Somebody said that door from the other day needed a story. Here it is :)
The stranger maneuvered himself around the rocks to stand on the other side of the body and even though he shook with effort, sweat running down his temple, he ignored her, and hefted the dead man across his shoulders.
Sorcha stood and opened her mouth to argue that she could help, but the Yank was already striding away. Her hands balled into tight fists, frustration burning inside her like acid.
Why did men take over like that?
“Bloody hell.” Sorcha winced as she cursed, figuring the American couldn’t hear, but she wasn’t so sure about the dead.
The stranger strode swiftly across the perilous rocks in his fancy hiking boots and crimson Gortex jacket, the corpse strung easily across his shoulders, like he carried dead bodies every day. Wrapping her arms tight across her chest, she tried to get warm as she followed reluctantly. She slipped in her sodden trainers, letting out a yelp of surprise.
The American turned back to face her, the dead guy streaming water down the front of his jacket like fresh flowing blood.
She forced the image away, lifted her gaze to meet the American’s eyes.
“Need help?” he asked.
Away from the violent surf he’d relaxed a little, his expression unlocked by the barest degree. He didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched and he looked like he wanted to.
Great. Just what I need. A sadist.
Eyes sore from sea-salt she glared at him. Pinched her mouth so tight together her lips hurt. Dragging a hand through hair crunchy with salt, she pushed it back from her face and gave him an unfriendly glare.
He got the message, raised one short brow like a question mark before turning to continue on up the beach.
Free from his intense gaze, she began to shiver. Stumbling onward, barely able to feel her feet, so bloody cold from the icy water, the cruel wind and the ghosts of her past.
Her eyes latched onto his red jacket like a lifeline. He headed to the old Johnstone cottage, the one closest to the beach.
Old memories assailed her, but she forced them away. She didn’t want to remember the last time she’d been in that house. Twenty years was a long time, but maybe not long enough.
Part of her wanted to go home; to continue walking up the beach a few houses and forget she’d ever found another dead man in the rock-pool.
Instead she followed the American past where rocks turned into coarse sand, and salt-tolerant wildflowers encroached on the sea’s territory. Up three stone steps and through the newly painted blue door, set in the old stone wall. Each step bringing with it a keen sense of déjà vu that she shied away from. He laid the dead man on a thin strip of grass that constituted a lawn.The corpse shone brightly, despite the shadow of the coming night.