by Bourne, Lena
“Look, a friend of mine got in trouble, and I’m trying to help her out,” I add since Piston isn’t saying anything and has a very troubled look on his face. “This car is pretty much all she has.”
Piston looks at Anne too, then gives me a knowing grin. “I’ll figure something out so your new lady can keep her wheels.”
“She’s not my lady,” I say automatically, but it sounds like a defensive lie even to my own ears.
It’s the truth though. She isn’t and she won’t—can’t—ever be my lady. She deserves better than getting used and hurt again. I just have to firmly hold on to that knowledge, and it’ll all work out for the best.
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow morning and tell you where we stand with the car,” Piston says. “But a go ahead from Cross or Tank would be great.”
“They’re in Vegas,” I say evasively. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
I should call Cross and tell him all about this. Does helping the wife of an FBI agent even count as messing with the cops? Maybe Cross would see it that way too. But that’s a long shot. Anne’s husband is hell-bent on getting her back and now she’s a fugitive. Cross won’t want any part of this mess. It’s mine to fix, and mine alone.
* * *
Anne
We’re back at the cabin, he lit the fire and it’s crackling nicely, the flames making magnificent shapes, each gorgeous and never the same as the last, but I hardly feel the warmth.
“Wanted for questioning by the FBI,” I whisper and not for the first time. I’ve repeated this so many times since we returned to the cabin that I’m annoying myself. But I can’t stop. “What does that even mean?”
“Nothing good,” he says, staring at the flames like he sees something very interesting in them. My obsessing over this must annoy him too, though his voice isn’t showing it.
“It means he’s gonna use his whole weight at the FBI to make my life hell and force me to come back to him,” I say.
I’ve been thinking this the whole time, afraid to say it, afraid to accept it, and even now that I finally spoke it aloud, and it’s out there, I don’t feel any better.
“He’ll never let me leave him alive,” I add. “He promised me as much more than once and now it’s happening. Maybe I should just go back to him and get it over with.”
Matt turns to me sharply, something hot and fierce hitting me like a blast from a furnace, and I’m sure the heat’s coming from his eyes. But I only look at him from the corner of my eyes. I’m happy just watching the flames dance over the logs, because I don’t need him to tell me that’s a stupid idea. I know it is. But this mess I’m in is my life, and I’m the only one who can clear it up.
How do I spend my entire life hiding from the FBI? I hardly had enough energy left to leave Benji, and that strength isn’t coming back in any kind of a hurry after my spectacular failure to do it. I spent most of this afternoon and evening in that mental fog where nothing really touches me, and I’m only realizing this now because it has finally lifted again.
“How serious are you when you say that, Anne?” he asks. It’s not what I expected him to say and his tone is more inquisitive than angry, but it’s far from gentle. He really wants me to tell him the truth.
I look at him and have to blink at the heat in his eyes, which unlike the fire, does warm me.
“I never want to see him again, so I know it’s a bad idea, Matt,” I say. “But I’ve been lost and alone for so long, and I’m trying to run away from a guy who can find me very easily. He can make my life hell very easily too, as you’ve seen today. I have no real strength left. Just fumes of it. I need therapy. I need to be safe for a long time before I’ll feel safe again. And with this charge hanging over my head, I won’t get that. Do you understand?”
He nods and I know he gets it. He understands where I’m coming from and he might very well be the only person in my life who does.
“I don’t think I have the strength to keep running, especially if it’ll mean hiding from the cops too,” I add softly.
“It’s just some made up charge he has you on,” he says. “He can’t make it stick. What you need is some time to rest and heal, then you’ll have the strength to fight it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he gets up and holds out a hand for me before I can get a single word out. “Go sleep. Things will look better in the morning. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
I look up at him, and I want to ask him if we could just sit here a little longer, talk about something else. I want to feel the giddiness from this morning again. The one that made me hope for a better future. The one that brought real life back into me.
But that’s nowhere to be found right now, so I just take his hand and let him pull me to my feet. I wouldn’t be able to talk about anything else anyway, or think about anything other than what a low point I’m at now. I thought getting away from Benji was the first step to a better life. But instead, I just exchanged one mess for another. At least he’s not here to physically hurt me.
“You can take the bedroom,” he says as he picks up a black leather bag from behind the sofa. He starts rummaging around inside it.
“And you?” I ask. A very feeble, wispy thought of the two of us sharing the bed upstairs, of me falling asleep in his arms, flitters through my mind, but it’s gone before I can even fully grasp it. It does leave a faint sheen of happiness behind though, and I try to hold onto that very hard.
“I’ll sleep down here,” he says and holds out a pill bottle. “Take two of these. They’ll help you rest.”
“I—”
“No arguments, Anne. Doctor’s orders. You need to get some quality rest after all you’ve been through,” he says sternly, but with a smile.
The nurse in me knows he’s right, that I will feel better if I rest, but the Anne I’ve been for the last three years knows that no amount of rest will make me well and whole again. I wish she was wrong, but she’s not. I take the pills, tell him goodnight and go upstairs.
There’s no point sitting down here and talking, not even about the happy times that once were. There’s no use thinking about those times, for that matter. They’re long gone and I don’t see any more like them up ahead.
7
Anne
The whole bedroom is washed in sparkling yellow sunlight when I wake up the next morning. It’s not even the morning anymore, but already past noon, I’m sure, since the bedroom is hot and the sun is very bright. The house is quiet, the silence thick but not oppressive, and the bed is so comfy, I wouldn’t mind spending the whole day under the covers. And there’s nothing stopping me. So I burrow myself in and close my eyes again, try to listen for birdsong, for the whistling of the wind in the branches outside, attempting to get back to that warm, safe, comfy space I woke up in.
But there is something stopping me from enjoying the moment. My messed up life. And I’m having a hard time keeping those thoughts away now that I’m fully awake.
Matt isn’t in the living room, nor in the kitchen. He didn’t leave a note either. But the truck is here. I could leave if I wanted to. Find Benji, have a talk with him, make him drop the charges and leave me alone. The evidence of his abuse was in the suitcase, so I have it back now. I’m sure that’ll be enough to make him back off, since he wants everyone to think what a great guy he is.
It makes me nauseous just thinking about all the work parties and BBQs he took me to, forcing me to laugh at his jokes and pretend we’re a perfect couple, even though we were so far from that we couldn’t have been further. But the counselor warned me that I’m in for a dirty fight once I start down that path. I’m not sure I’m strong enough for it yet.
Hiding up here isn’t going to make that problem go away either. But it will give me the chance to spend more time with Matt.
I hear an axe strike wood just as I think it, followed by the sound of logs toppling to the ground. A moment later the same sound is repeated.
He’s not gone. He didn’t leave me h
ere without an explanation.
I set down the coffee cup and go in search of him, the idea of going to see Benji wiped from my mind almost completely.
It disappears entirely as I round the corner and see Matt chopping wood by the side of the house. He’s shirtless, beads of sweat on his broad shoulders catching the sunlight and gleaming in rainbow colors, the sinews and muscles in his arms and back coiling so enticingly, I can’t think of anything else right now, except that I want to see more of him.
He’s a gorgeous man. Inside and out. He turns to me with a huge smile and knowing eyes like he could feel me standing here, thinking these things.
“Well, good afternoon,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”
I smile, loving the warmth that starts in his eyes coursing through me, loving the way my desire for him is such a real and natural thing. I haven’t felt anything like it in years. Maybe never. It’s amazing how his presence alone lets me ignore all my choking problems. Not just ignore, forget.
“I did,” I say and walk closer to him, wishing I’d thought to bring him something cold to drink, because it’s very hot out here. “Those pills really knocked me out cold.”
“They’re nothing special,” he says. “You just needed sleep.”
And right now, I need you.
The thought flashes through my mind and is gone faster than a bolt of lightning. But it leaves everything shaking. It seems like he felt something similar, because he doesn’t look quite as steady as he did a moment ago.
“I’ll just finish up here then we can have some lunch,” he says, closing off whatever it was that pulled me to come stand this close to him, so close I can feel the warmth of his muscles. The pull’s not entirely gone though, I can still feel it, but it’s fainter now.
“I’ll cook something, and you can shower,” I say.
He smiles, turning some of the heat between us back on.
“Sounds good,” he says. “It’s been awhile since a woman’s cooked just for me.”
I smile too. “It’s the least I can do.”
On my way back to the cabin, I sneak a long glance at his mesmerizingly coiling muscles as he starts chopping wood again.
The giddiness is back. Things I never thought I could have again, things I’ve forgotten I ever wanted or desired, seem possible again. The map to get them is printed clear on his sunlit body. It’s not just because he’s attractive and kind and understanding. It’s also because he’s my link to the past, to the woman I was before Benji snuffed all the life out of her. Almost all the life.
It’s not hard to remember the strength I used to have now that I’m here with Matt. I just have to stay here a little longer, and then I’ll have the strength to deal with Benji for good. That’s the first thing I’ve been one hundred percent certain of in a very long time.
* * *
“Lunch is ready!” I call out as I hear him moving around upstairs after his shower.
He runs down, sounding like a herd of elephants, and comes into the kitchen wearing a clean white shirt and jeans, his hair wet and glistening and his feet bare. I get hit with the worst kind of déjà vu, as he says, “Smells good.”
It’s like we’ve been here, just like this a thousands times before, that this is just another lunch we’re about to share in a long line of lunches we’ve already shared, even though it’s only the first, and I can’t shake that knowing, not even after we’re sitting down at the table.
But once the fake memory of our happiness together fades, only wisps of the joy it brought remain behind.
“I don’t want to be a burden to you, Matt,” I say. “You’ve done so much already, and if Benji finds out you’re helping me, he’s going to make trouble for you too.”
He looks up at me sharply, angrily even, but I know we’re both very aware of the truth of my words.
“I promised I’d help you, and I’m happy to keep that promise,” he says, the anger melting away from his eyes the longer he looks into mine. There’s pain behind that anger, I can see that very clearly now, because I recognize it—I’ve seen it often enough when I look in the mirror. “You’re no burden whatsoever.”
The river of warmth that fills me through his words speaks volumes, and I think it means he wants me around for a long time to come. But I’m not sure I can trust it. I can’t trust myself to know it means what I think it does. Maybe it’s just the echoes of that déjà vu. Maybe it’s all just my wishful thinking. Maybe it’s just another way my disease—the mental sickness that made me fall in love and stay with a monster of a man for so long—is rearing its ugly head.
“I can get you a new identity, and the guys at the garage will fix your car for you,” he says. “I can also give you some money so you can start a new life somewhere far from here.”
I guess I was wrong. He doesn’t want me around for a long time to come. Or what? His eyes are saying he does, but his words are all about me leaving as soon as possible.
“You think you can get me a fake name and identity that an FBI agent can’t crack?” I ask harshly.
The flash of surprise in his eyes tells me he doesn’t know where the harshness in my voice came from either. I have no idea why I’m suddenly so angry.
He nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty certain I can get one of those for you.”
“How?” I ask, since it sounds like something out of a movie, and I’ve fallen for lies that were something right out of a movie before. Benji’s lies mostly, but there were instances of it before him too.
“I know people,” he says and leaves it at that.
“How does a doctor in a small town hospital know people who create fake identities?” I ask.
There’s still some harshness in my voice, because I so very much want to trust him, I so very much want to believe that he can help me get a new life, a clean slate start to my future, but I don’t know if I can.
“I don’t actually work at the hospital,” he says and doesn’t go on, just eats in silence, glancing at me from time to time to see if I’m gonna ask more questions. I have them. But should I ask?
He’s done with his lunch by the time I decide that maybe I should stop pushing him for now. I’m no longer hungry, so I take our plates to the sink without saying anything more. But I feel his eyes boring into my back. It’s a very warm feeling, like sitting with my back to the fire. But can I trust him?
“Anne, I can help you, I wish you’d just take me at my word,” he says, his bare feet hitting the floor in a very homely way as he comes to stand behind me at the sink. “I can’t tell you much about the how, but I promise it can be done.”
I turn to him, enjoying the way the warmth of his gaze now passes into my chest. How can I not trust that? It’s so calming and so real and feels so good.
“OK,” I manage.
He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t quite believe me, his hands fists against his thighs, like he’s preventing himself from grasping something. Me?
But the idea whooshes away as he turns and walks out of the kitchen. He comes back a moment later carrying his socks and boots.
“I’m going into town,” he says as he sits down at the table to start putting them on. “Take a walk while I’m gone. Get some fresh air, listen to the silence and the peace. You’ll feel better afterwards.”
“That’s why you got this cabin, isn’t it? To find peace and quiet?” I ask, already knowing the answers.
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
“And did it work?” I ask, but I think I already know the answer to that too.
“Not as well as I hoped, but that’s on me, no fault of the cabin or the idea of it,” he says. “The fresh air and time to think will help you, I’m sure of it.”
I touched some nerve asking that, something he’s not comfortable discussing, or even thinking about. How do I know that? I have no idea. It must be the way his eyes grew cloudy and shadowy, and how curt his goodbye was before he strode out.
Why does he run so hot one minute, then cold the next?
And an even better question is, why do I care so much? I’m in no fit state to get involved with a man. No fit state at all.
But this wish, this desire to get involved with Matt, to learn all his secrets and share with him all of mine, is much more than a thought. It’s a physical pull, a presence as concrete and solid as the ground beneath my feet.
* * *
Doc
Damn it, every minute I spend with her makes it harder to keep myself from grabbing and kissing her. The last time I saw her, she was a pretty, but awkward teenager. And sad. Very, very sad. Now she’s a gorgeous woman, and she’s not just sad, she’s also very broken, lost and confused. All that is effecting me in ways I never experienced before. I want to help her, I yearn to make all her problems disappear for her. And above all, I want her.
Why fight the attraction? The question keeps popping up in my brain. Along with the answer, Take her. Have her. Enjoy her. She wants it too.
I already couldn’t sleep last night from the echoes of this fight I’m having with myself, and now I can’t escape it even while I’m miles away from her. She’s always in my mind. The way her brother was for years after he died. Until I finally managed to bury him.
I can’t bury her though, she’s still alive. And she needs my help. I already promised her more than I should’ve by saying I can get her a new identity, but she looked so damn hopeless again, and I had to do something to fix that. It was a stupid, impulsive promise, but I meant it.
I’ll make sure she gets back on her feet, and then I’ll send her on her way. If I act on my desire, I’ll just end up hurting her. Out of sight, out of mind, works for anything and it’ll work for this too.
By the time I reached the garage, I was dead set on this being the only way forward.
Piston managed to convince the cops that the car was so totaled the owner wanted it destroyed, and he says they didn’t make too much fuss over it. I told him to start fixing it, but apparently it could take up to four weeks just to get all the necessary parts and such.