amount of casualties.

But the dream is different. It's like running from something horrible but being unable to escape it. That panic is there, but your legs don't move. The monster keeps getting closer, and you're trapped.

That day, my eyes were on the enemy. But in the dream, I'm focused entirely on my brother. The gun is up to his shoulder beating against it with rapid fire. He doesn't even know what's coming. But I do.

I scream, but he can't hear me. The gunfire is too loud. Everything is deafening. It's like I'm mute. No one pays attention to me, though I'm the only soldier that's no longer shooting.

My brother gets blown to pieces right before my eyes. The despair I feel is like lava, burning me from the inside out. But I don't have time to be emotional. Because I have another job to do.

The gun is out of my hands. In its place are tourniquets and sutures and everything I need to put my friends back together like patchwork quilts. One after another, they die despite my best efforts. I'm the most worthless combat medic there ever was.

Images of their crying families flash through my mind. People I've never actually seen before. Faces I've pulled from random places, that my damaged psyche has compiled to torture me for all eternity. They blame me. They say that if I had just been better, their loved ones would still be alive. They say that it should have been me.

I wake up screaming in a cold sweat, the same way I always wake up. Night after night.

My psychologist says it will eventually get better, but it's been two years already. I can't handle two more years of this. I'm broken beyond recognition. A shell of the person I was before the war. Most days, I try not to feel anything at all. I take my antidepressants. I watch television all day like an old man, trying to immerse myself in other worlds and other lives so that I can pretend like mine doesn't even exist. But no matter what drugs they give me to make the dreams go away, they never work. I've exhausted all of my options. There's only one left if I ever want peace.

The silence in my apartment is all consuming as I pack my bags. I turn on the radio to drown out my thoughts. My doubts. A song comes on that my brother used to love. I take it as an affirmation that I'm doing the right thing, but I still can't force myself to listen to it. A memory comes to me of Rob bellowing out the lyrics while we drove to the corner store for me to buy him beer. Tears sear my eyes as I think that he never even made it to his twenty-first birthday. What type of world do we live in where a kid is considered old enough to kill people but not old enough to drink?

Fuck. I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm before grabbing the family photo from my bedside table and stuffing it into my bag.

I can't handle this anymore. Can't think about these things. But I can't just leave either.

I load up my jeep; then I come back inside to do the most cliché thing ever. I write a note to my mom. But I don't explain why I have to do this. She knows why. She'll understand. Instead, I jot down a brief apology and then make a list of all of my accounts and passwords so that she can have access to everything she needs to easily close my estate. I tell her not to go to the cabin. To just send the authorities whenever she finds the note. She doesn't need to see.

I leave the note on my bed, then take one last lingering look at my apartment. The walls are bare and joyless like my life has been ever since that day. I won't miss this place. I won't miss anything about my life.

I climb into my jeep and head to the local florist to buy the largest, most extravagant bouquet they have. With nothing else to spend my money on, I might as well go overboard, even though my mom might find it suspicious.  Who knew that flowers could be so expensive, that someone would pay so much money to watch something beautiful slowly wither and die in front of them. These are things you don't think about unless you've been through what I have. People are oblivious to the subtle evils in the world. Or maybe I'm just oversensitive. They're just flowers.

I strap the bouquet into the passenger's seat and drive a few miles down the road to my mom's place. Guilt tugs at me as I pull into the parking lot of her condo. She's suffered almost as much loss as I have.

My father left her after my brother died. She had always been the supportive one, pushing us forward in our career choice to join the military. It was our father who didn't want us to go. He blamed my mother for my brother's death, for encouraging him when she should have been nagging us about all the dangers of being in the army. He blamed me for being the influence that made Rob want to join. Ever since we were little, Rob always tried to copy everything I did. He never grew out of it.

This time, I'll be the one following him.

I sigh as I kill the engine, forcing a smile and checking in the mirror to see if it looks genuine. It doesn't. How can anyone even pretend to be happy when they feel the way that I do? But I'm sure that once my mother and I are standing face to face, I'll be able to fake it.

I pull the bouquet from the passenger's side and carry it up to the door, knocking twice. I hear footsteps approaching from inside before the door opens. Mom smiles up at me, and I surprise her with the flowers.

Kitt. Her eyes grow large as they land on the vase full of lilies and roses. You shouldn't have.

Got to spoil my best girl. I wink at her before handing the vase over.

Your best girl, she parrots and snorts. I'd rather hear you say that about someone else.

I never will. Maybe in another life, I could have had everything she wanted for me. A wife. Kids. In another life, Rob would still be alive. We'd live a few houses down from each other, and our kids would grow up together. But not in this life.

I'm going to go out to the cabin for a few days. I just wanted to drop by before I head out, I lay the news on her.

As expected, her face instantly fills with concern. Are you sure that's such a good idea? Didn't your therapist say that you shouldn't be alone?

Yeah, she did, I sigh. But I think being alone right now is exactly what I need.

That doesn't sound like such a good idea. Mom places the vase on the bar that divides her kitchen and her living room and urges me to come sit on the sofa.

I've tried everything else, I confess. Maybe being somewhere nostalgic where I have some good memories will help.

Few things remain of our old life. Mom sold the house after the divorce and downsized into this place. All of my brother's belongings are in storage. Neither of us has had the heart to go through them. I just pay the storage fee month after month.

You and Rob did love going camping and hunting with your grandfather. A soft smile takes over my mother's face. But it's a little late in the year for camping. The meteorologist says a snowstorm will be blowing in soon.

I'll be fine, Mom.

Would you like me to go with you? She shifts her weight. I can tell that she doesn't really want to go. Hell, who would want to go out to a cabin in the middle of the woods that has no electricity or working plumbing at this time of year? The place is old and rickety. Only someone crazy would want to stay there when they knew a snowstorm was coming. Or someone with a death wish.

I just know how much you love the cold. I tug on the collar of my shirt. She has to have the thermostat set to nearly eighty degrees. I'm already starting to sweat.

Who knows, it might be fun. She shrugs. I haven't been up there for so long. Hopefully, no one has broken in.

I wouldn't exactly call it breaking in. Grandfather never even installed a lock on the door. He wanted the place to be open in case someone ever got lost in the forest and needed someplace to stay. The cabin is just a few miles away from part of the Pacific Crest Trail. It wasn't uncommon for us to show up and find things moved around. People were usually respectful, though. Sometimes they left money or extra food behind.

You're going to take your gun with you. Her eyes fall to my hip.

I never leave it behind. I reach back, my fingers brushing over the grip.

Good. You never know what you might find out there. She nods.

Nope, you never know, I