Hotbloods (Hotbloods #1)

After a bit of sleep, we all felt more human. We showered, and I was expecting the Churnleys to want to get in touch with the police as soon as possible, but Mr. Churnley decided to head out and talk to their closest neighbor, Mr. Doherty, instead.

“It’s not like the man took anything that was ours, anyway,” Mrs. Churnley said as she bustled around the kitchen cooking us all a late breakfast. “He clearly didn’t mean any harm. Just took what was… apparently his, and left.”

Angie, Lauren, and I argued against it, saying that there was no harm in calling the police—since we’d had a break-in after all, and they might be able to get to the bottom of the mystery—but it seemed that the morning had brought newfound confidence to the old lady, and she wasn’t having any of it.

“We’ve lived here for decades without needing help from the police, and we don’t need it now—whoever it was won’t come back. Just don’t go picking up any foreign objects and bringing them home!”

I knew it was futile to argue. Even if her stubbornness sprung from nothing but prejudice against relying on “the system,”, this was her home, so the decision was entirely hers to make.

She offered to have Mr. Churnley drive us in the truck to the nearest town so we could talk to our parents about what had happened, if we wanted, but ultimately we decided not to. I didn’t want to worry Jean and Roger, and Angie and Lauren felt the same about their folks. What was the point? Mrs. Churnley was right, in the sense that the intruder was highly unlikely to come back. It was clear he’d visited for one thing and one thing only; otherwise, if he was a petty thief, why go for such a weird, heavy object, out of all the other knickknacks in the kitchen he could have swiped?

As we ate breakfast, my mind wandered back to that journey home through the woods… that sensation I’d felt of eyes watching me. I shuddered. Had there been someone watching us? Who?

Mr. Churnley strolled into the house just as we were finishing our meal, clad in blue dungarees, sweat staining the pits of his shirt. He dabbed a napkin to his forehead and sat down in a chair with a creak, while his wife hurried to prepare a plate of food for him.

“I’m not ready to eat yet, Nora,” he said, helping himself to a glass of water. “Just a few minutes and I’m off again.”

Mrs. Churnley swiveled around from the kitchen counter to look at him. “Hm? What do you mean? How did it go with Brendon?”

Mr. Churnley laughed dryly. “He’s no police sergeant. Was as clueless as us. But he did serve me a grand portion of his wife’s hash browns…which is one reason I’m not ready for your lovely cooking just yet.” He gave us three girls a wink. “But on my way back, I noticed someone’s building a fence on the other side of the cornfields.”

Angie sat up straighter in her chair. “On the other side of the cornfields?”

Mr. Churnley nodded. “Mhm,” he replied, finishing his water.

“But we have no neighbors on that side!” Mrs. Churnley exclaimed. “Not for miles.”

Her husband rose to his feet. “Well, there’s a fence being built as we speak. I’m going to go see what’s up.”

Angie looked at me and Lauren, and I could tell what she was about to ask from the expression on her face. “Can we come with you?”

“‘Course you can,” Mr. Churnley replied, heading out the door.

We followed him, leaving Mrs. Churnley behind to finish her meal.

“Do you think…” Angie began as we walked across the yard toward the truck, a few steps behind Mr. Churnley.

“That the lumberjacks are building a fence?” Lauren finished, her dark brows raised.

Angie shrugged.

“This is all so weird,” I said.

We had yet to even lay eyes on these mythical lumberjacks, so before we mulled over the strange twist of events any further, that was the first step—find out if they actually existed.

We piled into the truck, and Mr. Churnley drove us down the track toward the forest. As the new fence came into view, my eyes widened. When Mr. Churnley had reported that a fence was being built, I’d figured perhaps a dozen feet or so would have been set up by now, given that there had been nothing standing there at all yesterday. Instead, I found myself staring at a fence that must have spanned at least a mile in circumference, cornering off a large enclosure of the forest.

“How on earth—” I paused as three tall figures came into view, surrounded by strips of wood. The men must have been at least six feet in height, and they… definitely matched Angie’s description. They were shirtless, the sun beating down on their bronzed skin, and held tools in their hands—a hammer and nails, while one of them held an axe aloft over his shoulder.

They went still, staring at us, as we trundled toward them.

Mr. Churnley sped up. “Hey, fellas!” he called out of his open window, the sound carrying clearly through the noiseless afternoon.

He pulled the truck to a stop a few feet in front of them, and as we all tumbled out of the vehicle, I laid eyes on the strangers—all apparently in their early twenties—properly for the first time.

The man holding the axe, who was also the tallest by about an inch, stole my attention first, and it took my brain a few moments to process his appearance. His eyes reminded me of winter, twin whirlpools of harsh steel and ice blue, while everything else about him screamed pool parties and picnics on the beach.

His sun-kissed skin had a radiant glow to it, and his hair was black, cropped close at the sides in an almost military style. He wore black pants that hugged him low around the waist, exposing a chest that was clearly the product of years of wielding axes. It belonged to a swimsuit model, a perfect canvas of sculpted pecs and abs… except for the scars that criss-crossed it, one even extending over his heart. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of terrible accident had caused those. His strong jawline also bore a scar.

I suddenly realized his gaze was on me and I had been gawking way too long. I quickly looked away, glancing toward his two companions. The man to his right was probably his brother. His hair was of the same color and style, and though his eyes were less steely and closer to sapphire, there were other marked similarities in the shape of their lips and broad facial structure.

The third man, the shortest of the three (though by no means short), had fairer features, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and pale brown eyes.

“Dang,” Lauren breathed, voicing my general thoughts appropriately.

It even seemed to take Mr. Churnley a minute to collect himself, his eyes bugging slightly as he eyed them, before he cleared his throat, seeming to remember what we’d all come here for.